I'll wager you ten dollars that my fly gets off the mirror before yours does. "I'll take that bet, friend." The dozen or so of waiting customers lounging in Abe Morris's barber shop looked up with signs of renewed life. "I'll make it twenty," continued the first speaker. "I follow you," assented the second speaker. Truly, if men must do so trivial a thing as squander their money on idle bets, here was a novel enough contest. Each of the bettors sat in a chair, tucked up in white to the chin. Each was having his hair cut. At the same moment a fly had lighted on each of the mirrors before the...

I wish I had brought my electric flash out here with me, muttered Harry Hazelton uneasily. "I told you that you'd better do it," chuckled Tom Reade. "But how could I know that the night would be pitch dark?" Harry demanded. "I don't know this gulf weather yet, and fifteen minutes ago the stars were out in full force. Now look at them!" "How can I look at them?" demanded Tom, halting. "My flashlight won't pierce the clouds." Reade halted on his dark, dangerous footway, and Harry, just behind him, uttered a sigh of relief and halted also. "I never was in such a place as this before."

It's the wreck of one of the grandest enterprises ever conceived by the human mind! complained Colonel W.P. Grundy, in a voice broken with emotion. A group of small boys grinned, though they offered no audible comment. "Such defeats often usually, in fact - come to those who try to educate the masses and bring popular intelligence to a higher level," was the colonel's declaration, as he wiped away a real or imaginary tear. On a nearby lot stood a large show tent, so grayed and frayed, so altogether dingy as to suggest that it had seen some summers of service ere it became briefly the property...

Say, got the makings? "Eh?" inquired Tom Reade, glancing up in mild astonishment. "Got the makings?" persisted the thin dough-faced lad of fourteen who had come into the tent. "I believe we have the makings for supper, if you mean that you're hungry," Tom rejoined. "But you've just had your dinner." "I know I have," replied the youngster. "That's why I want my smoke." "Your wha-a-at?" insisted Tom. By this time light had begun to dawn upon the bronzed, athletic young engineer, but he preferred to pretend ignorance a little while longer. "Say, don't you carry the makings?" demanded the boy.

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...