"There are some marching down with us who won't be marching
with us to the next place, I am afraid," whispered Holmes.

"I imagine so," whispered Dick, with a nod.

"Say," murmured Greg, his cheek suddenly blanching, "just how
much chest expansion do the surgeons demand in the case of a
fellow standing five-seven in his stocking feet?"

There was a note almost of panic in Greg's voice.

"Cheer up, Greg!" urged Dick, whose own lace was again flushing.
"You've got chest expansion enough for a heavy-weight prize
fighter."

"You must have the same, then. Is that so?" demanded Holmes.
"What makes your face so red?"

"Just wondering," admitted Prescott, in a low voice, "whether I
ever contracted any symptoms of football-player's heart."

"Bosh!" muttered Greg. "I never heard of any such disease."

"I never did either," Dick fidgeted. "But in the hour I've been at
West Point I've concluded that people here know a heap of things
that aren't even guessed at in the outside world."

"O-o-o-h! Say! Look!" murmured Greg in deep awe and admiring
wonder. "They must be cadets!"