from West Point. At almost every move through the drill he
berated them caustically, though in such faultless military language
of reproof as to keep him from censure.

"Dismissed," glared Brayton at last. "The candidates will go to
their rooms until summoned again."

Dick and Greg both felt stiff in the legs. Their backs ached from
the long-continued drilling in what was yet, to them, the rigor of
near-military carriage. Both chums toiled up the stairs to their bare
room.

"Oh, you brute!" muttered Greg, standing in the middle of the
room and shaking his fist in the direction of the area.

"Meaning--whom?" queried Prescott, with a wan smile.

"Whom could I mean but Brayton?" almost hissed young Holmes.
"Why does that fellow hate us all so?"

"I'll tell you a secret, if you want to hear it," proposed Dick
mysteriously.

"Please!" begged Candidate Holmes.

"Then I don't believe he does hate us."

"What?" gasped Greg incredulously.

"I don't believe he'd remember half our faces if he passed the