Instantly books are slammed, all noises, talking, laughing, skylarking, cease, and the scattered gray figures seem to magically form themselves into compact little squads under the direction of their section marchers who stand out in front counting them. The door of the Guardhouse opens and the O. C. (officer in charge) appears upon the “poop deck,” stern, implacable, almost sphinx-like, and surveys coldly the formation. For the brief space of a few seconds all is quiet except for the occasional shuffling of a section that has misjudged its proper space. Then the trumpeter sounds the assembly. A few belated men are tearing to their places in ranks, running a race with the fading notes of the trumpet and landing bang! into the rear rank just in time to keep from being reported absent. The kind-hearted trumpeter often takes a deeper breath (especially in winter when he sees the belated ones recklessly dashing across the icy walks), and holds on to those last notes of assembly in a way that was never intended by the composer. God bless him! Meanwhile the instructors are in the section rooms awaiting the arrival of their classes. Here and there in the windows of the rooms facing the area is an instructor gazing upon this class formation that is the same today as it was years ago, and that awakens in him a flood of memories of his own cadet days when he too set out to recite to an instructor who never seemed quite human. As he looks at the cadets forming, he realizes how distinctly the institution creates its types, and he is able to pick out certain individuals and say to himself: “There goes so and so of my class!” The great charm of West Point is that so many things never change. Some of the cadets, sons of graduates, are doing exactly as their fathers did at their age, and again a few cadets are reacting the youth of their grandfathers. While the instructor is watching the cadets in the area, the section marcher reports to the officer of the day all absentees in his section which he then marches off to the Academic Building. On the sections come in military formation straight to the classroom door. The halls of the building resound to the tramping of many feet as the cadets march along with muffled tread, thanks to O’Sullivan rubber heels that are fitted to every pair of shoes. When opposite the classroom door the section marcher commands: “Section halt! Fall out!” The cadets hang up their caps in the hall, file into the room, and stand rigidly at attention behind their desks. The section marcher enters, closes the door, takes his position in the center of the room facing the instructor, salutes, and reports: “Sir, all are present,” or “Cadet Ducrot is absent.”