And Jordan? With one hand hanging at his side, the other resting
against the small of his back, he stood gazing absently out over
the Hudson.

"Mr. Jordan!" called Dick, hastening back over the planking.

"Sir!" answered the surly cadet, facing him.

"Hurry up the balks, if you please, sir."

With a scowl, Jordan turned slowly toward the waiting yearlings.

"Lay hold!" commanded Jordan, and, though it was hard work, the
yearlings responded willingly. This was what they were here for,
and this hard work was all part of the training that was to fit
them for command after they were graduated.

"All possible speed, Mr. Jordan!" admonished Prescott, with a
tinge of impatience in his voice.

"Lay hold! Raise! Shoulder!" drawled Mr. Jordan, with tantalizing
slowness.

The yearling squad, each man feeling the cut of the sharp corners
of the heavy balk on his right shoulder, yet, bearing it patiently,
awaited the next command.

"Mr. Jordan, this is not a loafing contest," admonished Prescott
in a low voice.