As quickly as the balks had been laid the detachment of lashers were at work securing the balks in place.

“Shove off!”

The first was floated to the mooring stakes and a second boat was moved into position.

“Chess!”

Another column of yearlings moved forward, each with a heavy plank on his shoulder.  It was heavy, hot, hard and dirty work.  Outsiders who imagine that the Military Academy is engaged in turning out “uniformed dudes” should see this work done by the 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!”