“It’s true, nevertheless, Payne.”
“But think what it means, my dear fellow. Why, such a thing has never been dreamed of before on a naval2 academy practice ship. Plebes give an entertainment! Pshaw! you’re crazy!”
“Here comes Blakely. He’ll tell you whether I am right or not.”
The speaker pointed3 along the starboard part of the Monongahela’s spar deck. Blakely was sauntering forward.
He halted in front of the two and glanced inquiringly at Naval Cadet Payne, who had beckoned4 to him.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Why, this chump here has been telling me a ghost story. He says the old man has given the new fourth class permission to hold an entertainment on the gun deck.”
“That’s straight, Ferguson.”
“Wh-what!”
“The plebes, headed by that very gally function, Faraday, sent in a request this morning asking Captain Brookes’ permission to give a minstrel entertainment on the forward gun deck. The old man gave his consent at once, and it is to be held Saturday night.”
“Well, that beats the nation!” exclaimed Ferguson, with a prolonged whistle. “Fellows, the service is going to the bowows. I’ve been a naval cadet in the service of these great and glorious United States almost four years, and never have I dreamed of such a state of affairs.”
“It’s all the fault of that Faraday,” muttered Payne. “He’s kicked up more rows than enough since he entered the academy last month.”
“He’s too fresh.”
“That’s what.”
Blakely looked over the side at the vast stretch of shimmering5 water surrounding the practice ship, and smiled.
He was a young man of very fair and even temper, was Walt Blakely, member of the first class, and captain of the Naval Academy football team. He rather liked “that cheeky plebe,” Clif Faraday, and he secretly admired him for that cheekiness, but he also believed firmly in the divine right of the upper classes.
Therefore when Payne and Ferguson broke out in loud remonstrance6 he added his voice to theirs.
“The truth of the matter is,” said Ferguson, resentfully, “the old man thinks the sun rises and sets in Faraday’s vicinity.”
“Sure thing,” agreed Payne. “Ever since Faraday jumped from the top and saved Nanny Gote from drowning, he’s in luck.”
“It was a splendid act,” commented Blakely.
“Yes, but it’s no reason for letting the plebes upset all the academy traditions. Why——”
“There’s Faraday now,” interrupted Payne, nodding his head toward an approaching figure.
Clif glanced quizzically at the little group as he passed, and then joined several fourth class men gathered on the forecastle.
Payne and Ferguson reddened slightly.
“He looked as if he knew we were talking about him,” sniffed7 the latter.
“He probably does,” said Blakely, dryly. “He’s no fool. He knows his new move will make more row than a bunch of magpies8.”
“I’d like to punch his head.”
“Don’t try it, dear boy. He’s good at that work himself. He knocked Sharpe out about as neatly9 as a prize fighter could. What’s that call?”
The shrill10 blast of a boatswain’s whistle sounded along the deck. As the tremulous piping died out, a hoarse11 voice called out:
“All-l hands reef topsails!”
“More drill,” grumbled
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