We thought ten dollars would be about right," Dick Prescott announced. "Per week?" inquired Mr. Titmouse, as though he doubted his hearing "Oh, dear, no! For the month of August, sir." Mr. Newbegin Titmouse surveyed his young caller through half-closed eyelids "Ten dollars for the use of that fine wagon for a whole month?" cried Mr. Titmouse in astonishment. "Absurd!"

Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - We thought ten dollars would be about right," Dick Prescott announced. "Per week?" inquired Mr. Titmouse, as though he doubted his hearing "Oh, dear, no! For the month of August, sir." Mr. Newbegin Titmouse surveyed his young caller through half-closed eyelids "Ten dollars for the use of that fine wagon for a whole month?" cried Mr. Titmouse in astonishment. "Absurd!"

How do you feel, Dick! As spruce as you did an hour ago! Candidate Greg Holmes put the question with a half-nervous laugh. He spoke in a whisper, too, as if to keep his agitation from reaching the notice of any of the score or more of other young men in the room of Mr. Ward, the aged notary at West Point. "I'll be glad when I see some daylight through the proceedings," Dick Prescott whispered in answer. "I'm glad they allow us to talk here in undertones," pursued Greg. "If we weren't allowed to do so, some of us would go suddenly crazy, utter a whoop and spring through one of the windows,"...

How can a midshipman and gentleman act in that way? The voice of Midshipman David Darrin, United States Navy, vibrated uneasily as he turned to his comrades. "It's a shame - that's what it is," quivered Mr. Farley, also of the third class at the United States Naval Academy. "But the question is," propounded Midshipman Dan Dalzell, "what are we going to do about it?" "Is it any part of our business to bother with the fellow?" demanded Farley half savagely. Now Farley was rather hot-tempered, though he was "all there" in points that involved the honor of the brigade of midshipmen.

Detachment halt! commanded the engineer officer in charge. Out on the North Dock at West Point the column of cadets had marched, and now, at the word, came to an abrupt stop. This detachment, made up of members of the first and third classes in the United States Military Academy, was out on this August forenoon for instruction in actual military engineering. The task, which must be accomplished in a scant two hours, was to lay a pontoon bridge across an indentation of the Hudson River, this indentation being a few hundred feet across, and representing, in theory, an unfordable river.

Leaving the road that wound by the officers' quarters at the north end, turning on to the road that passed the hotel, a hot, somewhat tired and rather dusty column of cadets swung along towards their tents in the distance. The column was under arms, as though the cadets had been engaged in target practice or out on a reconnaissance. The young men wore russet shoes, gray trousers and leggings, gray flannel shirts and soft campaign hats. Their appearance was not that of soldiers on parade, but of the grim toilers and fighters who serve in the field. Their work that morning had, in fact, been...

My son, Richard. He is home on his furlough from the Military Academy at West Point. Words would fail in describing motherly pride with which Mrs. Prescott introduced her son to Mrs. Davidson, wife of the new pastor. "I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Prescott," said Mrs. Davidson, looking up, for up she had to glance in order to see the face of this tall, distinguished-looking cadet. Dick Prescott's return bow was made with the utmost grace, yet without affectation. His natty straw hat he held in his right hand, close to his breast. Mrs. Davidson was a sensible and motherly woman, who wished...

Luis Montez, mine owner, stood on the broad veranda in front of his handsome home, looking out over the country sweeping away to the eastward. "Gentlemen, you are in a land of golden promise," began Senor Montez, with a smile and a bow. "I should call it more than promise. Why not? My beloved country, Mexico, has been shipping gold to the world ever since the days of Montezuma." "Yes; in a mineral sense Mexico has truly a golden history," nodded Tom Reade, one of the engineers to whom Montez was speaking. "And a golden history in every sense," added Senor Montez, with a quick rush of...

Dave, I'm getting nervous! "Is that the best way you can find to enjoy yourself?" demanded the taller boy. "But I am, Dave - dreadfully nervous!" insisted Dan Dalzell positively. "Well, you'll have to conceal it, then. The doctors at the United States Naval Academy won't pass any nervous wrecks," laughed Dave Darrin. "Don't you understand?" demanded Dan, in a hurt voice. "The nearer we get to Annapolis the more nervous I'm getting." "You'd better drop off, then," hinted Dave ironically, "and take the next car back to Odenton and Baltimore. What earthly good would a Naval officer be who was...

I'm going to play quarter-back, declared Drayne stolidly. "You?" demanded Captain Dick Prescott, looking at the aspirant in stolid wonder. "Of course," retorted Drayne. "It's the one position I'm best fitted for of all on the team." "Do you mean that you're better fitted for that post than anyone else on the team?" inquired Prescott. "Or that it's the position that best fits your talents?" "Both," replied Drayne. Dick Prescott glanced out over Gridley High School's broad athletic field. A group of the middle men of the line, and their substitutes, had gathered around Coach Morton.