THE MINSTREL SHOW.
All afternoon and until after supper time Clif and the rest continued
their preparations for the entertainment which was destined to prove
(so they fondly hoped) the crowning triumph in their successful
campaign against the higher classes.
The clever young leader and his clever companions had every reason to
anticipate success, for had they not beaten the hazing third class at
its own game many times?
They had caught the spy (one of their own class, more shame to him)
sent out by the enemy, and now he was stretched, bound and gagged, in
one corner of the stage with little Nanny doing valiant sentry-go over
him.
Clif was tactician enough to send out scouts among the other cadets to
ascertain if there were signs of a plot to break up the entertainment,
but all he learned was that a number of the upper cadets had secured
certain articles of a vegetable nature, also several ancient specimens
of hen fruit.
Whereat Clif chuckled.
“They think this is a barn-storming troupe, eh?” he said. “Well, we
will fool them.”
It was an exceedingly warm evening. A light breeze which had been
previously blowing from the northeast, died out entirely by dusk,
leaving the old _Monongahela_ rolling sluggishly upon a long heaving
swell--the after effect of a gale in some quarter of the ocean.
The “Naval Academy Plebe Troupe” found it very sultry and close on the
gun deck, and when the boys donned their heavy costumes they were a
very warm set of youngsters indeed.
Shortly before the hour set for the performance one of the wardroom
stewards came forward with a large wooden pail of lemonade and said it
was a present from aft.
The plebes were delighted, and they lost no time in refreshing
themselves.
“Tell them we are exceedingly obliged,” said Joy, emptying his third
glass. “This is great, simply great.”
The man grinned and withdrew. Five minutes later the seats in front of
the improvised stage began to fill up.
“To your places, fellows,” ordered Clif, who was acting as stage
manager. “Now, remember, we’ve got a reputation to maintain. The eyes
of the--er--whole world are upon us. So behave yourselves and act
like--er--like----”
“James Owen O’Connor,” grinned Wallace.
A stamping of feet came from the audience. It was time for the curtain.
At a signal from Clif, the boys at the ropes promptly hauled up the
canvas exposing to view the expectant audience.
In the front row were the captain and all the officers off duty. Back
of them, seated upon benches, chairs, and ditty-boxes were the cadets
and part of the crew.
As the curtain rose above the stage a low whistle was heard, and then
came a perfect hail of soft potatoes, cabbages and wads of oakum soaked
in slush.
But these testimonials from the envious upper classmen never reached
their intended destination. Clif, with commendable foresight, had
provided a second curtain of netting.
The offering of decayed vegetables fell harmlessly to the deck and a
wail of disappointment came from the throwers.
“This tomfoolery must stop right now,” exclaimed the captain, rising
from his chair and addressing the senior classmen. “If you cannot act
as gentlemen you can leave this deck.”
He sat down, looking red and indignant.
The nondescript band upon the stage broke out into a tune which bore a
distant resemblance to the “Star Spangled Banner.” The alleged music
wound up at last, and Clif rose to his feet.
Those in the audience saw him pass one hand across his forehead in a
half-dazed manner. He swayed slightly and was seen to grasp the arm of
his chair.
“Captain and officers, and cadets of the _Monongahela_,” he began,
speaking indistinctly, “it gives me--me the greatest pleasure to
in--introduce to your favorable consid--consideration this talented
ag--ag----”
He turned and glanced at Joy, and that youth, ordinarily solemn and
mournful in appearance, broke into a hysterical giggle.
Two members of the audience--Ferguson and Bryce--exchanged glances, and
covered their mouths with their hands.
“Glory! it’s working,” whispered the former.
“Just watch the old man,” was Bryce’s reply. “He smells a rat already.
This is great.”
Down in front the commander of the _Monongahela_ was eying the stage
with a puzzled expression on his face. One or two of the officers were
smiling.
Suddenly Nanny began to chuckle and hold his sides as if highly amused.
He attempted to leave his chair, but toppled over against Trolley.
“That will do,” shouted Clif, thickly. “We’ll go on with the
performish. Ladies an’ gemmen, the firsh number on the pro--gramish
will be rendered by the whole troupe. I’m supposed to be Father
Nepchune. You all know ’m. He ish patron father of all shailors. Thatsh
me. Those pecuyliar-looking animalish at each end are shea-wolves. And
in th’ middle on each side--ha! ha! how’s that for Irish bull?--in
the middle on each side are supposed to be mortals. Everyday ord’nary
mortalish. They came down in m’--my reals--no, my realms, and now they
got to amuse me before they go back to the Naval Academy.”
He sat down abruptly and laughed vacantly.
A titter ran through the audience. It quickly grew into a roar, and
then the gun deck resounded with shouts of laughter, catcalls, and
vociferous applause.
The captain was plainly growing angry, but he managed to keep his
temper.
“Is this part of the show?” he whispered to the first lieutenant, who
sat next to him. “If so, those boys are excellent actors.”
“I can’t make up my mind,” replied the executive officer, watching the
stage narrowly. “That youngster, Faraday, is very clever. He’s apt to
spring most any kind of surprise. But, as you say, if it’s part of the
play----”
He was interrupted by a wild howl. Trolley had suddenly leaped to
his feet and was giving a grotesque Japanese dance. His eyes were
glittering and he giggled and yelled incessantly.
“Go it, Jap!” cried Grat Wallace, clapping his hands. “Let’s show ’em
wh--what we can do. Whoop! we’re the bes’ plebes ever entered the ol’
academy! We’ve licked the third class fellows every round. Whoop! We’ll
do ’em up every time.”
An answering shout came from several upper classmen in the audience at
this challenge. A small coil of rope, fastened with yarn, was hurled at
the stage. It struck the netting, tore a great hole in it, and landed
with a thump upon Toggles, who was evidently asleep in his chair.
Clif was seen to stagger to his feet and attempt to speak, but the
uproar was too great. The pandemonium was brought to an abrupt ending,
however, by the captain and first officer, who rose from their chairs
and faced the audience.
“Go on deck, all of you,” shouted the former, sternly.
“I’ll court-martial any cadet caught down here within three minutes.”
The order had an immediate effect. The deck was cleared in the time
specified, then the officers, including the surgeon, took possession of
the stage.
Trolley and a plebe from California had gotten into a fight over in one
corner. They were quickly separated. Then the captain turned upon Clif,
who was swaying back and forth with the greater part of his Neptune
costume still on him.
“Mr. Faraday, what is the meaning of this?” demanded the commander,
authoritatively. “You are drunk, sir, outrageously drunk.”
Something like a startled expression passed over Clif’s face. He rubbed
his forehead vaguely and muttered:
“Beg your pardon, I guess I--I feel queer. My head is all dizzy.”
“I don’t doubt it!” snapped the first lieutenant. “You have made a
beast of yourself. This is intolerable.”
“Doctor, examine him,” said the captain, curtly.
The surgeon placed his head close to Clif’s mouth, examined his pulse
and eyes, then reported, briefly:
“He is certainly under the influence of some strong stimulant, but I
can’t detect any odor of liquor.”
Captain Brookes turned to the executive officer, and said:
“Place all of them under close arrest. See that they do not----”
He was interrupted by a faint knocking under his feet. A couple of
planks were lifted and Judson Greene, perspiring and miserable, was
lifted into view.
The rope and gag removed, he explained that he had been brutally set
upon by Faraday and the other plebes, and thrown under the stage.
Just as he concluded his doleful tale, the surgeon, who had been poking
about, discovered the pail which had contained the lemonade. A few
cupfuls still remained in the bottom.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed, excitedly. “Hum! traces of chloral, and
gin, and beer. Ye gods! what a combination! I must test the devilish
mixture. Hum! no wonder the lads went crazy. Captain!”
That officer hastily joined him. Holding the pail at arm’s length, much
as if it were a charge of dynamite, the surgeon continued:
“Here’s the solution to the secret, sir. I can see it plainly. It’s a
trick, a dastardly trick to disgrace these poor lads.”
The worthy surgeon was not a graduate of the academy, had not been an
upper classman, therefore he could feel for the “miserable plebes.”
“You say the lemonade has been drugged?” asked the captain,
incredulously.
“Undoubtedly. Just smell this peculiar odor. Can’t you trace the
characteristic scents of gin and chloral?”
The captain could not, but he was willing to believe the surgeon,
knowing that he was a very capable man who had made a hobby of drugs
and narcotics.
“If that is true, it certainly alters the case,” he said,
reflectively, glancing at the members of the late “Naval Academy Plebe
Troupe,” who were either asleep or showing every indication of becoming
so, with the exception of Clif.
The latter was evidently making a desperate effort to throw off the
effect of the drugs. His eyes were brightening, and he stood erect.
“Just take them to the sick bay, doctor, and keep them there until
morning. I’ll hold a strict investigation then,” said Captain Brookes.
Clif attempted to speak, but the kind-hearted officer told him to
keep his story until the next day. The “troupe” was escorted by the
master-at-arms and assistants to the surgeon’s quarters and a number of
the crew placed at work clearing away the stage.
It was some time after pipedown before the excitement died out.
Ferguson, Bryce and several others in the secret, discussed the affair
rather gloomily. They were not afraid of discovery, as they felt
assured neither Clif nor the others concerned would turn informer; but
they were disappointed at the outcome of the plot.
Ferguson voiced the sentiments of his companions when he said, with
emphasis:
“I wish that confounded sawbones had kept his poky nose out of that
pail. If he hadn’t smelled the gin and stuff we’d had Faraday dead to
rights. As it is now, they’ll clear him and shelve the affair among the
other hazing mysteries.”
And that is just what happened. Captain Brookes held a consultation
with the executive officer and surgeon; sent for Clif and asked him
a few questions, which the lad cleverly evaded, then the affair was
dropped.
The gallant commander had passed through the mill himself, so to speak,
and he had no intention of pressing the matter. For which all concerned
were truly thankful.
For several days, Clif and his fellow-plebes were compelled to endure
many sly allusions to their escapade.
Upper class cadets would give elaborate imitations of the various
stages of intoxication on seeing them; and cadet corporals would speak
thickly when giving orders.
To all of which Clif would grimly compress his lips and nod his head as
if intimating that the war was not yet over.