d.i.c.k spoke so seriously that there was an awkward pause.

"I don't want you to think that I'm going to set up as a yearling saint," d.i.c.k added. "I don't mean to say that I may not put a single plebe through any kind of pace. What I do mean is that I shall go very slowly indeed in annoying any plebe. I shan't do it, probably, unless I note a case of such utter b.j.-ety that I feel bound to bring the plebe quickly to his senses."

"You cast a gloom over us," muttered Furlong. "So far we haven't done any hazing. We were thinking of ordering a plebe in here, and starting in on him, so as to get our hands in. We need practice in the fine art."

"Don't let me interfere with your pursuit of happiness," begged d.i.c.k, with mock politeness.

"But, seriously, old ramrod, are you as strong for the plebe as we have just been led to believe? Are you prepared to take the plebe to our heart and comfort him---instead of training him?"

"Do you believe we ought to take the plebe right into our midst, and condole with him until we get him over his homesickness?

Do you feel that we should overlook all the traditional b.j.ety of the plebe, and admit him to full fellowship without any probation or instruction?"

"No," spoke d.i.c.k promptly. "I don't believe in patting the plebe on the shoulder and increasing his conceit. When a candidate first comes to West Point, and is admitted as a cadet, he is one of the most conceited simpletons on earth. He has to have that all taken out of him, I admit. He must be taught to respect and defer to upper cla.s.smen, just as he will have to do with his superior officers after he goes from here out into the service. The plebe must be kept in his place. I don't believe in making him feel that he's a pet. I do believe in frowning down all b.j.-ety.

I don't believe in recognizing a plebe, except officially. But I don't believe in subjecting any really good fellow to a lot of senseless and half cruel hazing that has no purpose except the amus.e.m.e.nt of the yearlings. Now, I think I've made myself clear. At least, I've said all that I have to say on the subject.

For the rest, I'll listen to the ideas of the rest of you."

There was silence, broken at last by Greg, who said:

"I think I agree, in the main, with Prescott."

"Oh, of course," grunted Dobbs, in a tone which might mean that Greg Holmes was but the "shadow" of d.i.c.k Prescott.

Greg looked quickly at Dobbs, but saw nothing in the other's face that justified him in taking open offence.

Somehow, though none of the others said anything to that effect, Cadet Prescott began to feel that he was a bit in the way at a conference of this sort. He didn't rise to leave at once, but he swung around on his campstool near the door.

Without throwing the flap open, Prescott peeped through a slit-like opening. As he did so he saw something that made his eyes flash.

The rain was pouring a little less heavily now. Down the company street came a cadet with a pail of water.

It was Mr. Briggs, a round faced, laughter loving, somewhat roly poly lad of the plebe cla.s.s.

Just as Mr. Briggs was pa.s.sing the tent in which Anstey lay making up some needed sleep, a snore came out.

Briggs halted, glancing swiftly up and down the company street.

No upper cla.s.sman being in sight, Mr. Briggs peeped into the tent.

He saw Anstey, asleep and alone.

Instantly raising the flap just enough, Mr. Briggs took careful aim, then shot half the contents of the pail of water over the chest and face of Yearling Anstey.

d.i.c.k Prescott watched unseen by the b.j. plebe. Mr. Briggs fled lightly, but swiftly four tents down the line and disappeared into his own quarters.

From across the way, came a roar of wrath.

Anstey was up, bellowing like a bull. Yet, roused so ruthlessly from a sound sleep, it took him a few seconds to realize that his wetting must be due to human agency.

Then Anstey flew to the tent door, looking out, but the chuckling plebe was already in his own tent, out of sight.

"After what I've just said," announced d.i.c.k grimly, "I think I know of a plebe who requires some correction."

"Listen to our preacher!" jeered Furlong.

CHAPTER II

PLEBE BRIGGS LEARNS A FEW THINGS

"Anstey!" called Prescott softly across the company street.

"Oh, was it you idiots?" demanded the Virginian, showing his wrathful looking face.

"No," replied d.i.c.k. "Come over as quickly as you can."

It took Anstey a few minutes to dry himself, and to rearray himself, for the Virginian's sense of dignity would not permit him to go visiting in the drenched garments in which he had awakened.

"Which one of you was it?" demanded Anstey, as he finally entered the tent of Furlong and his bunkies.

"No one here," d.i.c.k replied. "The other gentlemen don't even know what happened, for I haven't told them."

So Anstey withdrew his look of suspicion from the five cadets.

No cadet may ever lie; not even to a comrade in the corps. Any cadet who utters a lie, and is detected in it, is ostracized as being unfit for the company of gentlemen. So, when d.i.c.k's prompt denial came, Anstey believed, as he was obliged to do.

"It was a plebe, Mace," continued d.i.c.k.

"I'll have all but his life, then!" cried the southerner fiercely.

"I wouldn't even think of it. The offender is only a cub," urged d.i.c.k. "If you accept my advice, Mace, you won't even call the poor blubber out. We'll just summon him here, and make the little imp so ashamed of himself that the lesson ought to last him through the rest of his plebedom. I'm cooler than you are at this moment, Mace, but none the less disgusted. Will you let me handle this affair?"

"Yes," agreed Anstey quickly.

As for Furlong, Griffin and Dobbs, it was "just nuts" for them to see their cla.s.s president, lately so stately on the subject of hazing, now actually proposing to take a plebe sternly in hand.

The three bunkies exchanged grins.

"Tell us, Mace," continued d.i.c.k, "have you had any occasion to take Mr. Briggs in hand at any time?

"So it was Mr. Briggs?" demanded Anstey angrily, turning toward the door.

"Wait! Have you taken Mr. Briggs in hand at any time?"

"Yes," admitted Anstey. "When you and Holmesy were out, last evening, I had Mr. Briggs in our tent for grinning at me and failing to say 'sir' when he addressed me."

"You put him through some performances?"

"Nothing so very tiresome," replied Anstey. "I made him brace for five minutes, and then go through the silent manual of arms for five more."