"You mustn't be permitted to get chilled.

Exercise is what you need." Dick paused.
"Poor, young Mr.Briggs stood mute, blinking back.
"Milesy, may Mr.Briggs have the use of your piece for a few minutes ?" "Why, surely," declared Cadet Furlong in a tone of great cordiality.
"Mr.Briggs, take Mr.Furlong's piece, and go through the silent manual of arms," ordered the president of the yearling class.
Mr.Briggs picked up the rifle that Furlong pointed out to him.
Then, trying to look very grave in order to hide the extreme sheepishness that he really felt, Mr.Briggs brought the rifle up to port arms.
"Proceed through the manual, mister," Dick counseled.

"And keep going until we decide that you have done it long enough to put you past the danger of pneumonia." Standing stiffly, the plebe started through the manual of arms.
As soon as he had gone once through, with West Point precision in every movement, the plebe started in all over again.
"Now, do this to the stationary marching, mister," added Dick gravely, as though prescribing something for the very immediate benefit of the luckless fourth classman.
With that, Mr.Briggs began to "march," though not stirring from the spot on which he was stationed.

Left, right! left, right! left, right! his feet moved, in the cadence of marching.

At the same time the victim was obliged to raise his feet.
"Bring the feet up higher and more smartly, mister," directed Dick.
Passing the rifle through every movement of the manual of arms, lifting his feet as high as he could, and yet obliged to bring them down noiselessly to the floor, Plebe Briggs quickly began to drip with perspiration.
Yet his inquisitors sat by with the judicial gravity of drill sergeants.