at brisk command, the battalion turned to the left in column of
fours, marching down the hot, sun-blazed road to cadet mess.

Despite the heat and the hard work of the forenoon---these cadets
had been up, as they we every day in summer, since five in the
morning---spirits ran high at the midday meal, and chaffing talk
and laughter ran from table to table.

The meal over, the battalion marched back to camp. There were
a few minutes yet before the afternoon drills. A few minutes
of leisure? Yes, if such an easy act as dressing in uniform appropriate
to the coming drill, may be termed leisure.

"Drills are going to be called off, I reckon," murmured Greg,
poking his head outside the khaki colored tent after he had put
himself in readiness.

"What's up?" demanded Anstey, lacing a legging.

"The sky is about the color of ink over old Crow's Nest," reported
Greg.

Just then there came a vivid flash of lightning, followed, in
a few seconds, by a deep, echoing roll of thunder. The summer
storms along this part of the Hudson River sometimes come almost
out of the clear sky.

"I'm always thankful for even the smallest favors," muttered Anstey,
with a yawn.