JUDSON RECEIVES A SETBACK.
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----”
“Hazed?” 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 squeal 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 impudent
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 overhaul 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 unreasonable.”
The sarcasm 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 exclamation 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, nervously.
He cast a furtive glance forward as he spoke, 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. “I sympathize
with you fellows and I’ll put you on to a scheme to down Clif Faraday
and his gang.”
Blakely made a gesture of disgust.
“What do you think we are, confound you?” he demanded, angrily. “We
haven’t any use for traitors, and that is what you are. Get out of here
with your dirty propositions. Come, Ferguson.”
Judson slunk away without a word, and the honest-hearted big senior
resumed his walk with Ferguson. A few minutes later he was called on
duty.
As soon as he was alone Ferguson promptly hunted up Greene. Taking him
to a secluded spot, he held a long and earnest conversation with him,
the result of which was evidently satisfactory to both.
In the meantime the object of their conspiracy was busily engaged in
preparing the details of the coming entertainment.
He had secured permission to partition off the forward part of the gun
deck as a hall for rehearsals, and, as only three days intervened
before Saturday, he ordered one held that night.
Curious upper class men, attracted by the unwonted sounds of music,
gathered about the spot, but they were kept in order by a special
detail of plebes, reinforced by the master-at-arms and his assistant.
Shouts of laughter, a confused murmur of voices, an occasional snatch
of song, and the rattling of bones and banging of tambourines only
added zest to the curiosity of the hearers outside the canvas partition.
Among the latter were Ferguson and a sallow, thin cadet named Bryce.
The two were discussing the scene in low tones when Judson Greene
slipped up to them.
“Well?” asked Ferguson, espying him.
“Everything settled,” was the reply, given guardedly. “I’ve prepared
the stuff. It’ll work like a charm.”
“Well, have it ready,” said Ferguson, briefly.
As the youthful traitor glided away, he added to Bryce:
“I hate to dabble in such dirty work, but we must put a stop to this
insolent attempt to give a show. That fellow Greene is a sneak and a
scoundrel, and I wish Faraday would lick him for keeps.”
“After the entertainment is busted up, eh?” laughed his companion.
Ferguson nodded, and the two presently went on deck, the music and
laughter and songs following them like a mocking chorus.