There was a deep silence following the announcement of the adjutant. Doubtless others of the successful ones than Tom wanted to laugh and shout, but they had to refrain. And probably those who had failed had hard work to keep back the tears of disappointment. For after all, they were only boys around seventeen years of age, and disappointment is keener than later, just as success is more sweet.
But it was all very cold and impartial at the West Point Academy. No one congratulated the successful ones, though when ranks were broken they did exult among themselves. And there was small comfort for the losers, most of whom, however, accepted it gamely.
“I’m glad I don’t have to go through the four years’ grind,” said one lad, who, it was rumored, was quite wealthy. “I’m going out West on a ranch now, and do some real living.”
Later on, when hard work came, Tom often envied him. But Tom was not going to turn back now.
“Well, old man, we made it!” said Harry, as he shook Tom’s hand, once they were in their room again.
“That’s what we did!” declared Sam. “Oh, but I was shaky!”
“So was I,” Tom admitted, with a laugh.
Those who had been “found”—which means they had lost the examination—lost little time in turning in their belongings, and taking the train back to their homes. Some declared they would make another attempt next year, while others went off, sullenly angry.
“And now for uniforms!” exclaimed Harry, a little later. “No more ‘cits,’ for at least two years, when we get our first furlough.” The clothes Tom and his chums had worn up to this time had been those they brought from home. They were the attire of civilians, or citizens, which last word has been abbreviated to “cits” by the cadets.
“We’ll get any old sort of a uniform now,” said Sam, who had been forewarned. “Later on we’ll be measured for one that fits, and then melted and poured into it.”