the area right now," declared Dick.

"Then why does he persecute us so?" demanded Greg indignantly.

"I don't believe it is persecution," Dick continued.

"Then why, in the name of all that's kindly, does that fellow put us
under the heel of hateful usage? Why must we submit to the
tyranny of that cadet corporal?"

"It's the West Point way--that's all, I guess."

"Do you propose to submit to it?" challenged Greg.

"Yes," retorted Dick soberly. "I don't want to have to leave the
Academy and go home stamped a failure."

"Neither do I," admitted Candidate Holmes in a more moderate
tone. "But I wonder whether we have to stand so much nonsense
from a petty young official like a mere corporal?"

"I'm afraid we do," nodded Dick. "Now, see here, Greg, can't you
make a good guess as to why we're put through such a grilling?"

"I'll confess I can't see any human reason in it," declared Candidate
Holmes.

"Why, what did we come here to learn to be?"

"Soldiers."

"Are we soldiers yet!"

"Of course not," Greg admitted.

"Do you think these people at West Point have time to coax and
pamper us along!"

"Probably not. But can't they--or can't that fellow Brayton--be decent
with us?"

"Now, look right here," counseled Candidate Prescott wisely. "We
want to be soldiers, but as yet we're only ignorant, unregenerate,
untaught young cubs. To the older cadets we must seem like pitiful
beasts."

"No, we don't,"' sneered Candidate Holmes. "We don't seem
anything at all. No cadet here, unless he's obliged to notice us,
even looks at us. We're less than nothing."

"That's true," nodded Dick thoughtfully. "And I'll wager it will be
pretty nearly as bad all the time we're plebes. Now brace up, Greg.
Remember what a small fraction of nothing you are, and be
thankful for the severe handling by Brayton, which may eventually
transform us into at least pretty fair imitations of soldiers."

Outside a drum was sounding. It was mess call, but neither
candidate knew it. Almost immediately, however, Brayton's
rousing voice rang up through the subdivision:

"Candidates turn out promptly!"

"There's our slave-driver once more," frowned Candidate Holmes.

Dick, as he raced down the stairs, remembered to button his coat
down its entire length. Greg forgot. As he darted through the
doorway to the porch overlooking the area he found Corporal
Brayton's gaze fastened upon him in severe displeasure.

"Mr. Holmes, button your coat, si