"
"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!"
Eight young men in gray, marshaled by a section marcher, went
swinging up the road with a marching rhythm so perfect that it
was like music.
Each of these young men was clad in flawless gray, with black
stripes and facings. Each young man wore his cadet fatigue cap at
an exact angle. The long, caped gray overcoats looked as though
they had been melted to the forms of their wearers.
No wonder Greg Holmes gave that involuntary gasp. He was
having his first view of a small squad of real cadets.
Some of the candidates on the other sidewalk so far forgot
themselves as to halt and all but stare at the natty young marching
men opposite.
Then, all in an instant, the section marcher and his section had
gone by.
"Don't anyone halt, please," cautioned the soldier orderly.
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