"If some of the upper cla.s.s men found that we liked to be out in a snowstorm, I'm afraid they'd make us stand on our heads in a drift," laughed Cadet Holmes.

"Speaking of that," continued Anstey, wheeling about, "have any of you fellows run into real hazing as yet?"

"Not I," replied Prescott, with a shake of his head.

"Nor I," added Greg.

"It's a shame that we should be expected to put up with any such nonsense," growled Cadet Dodge belligerently. "Who are the yearlings that they should feel at liberty to rub our noses in the mud! We plebes ought to combine to put a stop to this outrage.

Now, I'd like to see any smart year--"

"Eh!" called a voice, cheerily, as the door was thrust open.

Yearling cadets Pratt and Judson stepped into the room.

Instantly three of the plebes present rose and stood at attention.

Bert Dodge didn't.

"What has got into your sense of military manners, mister!"

demanded Cadet Pratt, transfixing Bert with a haughty stare.

"What's wrong with my manners!" demanded Cadet Dodge.

"What's that!" cried Pratt.

"What's wrong with my manners!" repeated Dodge, though a bit more tractably.

"What?"

"What is wrong with my manners, sir!" Bert amended.

"That's just a shade better, mister," admitted Yearling Pratt. "But you are too sparing of your 'sirs,' mister. Now, answer me again, and use 'sir' after each word."

Plebe Dodge gulped hard, but Pratt and Judson were glaring at him. So he began:

"What, sir, is, sir, wrong, sir, with, sir, my, sir, manners, sir!"

"Mister, why didn't you stand at attention when we entered the room!"

"Because you're not--"

"What!" exploded Yearling Judson.

"Because, sir, you're, sir, not, sir, my, sir, superior, sir, officers, sir."

"Are we yearlings!"

"Yes, sir."

"And what are you!" demanded Cadet Judson, with infinite contempt.

"Only, sir, a, sir, plebe, sir."

"Mangy, unkempt, uncouth and offensive, are you not!"

Bert flared and swallowed hard, but he responded, very meekly:

"Yes, Sir."

"You're--what?"

"A, sir, mangy, sir, unkempt, sir, uncouth, sir, and, sir, offensive, sir, plebe, sir."

"Very true," nodded Mr. Pratt. "But, at least, mister, you have learned how to answer a yearling or any other superior, haven't you!"

"Yes, sir," Bert meekly a.s.sented.

"But there's one thing the poor beast doesn't know how to do yet,"

observed Mr. Judson, turning to his cla.s.smate. "He doesn't understand how to stand at attention when he is honored by a yearling's visit."

"Teach him--if you find that he's intelligent enough," advised Yearling Pratt.

"Turn down that mattress, mister," commanded Mr. Judson, pointing to d.i.c.k Prescott's iron cot.

Bert made the mistake of looking first at Cadet Prescott for permission.

"Now, mister, what makes you hesitate!" fumed Mr. Judson.

"It isn't my cot, sir," replied Dodge.

"What?"

"It, sir, is, sir, not, sir, my, sir, cot, sir."

"That has nothing to do with your orders. Turn down that mattress!"

Bert obeyed with great alacrity.

"Now, then, mister," ordered Yearling Judson, "get up on that mattress, and stand at attention upside down!"

It took Bert Dodge a few precious seconds to understand the full nature of the ignominious thing he had to do.

This was neither more nor less than to stand on his head on the mattress. He could rest his hands beside his head, at the outset, bracing his feet against the wall. So far it was not difficult. But--

"Don't you know the position of attention, mister!" demanded Cadet Pratt, with feigned anger. "Your hands should hang naturally at your sides, the little finger touching the seam of the trousers."

Now, in this inverted position the hands "hung" anything but "naturally" at the sides. In fact, Bert had to hold his hands up in the air in order to have the little fingers touch the seams of the trousers.

Standing on his head, in this fashion, without support, was something that taxed all of Mr. Dodge's athletic powers. He had to try over again, more than a half a dozen times, ere he achieved a decent performance of this gymnastic feat.

"Now, let us see how good a soldier you are, mister," commanded Yearling Pratt, turning around upon Plebe Anstey.