Our two young friends were by no means the most smartly nor the
most correctly attired young men there. On their way to New York
Prescott and Holmes had discovered, by taking mental notes of the
other male passengers on the train, that these two Gridley boys had
missed something from the most correct styles then prevailing in
the larger cities.
Dick and Greg were both solidly and substantially attired, yet there
was an indefinable something about them which proclaimed them
to be young men from one of the smaller cities of the United
States.
"I can see those medical big-wigs pawing me over now," shivered
Greg. "I suppose, at a place as wonderful and as learned as West
Point, the doctors are all fussy old men, with their gold-rimmed
spectacles and shiny frock coats."
"Wait and see," advised Dick, trying to get a grip on himself to
control his nervousness.
Another door opened, to admit a dandified and very smart-looking
young officer, apparently about twenty-five years of age.
"You're all ready, young gentlemen?" he asked smilingly.
"We're waiting for the doctor," replied Greg, who was close to the
door by which the officer had entered.
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