A number of rather anxious-looking lads were there, and Tom and the others formed in line to march up stairs. One by one they entered a room, and presented their credentials to the stiff and severe-looking officer who sat behind a table. He glanced at their letters of appointment, checked their names off on a list, and told them to go down stairs and wait for further instructions.
“Well, I wonder what comes next?” said Tom to his new friends. He soon learned. A cadet, who, from the stripes on his arm they knew to be a corporal, came walking stiffly up.
“Here, you candidates!” he cried, in a voice that contained perhaps a little too much authority. “Turn out! Lively now! Turn out! Form in a column—by twos! Forward—march!”
There was an uneasy scramble, and a more or less uneven column was formed to march along with the corporal at the head. He was a martinet, was that corporal—and he found fault with every one and everything from the beginning.
“Why, you fellows don’t even know enough to keep step!” he bawled at them. “Do you know which your left foot is?”
“Yes,” replied Tom, who felt a little nettled at the tone.
“Yes—what?” sharply demanded the corporal, swinging around to face him.
“I thought you said—” stammered Tom.
“Yes—what?” fairly thundered the cadet.
“Say sir,” some one behind Tom whispered.