down to Bennie Haven's on a frolic--taking French leave, of course. The
alarm was given of the approach of an instructor, and the two culprits
bolted for the barracks at breakneck speed through pitch darkness.
Scrambling madly through the woods, there was a sudden cry, a crash and
silence. He had fallen sixty feet over a precipice to the banks of the
Hudson. Young Laserre crawled carefully to the edge of the rock, peered
over and called through the darkness:

"Are you dead, Jeff?"

He was suffering too much to laugh, though he determined to give an
Irishman's reply to that question, if it killed him. He managed to
wheeze back the answer:

"Not dead--but spachless!"

Many were the temptations of rebellion from the friends he loved in the
years that followed, but never again did he yield. Somehow the thing
didn't work in his case.

There was one professor who put his decision of obedience to the supreme
test. For some reason this particular instructor took a violent dislike
to the tall, dignified young Southerner. Perhaps because he was more
anxious to have the love of his cadet friends than the approval of his
teachers. Perhaps from some hidden spring of character within the
teacher which antagonized the firm will and strong personality of the
student who dared to do his own thinking. From whatever cause, it was
plain to all that the professor sought opportunities to insult and
browbeat the cadet he could not provoke into open rebellion.