“That’s a nice way to wake a fellow up,” said Arthur in a tone of supreme disgust, when the last charge had been fired and the smoke had in part cleared away.
“I guess that’s about the only thing that would have waked us, though,” said Kenneth, yawning. “Will you look at that scar in the face of the cliff; that’s what I call a blooming shame.” A great, broad, red-brown scar on the abrupt rise, showed bare beside the green and gray rocks on either side.
Suddenly Frank burst out into a laugh and ran quickly below. “Look at that big boat coming down the river full of people, and then get below, you’re unfit for publication.”
Kenneth and Arthur looked as they were bidden, then suddenly realized that they were still clad in their abbreviated night clothes. Instantly, all that could be seen of the three lads was their entirely respectable heads, and when the steamboat went by, these three nodded a greeting, and three arms, browned by the sun, waved in salute.
The next morning found the yawl at Poughkeepsie. Behind them were the mountains that have guarded the stream for centuries, Storm King, old Dunderberg, and the lesser heights. West Point, with the fine buildings of the United States Military Academy crowning its high plateau, lay below them. Anchored almost in the shadow of the great Poughkeepsie Bridge, one of the most wonderful structures in the world, the boys thought they were certainly getting their money’s worth in the sightseeing line.
Their tongues kept up a continual clatter until long after dark.
“Did you ever see anything like that view at West Point?”
“Wasn’t that a dandy, big steamboat that passed us near Newburgh?”
“I tell you that big mountain near Peekskill was great. Made a fellow feel like two for a nickel.”
And so the talk went on, until finally tired nature overcame even the excitement of novel experiences, and they fell asleep.