"Say, Dick," remarked Paul, the next morning, as they leaped out of bed at the sound of the bugle giving the first call, "that spread must have cost you a pretty penny."
"I don't mind that a bit," replied the young millionaire, as he struggled into his uniform. "I'd be willing to spend a lot more if only the fellows would have come. But there's no use crying over spilled milk, as my dad says. Hurry up, Paul. Get this room in shape, or we'll be in for some bad marks at inspection."
The cadets quickly had their apartment in good order, and then got ready for breakfast.
They were a fine lot of cadets who filed into the mess hall a little later, well set-up young fellows, each with his uniform spick and span, marching with regular step that nearly approached the perfection of the trained soldier. For, such was the discipline at Kentfield, that even green lads quickly fell into the routine, and by this time Dick and the other freshmen carried themselves almost as well as did the senior students.
"Ah, that'll be some fun," remarked Paul, as they were leaving the mess-hall after the meal.
"What?" asked Dick.
"Target practice. There's a notice on the bulletin board that we're to have it right after the first study period. Are you a good shot?"
"I used to be, but the guns here are heavier than I'm accustomed to. I don't believe I can do as well."
"Oh, I guess you can. I hear that some of the third year lads can't do very extra."
There were two target ranges at Kentfield, one for long distance shooting, in the open, and the other in a rifle pit, indoors. It was there that a number of the cadets and their officers assembled a little later. Toots, who was a sort of janitor about the pits, was on hand.