Jordan got his squad started at last.

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

“Jordan is truly taking charge of the balks!” muttered Prescott to himself.  “He is going to balk me so that I can’t get the bridge constructed before recall!”

“Running the balk chasers” is always unpopular work among the cadets.  Properly done, this work calls for a great deal of alertness, speed and precision.  It is work that takes every moment of the cadet’s time and attention, and incessant running in the hot sun.  Yet Prescott had, before this, chased the balk carriers, and had not objected.  He had taken up that task as he did all others, as part of the day’s work, something to be done speedily, well and uncomplainingly.

“What’s the matter with you, Mr. Jordan?” asked Dick in an undertone.  “Are you sick?”

“Sick of such emigrant’s jobs as this!” growled Jordan.   “What
made you give me-----”

“I can’t discuss that with you,” replied Cadet Dick Prescott coldly.  “I shall be compelled to make it an official matter, however, if you hinder me any more.”

“Lay hold!  Raise!  Shoulder!  Forward!” Jordan ran with the squad.  “Halt!  Lower!”

“I reckon Jordan means to keep really on the job now,” murmured Prescott to himself, and returned to the advancing end of the pontoon as it crawled over the little arm of the Hudson.

Two more boats, however, and then Dick sprang sternly ashore.

“Mr. Anstey!” called Prescott, and Anstey, the sweet-tempered Virginian, one of Dick’s staunchest friends in the corps of cadets, came quickly up, saluting.

“Mr. Anstey, you will chase the balk carriers,” directed Dick.  “Please try to make up the time that has been lost.  Mr. Jordan, you are relieved from your duty, and will report yourself to the instructor for gross lack of promptness in executing orders!”

There could be no mistaking the quality of the justly aroused temper that lay behind Cadet Prescott’s flashing blue eyes.

As for Cadet Jordan, that young man’s face went instantly livid.  He clenched his fists, while the blackness of a storm was on his features.

“Mr. Prescott,” he demanded, “do you realize what you are saying—–­what you are doing?”

“You are relieved.  You will report yourself to the instructor, sir!” Dick cut in tersely.

Anstey was already chasing the yearling squad out with the balks, and the young men were moving fast.

As for Dick Prescott, he did not favor Mr. Jordan with a further glance or word, but walked with swift step back to the task of which he was in charge.

With face flushed, Mr. Jordan walked over to the instructor, reporting himself as directed.

“Dismissed from to-day’s instruction,” said the Army officer briefly.  “Wait and return with the detachment, however.”