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. [Illustration: _Photo White Studio_ “Beast Barracks”--Drawing Mattresses] 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.