“You man, there, slouching across the Area! What’s your name?”

The person addressed, a short fat chap, looks up over his big round tortoise-shell glasses, with unfeigned interest, but stands mute, apparently fascinated by the immaculate white trousers and the military bearing of the speaker.

“Do you hear me talking to you? What’s your name? Take your slimy eyes off me and look to the front!” sternly commands young Mars, coming a few steps nearer. The new arrival looks blank and tries to digest all of the orders at once.

“You other man in the green necktie, come here!” shouts this cadet officer as he catches sight of a tall lanky civilian in a Hart, Schaffner, Marx suit, long flat tan shoes, and a flaming green necktie, who has just sauntered through the sally-port.

“You man, there, do you hear me talking to you? Step out!”

The Green Necktie smilingly approaches the cadet officer, deposits his dress suitcase on the ground, and mops his brow.

“How do you do?” he cordially remarks, “my name is Jinks. ”

The cadet officer glares.

“Your name is Mr. Jinks, SIR,” he shouts. “Mr. Jinks, you get that!”

“And you too, Mr. Dumbguard,” turning to the chap with the Harvard spectacles, “don’t you forget to put a Sir on the end of your name. Who do you think you are around here? Stand up, both of you. Turn down the cuffs on your trousers, button up your coats, take off all of those badges and scarfpins and stick them in your pocket. What do you think this place is? a school for dudes? Put your hats on straight!”

Command follows command with machine-gun rapidity. The green necktie is almost smothered from view as the candidate buttons his coat, and reluctantly the cuffs on the trousers are turned down.

“Pick up those suitcases and follow me.”

“And so this is an introduction to West Point,” ruminates the Harvard spectacles, “strikes me this chap is somewhat brusque. I wonder where all the other fellows are!”

Meanwhile over in front of the Administration Building is a large group of candidates just reporting. Some are laughing and joking, others remain silent, plunged in thought, wondering why they feel so strangely. About the same impression fills each one’s mind. Underneath those parti-colored striped shirts each heart is thumping just a little faster than usual. The delay in reporting seems interminable. With thoughts of all sorts racing through their heads, they await their reception, or their “breaking in” with fearful interest.

Some few have been to West Point before, but the large majority have never been so fortunate. They know it only by Cadet Days, General King’s entertaining book of cadet life, or by The Spirit of Old West Point, General Morris Schaff’s charming reminiscent book of life in the Corps, about the time of the Civil War, or by romantic stories gathered here and there.

No words that I know of seem as magical as “West Point.” To the candidate it conjures a vision of all that he hopes to be. The honor of being a cadet, the privilege of wearing the uniform, the immense possibilities of physical and mental achievement, the soul-satisfying fear of an ambition about to be realized, the glamour of military life, and, it must be admitted, a secret feeling of righteous superiority over his boy friends at home,—all these thoughts crowd his imagination so that for once he sees frozen the vague ideal that he always has had of himself.

I am sure that Gawain’s first impressions of King Arthur’s court were dim in comparison with the dazzling visions of West Point that fill the candidate’s mind. For months, in some cases for years, he has striven for an appointment. All of his interests and hopes have been centered upon becoming a cadet. He has read all the literature about the place, he has gone to sleep many a night living over in imagination his career. At last the day comes when he sets forth on the road of his great ambition. He can hardly believe that he is actually on the way to West Point! What enchanting pictures crowd his imagination and beguile the journey! In his mind’s eye he is arriving; he sees himself in uniform, he wonders how he will like the life: one moment he is troubled by the probability of failure, the next, he spans the years in thought and is back home again on furlough, and he thrills with pride and pleasure at the prospect of greeting his old comrades after an absence of two years. How delightful it is to build castles in Spain! His imagination runs on and on; he promises himself to study hard, he wants his family to be proud of his record; he hopes to be a cadet officer. In his reverie he graduates and joins the Army, his ambition realized. All a-tingle with excitement he eagerly awaits the arrival at West Point.

When, however, the great gray buildings loom up as the day-line boat approaches the wharf, his buoyancy begins to ebb, his exhilaration cools under a mental Texas Norther, and the joy of anticipation so recently experienced receives a chill that causes him to gaze around uneasily and forlornly. He feels a little sad and melancholy. Thoughts of home sweep over him.

There is, however, about certain fellow passengers, lean lank youths like himself, something responsive, something about their hats, something about the unnatural droop of the shoulders, the new suitcases, the same fearful look that draws him to their side. “Are you a candidate, too?” he asks hopefully. An answer is unnecessary. Instinct again has won, and the flood-gates of friendship are unreservedly opened to the newly made companion about to enter the Land of Egypt and the House of Bondage. We are timid creatures all of us, and even the strongest suffer a twinge of timidity, a queer feeling in the seat of compassion, when about to penetrate the mystery surrounding an unknown life. At such a moment we all want to be little children, to have someone take us under shelter. We would like to run away from ugly, grim Reality that relentlessly blocks our way and with whom we must battle before we can go forward.

A sort of vague terror pervades the candidate as he climbs the hill from the station to the Adjutant’s office where he must report, but he grasps his suitcase and sets forth for the Headquarters Building where his directions tell him to report upon his arrival. If he is ahead of time he goes to the hotel where he finds a great many candidates, some of whom have been at the Point several days trying to absorb some impressions before reporting. Here friends are quickly made. On the day that they are all ordered to report, when they feel that they are about to bid farewell to their civilian freedom, they reluctantly set out for Headquarters. Unwilling though they may be to report, few ever in after life regret having entered the Academy.

The Rubicon once passed, however, no time is lost in the administrative routine of receiving the raw material. After reporting to the Adjutant, the new cadet is turned over to an orderly who directs him to the office of the Treasurer. No general officer in full uniform, one month later, could create in the candidate’s mind the same impression of the finished military product as does this first sight of a simple soldat at the Treasurer’s. The new cadet is directed to deposit all the money that he has in his possession. Each new cadet is supposed to deposit one hundred and sixty dollars upon entrance to cover an initial cost of equipment, which amount is credited to the cadet’s account, together with any surplus change that he has at the time of admission. Although the Regulations require this initial deposit of one hundred and sixty dollars, the requirement is not absolutely obligatory, so that if any boy receives an appointment he should not be deterred from accepting on account of the financial stipulation. He should come at all events. The first equipment will be issued, and with economy he can later on wipe out the debt. If a boy’s parents are poor, it would be foolish for them to make a great effort to raise this money. Let the boy come and assume the responsibility of the debt, and let the onus of it rest upon his more youthful shoulders which will very soon broaden to bear it. One by one the men pass the little wicket window of the Treasurer and deposit all their money. Pockets are emptied of all cash and checks, which are credited to the cadet’s account. When eight, ten, or twelve candidates have been admitted, the young officer present forms them into a pseudo squad, or rather group, then calls an orderly of the Regular Army.

“Show these young gentlemen over to the Area of Barracks to the office of the Officer in Charge of New Cadets.”

The orderly comes briskly to attention, his smart salute captivating the assorted collection of “Prides of Congressional Districts.” They promptly follow his leadership, out of the postern gate of Headquarters, across the road to the Area of Barracks, reveling in the clouds of glory that, in their eyes, he trails behind him. They are now quite happy, fully launched upon their military careers.

The feeling of elation at being at last within the sacred halls of the Academy begins to intoxicate the new cadet, when, upon the way over to the barracks, he notices a few stray passersby stop, look at the queer squad, and then smile slowly, almost insinuatingly, as if amused. It is an irritating smile. He sees the orderly smile too. Something has surely gone wrong. His heart goes down, down, down, and he soon feels as if someone had thrown about him a cloak of lead. But on the squad goes. He tries to shake off his heavy feeling, but it is no use. Many days elapse before the heavy mantle is cast aside. He is sure that something dreadful is about to happen. But stay, what is all this disturbance in the Area? Running back and forth between a sally-port and a barracks are a lot of bareheaded individuals, some in military shirt and cit trousers, others in lovely pink striped shirts and gray cadet trousers. They appear very uncomfortable. Several well set-up young cadets are at their heels giving them instructions in stern tones.

“Say, soldier, who are those men?” inquires one bold candidate.

“Those men are your new classmates,” explains the orderly.

Just then a lieutenant comes forward; the orderly turns over his charges and the men of the squad take their places in line with many other candidates who are awaiting their turn to report to the Officer in Charge. No sooner have they placed their grips on the ground, and begun to take life easy while waiting, than a flock of yearling corporals emerge from the Guardhouse.

“Stand up all along this line!” commands one.

“Hold up your heads, and drag in your chins,” shouts another, as he goes down the line giving each new cadet a little personal attention.

“Mr. Dumbguard, put that hat on straight.”

All hats are at once adjusted. The whole line assumes an extraordinary appearance of rigidity. The heat becomes more intense. Large drops, globules of perspiration, roll off the crimson faces whose features have assumed a permanent set, depicting grief. Slowly the line advances. More cadet officers appear, giving each candidate the number of his room in barracks.

“Mr. Ducrot, your room is 1223, step out and find it, put your baggage there and report back here immediately.”

Mr. Ducrot, whose intellect has become somewhat clouded by all of the events and instructions that he has received in the last ten minutes, hurries off in the direction of the twelfth division.

The instruction of new cadets is under an officer of the Tactical Department. In his work he has both officer and cadet assistants.

In order that the cadets themselves might have experience in breaking in new men, cadets of the First (or senior) class are detailed as assistant instructors. They drill the new cadets in the school of the soldier and of the squad. They give him individual instruction in the care of his room, his correspondence, and in the use and care of his equipment and his personal hygiene. It is highly desirable that the new cadet should feel the influence of the older cadet. I shall never forget my first impressions of my cadet instructors. I thought that I had never seen such immaculate human beings in my life. With their straight backs, their lean faces, piercing eyes that stared coldly almost contemptuously at me, I was sure that they were all English generals imported direct from the Boer War. I didn’t know that white duck trousers could be so white, nor brass buckles so shiny. I was then sure that I had an incapacity for military life, that I would never attain such a degree of excellence, and I inwardly withered before their glory.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ducrot and his fellow candidates, having found their rooms in barracks, are approaching the Guardhouse at a dead run upon the insistence of a cadet corporal. Once again they stand in front of their instructors who glare at them like Men of Wrath.

“Fall in,” commands the fiercest looking one.

A shuffling of feet, indefinite movements as if to do something, a few emphatic remarks by a corporal, and a semblance of a line is formed. Two Messrs. Ducrot ignore the suggestion of the Wrathful One, until a fresh-faced lieutenant almost pulls them into line.

The squad is now herded over to the Cadet Store to have issued the initial uniform, consisting of a gray shirt, campaign hat, cap, and gray flannel trousers.

In less than half an hour a complete metamorphosis takes place. The heterogeneous crowd of candidates that entered the store has lost the appearance of a bargain counter on sale day. By no means, however, have they gained a military aspect: all that can be said is that they are harmoniously clothed. It takes time to learn to wear a uniform properly, and nothing is funnier than a new cadet in his first outfit. These garments have been made up in stock sizes so that an issue can be made at once. The fit is fairly good, except the blouses. A plebe, however, soon appreciates a loose blouse. When the cadet instructors command:

“Mr. Dumbguard, get those shoulders back. More yet! More yet!” a number of wrinkles appear in the back of the blouse. The looser therefore it is, the less effort is necessary to produce many wrinkles, and therefore, the task of appeasing the Man of Wrath easier.

The first day’s work goes on rapidly. As soon as the new uniforms are donned, once again to the Cadet Store go the new cadets to draw their room equipment.

“New cadets, turn out promptly!” command the cadet instructors in the lower hall of each division. Down the iron steps hurriedly come running the novitiates, and line up in the Area. At the Cadet Store, each man is issued his mattress, pillows, and bedding. A long procession of young Atlases, sweating like horses, stagger through the sally-port, bearing aloft everything necessary for sleeping, except the bed. A few zealous ones add to the burden a bucket, perhaps a dipper rattling inside, and a broom that sways recklessly on the top of the mattress. Concealed somewhere in the mass is a bottle of indelible ink that is sure to drop before the room is reached. Standing in the Area are a few of the Wrathful tribe ever on the alert to see that no loitering occurs.

“Take up a double time, Mr. Ducrot, step out!”

Poor Mr. Ducrot, this time about five feet four inches tall, whose view has been obscured by the side of a mattress, attempts to be more of a hustler, stubs his toe, and down come pillows, mattress, bucket, and all.

“Well, Mr. Ducrot, you’re a pretty mess, you’re about the grossest plebe I ever saw!” consoles one sarcastic Arch-Fiend.

“What do you think you’re trying to celebrate out here, Mr. Dumbguard,” cuts in another, “do you think you’re going to take a nap?”

The senior cadet officer comes forward:

“What’s the trouble?” he inquires.

Mr. Ducrot (after remembering to raise his hand in imitation of a salute) speaks up from the midst of his debÂcle:

“I was ...”

“Sir! Sir!” commands the officer.

“Sir,” recommences Mr. Ducrot, “I was coming through the sally-port when——”

Further details of this domestic tragedy are cut short by the roll of a drum.

“Pick up that stuff and get ready for dinner.”

“Step out! Step out!” orders the cadet officer.

Dinner! Dinner! Beloved dinner! the thought fills Mr. Ducrot with ecstasy. Here it is twelve-thirty and he has been at it since 5:30. It seems three years.

At dinner formation, “Mr. Ducrot, Mr. Dumbguard and Co.” learn how to “brace,” a term used to denote the position of the shoulders well down and back, with the head erect and chin in, hands close to the side. The companies are marched, after a fashion, to the Mess Hall. The cadet instructors accompany the new cadets continually commanding:

“Mr. Duflickit, drag in that chin!” “Hold your head up, No. 2, 1st squad!”

Once in the Mess Hall, the new cadet is allowed to eat all he wishes without interference. At the meal, however, he must comply with the instructions for the position of a cadet at table in the Mess Hall.

This position shall be wholly without constraint. While eating the body shall be erect on the hips, inclining slightly forward, elbows off the table. When not eating he will sit at ease in his chair, erect or leaning back as he desires. His forearms may be kept in his lap, or his hand or hands may rest easily upon the table. At no time in the Mess Hall shall he tilt his chair back or elevate his feet, or turn his chair away from the table. Whenever a cadet is spoken to in the Mess Hall, he will look at the person speaking to him.

But who cares, this first meal, about the position at table? Nothing matters except to satisfy that ravenous appetite!

Dinner over, the tragedy of the afternoon is enacted. West Point pays no attention to the style of hair cutting preferred by the aspirant for military honors. All cadets must be shorn alike. The new cadets are consequently marched to the barber shop wherefrom a long line of shaggy headed plebes protrudes like some serpent caught in a noose. What a sight is that barber shop! Hair everywhere: black hair, red hair, yellow hair, and some that resembles sun-burnt vanilla. Thick wavy locks, the despair of some distant damsel, drop dejectedly one by one. The hair must be kept short at all times so that it is impossible to distinguish at West Point cadets with histrionic leanings, or those poetically and musically inclined.

No rest yet in sight, this busiest of days. First the rooms must be arranged strictly according to the Regulations—a place for everything and everything in its place. Dozens of times are the belts piled, only to be pulled down and thrown on the floor by the Wrathful Tribe detailed to see that the task is correctly done. The bedding suffers the same ignominious treatment, for the slightest irregularity in arrangement is met with severe punishment. It seems hard and discouraging, but, later on, the reason for such strict compliance with orders appears. Only by constant repetition do new cadets learn to do a thing thoroughly.

Tired out in body and brain, Mr. Ducrot sits on the edge of his bed for a moment’s rest, when:

“New cadets turn out promptly!” echoes through the hall of the Division. Not a moment is lost in complying with this command.

He rushes down the stairs in a bewildered sort of way wondering what calamity is about to befall.

“Hurry up, Mr. Dumbguard, what do you mean by coming out here late?” greets his appearance upon the stoop of the barracks. From all the divisions new cadets are scampering to their places in ranks along the cement walk.

But who are the grave-looking officials in blue uniforms? The question is not long unanswered. The new cadets are lined up along three sides of a square. The National colors and the Corps colors are brought to the center. The Notary Public, in the presence of the Superintendent and his staff, reads the oath of allegiance to the assembled new body, who with right hands raised toward Heaven, swear their fealty to the United States. The ceremony is simple, but to the plebe tremendously impressive. When he agrees to give four years’ service to the Government after graduation, he feels as if he is signing away his life.

There is no cloud without its silver lining. To Mr. Ducrot’s great joy, the chief Man of Wrath commands:

“New cadets will immediately take a bath.”

For the first time since reporting he enjoys a little relaxation, splashing around under the showers, where occur stolen confidences when the instructors are busy elsewhere. A refreshed feeling creeps over Mr. Ducrot and he double times back to his room to await the inspection of his shoes and feet. Pretty soon, in pops the officer in charge with tapes and foot sticks for taking the measure of shoes. Alas, no pointed toes or English lasts are allowed:—all cadets must wear a sensible military shoe. Regularly, are Mr. Ducrot’s feet inspected during his first few weeks to remedy ill-fitting shoes and prevent cases of soreness.

Years ago in the days of hazing, a vastly different sort of inspection of feet occurred. This was an unofficial inspection of the plebe’s feet by upper-classmen. In the middle of the night when the tired plebe was snoring away, dreaming of being late to a formation and pursued by raging demons, he was suddenly awakened by a hollow voice in his tent, commanding:

“Inspec-shun! Feet,” the “feet” said crisply and emphatically.

Without delay Mr. Ducrot sticks his bare feet out for the inspection of the midnight prowler. He then, by order, opens his toes into the intervals of which the gloating upper-classman poured melted candle grease, thereby ending the inspection.

At eight-thirty in the evening, Mr. Ducrot, wearily but joyfully, makes down his bed that has remained folded all day long. At last, he is to have a rest, blessed sleep is in sight.

At nine o’clock the orderly in front of the Guardhouse beats three taps on his drum and simultaneously the cry:

“Lights out!” echoes through the halls of the divisions. Immediately the barracks are plunged into darkness and silence. Only the tread of the cadet officer doing his half-hour patrol in the Area, disturbs the stillness of the night.

Mr. Ducrot sinks back upon his pillow, dead tired, almost too tired to sleep, and strives to bring a little order out of the chaos of his mind. The oft-repeated names Ducrot, Dumbjohn, Duflicket, Dumbguard float through his head, indescribably confused with mattresses, pillows, stern-looking cadet officers, vicious yearling corporals, rows of red-faced plebes, chins drawn way in, and the perspiration streaming down their faces. The events of the day are hopelessly jumbled in his mind. A feeling almost of failure creeps over him, and in the solitude of the night a yearning for his home seizes him. All through his breast spasmodic sharp pains play hide and seek. The great loneliness to which men are prey, fills him with sadness and melancholy until a pleasing drowsiness drifts along and smothers Mr. Ducrot into unconsciousness.

This period of training of the new cadet is familiarly called “Beast Barracks.” It lasts for about three weeks, at the end of which these new men are sent to camp to join the Battalions. It is necessary to segregate them for at least this length of time: otherwise they would be so wooden that they would be sticking their front rank files in the head with a bayonet.

It is not difficult to discern the origin of the name “Beast Barracks.” In the cadets’ mind, their breaking in is only comparable to the taming of some wild animals. The training is undeniably severe for a tenderfoot, but its “beastly” character is an imaginary creation. To the new man, however, it seems awfully real. I well remember my own feelings. When I was standing in the fierce sun, “bracing” in ranks along the cement walk of the Area, occasionally a white dog upon the hill opposite would come lazily snooping around the ash cans: I envied him his freedom. It seemed to me that I envied everyone except my classmates in misery. In my imagination I saw in flaming letters above every door I entered: “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”

As I was re-christened Mr. Ducrot, I began to think I was someone else, I felt as if I must have died and that this was my second tour on earth, a punishment for a wicked first life.

“There must be some way of getting out of this,” I reflected, but then, I thought that if the officers and cadets in charge of me had gone through with this training I could also. And I did,—Alleluiah!

It was a long time, too, before I found out how all of us came to be addressed as Mr. Ducrot. During the academic year when I began to study French I made his acquaintance. He appeared in Keetel’s French Grammar, in the exercises of which the older cadets had uncovered a mysterious scandal concerning his private life. All plebes were at once required to relate to the upper-classmen the following bit of gossip, known as the famous Ducrot scandal. 1. Monsieur Ducrot a un fils et une fille. 2. Madame Ducrot a un fils et deux filles. Scandal. The name became traditional in the Corps and was, with many others, applied indiscriminately to all plebes.

Early the next morning, Mr. Ducrot, whom we left sleeping, attends his first reveille. Although the drums do not begin to play until five-twenty, he steals out of bed long before and conscientiously sweeps, dusts, shaves, and dresses, for fear of not being on time for the formation. Boom! sounds the morning gun! Down the iron steps all the Mr. Ducrots noisily clatter, bolt out to the cement walk where they remain rigidly at attention for ten minutes until the cadet officers emerge half awake and disagreeable. Woe unto the sleepy-headed plebe who is late! As he peeks his head out of the Division door a couple of the Wrathful meet him and convoy him at top speed to his place in ranks. I was once late: I shall never forget the experience. When my “Boer War Generals” were chasing me I was seized with the same terror that a child has in dreaming of being pursued by a burly policeman and unable to run.

At 5:50 the cadet instructors make a cursory inspection of the rooms to see that they are in order before breakfast. Before entering they knock sharply on the door, an authoritative knock, but one flavored with a little bravado. Two immovable, gray-clad figures, with eyes glassily fixed on the wall in front of them, chins caressing their Adam’s apple, shoulders way back, stand near the fireplace, looking for all the world like a couple of spoiled children about to cry, while the inspector rubs his white gloves over the tables and chairs.

Upon the second day commences the instruction of the new cadet in the elementary drills.

During the first few weeks the following schedule is carried out:

Each day the course of instruction is definitely prescribed by the officer in charge. At the first drill the new cadets are taught the school of the soldier, the marchings, haltings, facings, and saluting. These exercises are given without rifles. Usually the second drill is given under arms. As the service rifle weighs nine pounds, it is desirable to accustom gradually these young lads to its weight. To one unaccustomed to carrying a rifle, it seems, after a short while, to bore into your shoulder. Any officer who has ever been a cadet will never require an enlisted man to carry his rifle too long, until fatigued. His own experience in “Beast Barracks” remains too vivid.

The instruction is progressive, so that the cadets are gradually assembled into squads, the squads into platoons, the platoons into companies. Naturally, some men improve faster than others. Those whose intellects seem befogged by the complexities of the drills are formed into what is known as the “Awkward Squad” whence, as they progress, they are transferred. Last year one bright cadet instructor thought of a practical joke to inspire the new cadets to do their very best. It seems that the schedule of drills included a “sightseeing tour” around the Post, in order to familiarize the new cadets with their surroundings. The plebes were told that only the most efficient would go on this tour. Consequently great efforts were made by members of the awkward squad to increase their military efficiency. As the instructors knew and the plebes later discovered the “sightseeing trip” was anything but a treat. It was made on a broiling hot summer’s afternoon at a rapid walk, and not after the fashion of the Metropolitan rubberneck wagons. Objects of interest were pointed out in the most military manner: 1. Eyes Right; 2. Hudson River; 3. Front, or, 1. Eyes Left; 2. Battle Monument; 3. Front!

Sandwiched between the infantry morning drill are the physical exercises. This name will make the plebes laugh, for all drills are physical exercises, but I intend it as a distinguishing name for a drill where the essence of exercise is dispensed. This drill is now given in the Gymnasium and consists of every known form of setting-up exercises that can be devised. For forty-five minutes the cadet executes them, both at halt and while marching. He is given frequent short rests of half a minute or a minute, after every different exercise, but nevertheless it seems to the naturally fatigued new cadet, as if every muscle, every sinew, and every bone was being relentlessly punished.

These setting-up exercises are a potent influence in the new cadets’ physical development, and when the fresh young body has become accustomed to them, they act as a tonic, an elixir. To a visitor the drill is always interesting as it is rather spectacular, due to the numbers acting in unison and with perfect cadence.

The early afternoon is devoted to the nomenclature and cleaning of the rifle. Scattered in groups in the shade of the old gymnasium or the Cadet Store, perspiring plebes take their rifles apart and, after cleaning them, try their utmost to put them together again.

Infantry drills fill the remainder of the afternoon until 5:00 P.M., when there comes a chance to wash away the grime before retreat. Immediately after the lowering of the flag each afternoon is an inspection in ranks, for which all plebes must be carefully groomed. Each man must appear with immaculate linen and with his blouse and cap, and shoes carefully brushed. Mr. Ducrot dreads the inspection more than any other duty. Despite his care in dressing, the inspectors are sure to espy a tiny wisp from the clothes brush clinging to his cap or blouse, whereupon His Highness says:

“What do you mean by falling into ranks covered with straw?” Perhaps Mr. Ducrot is just seventeen years old with only a soupÇon of hair on his face.

“Why, what’s this,” inquires a sharp-eyed inspector. “Mr. Ducrot, why didn’t you shave today? I see three hairs sticking out of your chin. Drag in your chin.”

Mr. Ducrot’s sense of humor overcomes him even in his miserable state of mind and the corners of his mouth begin to twitch.

“Wipe that smile off your face!” commands the cadet officer.

Up goes the hand: the offending emotion is erased.

“Now, Mr. Ducrot, throw it upon the ground and stamp upon it. Don’t you ever again smile in ranks.” Mr. Ducrot begins to feel that the Wrathful Ones are quite human after all and he feels cheered up for the remainder of the day. Up and down the line walk the cadet officers inspecting and “bracing” the plebes, commanding:

“Get your shoulders back! More yet! More yet!”

“Hold your head up; drag in your chin!”

“Suck up your stomach! Lean forward on your hips!” and so on.

For three weeks the new cadets are put through this severe course of instruction before they are deemed fit to be put in the ranks of the older cadets without ruining the appearance of the Battalions.

It is astonishing to behold the progress made in elementary training in this short period. It is true that the days are crammed full, and the instruction is of the most intensive kind, but even so the results far exceed what might be expected under the most rigorous of systems.

In the first place, the men lose all appearance of slovenliness and begin to acquire a distinct military bearing. The unevenness of gait is replaced by a measured tread, the hanging of heads and drooping of shoulders gives way to an erect smart carriage, and the excessive swinging of arms disappears. The group of very crude-looking individuals of the first few days has been changed into a harmonious appearing military body. Little by little the new men have begun to adjust themselves to their uniforms.

No less marked is the change of the mental attitude of the new cadet at the end of “Beast Barracks.” All sense of his own importance, if he ever had any, has oozed away rapidly. Like Bob Acres, it sneaked out of the ends of his fingers the first few days, and he realizes what a very small fish he is in this new pond. He rapidly acquires a most receptive mood in which he absorbs the most important lesson that a soldier must learn,—OBEDIENCE. The officers and cadets in charge of him demand unhesitating and instant compliance with their orders. To this end the new cadets are made to execute every order at a run, not to harass them as they sometimes think, but to form the habit of immediate obedience. This trait is the foundation of discipline, toward the inculcation of which in the new cadet, an excellent beginning is made in “Beast Barracks.”

At the end of three weeks the “Beasts” are moved from Barracks to join the rest of the Corps in camp. You ought to see them move. Carrying their Lares and Penates in striped laundry bags, or on canvas stretchers, they come and go all morning across the Plain in parallel rows, resembling for all the world a colony of ants building its new home. Upon arrival in camp, they join the companies to which they have been assigned, and from the state of “Beast” they are raised to the dignity of a plebe, the next lowest grade in the cadet hierarchy.

“Beast Barracks” is over, but its memory remains fresher than any other at West Point. In spite of the new and more interesting training of camp life, Mr. Ducrot is forever haunted by recollections of perspiration and indelible ink.