"Candidates turn out promptly!" rang, from below, a voice full of military command.
Greg was in the middle of a comforting yawn and stretch. He dallied to finish it, but Dick, snatching down his overcoat and hat, was already out on the landing and racing below, while behind him floated the advice:
"Come on, Greg! Get a boost on!"
"Get along there, beasts," commanded a cadet corporal in the lower hallway sternly. "This is no sleeping match!"
Out in the yard several candidates had already run. Some of these young men at home, had been accustomed to being waited on by mothers and sisters. Yet here, in the seemingly freezing and hostile air of the Military Academy, these same young men were fast learning that everything has to be done by one's self, and at steam-engine speed.
"Mr. Danvers, come with me, and I'll place you as right guide," called Cadet Brayton with the air and tone of a budding military martinet.
Candidate Danvers followed meekly. Brayton looked at the lad's stooping shoulders with frigid, utter disapproval.
"Mr. Danvers, take your hands out of your pockets, sir."
"All right," laughed Mr. Danvers, obeying, and trying to laugh nonchalantly. "Anything to please."
"Don't address a superior officer, sir, unless he addresses you in a way to make a reply necessary. And when you do address a Superior officer, or any other cadet or candidate on official business always add 'sir.'"