Tom had often had these thoughts, but he was no day-dreamer, and the hard realities of life left him little time to indulge in such speculations.
“I guess I’ll just have to grind along until I graduate,” he mused. “Then I may make enough so that mother won’t have to work any more.”
He, as well as the other cadets at West Point, was paid a small salary while studying, the money being held for them until the completion of their four years’ service.
“I’ll have that to start with, anyhow,” Tom reasoned, as he faced the grim old army officer.
“Mr. Taylor,” began Captain Hawkesbury, in rasping tones, “you don’t seem to show the right spirit at drill.”
“I’m sure I didn’t mean to do anything out of the way, sir,” Tom replied, after his salute.
“Don’t answer me back!” was the snapping retort. “You haven’t a good carriage. I think I can improve it. Stand up straight now and I’ll give you some exercises. Straighter!” was the sharp order, and Tom threw back his shoulders until he had a pain in the middle of his back.
And then for over an hour Captain Hawkesbury made him stand in a strained position, at times ordering him to go through certain exercises, more tiring than the standing. And all the while there was a mean grin on the face of the crabbed old man. He seemed to take delight in Tom’s discomfiture, and no doubt he did. He was strictly within his rights—Tom knew that—but, none the less, our hero was sure the ordeal he had to go through was devised solely as a personal punishment to gratify the spleen of Captain Hawkesbury because Tom had defeated the captain’s nephew.
Tom was as limp as a rag when he was allowed to go back to his room, and his chums commiserated with him as he told them of what he had gone through.
“The old scab!” ejaculated Sam.