“Last parade!” announced Sam one day, as he and Tom were dressing themselves for it. “Last parade, old man!”
“Yes,” Tom said. “And while there was a time when I thought this would never come, now that it is here I rather wish it wasn’t to be.”
“Same here. We’ll soon cut loose from old West Point.”
To the tune “The Dashing White Sergeant,” played only on certain occasions, the parade came to an end. Tom and the others marched, with bared heads, to the platform to receive a little farewell talk from the commandant. Again Tom heard, as he had when a plebe, the strains of “Auld Lang Syne,” and “Home, Sweet Home.” He felt a choking sensation in his throat. This was the end of what, with all its hardships and drawbacks, had been a wonderful four years. Now he was to go out into the world to show what he could do.
True, there was a place made for him, a place of a sort, but he must depend on himself more than ever now. He would be what he could make himself. But he had had one of the best trainings in the world with which to do it.
Following the little talk by the Commandant, Tom and his fellows of the graduating class reviewed the battalion as it marched past them. Then they went to their barracks to preen for the graduation hop that night. It was another wonderful time for Tom Taylor.
The next morning the diplomas were to be given out by the Secretary of War, while the Academic Board, resplendent in brilliant uniforms, looked on. They were now powerless against the successful cadets, and they seemed to grin cheerfully in acknowledging it.
There was more music, more marching to and fro, more lines of severely straight young soldiers. One by one the graduates went up to the platform, and received the sheepskins which made them commissioned officers in Uncle Sam’s army.
“Well, it’s all over,” said Tom to Sam, as they went to their room for the last time.
“No, it’s only just beginning,” was the answer. “From now on ought to be the best part of our lives.”