The first day’s work goes on rapidly. As soon as the new uniforms are donned, once again to the Cadet Store go the new cadets to draw their room equipment.
“New cadets, turn out promptly!” command the cadet instructors in the lower hall of each division. Down the iron steps hurriedly come running the novitiates, and line up in the Area. At the Cadet Store, each man is issued his mattress, pillows, and bedding. A long procession of young Atlases, sweating like horses, stagger through the sally-port, bearing aloft everything necessary for sleeping, except the bed. A few zealous ones add to the burden a bucket, perhaps a dipper rattling inside, and a broom that sways recklessly on the top of the mattress. Concealed somewhere in the mass is a bottle of indelible ink that is sure to drop before the room is reached. Standing in the Area are a few of the Wrathful tribe ever on the alert to see that no loitering occurs.
“Take up a double time, Mr. Ducrot, step out!”
Poor Mr. Ducrot, this time about five feet four inches tall, whose view has been obscured by the side of a mattress, attempts to be more of a hustler, stubs his toe, and down come pillows, mattress, bucket, and all.
“Well, Mr. Ducrot, you’re a pretty mess, you’re about the grossest plebe I ever saw!” consoles one sarcastic Arch-Fiend.
“What do you think you’re trying to celebrate out here, Mr. Dumbguard,” cuts in another, “do you think you’re going to take a nap?”
The senior cadet officer comes forward:
“What’s the trouble?” he inquires.
Mr. Ducrot (after remembering to raise his hand in imitation of a salute) speaks up from the midst of his debâcle:
“I was ...”