Their work that morning had, in fact, been strictly in line with
labor, for the young men, under Captain McAneny, had been engaged
in the study of field fortifications. To be more exact, the young
men had been digging military trenches---yes---digging them, for
at West Point hard labor is not beneath the cadet's dignity.

Just as they swung off the road past the officers' quarters the
young men, marching in route step, fell quickly into step at the
command of the cadet officer at the head of the line.

Now they marched along at no greater speed, but with better swing
and rhythm. They were, in fact, perfect soldiers---the best to
be found on earth.

Past the hotel they moved, and out along the road that leads by
the summer encampment. The brisk command of "halt" rang out.
Immediately afterwards the command was dismissed. Carrying their
rifles at ease, the young men stepped briskly through different
company streets to their tents.

Three of these brought up together at one of the tents.

"Home, Sweet Home," hummed Greg Holmes, as he stepped into his
tent.

"Thank goodness for the luxury of a little rest," muttered Dick
Prescott.

"Rest?" repeated Tom Anstey, with a look of amazement. "What