"TWO TINY SPECKS OF NOTHING" "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," grinned Dick. For the tenth time he thrust his hands into his pockets—then as quickly drew them out again.

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Work from the American chemist and writer, mainly remembered as an author of children's literature in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

"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!"

WEIGHING ANCHOR FOR THE GREAT CRUISE "It sounds like the greatest cruise ever!" declared Danny Grin, enthusiastically, as he rose and began to pace the narrow limits of the chart-room of the destroyer commanded by his chum, Lieutenant-Commander Dave Darrin. "It is undoubtedly the most dangerous work we've ever undertaken," Darrin observed thoughtfully. "All the better!" answered Dan lightly. "In our drive against the submarines off the Irish coast," Dave continued, "we met perils enough to satisfy the average salt water man. But this——" "Is going to prove the very essence and joy of real fighting work at sea!" Dan interposed. "Oh, you old fire-eater!" laughed Darrin. "Not a bit of a fire-eater," declared Dalzell with dignity. "I'm a business man, Davy. Our business, just now, is to win the war by killing Germans, and I've embarked upon that career with all the enthusiasm that goes with it. That's all." "And quite enough," Darrin added, soberly. "I agree with you that it's our business to kill Germans, yet I could wish that the Germans themselves were in better business, for then we wouldn't have to do any killing." "You talk almost like a pacifist," snorted Dan Dalzell. "After this war has been won by our side, but not before, I hope to find it possible to be a pacifist for at least a few years," smiled Darrin, rising from his seat at the chart table.

"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. "You'll have to be more explicit," Tom retorted. "Just what are you up to? What do you want anyway?" "I want the makings for a cigarette," replied the boy, shifting uneasily to the other foot. "You said you'd pay me five dollars a month and find me in everything, didn't you?"

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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 to give this young man the pleasantest greeting, but she was plainly at a loss to know what to say. Like many excellent and ordinarily well-informed American people, she had not the haziest notions of West Point.

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 strictly in line with labor, for the young men, under Captain McAneny, had been engaged in the study of field fortifications. To be more exact, the young men had been digging military trenches - yes - digging them, for at West Point hard labor is not beneath the cadet's dignity.

His jaw set firmly, his keen, fiery eyes roving over the group before him, the gray-haired colonel of infantry closed his remarks with these words: "Gentlemen, the task set for the officers of the United States Army is to produce, with the least possible delay, the finest fighting army in the world. Our own personal task is to make this, the Ninety-ninth, the finest regiment of infantry in that army. "You have heard, at some length, what is expected of you. Any officer present, of any grade, who does not feel equal to the requirements I have laid down will do well to seek a transfer to some other regiment or branch of the service, or to send in his resignation as a military officer."

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 patriotism. "Mexico is the finest country on earth. And, though we are neither as numerous in population, or as progressive as your own great country, still Mexico has greater possibilities than the United States."

Product Description: "AW, what's the difference between a soldier and a loafer?" demanded "Bunny" Hepburn. "A soldier ain't a loafer, and it takes nerve to be a soldier. It's a job for the bravest kind of a man," retorted Jud Jeffers indignantly. "Answer my c'nundrum," insisted Bunny.

Work from the American chemist and writer, mainly remembered as an author of children's literature in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

"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." "You've been in many a worse place, though," rejoined Tom. "I never heard you make half as much fuss, either." "I think something must be wrong with my head," ventured Harry. "Undoubtedly," Tom Reade agreed cheerily. "Hear that water," Harry went on, in a voice scarcely less disconsolate than before.

"Look, Tom! There is a real westerner!" Harry Hazelton's eyes sparkled, his whole manner was one of intense interest. "Eh?" queried Tom Reade, turning around from his distant view of a sharp, towering peak of the Rockies. "There's the real thing in the way of a westerner," Harry Hazelton insisted in a voice in which there was some awe. "I don't believe he is," retorted Tom skeptically. "You're going to say, I suppose, that the man is just some freak escaped from the pages of a dime novel?" demanded Harry. "No; he looks more like a hostler on a leave of absence from a stranded Wild West show," Tom replied slowly.

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 going to get nervous as soon as he came in sight of an enemy?"

Naval Academy, did not finish what he was about to say. While speaking he had closed the door behind him and had stepped into the quarters occupied jointly by himself and by Midshipman Daniel Dalzell, also of the first or upper class. "Danny boy isn't here. Visiting, probably," mused Dave Darrin, after having glanced into the alcove bedroom at his right hand. It was a Saturday night, early in October. The new academic year at the Naval Academy was but a week old. There being no "hop" that night the members of the brigade had their time to spend as they pleased. Some of the young men would need the time sadly to put in at their new studies. Dave, fortunately, did not feel under any necessity to spend his leisure in grinding over text-books.