Tom was about to proceed to the boathouse to hire a craft, when he was aware of a figure coming around a bend in the path that led to the river. A moment later he saw that it was Captain Hawkesbury. Rather a stern and forbidding figure it was too, for the uncle of Clarence was a gruff man, though it was said he was very fond of his nephew.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Tom, saluting in what he hoped was the correct military fashion.
“Um! Afternoon,” was the half-grunted retort. Nor did Captain Hawkesbury take the trouble to return the salute. Perhaps he did not see it, or Tom may not have executed it properly.
“Oh, it’s you! is it; young Taylor?” went on the captain, looking at our hero from under shaggy, heavy eyebrows. “Um! I—er—I understand you’re going to have a try at West Point, young man.”
“Yes, Captain! I’m going to take the examinations.”
“And my nephew—er—he’s going too?”
“Yes. He’s my alternate!”
Tom could not refrain from that little exultation.
“Um, yes. Well, I don’t wish you any bad luck, young man, but I believe Clarence will win. He comes of fighting stock, sir! fighting stock!” and the army captain smote the ground with his cane, making the dirt fly.
“We have some fighters in our family, too,” Tom said, not to be outdone. “On my father’s and mother’s side we boast of what our families did in the Revolution.”