ear from all directions.
I selected a particularly bold one and challenged
according to orders, "Halt, who comes there?" At
that the ghost stood still in its tracks. I
then said, "Halt, who stands there?" Whereupon the
ghost, who was carrying a chair, sat down. When I
promptly said, "Halt, who sits there?"

After plebe camp came plebe math and French. I
never stood high in French and was prone to burn
the midnight oil. One night Walcott and Burtley
Mott came in to see me. My room-mate, "Lucy" Hunt,
was in bed asleep. Suddenly we heard Flaxy, who
was officer in charge, coming up the stairs
several steps at a time. Mott sprang across the
hall into his own room. I snatched the blanket
from the window, turned out the light and leaped
into bed, clothing and all, while Walcott seeing
escape impossible, gently woke Hunt, and in a
whisper said, "Lucy, may I crawl under your bed?"
I paid the penalty by walking six tours of extra
duty.

The rest of it--yearling camp and its release from
plebedom, the first appearance in the riding hall
of the famous '86 New England Cavalry, furlough
and the return up the Hudson on the _Mary Powell_;
second year class with its increasing
responsibilities and dignity--must all be passed
with slight notice. While the days were not always
filled with unalloyed pleasure, to be sure, yet no
matter how distasteful anything else may have been
up to that time there is none of us who would not
gladly live first class camp over again--summer
girls, summer hops, first class privileges,
possible engagements, twenty-eighth hop, and then
the home stretch. As we look back from the
distance of a quarter of a century the years went
by all too rapidly.

The career of '86 at West Point was in many
respects remarkable. There were no cliques, no
dissensions and personal prejudices or
selfishness, if any existed, never came to the
surface. From the very day we entered, the class
as a unit has always stood for the very best
traditions of West Point. The spirit of old West
Point