There was a dash; in another instant each cadet stood by the head of his selected mount.
"Prepare to mount!" Each cadet seized mane and bridle, also thrusting his left foot into stirrup box.
"Mount!" Like so many figures operated by machinery, the first classmen rose, throwing right legs over saddles, then settling down in the seat.
Then, all in a twinkling, the ranks reformed.
"Mr.Prescott, take command of the squadron, sir!" rang the instructor's voice.
Dick thrilled with pleasure as he received the command with a salute.
He had not looked, but he knew that those dearest to him were in the crowd beyond, looking on.
"Draw sabre!" sounded Dick's not loud but clean-cut order.
Greg and Anstey repeated the order in turn.

Instantly all down the strong line naked steel leaped forth.

The sabres sprang to the "carry," and the superb picture breathed of military might.
Cadet Captain Dick Prescott, well in advance, sat facing his squadron; he throbbed with a soldier's ardor at the beauty of the scene.
"Fours right!" he shouted.
"Fours right! Fours right!" sounded in the differing tones of Greg and Anstey.
"March!" "March! March!" Into a long column of fours, to the tune of jingling accoutrements, the squadron swung.

Prescott wheeled about and rode forward at a walk.

In the same instant, the bugler, a musician belonging to the Regular Army, trotted forward, then slowed down to a walk close to the young squadron commander.