A dash of cold water over his face and arms made the boy feel the need of brisk exercise to counteract the effects of the damp, penetrating chilliness of that early matinal hour. Moisture glistened and sparkled on the tufts of grass, and low over the earth stretched long ghostly streamers of mist. High up in the heavens a flock of unseen crows, flying swiftly past, sent their cries far over the crisp, fresh air, but, rapidly, distance softened and then stifled the unmusical chorus.
A rush back to the barracks with the rest of the students put warmth into Don Hale’s shivery frame.
“Get in line, son, for the roll call,” commanded Tom Dorsey.
In an orderly double column the students ranged themselves alongside the barracks, an officer appeared and the formality began.
Proudly, the new student answered “present” as he heard his name pronounced by the officer.
“Now I suppose we’ll get a bite to eat,” he remarked to Mittengale, when the men broke ranks.
“Your ‘suppose’ is all wrong,” chuckled the other. “Now you’ll learn what you’re up against.”
“I suspect I’m up against a joker,” laughed Don.
But, again, his suspicion proved to be quite unfounded. The men were forming in line, and a few minutes later the march for the flying field began. The day for which Don Hale had looked forward so long—so expectantly—actually had come. His nerves, responding to the emotions aroused within him, were tingling, but tingling in a most delightful fashion.
The very faintest trace of delicate color, announcing the coming of day, now slowly began to suffuse itself in the eastern sky. It was a cheerless and a gloomy hour, not an hour, surely, for drooping spirits to be abroad; but, fortunately, there appeared to be no drooping spirits among that semi-military line of marching men.