That evening after supper Cadets Blakely and Ferguson were slowly pacing up and down the port side of the spar deck talking over the all-engrossing subject—the plebe’s minstrel show.  
“To tell you the honest truth, Ferguson,” said the big senior, after a pause, “I don’t see how we can stop the thing without raising a lot of trouble.”
 
“Oh, there is more than one way to kill a cat,” replied the other. “You just promise that you will lend a hand, and I’ll furnish any amount of schemes.”
 
“But the old man has given his consent, you know.”
 
“That doesn’t cut any ice. What right has he to break a cadet rule? He was a cadet himself once, and I’ll bet anything he was just as strict against the plebe class as we are. Why, how was it yourself? Did you kick and refuse to be—er—to be——”
 
“Hazed¹?” smiled Blakely. “Yes, hazed.”
 
“Humph! I was too scared.”
 
“The proper feeling. So was I. Why, they made me eat a yard of red ribbon I brought home to remember my girl by. Yes, made me eat the whole blamed thing. And it put me in the hospital for a week, too. But I didn’t kick or squeal² either.”
 
“You can’t say Faraday ever squealed,” said Blakely, quickly.
 
“No, I won’t say that,” replied Ferguson, reluctantly. “But he’s done everything else. He’s a fool. Why, the whole plebe class is as impudent³ as you please. Yesterday I told that little fellow, Nanny Gote, to do something for me, and he actually refused.”
 
“You don’t say! That’s bad. But what was it?”
 
Ferguson reddened.
 
“Why, I—it—I just asked him to overhaul⁴ my bag and give the clothes an airing.”
 
“And——” persisted the big senior, smiling shyly.
 
“Oh, nothing more—that is, I believe I asked him to wash all the soiled things.”
 
“And he refused? The impudent beggar! He’s certainly unreasonable⁵.”
 
The sarcasm⁶ in the words made Ferguson uncomfortable, and he said nothing for several moments. As they slowly paced up and down the deck a cadet emerged from the forward hatch and eyed them.
 
He waited until they had made a turn toward the mainmast, then he slipped into a dark spot near one of the broadside guns.
 
As they passed him on their way back he called out in a cautious voice:
 
“I say, Blakely. Look here a moment, will you?”
 
The two stopped and faced the speaker, Ferguson with an exclamation⁷ of surprise.
 
“Hello, it’s a plebe!” he said.
 
“Judson Greene,” added Blakely, not very cordially. “Well, what do you want, plebe?”
 
“I’d like to say a word or two in private,” replied Greene, nervously⁸.
 
He cast a furtive⁹ glance forward as he spoke¹⁰, and drew farther into the deepening shadows.
 
“A word with me? What about?” asked the big senior, coldly.
 
Judson hesitated and looked at Ferguson. The latter started to go away, then he stopped and said, significantly:
 
“If you have anything to say about the plebe entertainment, I can hear it also. I guess I am as much interested as Blakely.”
 
“Yes, it’s about the show,” was Judson’s eager reply. “............