At twenty minutes past nine a preliminary tapping of the drums is heard on the Plain near the Commandant’s quarters. A few minutes of silence ensue. Then the music of the fifes and drums startles the night as the drum corps commences its march to barracks to sound tattoo. The notes of the fifes float out over the darkened Plain in the weirdest possible manner, as if the spirits of the night were trying to be gay but could not suppress a certain plaintiveness in spite of their joy. They are like a little boy going upstairs in the dark who keeps saying out loud, “I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid.” On they come, the music growing louder and louder, until they reach the sally-port where their racket is a signal to the cadets to cease work and make down their beds. Some of the men are already asleep, but the vast majority are still sitting at tables, supporting their heads on their hands as they try to absorb the meaning of the printed words that dance before their eyes. The Drum Corps has ceased to play and stands near the Guard House waiting for half-past nine. The silence of the Area is broken only by the tramp of the third relief marching around the stoop of barracks from one division to another. [Illustration: _Photo White Studio_ At P. M. E. Drill Building a Pontoon Bridge] “No. 1. Off!” commands the Corporal. The sentinel joins his leader and passes on to relieve the other sentinels. Meanwhile the hands of the clock indicate nine-thirty. The “Hell Cats” sound the tattoo. For the next half-hour the barracks are animated with cadets running up and down stairs to the showers, with the noise of beds being made down and water drawn. Gradually ten o’clock draws near. The Officer of the Day standing in the Area turns to the musicians: “Sound taps!” he commands. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! goes the drum in measured beat. “Li-i-i-i-i-ghts out!” call the subdivision inspectors. The windows of the barracks seem to blink for a moment and then darkness envelops all of the rooms. And so ends the day that has been continually under the eyes of the Tactical Department. The next day will be the same and the next and the next. Next year, too, the mills of the Gods will be grinding away bending, twisting, shaping Mr. Ducrot for his future work. No act of his is passed unnoticed or unrecorded. Every time that he performs a duty the “Tacs” give him a mark that goes toward determining his standing in military efficiency and deportment. This is as it should be because the attitude toward duty that he displays as a cadet is a good indication of his future attitude as an officer, and to deny to merit, talents, and acquirements their just rewards would be to check the emulation which brings genius into action and qualifies the industrious student to become an ornament to his country.