cadets.

Almost with the speed of magic the planks were laid in an orderly
manner forming a secure flooring over the balks.

The second boat was anchored, and then a third, a fourth. As the
bridge grew Cadet Prescott walked out on the flooring that he
might be at the best point for directing the efforts.

As the fifth boat reached its position, Dick turned to see that
all was going well.

The yearlings, whose duty it was to carry the balks---"balk-chasers,"
they were termed unofficially---were standing idle, though alert.
They could not move until Mr. Jordan, of the first class, gave the
order.

And Jordan? With one hand hanging at his side, the other resting
against the small of his back, he stood gazing absently out over
the Hudson.

"Mr. Jordan!" called Dick, hastening back over the planking.

"Sir!" answered the surly cadet, facing him.

"Hurry up the balks, if you please, sir."

With a scowl, Jordan turned slowly toward the waiting yearlings.

"Lay hold!" commanded Jordan, and, though it was hard work, the
yearlings responded willingly. This was what they were here for,
and this hard work was all part of the training that was to fit
them for command after they were graduated.

"All possible speed, Mr. Jordan!" admonished Prescott, with a
tinge of impatience in his voice.

"Lay hold! Raise! Shoulder!" drawled Mr. Jordan, with tantalizing
slowness.

The yearling squad, each man feeling the cut of the sharp corners
of the heavy balk on his right shoulder, yet, bearing it patiently,
awaited the next command.

"Mr. Jordan, this is not a loafing contest," admonished Prescott
in a low voice.

"For---ward!" ordered Jordan with provoking deliberation.

The yearlings under him, made of vastly better material, sprang
forward with their balks, laying them in record time across the
top of the next pontoon. The lashers then fell upon their work
of securing the balks as though they loved labor.

"Chess!" called Dick, remaining on shore this time, and the yearlings
with the planks hastened forward, each carrying a plank. Here
and there, a lighter cadet staggered somewhat under the plank
he was carrying, yet hastened forward to finish his duty of the
moment with military speed.

Another pontoon was ready.

"Balks!" called Cadet Prescott. "Balks!"

Jordan got his squad started at last.

Dick glanced swiftly, but in wonder at Lieutenant Armstrong.
That Army officer, however, seemed industriously