On reaching first-class dignity, both Dick and Greg had been delighted over their appointment as cadet officers.  Prescott was captain of A company and Greg Holmes first lieutenant of the same company.

With Anstey chasing the balk carriers, and all the other squads attending briskly to business, the pontoon was quickly built, so that a roadway extended from shore to shore.

Now came the supreme test as to whether Prescott had done his work well.

In the shade of the nearest trees a team of mules had dozed while the bridge construction was going on.  Behind the mules was hitched a loaded wagon belonging to the Engineer Corps.

“Sir,” reported Prescott, approaching Lieutenant Armstrong and saluting, “I have the honor to report that the bridge is constructed.”

Lieutenant Armstrong returned the salute, next called to an engineer soldier.

“Carter!”

“Sir,” answered the engineer private, saluting.

“Drive your team over the bridge and back.”

Mounting to the seat of his wagon, the soldier obeyed.

Dick Prescott and his mates did not watch this test closely.  They were sure enough of the quality of the work that they had done.

Reaching land at the further side of the bridge, the engineer soldier turned his team in a half circle, once more drove upon the bridge and recrossed to the starting point.

“Very well done, Mr. Prescott,” nodded the Engineer officer, with a satisfied smile.

“Take down the bridge,” ordered Dick, after having saluted the Army instructor.

Working as hard as before, the young men of the third and first classes began to demolish the bridge that they had constructed.

When this had been done, and Dick had officially reported the fact, Lieutenant Armstrong replied: 

“Mr. Prescott, you will form your detachment and march back to camp.”

“Very good, sir.”

Always that same salute with which a man in the Army receives an order.

Some thirty seconds later, the detachment was formed and Dick was marching it back up the inclined road on the way to the summer encampment.  By that time, a sergeant and a squad of Engineer privates—–­soldiers of the Regular Army—–­were busy taking care of the pontoon boats and other bridge material.

Marching his men inside the encampment, Dick halted them.

“Detachment dismissed!” he called out.

There was a quick break for first and third class tents.  These young men were in field uniforms—–­sombreros, gray flannel shirts, flannel trousers and leggings.  Most of them were dripping with perspiration under the hot August sun.

They were all hot and dusty, and their hands stained with tar.  Within a very few minutes every man in the detachment must be washed irreproachably clean, without sign of perspiration.  They must be in uniforms of immaculate white duck trousers and gray fatigue blouses, wearing cleanly polished shoes, and ready to march to dinner.