The interior of the tent contains a wooden clothes-press and usually a canvas stretcher suspended from the ridge pole. Each cadet has a certain section for his clothes. All articles, belts, gloves, socks must be folded and arranged in a prescribed manner. The cots are folded and kept out of sight during the day. Gray, painted wooden lockers for storing cleaning material and clothing border one side of the tent floor. Many cadets, however, secrete food, known as “Boodle” in these convenient places, and I am sure that an unexpected inspection would reveal many tins of saltines, bottles of olives, and jars of peanut butter. During my cadet days, the officer in charge of my company never, for some reason, looked into the lockers. My tent-mate and I therefore grew more and more bold about filling them with vast supplies of “Boodle,” and we began to think that the “Tac” was inspired by a sort of _noblesse oblige_ where the lockers were concerned, a sort of sympathetic remembrance of his own cadet-gnawing appetite. One Saturday, however, just as he was leaving and I was offering a silent prayer of thanksgiving, he ordered the lockers opened. A gallon jar in which some fifty olives lay submerged and a slovenly looking pineapple cheese met my humiliated gaze. A reprimand that as a cadet officer I should set an example to the rest of the company, and five demerits, were awarded to me forthwith. When the tents are not prepared for inspection, however, cadets may make down the cots and rest. How wonderfully refreshing it is to rest! to throw oneself down on the blankets and forget the heat, the weary march, the grime, the dust, and abandon oneself to the delights of the imagination, dreaming of the sweetness of the past or building vast plans for the future! How precious to the cadet is each moment of repose snatched from the busy day! But it is in the morning that the real longing for sleep becomes most acute. Every morning at 5:20, the solitary boom of the reveille gun is echoed throughout the hills, rudely dissipating the fog of unconsciousness that envelops the sleeping cadets. Little by little the deathlike slumber of the camp is broken. Indistinct sounds, a sigh, a yawn, float gently out upon the air; drugged forms twist and roll uncertainly beneath the mosquito bars, as if struggling in a bewildered sort of way to preserve the pleasing heaviness that charms their bodies.