“Present—–­sabres!”

The salute to the superintendent and his guests was given with magnificent precision.

“Continue the drill, Mr. Prescott!” rang the senior instructor’s voice.

Once more the line of gray and steel swept over the plain.  Now, the evolutions were those of the field in war time.  The charge brought cheers from a thousand throats, and a great fluttering of handkerchiefs.

Then, while three platoons halted, remaining motionless in saddle, the fourth platoon, after starting at the gallop, sheathed sabres and drew pistols.

Crack! crack!  Crack! crack!  It was merely mimic war, with blank ammunition, but not an onlooker escaped the impression of how much death and destruction such a line of charging, firing men might carry before them.

Now the whole squadron was in motion once more.  At the sharp, clear order of the bugle the line halted.  At the next peal one man in every four stood at the heads of four horses, while the other three of each four ran quickly forward, in fine though open formation.

“Halt!  Kneel!  Ready!  Aim!  At will—–­fire!”

Here was battle, real enough in everything but the fatalities.  Each man on the firing line fired rapidly, several shots to the minute, though real aim was taken every time the bolt was shot forward and before the trigger was pulled.  Tiny, almost invisible puffs of smoke issued from the carbine muzzles.  Next, an orderly spirited, swift retreat in the face of an imaginary enemy, was made to the horses, which were mounted like a flash, and spurred away.  Some horses carried double, for some of the cadets lay limp and useless, impersonating men wounded by the pursuing enemy.  It was all so stirring, so grand, that the plain rang with cheers.

In an hour the drill was over, and the young cavalrymen stood under the showers or disported in the pool.  Only for a few minutes, however.  The infantry drill followed swiftly, after which these same men must swiftly be immaculate in white ducks and the handsome gray full-dress jackets.

Then followed dress parade, after which came supper, and the first classmen at West Point were through with the last day of full duty in gray!

CHAPTER XXIII

A WEST POINTER’S LOVE AFFAIR

With beating heart Dick Prescott presented himself at the hotel that evening, and sent up his card to Mrs. Bentley and the girls.  Greg was with his chum, of course, but Greg was not in a flutter.  He was to escort Belle Meade—–­an arrangement of chumship, for Belle wore the engagement ring of Dave Darrin, one of Greg’s old High School chums.

For Dick, this was the night to which he had looked forward during four years.  To-night he felt sure of his career; he was to be graduated into the Army, with a position in life fine enough for Laura to grace with him.