Just then a lieutenant comes forward; the orderly turns over his charges and the men of the squad take their places in line with many other candidates who are awaiting their turn to report to the Officer in Charge. No sooner have they placed their grips on the ground, and begun to take life easy while waiting, than a flock of yearling corporals emerge from the Guardhouse.
“Stand up all along this line!” commands one.
“Hold up your heads, and drag in your chins,” shouts another, as he goes down the line giving each new cadet a little personal attention.
“Mr. Dumbguard, put that hat on straight.”
Photo White Studio
Two Hours after Reporting
All hats are at once adjusted. The whole line assumes an extraordinary appearance of rigidity. The heat becomes more intense. Large drops, globules of perspiration, roll off the crimson faces whose features have assumed a permanent set, depicting grief. Slowly the line advances. More cadet officers appear, giving each candidate the number of his room in barracks.
“Mr. Ducrot, your room is 1223, step out and find it, put your baggage there and report back here immediately.”
Mr. Ducrot, whose intellect has become somewhat clouded by all of the events and instructions that he has received in the last ten minutes, hurries off in the direction of the twelfth division.