“I’ve got a scheme, but I’ll tell it in my own way or not at all,” replied the big cadet, sulkily.
“It’s this in a nutshell: We’ll yank Faraday and the rest down into the orlop deck and give ’em a coat of varnish. There’s a whole pot down there, and paint, too. Then we’ll rig ’em out in spun yarn whiskers and set ’em adrift on the spar deck with some tin mess pans tied to their tails, that is, their ankles. It’ll be great sport.”
“Yes, and a tough job, too,” remarked the Georgian cadet.
“I’d like to know why?” exclaimed a sallow-faced youth. “He’s not so warm, this Faraday. He can be whipped.”
“Yes, but I’ve got five dollars which says you can’t do it, Morgan. Kelley could lay over you, and Faraday licked him.”
“Let’s quit talking,” growled Crane. “Pipe down will sound in a moment. Are you fellows satisfied with the scheme or not.”
The “fellows” were, and it was agreed to start the hazing as soon as possible after taps.
Presently the long, low notes of the last call sounded, echoing and winding through the rigging and hull in melancholy cadence. There was a momentary bustle, then quiet settled over the old frigate.
“Wake up, will you. There’s something in the wind.”
“Oh, go away, Toggles. Can’t you let a fellow sleep?”
“All right, if you want to see a chum hazed by----”
“Hazed! Gorry! Who is it? Where--what----”
Clif Faraday swung lightly from his hammock, and confronted a tall, slim youth clad picturesquely in a long nightshirt.
Clif himself was similarly attired, and the single garment revealed to advantage his erect, muscular figure. He was not over large for his seventeen years of age, but there was grace and strength in every line of his compact body.
“What is it, Toggles?” he queried, hastily. “Did you say some one was getting hazed?”
“Nanny? Gorry! Have they tackled that little chap? Who’s got him?”
Clif’s handsome teeth came together with a snap, and a queer, grim smile crossed his lips.
“Crane, eh?” he said. “He’s broke out again. And he has tackled Nanny as a starter. What do you know, Toggles?”
T. Oggles Andrews, or “Toggles,” as he was familiarly called by his plebe associates, made haste to reply.
Throwing one long, skinny leg over a convenient mess chest, he explained: