Another name was called.
"Don't let that rattle you a bit, Greg," whispered Dick, when he had dropped back into his seat beside his chum.

"Mr.Ward doesn't do anything but take your pedigree." "Mr.Holmes!" Greg got up with nearly all of his self-possession about him.

He was just returning to sit by his chum when the nattiest, sprucest- looking soldier imaginable, wearing the olive-drab fatigue uniform of the Army and overcoat to match, stepped into the room.
"The surgeons have directed me to bring down all the candidates who are through here," the orderly announced.

"Follow me to the sidewalk, where you will fall in loosely, by twos, and follow me to the cadet hospital." Among those of the candidates who had finished giving their pedigrees there was a rush that would put a spectator in mind almost of a football scrimmage.

It represented merely the feverish anxiety of these young men to get through with the next stage in their awe-filled day.
"There are some marching down with us who won't be marching with us to the next place, I am afraid," whispered Holmes.
"I imagine so," whispered Dick, with a nod.
"Say," murmured Greg, his cheek suddenly blanching, "just how much chest expansion do the surgeons demand in the case of a fellow standing five-seven in his stocking feet ?" There was a note almost of panic in Greg's voice.
"Cheer up, Greg!" urged Dick, whose own lace was again flushing.
"You've got chest expansion enough for a heavy-weight prize fighter." "You must have the same, then.