These readers of the former volume recall just how Dick and Greg reached West Point in March of the year before; how they passed their entrance examinations and settled down to fifteen months of plebedom.  Such readers recall the fights in which the new men found themselves involved, the hazing, laughable and otherwise, will be recalled.  Our former readers will recollect that about the only pleasure that Dick Prescott found in his plebedom lay in his election to the presidency of his class—–­position that carries more responsibility than pleasure for the poor plebe leader of his class.

But now all was wholly and happily changed.  Dick, Greg and Anstey were yearlings, entitled to real and friendly recognition from the upper classmen.

It is only seldom that yearlings are accused of b.j.-ety (freshness), for about all of that is taken out of the cadet during his plebedom.

But the greatest sign of all to the new yearling is that now, instead of finding himself liable to hazing at any time, he is now the one who administers the hazing.

It is rare that a first or second classman takes the trouble to haze a plebe.  A first or second classman may notice that a plebe is a little too b.j.  If so, the first or second classman usually drops a hint to a yearling, and the latter usually takes the plebe in hand.

So far, our young friends had been yearlings just three days.  They had not, as yet, exercised their new function of hazing any plebes.  The first three days in camp had been too full of new and hard duties to permit of their doing so.

As Greg looked out of the tent, the wind suddenly sprang up, driving a gust of big raindrops before it.  In another moment there was a steady downpour.  Cadet corporals in raincoats darted through the company streets, carrying the cheering word that drills were suspended until change of orders.

“I hope it rains all afternoon, then,” gaped Anstey, behind his hand.  “It’s a rest for mine—–­you bunkies (tentmates) permitting.”

Anstey stretched himself on his bed and was soon sound asleep.

In summer encampment, taps sound at 10.30, and first call to reveille sounds at five in the morning.  Six hours and a half of sleep are none too much for a young man engaged at hard drilling and other work.  The cadet, when his duties, permit, may, however, snatch a few minutes of sleep at any time through the day.  Cadets in camp quickly get the knack of making a few minutes count for a nap.

“It’s going to be a good one,” declared Greg, as the rain settled down into a monotonous drumming against the shelter flap over the tent.

“A long one, too,” spoke Prescott hopefully.  “Greg, I actually believe that the wind is growing cool.”

“Don’t speak about it,” begged Greg.  “I’m superstitious.”

“Superstitious?”

“Yes; if a rain comes up just after dress parade and guardmount, then it’ll keep up the rest of the evening, when we might be enjoying ourselves after a strenuous day of work.  But if you get to exulting over the rain that is to get us out of a drill or two, or bragging about a cool breeze getting lost around here in the daytime, then the raindrops cease at once, the wind dies down, and the sun comes out hotter than it has been before in a week!”