 
# Cadets of Annapolis - First Year

## John Newport

#### JNewportBrand

### Contents

Cadets of Annapolis

Copyright © 2016 John P. Newport

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Terms and history used within this book.

# Cadets of Annapolis

### First Year

By John P. Newport

# Copyright © 2016 John P. Newport

**ISBN: 9-78069282688-1**

* * *

Copyright of this work is on file with the

U.S. Copyright Office.

U.S. Copyright Office File #1-4280237191
**This series of books is dedicated to the 17 million men who gave their lives in World War One. May their stories never fade, may the world never forget.**

# Chapter 1

It was the evening of May 31st 1913. Two young men had been traveling by train from Illinois and into a small country junction in Baltimore. It was here that they boarded a trolly to Odenton. After a few minutes of waiting they had boarded another trolley car, and were now bowling along through the open country of Maryland.

"Philip, I'm getting nervous!"

"Is that the best way you can find to enjoy yourself?" demanded the taller boy.

"But I am, Philip—dreadfully nervous!" insisted Anson Bigelow positively.

"Well, you'll have to conceal it, then. The doctors at the academy won't pass any nervous wrecks," laughed Philip Warren.

"Don't you understand?" demanded Anson, in a hurt voice. "The nearer we get the more nervous I'm getting."

"You'd better drop off, then," hinted Philip ironically, "and take the next car back home. What earthly good would a Naval officer be who was going to get nervous as soon as he came in sight of an enemy?"

"But I wouldn't get nervous in the sight the enemy," flared up Anson Bigelow.

"Then why get nervous about the folks down at the academy? They all intend to be your friends!"

"I guess that is true," Anson went on.

"Of course it's true," retorted Philip. "We passed our academic exams with the Civil Service Commission, and then we passed our medical exams with the old sawbones. You could even say we passed with honors."

"But that medical chap put in a long time listening at my chest," complained Anson Bigelow who was undeniably fidgeting in his seat. "That civil service sawbones told me that as far as he was concerned, I'd have to stand the ordeal again before the Naval surgeons. Even though he still passed me."

"Well, he did just the same thing with me," rejoined Philip. "You just keep your eye on me, Anson! Do you see me shaking? See me burning any blue lights?"

"Perhaps, Philip, you don't take the whole business as much to heart as I do," continued Anson Bigelow. "Why, Great Scott, if they drop me at the Naval Academy, I'll be the bluest fellow you ever saw! But, maybe you won't care, whether you are dropped or not."

"Won't I?" grumbled Philip. "The Navy is the only thing in life that I do care about!"

"Then why are you not nervous, just now?" demanded Anson.

"If I am, I'm not making a show of myself," retorted Philip.

"So are you nervous," scolded Anson.

"No!" roared Philip, and then he allowed a grin to creep over his face.

"Oh, go ahead and say so," jeered Anson. "Tomorrow, if you have the good luck to get sworn in, you'll have to quit fibbing and begin practicing at telling the truth. A midshipman, I understand, is kicked out of the service if he tells lies."

"Not quite. It is only in the case he gets caught," laughed Philip Warren.

"But really, about being nervous..." pleaded Anson.

"Oh, forget that sort of nonsense, won't you, Anson, old fellow?" begged his friend. "Just get your eye on the lovely country we're going through."

It was just after seven in the evening when the trolly began to slow just outside the small historic town of Annapolis. The sun had not quite set and been casting a beautiful red glow over the still blooming trees of Maryland.

Philip Warren and Anson Bigelow had been appointed as midshipmen at the United States Naval Academy a few days out of high school. If they should succeed in passing the four years' course in the big government school at Annapolis, they would then be sent to sea for two years, as midshipmen, after which they would return to Annapolis for their final examinations. Passing these last examinations, they would then be commissioned as Ensigns in the United States Navy.

Two of their friends from Saint Thomas High in Rockford, John Anders and Walter Obannan, had secured appointments with the United States Military Academy at West Point. The town of Rockford Illinois was overjoyed when they had learned that four of their own had gotten appointments to the prestigious military academies.

Philip and Anson were tiring of the chatter of those whom they shared the car with and went to the forward end to get a better view of the new sights. A few moments later a figure entered the compartment.

"You asked me to let you know when we got near Annapolis, gentlemen," announced the cheery faced conductor, "That's the town right ahead of you."

"You said that you go by the hotel, I think?" Philip asked.

"Very close, yes. I'll call the inn for you," replied the conductor. "We'll be there in less than two minutes."

Annapolis as it turned out was a quaint, old-fashioned, very pretty southern town that the car now entered.

"I'll bet they're a thousand years behind the times here," sighed Bigelow, rather disappointed.

"The academy will not be," retorted Philip Warren.

"Oh; of course, not," Anson made haste to agree.

The trolly car passed an imposing-looking brick building that housed the post-office, then sped along past the handsome, dignified old residence of the Governor of Maryland. The trolly started around a long circle that rounded a hill. At the top of that hill was State Capitol. As the two friends took in the sight, the car bell clanged and the trolly pulled to a stop.

"Maryland Inn!" called the conductor.

Philip and Anson got their suit cases and descended from the car. The two boys looked at each other quizzically then gazed back at a strange looking building. It looked as though it were only wide enough to accommodate a single door, a single window, and a single bed. That is if a person wished to climb a lader to reach the bed. Taking a step to the left they found the building widened and that there were steps leading to the porch of a much roomier old hotel. A moment later they were in the hotel lobby, registering.

The lobby had a dark masonry floor with stone feature walls. The ceiling was of old wooden girders. Off to the right was an open hearth with walkways to either side. On the other side of lobby through an arched doorway was an eating room.

"You want a room together, gentlemen?" asked the clerk.

"Surely," retorted Anson. "My friend is always afraid when the gas is turned off. My presence quiets him."

"Pardon me, gentlemen, but are you on your way to the Naval Academy?" queried the clerk.

"Yes," nodded Philip quietly.

"Then, you will want a room with a bath; of course. You do know you'll have to strip before the medical examiners tomorrow."

"A room with bath; of course," assented Anson. "I never stay at a hotel without a bathroom."

Anson held back the fact that he had never stayed in a hotel. The clerk finished his work behind the desk before turning the registrar book to the boys. Anson and Philip signed next to their names.

"Front!" called the clerk.

A small boy in knee trousers who appeared to be maybe eight years old, came forward, and picked up their suit cases and led the way to the next floor.

The room they were shown to was enormous. They could not believe their good fortune as they felt they were not crowded in the least. The room had three beds, three chest of drawers, four small tables next to the beds, two study tables, and four stuffed lounge chairs. The room even had gas lamps and two windows complete with drawing privacy curtains.

With a renewed sense of adventure the two set to clean up and begin exploring. With face and hands washed, clean collars, clothes neatly brushed, the two clear-eyed, manly-looking sixteen-year olds proceeded into the hotel lobby.

"I suppose this hotel is full of young men like ourselves," muttered Anson.

"Candidates, you mean?" suggested Philip. "Let's inquire." With that, he approached the hotel desk clerk.

"Oh, no," replied the clerk, in answer to Philip's question. "There are only two other candidate's besides yourselves stopping here. There are a good many in town; of course, but most of them have been here for some weeks and are in lodging houses. A lot of young men come here to attend the Naval preparatory schools before they go up for their examinations."

"We've passed our examinations already," proudly announced Anson.

"May I inquire about supper, sir?" asked Philip. He had noticed in his short trip through the South that in this part of the country the 'sir' is generally employed.

"You'll find it ready in the dining area, gentlemen," replied the clerk, pointing to the arched doorway.

As they entered, the dining area Philip surveyed the half dozen or so other diners. He decided none of them to be very interesting before sitting to sample his very first course of southern cooking.

The meal consisted three separate courses. The first of which was stewed oysters which Philip found to be rather interesting. The main course consisted of roast mutton with celery sauce and a side of fried Irish potatoes. The desert portion was a baked confection called a Virginia Sally Lunn which he rather enjoyed the most.

The meal over and feeling rather satisfied; the two young candidates sauntered again out into the hotel lobby.

"Any midshipmen out around the town, sir?" Philip asked.

"Hardly, sir," replied the clerk, with a smile. "At this hour, the young gentlemen are in their rooms preparing for tomorrow."

"What does a Midshipman look like?" ventured Anson.

"Like a human being, of course," Philip laughed.

"You mean the uniform?" inquired the clerk. "A Midshipman, sir, wears the dark blue uniform, like an officer's, and a Naval patterned visored cap. He also wears the anchor insignia on each side of his coat collar."

"Let's see if we can spot one anyway," stated Anson.

"Highly doubtful, young gentlemen," laughed the clerk.

Philip and Anson went to the open lobby door and stood looking out upon the street. Hearing a step in the empty lobby, Anson quickly turned. He saw a young man coming through the lobby, holding himself very erect. This young man was in dark blue uniform, with the visored cap, and on each side of his collar an insignia.

"There's a real midshipman," whispered Anson, excitedly plucking at Philip's sleeve. "I'm going to speak to him."

"Don't you do it," warned Philip. "You may make a mistake."

"Mistake?" echoed Anson. "He's the spitting image of what we were told."

Hastily Anson Bigelow slipped back into the lobby, going up to the young man in uniform who was engaged in speaking with the desk clerk.

"Good evening," began Anson politely. "I'd like to introduce myself. Tomorrow, I expect to be one of the crowd. You're a midshipman, correct?"

"I'm an officer of the Navy," replied the uniformed stranger coldly, as he half turned to glance briefly at Bigelow. "You are a candidate, I suppose? Then I fancy you will report at the superintendent's office in the morning with haste and proper decorum."

With, that the Naval officer turned and gave the clerk a nod then made his way out of the hotel. Bigelow stood with his eyes wide feeling decidedly dumfounded.

"Wasn't that a midshipman?" gasped Anson, in a whisper.

"That gentleman was a lieutenant in the Navy. Did you not take notice of the entire uniform?" chuckled the clerk, "He had a silver oak leaf and silver bars on the collar. His sleeves had gold stripes with a red stripe denoting he was part of the medical corps. Gentlemen, I suggest you become much more aware if you wish to survive any dealings with the Naval Academy."

Crestfallen Anson hurried back to Warren, brushing off his sleeves with his hands as he walked.

"Served you right; you must get over being fresh," Philip Warren rebuked his friend. "What's the matter with your sleeves?"

"I'm brushing the frost off of them," murmured Anson dejectedly.

"Did you notice the ice-bath that fellow threw over me?"

"Still serves you right. Come out for a walk," urged Philip. "But be careful where you step and what you say to others. We are candidates after all."

The two young men then strolled down the street taking in the sights and noticing shops they would soon hope to visit one day.

"Well," smiled Warren, "I must say, Anson, that you appear to be getting all over your nervousness."

"No; I'm still nervous," protested Anson. "Before, I was afraid I wouldn't get into the Naval Academy. Now, I'm only afraid that I shall."

"What nonsense are you talking now?" demanded Warren, giving his friend a sharp look.

"Why, if they're all going to be as chesty as that officer fellow I spoke to in the hotel," blinked Anson, "I'm not so sure that I want to go in with the bunch."

"That officer wasn't chesty or snobbish," rejoined Warren.

"Then you will kindly explain what he tried to do to me?"

"That's easy enough. That Naval officer recognized you as a common type—the too-chummy and rather fresh American boy. Down here in the service, where different grades in rank exist, it is necessary to keep the fresh greenhorn in his place."

"Oh!" muttered Anson, blinking hard.

"As to your not wanting to go into the service," Philip continued, "if you should fail in your physical exaination tomorrow, you would be as blue as indigo and have the blue-light signal up all the way back home."

"I don't know that would be so. Yes; I guess it is," Bigelow assented.

"Now, there are at least ninety-nine chances in a hundred that you're going to pass the Navy doctors all right, Anson," his friend went on. "If you do, you'll be sworn into the Naval service as a midshipman. Then, you'll have to keep in mind that you're not an admiral, but only a midshipman—on probation, at that. Now, as a new midshipman, you're only the smallest, greenest little boy in the whole service. Just remember that, and drop all your jolly, all your freshness and all your patronizing ways. Just listen and learn, Anson, and study, all the time, how to avoid being fresh. If you don't do this, I'm mighty confident that you're up against a hard and tough time, and that you'll have most of the other midshipmen down on you from the start."

"Do you have any more of a 'roast' for me?" asked Bigelow plaintively.

"No; for, if you need any more, you'll get it from other midshipmen who don't know you as well as I do, and who won't make any allowances for your greenness and freshness."

"My!" murmured Anson enthusiastically. "Won't I quiver with glee the first time I see you being called for twelve-inch boldness!"

Despite the wordy encounters between the two they would always remain the most loyal and best of friends.

For an hour and a half the two youngsters roamed about the streets of Annapolis, taking in the sights of quaint old buildings such as the Hammond-Harwood house and Chase Lloyd House that had stood since before the Revolutionary War.

Bigelow finally suggested that they return to the hotel as they would need a good night sleep in preparation for what the next day would offer them.

Five minutes after they had turned out the gas Philip Warren was soundly, blissfully asleep.

Across the room Anson Bigelow tossed for more than half an hour before sleep caught his eyelids and pinned them down. In his sleep; however, Anson dreamed that he was confronting the superintendent of the Naval Academy and a group of officers, to whom he was expounding the fact that he was right and they were wrong. What the argument was about Anson didn't see clearly, but he had the satisfaction of making the superintendent and most of the Naval officers with him feel like a lot of justly-rebuked landsmen.

# Chapter 2

The next morning just a few minutes before nine o'clock Philip and Anson were strolling not far from the administration building of the Naval Academy. Though it was called Lover's Lane by the midshipmen the official name was Buchanan Road, but seeing how many civilians were hugging their loved ones the name seemed fittingly appropriate.

The orders given to the two friends had instructions for them to report at 9:15 to the office of the superintendent. Anson was for going in at once and 'calling on' the aide to the superintendent. But this Philip vetoed, believing that the best thing for them to do was to stick to the very letter of their orders.

As they waited, the young men got a glimpse of the imposing piles of buildings that compose the newer Naval Academy. Especially the big, white Bancroft Hall had caught their admiration. This structure is one of the noblest in the country and named after the Secretary of the Navy under which the academy was founded, George Bancroft. In it are the midshipmen's mess, the midshipmen's barracks for a thousand young men, numerous offices, and a huge recreation hall. Two new wings were completed just six years earlier. A year after that a new Library named Mahan Hall was completed.

"That's a swell hotel where they're going to put us up in for four years, isn't it?" demanded Anson looking to large building.

"I fancy that we'll find it something more than a hotel, before we're through it," was Philip's prophetic reply.

At this time in the morning, all the enrolled midshipmen were away at one form or another of drill or instruction, the central grounds were so nearly empty of human life that any onlooker would not be able to form any idea of the immense, throbbing activity that was going on here among the hundreds of midshipmen on duty.

"Here's some of our kind," spoke Anson, as he noticed more than a dozen young men, in civilian clothes, strolling along under the trees.

"I guess they're candidates, fast enough," nodded Warren, after briefly looking at the approaching group.

"Cheap-looking lot, aren't they?" asked Bigelow cheerfully.

"Probably they're saying the same thing about us," chuckled Philip dryly.

"Let 'em, then. Who cares?" muttered Bigelow.

"Anson, my boy, I reckon you'll need to put the soft pedal on your critical tendencies," warned Philip. "And, if you want my friendly opinion, I've a big idea that you're going to talk your way into a lot of trouble here."

"Trouble?" grinned Bigelow. "Is something I am used to."

In truth Anson had been victor in many a hard-fought schoolboy disagreement when he attended Saint Thomas High School.

As the young men in question drew nearer they eyed Warren and Bigelow with a disapproval that was not wholly concealed. Philip and Anson were instantly recognized as not being boys who had studied at one of the Naval preparatory school in Annapolis. Although the academy recommended against attending preparatory schools, it was still regarded a badge of honor among some midshipmen. The assumption was, therefore, that Philip and Anson had not been able to afford such a luxury.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Philip pleasantly greeted the new comers. "You are candidates, like ourselves, I take it?"

This fact being acknowledged, Philip introduced him and his friend, and soon some pleasant new acquaintances were being formed, for Warren had a way that always made him popular with strangers.

"Have you two got to go up before the June exams here?" asked one of the young men who had introduced himself as William Clark Luth from New York.

"Part of it," grinned Anson. "We've already gone through the primer tests and the catechism, and that sort of thing; but we still have to go before the barber and the toilet specialists and see whether our personal appearance suits."

"You're lucky, then," replied Luth. "Our crowd all have to take the academic exams."

"Cheer up," begged Anson. "Any baby can go past the academic exams. Arithmetic is the hardest part. One funny chap on the Civil Service Commission nearly got me by asking me how much two, and two are, but Philip here saved me, just in the nick of time, by holding up five fingers; so I knew the answer right off."

Some of the candidates were already surveying Anson with a good deal of amusement. They had heard of the severe way that the upper classes at the Naval Academy have of taking all the bold enthusiasm, or freshness, out of a new man, and, like Philip, these other candidates smelled plenty of trouble ahead for cheerful, grinning Anson Bigelow.

"Gentlemen," broke in Philip quietly, "do you see the time on the clock? It's twelve after nine. What do you say if we plunge into what's ahead of us?"

"Good enough," nodded one of the new acquaintances. "Suppose you lead the way?"

Philip, with Anson by his side, piloted the others over to the administration building which lay just beyond the chapel, and next to the academy gate check they entered through on Maryland Avenue.

As they stepped inside the building, a Marine orderly confronted them in the hallway.

"Candidates, gentlemen? Walk right upstairs. An orderly there will direct you to the office of the superintendent's aide."

"Thank you," replied Philip, with a bow, and led the way upstairs.

Near the head of the stairs another Marine, in spotless uniform, wearing white gloves and with a bayonet at his belt, called out quietly:

"Candidates? First two, step this way."

The Marine took a step to his left and swung open a door. Philip and Anson stepped into an office where they found a young looking though slightly bald gentleman in uniform, seated behind a flat-top desk.

"We have come to report, sir, according to our instructions," announced Philip Warren, happily while standing as much at what he thought would be acceptable as military attention.

"You are candidates, then?" asked Lieutenant Commander Adolphus Andrews, reaching for a pile of bound sheets.

"Yes, sir."

"Names?" inquired Commander Andrews in an arid tone.

"Philip Warren and Anson Bigelow, sir."

"Have you your papers, Mister Warren?"

"Yes, sir."

Philip drew an official looking envelope from an inner jacket pocket and handed it to Lieutenant Commander Andrews.

The Naval aide opened the envelope and scanned the documents closely, after which he looked up.

"You have your papers, Mister Bigelow?"

"Yes," nodded Anson.

A more than perceptible frown flashed across the face of Commander Andrews.

"Mister Bigelow, whenever you answer an officer you will say 'yes, sir,'or 'very good, sir.'"

Rather red in the face Anson handed over his envelope.

Commander Andrews eyed Anson before he turned his attention to the papers. Then, pulling a pile of blank forms before him, he filled out two, bearing the names of the young men, and signed them, after which he handed one of the signed forms to each.

"Mister Warren, you will inquire of the orderly downstairs your way to the office of the Commandant of Midshipmen. You will then at once present yourself before the Commandant, handing him this paper."

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," replied Philip, with a slight bow.

"Mister Bigelow, stick close to your friend and you will, just maybe, find out what you are to do."

"Yes, sir," murmured Anson, again reddening.

The two men made their way past a line of others waiting to see the Lieutenant Commander. As they came to the entrance, they found the Marine orderly who was to provide them direction.

"Step lively to Blake Road and turn right," started the Marine "then a turn left on Buchanan. Continue straight to Tecumseh and turn to your port. You will be in front of Bancroft. Take the starboard ladder, not the ladder on the port side, and then enter through the hatch way. When you enter turn again to your port," the Marine continued with a slight crease at the corners of his mouth, "do you understand?"

"I believe so," replied an utterly confused Philip.

"Well, be on your way then," the Marine commanded.

As Philip and Anson stepped away they looked around nervously before taking the only clear direction they understood by going right. Philip looked back at the Marine who was smiling from ear to ear until he saw Philip looking towards him. The Marine's face became hard as he pointed in the direction they were heading.

"What do you make of all of this? Do you honestly understand what he just said," inquired Anson.

"Not in the least. I figure the safest thing to do is to just follow that group in front of us," replied Philip.

"What about that officer fellow. What was with him?" asked Anson.

"You see," lectured Philip pleasantly, as the friends plodded along one of the walks, "you have already received your first lesson. You answered the superintendent without saying 'sir.' You'll have to work out of this freshness."

"That wasn't freshness; it was ignorance," protested Bigelow. "Don't you worry, Philip; I shall soon get the Naval trotting gait to such an extent that I shall be saying 'sir' at every other word."

The declaration Bigelow had just made was more of a prophecy than he could guess.

They followed the small group ahead of them until they came to the large white building that dominated the grounds of the Naval Academy. As they began to climb the long series of white steps that lead to the main entrance to Bancroft Hall, they each had an uneasy feeling that began to grow with each step. What would be the outcome? Were they about to call this huge pile of stone "home" for the four years to come? Through all their life would they look back upon this great government training school as their alma mater? It all seemed to depend, now, on the verdict of the examining Naval surgeons!

But, there was little time for thought. Once inside, they were ushered, by a white-gloved midshipman, into the office of Captain G.W. Logan, Commandant of Midshipmen.

As were all Navy officers on duty at the academy, Captain Logan was also in full uniform. He sat there briefly studying the two young men who stood before them.

"Candidates, gentlemen?"

"Yes, sir," replied Philip.

"Your orders?" Captain Logan ordered, holding out his right hand.

Each young man handed over the slip given to him by the aide. Captain Logan scanned each sheet closely, then made some entries on a set of papers of his own.

The Commandant then touched a button on his desk. Almost immediately footsteps were heard outside. Another white-gloved midshipman entered, raising his hand smartly to his cap in salute. This salute the commandant acknowledged in kind.

"Mister Deming, conduct Candidates Warren and Bigelow outside. Ascertain how soon the surgeons will be ready to examine them, and conduct the candidates to the boardroom at the time assigned for their examination."

"Very good, sir," replied Midshipman Deming, in measured tones. Again, the interchange of salutes, after which Midshipman Deming led Philip and Anson to an outer office.

"Wait here," directed the midshipman briefly, "I'll let you know when it's time to go to the boardroom."

As Anson and Philip waited, seven more candidates were ushered into the small office. Apparently, Lieutenant Commander Andrews and the commandant were quickly working their way through the mill.

"Mister Warren, Mister Bigelow!" called the midshipman to whom Anson attached the title 'master of ceremonies.'

As Philip and Anson started to their feet their conductor added:

"Follow me to the boardroom."

Down the corridor and into the boardroom, the two friends were led. They entered the boardroom and found three Naval medical officers, all in their proper uniform waiting for them. One of them seated at a desk while the other two sat next to tables with a thin mattress laid on the top.

"Strip, with the least delay possible," ordered the one at the desk.

In a very short time Philip and Anson stood forth minus all their clothes. Both were very nervous of what these medical men might, or might not find.

The examination was the most thorough that either had ever encountered. The entirety of it all started with one of the surgeons listening to the heart. But, it went much further, including the hair, scalp, eyes, teeth, the condition of the tonsils, the appearance of the tongue, and so on, by regular stages, down to the very soles of their feet. One of the surgeons even inspected each of the toe nails.

"If there's a square quarter of an inch these fellows have missed,

I didn't notice it," muttered Anson to himself.

"You may dress, Mister Warren," announced the senior surgeon.

Philip immediately went to the chair on which his clothing lay. He wanted to dress so quickly that the surgeons would not have time change their minds.

"Mister Bigelow, come here a moment."

Anson began to feel uneasy. What had they missed? On what point was his physical condition doubtful?

"Open your mouth," directed one of the surgeons.

What followed was more poking and prodding of his teeth.

"Oh," murmured Anson, when the medical men gave him a moments rest to confer among themselves. "It's only my teeth, eh? That's not a vitally important point, is it, sir?"

"Rule twenty subpart 'P' states that we shall reject candidates for what might seem very slight defects of the teeth," replied the senior surgeon, "Open your mouth again."

The cold sweat stood out on Anson's brow this time. Joke as he might, he did not want to be dropped out of the Navy. Were these medical officers going to find some clue to his disqualification in his mouth?

"Hmm!" said the senior surgeon, watching while another medical officer did the probing and the holding of the dental mirrors.

That "hmm!" sent a cold chill of dread coursing down young Anson's spine.

"Your teeth just about pass," remarked the senior officer. "You may dress, Mister Bigelow."

Bigelow shot off the table as if hit with a hot branding iron. Within seconds, he was fully dressed and ready to leave before Philip had finished dressing.

As he was finishing, Philip turned to the senior surgeon.

"Is it improper, sir, for me to ask whether we have passed?" asked Warren quietly.

"You have both passed," nodded the surgeon. "Mister Bigelow, however, will do well to take better care of his teeth hereafter."

Just then the door opened, and two more candidates were shown in.

"Come with me," directed the same midshipman master of ceremonies who had lead them to this torture chamber of horrors.

Once in the hall Anson was indiscreet enough to come alongside their conductor, just missing a vigorous nudge that Philip tried to give him.

"Well, we slipped by the drugstore sign all right," Anson confided to the white-gloved midshipman. "Now, how soon do we get our messenger-boy uniforms?"

"Never, I hope," replied Midshipman frigidly, "unless you can learn to speak of the uniform of the service with more respect."

Anson fell back alarmed. He was fast discovering that his style of freshness did seem to make a hit here at Annapolis.

Back in the same waiting room the two young men lingered until nearly eleven o'clock. More than two-dozen candidates had passed the medical examiners by this time, and some others had failed to pass. Yet, many of these successful candidates were still required take their scholastic examinations over in Academic Hall.

By noon there were a dozen young men who, like Philip and Anson, had passed everything and were ready to be sworn in. At last, they were led to the commandant's office. Here, each man signed a paper agreeing to serve in the United States Navy for a term of eight years, unless sooner legally discharged. Each also signed a statement to the effect that he took this step with the full permission of parents or guardian.

Then, the commandant of cadets ordered them to form in a line facing his desk. A notary appeared who administered to them the oath of loyalty and obedience. These young men were at last actual members of the brigade of midshipmen.

Captain Logan then came before the men and delivered a short address to the lined-up dozen. He pointed out where the lines of their duty lay, and encouraged them to seek their duty and to perform it at all times. In closing the commandant put emphasis on these words:

"One word more, young gentlemen. Until this moment, perhaps all of you have been looking upon yourself as boys. That time has passed. From the moment that you were sworn into the Navy of the United States, remember, you became men. All of your superior officers will now look to you to realize most fully that you are men, men in word, deed, thought and judgment."

The commandant turned and went behind his desk. He took one long last look at the proud but hapless looking bunch.

"You are dismissed," ordered Captain Logan with a wave of his hand.

Another midshipman, Cadet Petty Officer Keliher, appeared and conducted the new members of the brigade outside.

"Fall in by twos," directed Keliher. "When I give the word, move forward as well as you can, in something which resembles marching."

It was, indeed, a busy hour that followed. The new cadets were led before the midshipmen's pay officer, with whom each deposited the sum of two hundred eighty dollars and sixty-four cents. This amount from each new midshipman is required by law. Of this sum, sixty dollars is applied to the purchase of books needed by the new midshipman for the required studies. Then there is the list of items in which a new candidate must purchase which consists of:

A few articles were allowed to be brought from home. If the candidate did not have the item then it would be purchased.

It appears that a boy who did not have financial means had no chance to enter the Naval Academy. However, when this happens his Congressman or some of his friends or fellow townsmen will loan him the money, returnable after he enters the service as an officer.

Aside from the amount required by law to be deposited with the academy authorities each midshipman is ordered to turn over any other money that may be in his possession, this extra amount to be credited to him. A midshipman, on entering the service, receives a salary of six hundred dollars a year, for a total of fifty dollars per month. Nearly all this, however, is required to pay his ordinary expenses. Each midshipman is allowed a very small amount of spending money, with, however, a more liberal allowance when visiting ports during a cruise. This monthly stipend increases with each year the cadet attends the academy.

It is forbidden for a midshipman to receive spending money from home or friends. midshipmen sometimes disobey this regulation, but, if detected, are liable to severe punishment.

After the pay officer the midshipmen were taken to the storekeeper's, where each was supplied with a single uniform cap that is worn by midshipmen.

Each man wearing his new cap lined back up in a column of two's as earlier ordered. The young men were then marched back to Bancroft Hall and out onto the terrace over the mess hall.

"Halt! Break ranks!" commanded their instructor, Midshipman Keliher.

"You will now pay close heed and endeavor to learn rapidly. Mister Warren, step over here."

Philip went forward; Midshipman Keliher then carefully placed him.

"The others will form in line of platoon front, using Mister Warren as their guide," directed the young instructor.

What followed was some rapid-fire drilling in dressing, facings, counting by fours, marching, and halting. Midshipman Keliher was stern, fair and rather calm with the new freshmen, or as the upper class men referred to them 'plebes.'The plebes were able to understand and follow the instructions well enough to be passable to non prying eyes.

The hours wore on when their instructor suddenly gave the order to break ranks and stand as close to the building as possible. Almost immediately a bugler sounded a call. Then, the new men were treated to a sight.

Out of Bancroft Hall hastily poured scores of midshipmen, until nearly six hundred had assembled. What they were witnessing were the members of the three upper classes.

The brigade of midshipmen is divided into two battalions, each of two divisions, comprised of eight companies. The first, fourth, and sixth companies formed on the right of the first battalion, the second, third, and eighth companies on the right of the second battalion. The divisions formed with intervals of two paces between companies preparatory to muster. Second call was sounded quickly on the bugle, immediately after which the first petty officer of each company briskly began to call the roll. Each man answered just loudly enough to be heard. Company commanders stepped briskly along inspecting each man in their company while roll call was being conducted.

As the muster of each company was completed the first petty officer commanded, "count off!"

"One, two, three, four! One, two, three four!" went the count along each company line. Then, the first petty officer of each company wheeled about, saluted his company commander, and reported:

"Sir, all present or accounted for!"

Company commanders next corrected the alignment on the right center company of each line.

Battalion commanders, seeing the divisions of their respective battalions aligned, faced about, while the battalion adjutants took a post to right and rear. The brigade adjutant then faced about, saluted the brigade commander, reporting: "Sir, the brigade is formed."

Receiving the word from his superior, the brigade adjutant next read the orders, after which he was ordered to take his post.

While this was going on Midshipman Keliher had formed his awkward squad to the rear, behind the first battalion. Another rather gangly bunch had formed behind second battalion.

Anson Bigelow's head was spinning with people running here and there, others counting to four over there, still others turning and saluting while someone else was reading something to everyone. He was lost and didn't know what to do. Other than stand there with his uniform cap sitting on his head. Philip was proving no better, but decided the safest course was to just follow where everyone else went.

Now, orders rang out crisply for battalion commanders to take charge. Thereupon, each battalion commander marched his command in column of squads into the mess hall; battalion commanders preceding their battalions, company commanders preceding their companies and the junior officers of each company following the company. Midshipman Keliher's awkward squad was the last of the men to enter the mess hall.

Each of these men felt very awkward indeed. Each had a burning conviction that he was being watched by hundreds of pairs of eyes. The new men could have saved themselves their worry. Barely an upper class man in the hall was paying any attention to these self-conscious plebes, as each had been in their place once before. The only way an upper class man would pay heed to a plebe was if a plebe would do some such thing to draw their attention. As it was the plebe's were too confused and self-conscious to make such an error.

The meal, a midday dinner, was an excellent one. Few of the new men; however, had any notion of what it consisted.

Once finished with the meal the mess hall was left with almost the same amount of formality. In the short recreation period that followed the new men, painfully conscious that their caps were the only part of the uniform they wore, were hurried away by Midshipman Keliher.

The very next thing on the agenda was for the men to be assigned the room they would occupy for their first year in the academy.

The midshipmen are not roomed by classes. Instead, each is assigned to a company, and there are four companies to a division. Each division occupies a floor in Bancroft Hall. The Navy, however, does not call it a 'floor' but a 'deck.'Philip and Anson were assigned to the armory wing of the lowest deck, on what was virtually the basement of Bancroft Hall, or would have been, but for the mess hall underneath.

As far as woodwork went it was a well-done room. Philip and Anson also learned that the Navy does not call their room a 'room' but refers to it as their 'quarters.'The furniture within their 'quarters' was plain enough to serve its purpose. There was the main or study area. Off at either side was an alcove bedroom. There was also a closet in which stood a shower bath. The one window of the room looked over across the Academy grounds in the direction of Academic Hall. The Navy does not call it a window though, it is known as a 'port hole.'

A cadet petty officer from the first-class briefly, crisply instructed them concerning the care of their quarters, and their duties within its walls.

What followed that afternoon had the new midshipman's heads reeling. When everything had been completed the new men had a confused recollection of having been marched to the tailor at the storekeeper's, where they were measured for uniforms, each of which are made to order. They recalled receiving a thin, blue volume entitled "Regulations of the U.S. Naval Academy," a book which they were advised by a first-class man instructor to "commit to memory."

"In former days, in the old-time academy, there were something more than six hundred regulations," dryly remarked the cadet petty officer in charge of them. "In the new up-to-date Naval Academy, there are now more than one thousand regulations. You are all expected to appreciate this merciful decrease in the number of things you are required to remember."

Following the issuance of their new blue book was two periods of drill that afternoon. This was followed by a period of physical activity and another period of drill a little later on in the evening.

Supper came as a merciful release. When the meal was over, while many upper class men remained outside in the warm June air, the plebes were ordered to go to their quarters and start in making themselves familiar with the thousand-and-more regulations.

"Thank goodness they give us some time for light reading," muttered Anson Bigelow, as he stalked into his room, hung up his uniform cap and sank into a chair. "Whew! What a day this has been!"

"I've rather enjoyed it," murmured Philip, as he sank into the chair on the opposite side of the study table.

"You, my friend, have some liberal ideas, then, about enjoyment. How many hundred rules are you going to commit to memory tonight?"

"I don't know," returned Philip. "But I do know that my head is in a big whirl, and that I'm going to rest it for a few minutes. By the way, Anson, there's one thing I hope you remember."

"What is that?" demanded Bigelow.

"What did they tell us this lower deck was named?"

"Dunno," grunted Anson. "But I have my own name for it. I call it the penny ante deck."

"I'm afraid that won't do to repeat," laughed Philip.

At that moment the handle of the door was turned. Five upper class Midshipmen entered, closing the door behind them. The five then stood glaring at the two poor plebes in civilian clothes.

# Chapter 3

"Good evening, gentlemen," nodded Philip pleasantly, as he rose and stood by the study table, waiting to hear the pleasure of his visitors.

Anson Bigelow favored his callers while remaining seated with his hands thrusted deep within his pockets and a nod.

"Get on your feet, mister!" ordered one of the Midshipmen, so sternly that Anson shot out of the chair so quickly both his feet left the ground.

"Excuse me," he began hastily, "I didn't know you came here in an official capacity. I thought..."

"Silence, mister!" commanded another of the visitors.

"What's your name, mister?" demanded the last speaker, favoring Philip with his next glance.

"Why, my name is Philip Warren," replied the plebe with a slight trepidation in his voice.

"Say 'sir,'mister, when you address an upper class man. When asked your name, reply, 'Warren, sir.'"

"Warren, sir," replied Philip promptly.

"Stand at attention, both of you!" commanded yet another visitor.

Both plebes obeyed. Still, another caller wheeled upon Anson.

"What's your name, mister."

"Anson Bigelow."

"Bigelow—Sir!" thundered Anson's questioner.

"Bigelow, sir," Anson responded meekly enough.

"It is plain enough that both of you plebes need a good deal of practice in the use of the word, sir. Therefore, in your next answers, you will be careful to employ 'sir' after each word that you utter in your reply. Mister," to Philip, "what did you come to the Naval Academy for?"

"To, sir, become, sir, a, sir, Naval, sir, officer. Sir."

"Very good, mister. Mister," to Bigelow, "why did you come here?"

"For sir, the same pur..."

"Sir, sir, sir, sir!" interrupted the quizzer. "Now, try again, mister."

"For, sir, the, sir, same, sir, purpose, sir."

"Now, mister," continued the quizzing visitor, transfixing Bigelow with a look of tremendous sternness and coming so close that Anson could feel the exhaled breath from from his quizzers nose, "can you talk French?"

Anson's eyes twinkled briefly.

"I don't know, sir. I never tried, sir," replied Bigelow, in pretended embarrassment.

For a moment, it looked as though Anson had turned the tables of mischief upon his tormentors. His reply was so absurd that all the upper class men betrayed signs of twitching at the corners of their mouths. But only for a moment. Then all of them conquered the desire to laugh and returned to the inquest with added severity. The late questioner turned to one of his classmates, remarking scornfully:

"Bazoo!"

"Very bazoo, indeed" replied the one addressed.

Upper class men refer new comers as a bazoo when the person in question makes an attempt at amusing the upper class men.

"Mister," continued Anson's quizzer, "we find you too full of repartee, and a bit fresh, for one who intends to embrace the profession of quarter deck lounger. In our belief, it will be necessary for you to let some new ideas soak into your head. Mister, get your wash basin and fill it exactly half-full of water. Remember, mister, neither a drop, nor less than exactly half-full."

Anson's first impulse was to grin, his second to laugh. Yet, something in the tone and look of the last speaker made 'bazoo' Bigelow feel that the simplest way out of this difficulty would be for him to obey as carefully and quickly as he could. With a hurried "very good, sir," Bigelow turned in quest of his basin. He brought it, nearly half-full, for the inspection of his imperious visitor.

"Place it there on the deck, beside the bulk head," ordered the tormentor. After a second of assessing that his invitee was using yet another new word to describe a wall, Anson instantly obeyed the directive.

"Now, mister, stand on your head in that water!"

Anson flushed hotly with clenched his fists, for an instant. Then, with a sudden rush of good sense to the head, he bent over to carry out the order that he had received.

Anson Bigelow was a hardened and well-trained athlete from a very early age, and he believed this to be a simple task.

He got his head into the bowl, and rested his hands on the floor on either side of the bowl. It was when he tried to throw his feet up against the bulk head that he found his misery. His feet slid along the wall and without any sense of dignity, or splendor came crashing back to the floor.

Anson fell out of the bowl with a good deal of water splashing all around him.

"Tis a lesson you should heed, mister," began Midshipman Russell Berkey who had constituted himself chief of the tormentors, "Try, try, try again." Midshipman Berkey then turned and came to one knee beside Anson. "If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again, mister. Then when you are through try, try, try some more."

"I'll make it, sir," responded Anson willingly. The tormentors decided to let Anson keep trying instead of changing the game to something new. They were rather enjoying watching the plebe splash water with each new attempt.

On the third try with his eyes closed and just below the level of the water, Bigelow succeeded in standing very solidly on his head.

The upper class men who were all third class men, or 'youngsters' as they are unofficially termed, watched the performance with interest.

"Rather well done, for a beginner," commented Midshipman Berkey.

"As you were, mister."

Unfortunately, Anson attempted to be a bit smart. He made a half somersault forward while trying to do a half twist while springing up on his feet. He made the half twist when his feet connected with the wet floor and fell back. He then promptly sat in what was left of the water.

"Never mind a little wet, mister," advised Midshipman Berkey, with a very serious face. "We only rate a man as highly awkward if he breaks the washbowl."

"Which one of you is the better athlete?" suddenly asked Midshipman Charles Gilliam.

Neither friend intended to be caught, by this crowd, as being arrogant.

"He is, sir," replied Anson, with great promptness, nodding toward Warren.

"Bigelow is, sir," contended Philip.

"In view of this conflicting testimony, we shall have to settle the question with an actual test," replied Mister Berkey. Then turning to Anson, "Mister, bale out your boat."

From the nod, which accompanied this command Bigelow understood that he was to empty the water from his wash basin which he promptly obeyed.

"Mister," to Warren, "launch your boat on this water here."

Warren understood that reference of 'water' signified the floor, or 'deck.'Philip brought out his own wash basin with enthusiasm. Under further orders the friends placed their bowls about four feet apart.

"Here," announced Midshipman Berkey, taking four toothpicks from a pocket, "are two sets of oars."

Philip Warren received the toothpicks with a confused grin.

"And here are your oars, mister," supplemented Mister Berkey, handing another pair of toothpicks to Anson Bigelow.

Just as Midshipman Berkey was about to speak a faint knock was heard at the door, which opened immediately after.

"Got a pair of beasts at work, fellows?" asked a voice. "Here are some more young admirals who need a little help."

Three youngsters in custody of four new midshipmen stepped into the room. The new plebes took notice of Philip and Anson standing beside their wash bowls holding toothpicks.

"McCormick's in charge of the floor tonight, you know," nodded one of the newly arrived youngsters, "and McCormick's duty crazy. He belongs to the second class, and hardly admits that we're alive."

On each floor, a midshipman is detailed to be in charge through the evening. He is held accountable for discipline on his floor, and must report all breaches of the rules. A midshipman who wishes to stand well with his comrades may, when in charge of the floor, conveniently fail to see a few minor breaches of discipline. When the man in charge of the floor reports every infraction he is said to be duty crazy. Aside from being charged with being duty crazy, his comrades will charge that he is "trying to make his mark in grease." "Grease" is high standing on the efficiency report. As a rule, the man who stands well in 'grease' stands somewhat lower in popularity among his peers.

Midshipman McCormick, second class, was, at this time, regarded as one of the worst 'greasers' of all. Cadet Lieutenant Lynde McCormick was seventeen years of age, and second in standing in his class just behind Midshipman Richard Adams.

"What's on?" inquired Midshipman Robert Bourne, one of the newcomers in the room. "Tub race?"

"No, sir; fast spurt in single pair shells," replied Midshipman Berkey impressively.

"Whew! You've caught some real athletes, have you?"

"That's what we want to find out," responded Mister Berkey. "Now, then, misters, we warn you against approaching this noble sport in any spirit of levity! You are not to think that this work is for your own amusement, or for anyone else's. You must try yourselves out fairly and squarely. Our purpose is to find out which is the better oarsman, and also who has the most rows at the finish. Take your seats in your craft."

Philip and Anson seated themselves as best they could. Each man being nearly six feet tall they found it an ordeal to fit neatly into the basins. With some effort and all possible seriousness they could muster, they were just barely able to balance their heels on the edge and fit in their respective wash basins.

"Up oars!" commanded Mister Berkey.

As neither plebe knew just what was meant by this command, they had to be shown how to sit holding their 'oars' straight up in the air.

"Let fall!"

This time the two new men guessed fairly well. They went through the motions of allowing their toothpick oars to fall into imaginary row-locks.

"Now, at the outset, take your strokes from my count," directed Mister Berkey. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven..."

The onlookers found this all hysterically absurd, to see Philip and Anson bending to their tasks as seriously as though they were rowing a real craft with actual oars. Yet, the upper class men held their bearing.

One of the visiting plebes was stupid enough to giggle.

"Go over and stand by the port hole in arrest, mister," ordered Midshipman Bourne. "You shall be tried for your infraction later!"

The 'boat race' continued with Anson and Philip rowing like mad with two midshipmen keeping count of each stroke. It soon proved to be more than absurd; it was decidedly fatiguing. Both Philip and Anson found that their strained positions, and the motions required of them, made backs and shoulders ache. Their leg muscles started cramping.

It was not until both showed signs of weariness that the race was brought to an end. Philip had been awarded the race by two strokes.

Once the 'boats' had been cleared the cadet who had giggled was called forward. He was ordered to half fill one of the washbowls and to stand on his head within it.

Not a single person within the room wore a smile upon their face while the lone plebe soaked his head. From the serious faces, one might have concluded that this was one of the most important bits of drill in the whole course at the Academy.

Philip, however, made the best impression upon the youngsters. All the other new plebes had to endure the unpleasant ordeal of standing on their heads in the wet bowl, but Philip seemed destined to escape.

The rowing was carried on until all the youngsters had tired of this sport and decided on something new.

"Fall in, in platoon front," directed Midshipman Berkey.

The six plebes, solemn as owls, stood up in line, and then 'dressing' their line carefully. None of the plebes wanted to be outed for something so simple as being to far forward or rearward of the man next to him.

"Now, attend me carefully," cautioned Mister Berkey, sweeping a stern glance down the line of plebes. "I am about to tell you a bit of the day's news from over in Sleepy Hollow, which place is known to Maryland geographers as the village of Annapolis. You must attend me with extreme care, for, after I have narrated the news, I shall question you concerning it. Do you follow me, misters?"

"Yes, sir," came in a chorus.

"You need not answer quite as loudly," warned Midshipman Berkey, sending a backward look over his shoulder at the door. "Now, then, the police over in Sleepy Hol—Annapolis—today learned the details of a great tragedy. Some weeks ago three men came to town and opened a clean—I mean, a new—laundry. During the last week; however, the public noted that the door leading from the office to the rear room was always closed. You follow me?"

"Yes, sir," came in an almost whispered chorus.

"Finally," continued Mister Berkey, "one customer, more curious than the others, reported his observations to the police. Today, the Tommy Tinplates made a raid on the place. A most curious state of affairs came to light. Is this tangled tale clear to you all as far as I have gone?"

"Yes, sir," came the whispered chorus.

"What the police learned," went on Mister Berkey, in a voice that now sounded slightly awestruck, "was this: a week ago the three partners had a serious row. They quarreled, then fought. Two of the men killed the third! And now, a serious problem confronted the two survivors of that misunderstanding. What was to be done with the remains of the unsuccessful disputant?"

Midshipman Berkey looked at each of the wondering plebes in turn.

It looked as though he was asking the question of them.

"I don't know, sir," admitted Anson Bigelow, at the left of the line.

"I don't know, sir," admitted the man next to Anson.

Each man answered the same down the line until Philip was the last man remaining. Philip resigned to himself that he was as in the dark as the rest of the men.

"Then, listen," resumed Mister Berkey impressively. "The men, were not only very ingenious but also very thrifty. They were burdened with two hundred pounds of evidence on the premises. Facing their crisis the two survivors cut up their late partner, cooked him, and disposed of the flesh at meal times."

From the gravity of the narrator's expression, he appeared to be reciting a wholly true story. Each of the men listened intently as the news story kept unfolding before them.

"Now, then," rasped out Midshipman Berkey, "that being the state of affairs at the laundry—what was the house number?"

Berkey's gaze was fixed on Anson Bigelow's face almost accusingly.

"How the..." began startled Anson gruffly. Then, instantly realizing that he was making a mistake, he broke in hastily:

"Beg your pardon, sir, but I don't understand how to get at the house number."

"As you learned earlier, you try, mister," ordered Midshipman Berkey, turning to the plebe next to Bigelow.

"I can't solve the problem, sir."

Again, straight down the line, each confessing his ignorance, until finally Mister Berkey glared at the last man, Philip Warren.

"Come, come, mister, from the very exact narrative that I have given, can you not deduce the street number of that laundry?"

"Yes, sir; I think so," answered Warren, with a slight smile.

"Ah! Then there's a man in the squad who is more than a mere saphead. Let us have the house number, mister!"

"Two-ate-one, sir" replied Philip promptly.

Philip's answer was correct as he had heard a very similar joke long ago.

"Mister," beamed Mister Berkey, "I congratulate you. You are no mollycoddle. Your head is not over fat, but it is somewhat stocked with ideas. As soon as you have soaked in a few more ideas you will be fit to associate with the young gentlemen at this sailor-factory. You may, therefore, take your boat, fill it half-full of ideas, and stand on your head in them until they have soaked in deep and well!"

Philip's face flushed crimson, and he could have dropped in his humiliation at having fallen into the trap. But, he started manfully for the washbowl, which he half filled with 'ideas.' Meanwhile, the other five plebes were nearly choking in their amusement. They were elated that Philip Warren got his due.

Placing the bowl where ordered, Philip bent down to his knees, immersing the top of his head in the water.

With hands on opposite sides of the bowl he balanced his feet, preparing to hoisting them into place against the bulk head.

"Up oars!" commanded Mister Bourne dryly.

From one of the visiting plebes came a careless giggle. Mister Bourne turned and marked his man with a significant stare that made the unfortunate giggler turn red and white with alarm.

"Stand at arrest. I shall deal with you momentarily," sneered Bourne.

At the order, 'up oars,' Philip Warren sent his feet aloft. By rare good fortune, he succeeded on the first try. Philip was relieved that he did not have the indignity of a second, third, or even a fourth try.

There he remained, his head in the bowl of water, his feet resting against the wall.

In his precarious position Philip heard a step in the corridor outside. This was followed by a faint knock.

The upper class midshipmen knew what the knock meant, and so did Philip Warren.

# Chapter 4

This was the most critical single moment in the life histories of several young men who had grown to consider themselves as future officers in the United States Navy.

Such a man as Midshipman McCormick was certain to report any form of hazing he detected.

The usual punishment meted out to hazers at either Annapolis or West Point is dismissal from the service!

True, this was not brutal hazing, but merely the light form of the sport known as 'running' the new man.

Nevertheless, when a newspaper posts a story it never fails that all hazing looks alike to the public, and the Naval Academy authorities deal severely with even running.

All the elements of trouble and even dismissals were closing in for the 'youngsters,' or third class men who had been conducting the evening's festivities.

Somehow Philip Warren had been the first to hear the soft approach of footsteps, and he had guessed at the meaning of it all.

In the fraction of a second before the knock had sounded at the door Philip had made a fine handspring that brought him from his topsy-turvy attitude to firmly standing on both feet. Adding to his great feat he held the washbowl in his hand without having spilled a drop of water. Philip then flew across the room and placed the bowl where it belonged. With a towel from the study table he wiped his hair, then swiftly mopped his face dry. Hairbrush and comb in hand, he turned, saving:

"Why, I suppose, gentlemen, Bigelow and myself were very fair athletes in the high school sense of the word. But it's a long jump from that to aspiring to the Navy football team. Of course we'll turn out for practice, if you wish, but..."

At this moment, 'duty-crazy' Cadet Lieutenant McCormick thrust the door open.

Here Philip, on his way to the mirror, hairbrush, and comb in hand, halted as though for the first time aware of the accusing presence of McCormick, midshipman in charge of the floor for the day.

"Uh-hum!" choked Midshipman McCormick even more confused than he had expected the others to be.

"Looks like rather good material, doesn't he, McCormick?" inquired Mister Berkey. "Green; of course, and yet..."

"I didn't come here to discuss Navy athletics," replied Midshipman McCormick.

"Oh, an official visit is it?" asked Midshipman Bourne, favoring the official visitor with a baby-stare. "As it is past graduation, and there are no evening study hours, there is no regulation against visiting in the quarters of other members of the brigade."

"No," snapped Mister McCormick, "there is not."

Saying this the midshipman in charge quickly turned and left the room.

An instant after the door had closed the scared youngsters expressed themselves by a broad grin and deep sighs of relief, which deepened to a very decided chuckle as Mister McCormick's footsteps died away.

"Mister," cried Midshipman Berkey, favoring Warren with a glance of open friendliness, "do you know that you saved us from frapping the pap hard?"

"And that perhaps you've saved us from bilging?" added Midshipman Bourne.

"I'm such a greenhorn about the Navy, sir, that I am afraid I don't follow you in the least, sir," Warren replied quietly.

"Well sir, I mean, mister Warren," Midshipman Berkey started to explain. "The 'pap' is the conduct report which is read every morning with the 'd's', or rather, the demerits awarded to the infractor."

"Yes, and 'to frap' means you hit the a report," added Mister Bourne.

"In essence to frap the pap means a cadet has been placed on the conduct report for an infraction of the code," continued Mister Berkey.

"A 'bilger' is someone who is dropped from the service, or who is turned back to the class below," added Midshipman Bourne.

"I simply judged that there was some trouble coming sir," Philip confessed, "and I did the best that I could. It was good luck on my part that I was able to be of service to you."

"Good luck, he says," retorted Midshipman Berkey. "Third class men, fall in."

The 'youngsters' quickly lined up in a very impressive fashion with all manner of disciplined order. Mister Berkey went to the far end of the line and taking the far right position.

"Mister, will you be condescending enough to pass down the line and shake hands with each of us?" Midshipman Berkey asked coaxingly.

Flushing modestly, but grinning, Philip did as asked, or directed.

"Mister," continued Midshipman Berkey impressively, "we find ourselves very close to being 'spoons on' you."

It is no small deed for a new fourth class man to be treated as something resembling a living being. Youngsters who are 'spoons on' have decided that they would treat their selected few with something that might pass as kindness.

"Now, you green cumbergrounds may go," suggested Mister Berkey, turning to the four visiting plebes.

The four plebes quickly shuffled nearly tripping over each other making their way to the door. Each plebe turning to give his salutation before exiting into the corridor. The third plebe in line went to Midshipman Bourne and thrust his hand forward. The fact that Midshipman Bourne's eyes narrowed at the action were lost to the plebe. The remaining plebe saw the danger and rapidly made an exit.

"Sir, I wish to thank you for a most educating evening, sir," expressed the plebe.

Midshipman Bourne leaped from his position with fire in his eyes.

"Get out of here you ratey little saucebox," declared Mister Bourne with his arms flying every which way, "Move, you lick-finger Mary before I really..."

The door closed behind the baffled fleeing plebe to a wide grinning Midshipman Bourne.

"Gentlemen, I do believe I will need to work on my lacking command presence," chuckled Mister Bourne.

With the comedy of the evening at a close Mister Berkey came back to the business at hand.

"Mister," Midshipman Berkey addressing Philip, "we humble representatives of the third class are going to show you the only sign of appreciation within our power. We are going to invite you to stroll down the passageway and visit us in our steerage. Your bunkmate is invited to join us."

Philip and Anson promptly accepted the appreciation. As the youngsters escorted Philip and Anson down the corridor to Midshipman Berkey's room they explained some of the nuances of the new language.

During their walk it was explained that doorways were called 'hatches,' halls were referred to as 'passages,' and ceilings were 'overheads.' All this being in addition to the terms they had already heard. As they came to the stairwell, the youngsters educated the new fourth class men that they were no longer stairs but 'ladders,' left was not left but 'port' and right was now 'starboard.'

Over the next hour the youngsters told these new midshipmen much about the life at the Naval Academy that would otherwise have taken the two plebes months to have found out for themselves.

They were initiated into much of the language that the older midshipmen use when conversing together. Many somewhat obscure points in the regulations were made clear to them.

Some even explained why new fourth class men should tamely submit to 'running,' when the regulations of the Naval Academy expressly prohibit the upper class sport. Clearly explained was that the midshipmen of the brigade have their own internal discipline.

A new man may very easily evade 'running,' if he insists upon it. His first refusals will be met with challenges to a fight. If he continues to refuse, he will soon find himself ostracized by all the upper class men. Then, his own classmates will have to 'cut' him, or they, too, will be 'cut.' The man who is 'cut' may as well promptly resign. His continued stay would become impossible when no other midshipman will recognize him except in discharge of official duties.

The new man at Annapolis, if he has any sense at all, will quietly and cheerfully submit to being 'run.' This fate falls upon nearly every new fourth class man. The only fourth class man who escapes being 'run' is the one who is considered as being beneath any notice. The plebe whom none of the youngsters above him will consent to run usually becomes so unhappy that they quickly resign anyway. Consequently, the most popular man in an upper class is one who was the most unmercifully run, but joyfully took every second of it in sport, while in the fourth class.

Often, a new man at the Naval Academy arrives with a firm resolution to resist all attempts at running. He considers himself as good as any of the upper class men. This being his frame of mind he tries to make use of the privileges of the upper class, or believes that he is 'somebody.' In either case, he is seen as being 'ratey.'

But often the new plebe arrives with a conviction that he will have to submit to a certain amount of good-natured running by his class elders. Yet, having been spoiled more, or less at home, he is 'fresh.' In this case, he is called only 'touge' as he is seen by the upper classes as willfully not following aspects of the regulations. This individual usually arrives having the belief that he is tough enough to survive what the academy is about to offer.

It is a far more hopeful sign to the upper class to be 'touge' than to be 'ratey.'

The new man who honestly tries to be neither 'touge' nor 'ratey,' and who has a sensible resolve to submit to good natured tradition, is sometimes termed 'almost seagoing.'

Philip Warren was promptly recognized as being 'almost seagoing.'

He would receive a little running.

Anson Bigelow, on the other hand, was almost instantly listed as being 'touge,' though not 'ratey.'

# Chapter 5

Within the next few days, several things happened that were of importance to the new fourth class men.

Other candidates arrived, passed the surgeons, and were sworn into Naval service.

Many of the young men who had gone through the dreary, searching ordeals over in grim old Academic Hall passing the Naval surgeons, had now become members of the new fourth class.

The new fourth class had organized with a starting number of three hundred eight members, numerically a very respectable battalion.

The new plebes were still awaiting their uniforms as they were being 'built.'In the meantime, they wore the only uniform item they did have in their possession, a midshipman's cap. Wearing this uniform and their 'cits,' as the midshipmen referred to citizen clothing, they reported daily to be drilled by some of members of the upper classes.

This state of affairs lasted briefly. Graduation being past, the members of the three upper classes were rather promptly embarked on June 7th on fifteen ships of the Navy and set to sea for the summer practice cruise. The bulk of the midshipmen embarked on the U.S.S. Illinois which set out on a foreign cruise. Midshipman Berkey was lucky enough to be assigned to the Illinois for his first practice cruise.

The night before embarkation Midshipman Berkey looked in upon Philip Warren and his bunkmate.

"Well, mister," announced the youngster, with a paternal smile, "somehow you'll have to get on through the rest of the summer without us."

"It will be a time of slow learning for us, sir," responded Warren, rising.

"Your summer will henceforth be restful, if not exactly instructive," smiled Berkey. "In the absence of personal guidance, mister, strive as far as you can to reach for the goal of being sea going."

"I'll try, sir."

"Your bunky will have a much tougher go of it," went on Berkey, favoring Bigelow with a sidelong look. "And, now, one parting bit of advice, mister. Keep it at all times in mind that you must keep away from associating with the forty per cent. That is unless you want to become one of the 'nutty.'"

Statistics show that about forty per cent of the men who enter the U.S. Naval Academy fail to get through, and are sent back into civil life. A person who falls in with the forty percent is referred to as a 'nutty' because he is about half-cracked for not applying himself. It is therefore, much wiser in keeping with the winning 'sixty.'

The next morning the members of the three upper classes had embarked aboard their assigned ships that lay at anchor in the Severn. The day after the Illinois sailed but it was not until two days afterwards that the other ships raised anchors.

A few days passed without too much anguish when the delivery of uniforms to the new fourth class men began, and continued rapidly.

Philip and Anson, having been among the first to have their measure took, were among the earliest to receive their new Naval clothing.

A tremendously proud day it was for each new midshipman when he first looked himself in the mirror in more than a single midshipman cap.

The regular summer plebe course was now fully beginning for the new men.

On Monday those, belonging to the first and second divisions marched down to the seamanship building to get their first lessons in seamanship. This began at eight o'clock, lasting until 9:30. During the same period, the men who belonged to the third and fourth divisions received instruction in discipline and ordnance. In the second period, from ten to twelve the members of the first and second division attended instruction in discipline and ordnance while the members of the third and fourth divisions attended seamanship.

In the afternoon, from 3:40 to 5:00, the halves of the class alternated between seamanship and marine engineering.

All instruction proceeded with a rapidity that the new midshipmen lost track of which class they actually attending. From 8:00 to 9:30 on the same afternoon the entire fourth class attended instruction in the art of swimming, and no midshipman can begin to hope of graduation unless he is a fairly expert swimmer.

Wednesday and Saturday afternoons were devoted to athletics and recreation.

A midshipman does not have his evenings for leisure. On the first five evenings of each week, while one half of the class went to the gymnasium, the other half indulged in singing drill in Recreation Hall.

"What's the idea of making operatic stars out of us?" grumbled Anson to his roommate.

"You always seem to get the wrong impression about everything, Anson my boy," retorted Warren, turning to his roommate with a quizzical smile. "The singing drill isn't given with a view to fitting you to sing in the opera, or even vaudeville for that matter."

"What, then?" insisted Anson.

"You are learning to sing, my dear boy, so that, later on, you will be able to deliver your orders from a battleship's bridge in an agreeable, yet understandable, voice."

"If my voice on the bridge is anything like the voice to which I am developing in singing drill," grimaced Bigelow, "the men would either abandon ship, or start a mutiny to save their ears."

"Then, you don't expect sailors of the Navy to stand for the kind of voice that is being developed in you?" laughed Warren.

"Sailors are only human. They have a limited capacity for oratory pain," grumbled Bigelow.

The rowing work conducted in the big ten-oared cutters proved one of the most interesting features of the busy summer life of the new men.

More than half of these fourth class midshipmen had been accustomed to rowing boats at home. They found the work at Annapolis to be vastly different.

The cutter is a fearfully heavy boat. The long Naval oar is surprisingly full of dense weight. It is true that the midshipman has to handle only one oar, but it takes him a good many days to learn how to do that properly.

As August came and wore along, the midshipmen found themselves becoming skilled in the work of handling the heavy cutters, and in the handling boats under sail.

Competition among the crew and boat racing was encouraged by the Navy officers who were in charge of the instruction.

Each boat was under the direct command of a midshipman who served as crew captain, with thirteen other Midshipmen under him as crew.

Anson Bigelow received his chance as crew captain. He took charge, and he embarked his crew without a flaw in his commands. He then ordered to shove off and let oars fall getting the boat underway. Once underway Anson lazily leaned back with a luxurious grin.

"This is the post I'm cut out for," he murmured with a grin, so that stroke-oar heard him.

The old saying 'evil communications corrupt good manners,' of Anson's attitude was reflected in his crew of classmates. The cutter became manned badly.

"Mister Bigelow!" rasped out the voice of Instructor Lieutenant Castleman, from a nearby boat.

Anson straightened up as though he had been shot. But, the Navy officer's voice continued sternly:

"Sit up in a more sea manlike manner. Pay close attention to the work of your boat crew. Be alert for the best performance of duty in the boat that you command. For your inattention, and worse, of a moment ago, Mister Bigelow, you will put yourself on the conduct report."

At breakfast formation, the next morning Anson's name was read from the 'pap.' He had been given five demerits. He received far less than what his infraction called for, but this had been his first infraction of duty.

"You've got to stick to duty, and keep it always in mind," Warren admonished his friend. "I don't intend to turn preachy, Anson; but you'll surely discover that the man who lets his idleness or sense of fun get away with him is much better off out of the Naval Academy."

"A lot of the fellows have frapped the pap," retorted Bigelow. "D's don't do any harm, unless you get enough of them to cause you to be bilged."

"Well, if there is no higher consideration," argued Philip, "at least you must remember that the number of demerits fixes your conduct grade. If you want to enjoy as many liberties and privileges as are allowed to new midshipmen, you'll have to keep your name away from the pap."

"So! Setting your course toward the grease mark are you?" jeered Anson.

"Think it over!" urged Philip Warren patiently.

As August was coming to a close, the new fourth class men marched like veterans. They had mastered all the work of drill, marching and parade, and felt that they could hold their own in the brigade when the upper class men returned.

On the 25th of August, the 15 ships were sighted coming up the bay in squadron formation. A little more than an hour later they rode at anchor. It was not; however, until the 26th of August that the upper class men were disembarked.

August 31st was devoted to manifold duties, including the hurried packing of light baggage, as the members of the three upper classes were to enjoy a month's leave of absence before the beginning of the academic year on October 1st.

The upper class men entered the barracks like a hurricane mob. They threw on their 'cit' clothes and shot away to begin their much anticipated time away from academy life.

Leave was not authorized for the lowly plebe of the fourth class.

In lieu of leave, through the month of September, the new fourth class men spent the time, each weekday, from ten o'clock until noon, at the 'Jargogle Department,' as the Department of Modern Languages is termed. It was here that the plebes began their first day studying French.

"When Berkey comes back," muttered Anson, "if he asks me whether I can talk French again, I'll tell him that I've tried, and I now I know that I can't."

On the last night, before the upper class men were due back from their leave. Philip and Anson were pouring over their French studies in their room, when a light tap sounded on the door.

Right on top of the last tap Midshipman Luth entered like a cat on the prowl, closing the door behind him.

Luth dropped his air of stealth once he felt he was safe from the cadet in charge of the floor for the night.

"Gent's, you know of that fine little place in town, Middleton's," began Luth significantly.

"I've heard of it as a seafaring establishment," responded Warren.

"It's more than that," returned Luth, smacking his lips. "It's an ideal place for a banquet."

"I accept your word for it," smiled Philip.

"I don't ask you to, Warren," grinned Luth. "Like any honest man, I'm prepared to prove all I say. Middleton has received, by underground telegraph, orders to prepare a swell feast for eight. It's to be ready at eleven tonight. We had the eight all made up, but two fellows have flunked cold. We're to take French leave over the wall tonight, leaving here a few minutes after taps. Are you on?"

Luth's enthusiastic look fell upon the face of Bigelow.

"I'm on!" nodded Anson

"No; you're not" broke in Philip quietly.

"I'm afraid I must disagree with you, little Philip," grumbled Anson.

"Oysters, clams, fish even watermelon!" tempted Midshipman Luth.

"Oh, yum!" grunted Anson, his eyes rolling.

"Then you're with us, Bigelow?" insisted Luth.

"Well, rather..."

"...not!" interjected Philip Warren.

"Now, what are you butting in for, you greasy greaser?" demanded Luth, giving Philip a contemptuous glance. "Maybe you won't join us, and maybe we'd just as soon not have as greasy a midshipman as you at the festive board, but Bigelow isn't tied to your apron strings, are you, Bigelow?"

"No; he's not," replied Warren, speaking for his friend. "Bigelow will speak for himself, if he insists. But, he and I have been friends for many years, and we've often given each other good advice in times such as these. To jump the wall with unauthorized 'French leave' is foolishness. Now, Bigelow will go with you, if he cares to, for he already knows all that I have to say on the subject."

"You've had your nose stuck down deep in the grease pot ever since you stepped foot on academy grounds" cried Luth angrily. "I hope you bilge, Warren; with all my heart I hope you bilge soon. We don't need a milquetoast like you here in the Naval Academy!"

"Isn't that about all you want to say?" demanded Philip, looking up with a glare.

"No; it's not half what I have to say," cried Luth hotly. "Warren, you're kind of fellow is a disgrace to the Naval service! You're a caitiff, that's what..."

"You may stop, right there!" scorned Warren, rising from his chair.

"I'll stop when I'm proper and ready!" retorted Luth hotly.

"If you don't stop right now, you'll finish while engaged in landing on your ear in the passageway," warned Philip, stepping forward.

There was a new look in Warren's usually patient eyes. It was a look Luth hadn't seen there before, and it warned the impulsive midshipman that he was in endanger of going too far.

"Oh, curtains to you, Warren!" jeered Luth, turning on his heel.

"Going to be with us, Bigelow?"

"No," replied Anson promptly. "I never travel with the enemies of my friends."

"Greasers, both of you!" flung back Luth, and slipped his way out of the room.

"If that fellow had talked an hour longer I believe I might have lost my patience," smiled Warren, as he turned back to his desk.

"Good on you for not going in with that outfit tonight Anson. It may turn out a big scrape."

"Why should it turn out a big scrape?" Demanded Anson.

"Oh, you never can tell around here," replied Warren, as he picked up his book.

Luth requested presence of several other fourth class midshipmen with his tempting feast but did not succeed in filling the vacancies in their French leave. Twenty minutes after taps; however, the original six of the fourth class slipped out of Bancroft Hall.

They covertly made their way to where they had a board hidden near the wall of the Academy grounds. One at a time, they swiftly went over the wall.

Just a block away from the academy at Middleton Tavern they found a meal to tempt the most starved appetite. The men ate like kings until not one of them could stand to even look at the remaining crumbs without nausea coming over them.

It was nearly two in the morning when Luth and his fellow feasters tried to make their way back onto the academy grounds.

They got over the wall, but only to fall into the hands of one of the academy sentries who seemed to have known exactly where to expect their return. Being caught in such a way is known among the midshipmen of the academy as being 'ragged.'

All six were reported to the officer in charge of the watch. At breakfast formation Midshipmen Luth, William, Ludlow, Hoeffel, Flagg, and Brimmer were assigned fifty demerits each for unauthorized absence during the night.

Luth and the remaining five men were furious over their capture. The six could not help themselves from speaking out over how the sentry knew where to expect their return.

Had Philip Warren been less occupied that day he would have noted that many of his classmates avoided him.

Anson had taken notice and wondered of the situation, but did not speak of the matter.

Later that day the upper class men returned, and Bancroft Hall hummed with the bustle of the returning hundreds of upper class men. Youngster Berkey came upon Philip in the corridor just before the dinner formation.

"Hullo, mister!" greeted Berkey who was actually holding out his hand.

"I hope you had a mighty pleasant leave, sir," replied Philip, returning the handclasp.

"Passably pleasant, passably, mister," returned Midshipman Berkey.

"But see here, mister, what's this about you and your class that I've heard?"

"Nothing, so far as I know, sir," replied Philip, scanning the youngster's face closely.

"It must be more than nothing," returned Berkey. "I understand that more than half of your class is galled up with you over something that happened last night. I've heard you called a sneak, mister, though I don't believe that for a single minute. But, I've heard mutterings to the effect that your class will send you to coventry for excessive vigor in greasing, to the detriment of your classmates. Wish to explain, mister?"

Philip Warren gazed at the youngster with eyes full of wonder.

"What about it?" repeated Philip. "That's the very thing I'd like to know, sir, this is the very first word I've heard of it."

Midshipman Berkey could not doubt Philip Warren's sincerity.

"Well, mister, if you're as puzzled as all this," replied the youngster. "It must be some malicious mischief is brewing against you in some quarter. Take my advice, mister, and find out what it all means."

"Thank you. I most certainly will, sir," replied Philip, his eyes flashing.

# Chapter 6

Bigelow bolted straight in his chair when Warren blew into their room.

"Anson my boy, have you heard any talk against me today?" demanded Philip.

"Do I look as though I had been fighting?" queried Anson promptly.

"I've just heard, from Berkey that a good many of the fellows in our class are cutting me, and talking of sending me to coventry. Will you..."

"I sure will," broke in Anson, dropping his book, and snatching his cap. "I'll be back as soon as I've heard something, or have settled with the fellow who says it."

Anson was out of the room before Philip could say another word.

Philip sat down heavily in his chair, his brow wrinkling as he tried to imagine what he could have done to have the entire class out to cut him.

"It must all be a mistake that Berkey has made," argued Philip with himself. "Of course, Berkey might be stringing me, but I don't believe he would do that. I know I came near to having words with Luth last night, but that wouldn't be the basis for any action by the entire fourth class to cut me. That, if anything, would be a personal matter. So, what am I accused of doing? It must be some fierce sort of lie when the fellows talk of taking it up as a class matter."

For ten minutes, Philip puzzled and pondered over the problem when the door flew open and Anson darted in.

"You haven't been hitting anyone have you?" asked Philip, noticing the flushed, angry face of his friend.

"No! But, one of us will have to do some hitting soon," burst from Bigelow.

"I guess it will be my hit then," smiled Philip wearily. "Have you found out..."

"Philip it's the most absurd sort of lie! You know that Luth and his little crowd got caught last night, when they returned from their Frenching party over the wall?"

"Yes; and all them got caught. What of it?" inquired Warren.

"Luth and his friends are sore..."

"They ought not to be," said Warren quietly. "They took the chance, and now they ought to be ready to pay up like good sportsmen."

"Philip, they say you informed on them, and got them caught!"

"What?" shouted Warren, leaping to his feet. His face flushing white and the corners of his mouth twitched.

He took two bounding steps toward the door, but Bigelow threw himself in his friend's way.

"Not just this minute, Philip!" ordered Anson firmly. "We don't want any manslaughter here, not even of the 'justifiable' kind. Sit until you've cooled off some. When you go out I'm going with you, whether it's out into the passageway, or out of the academy for good. Sit down, now! Try to talk it over coolly, and get yourself into a frame of mind where you can talk with others without prejudicing your case."

"My case?" repeated Philip bitterly, as he allowed Anson to force him back into his chair. "I haven't any case. I haven't done anything."

"I know that, but you have got to get cool and stay so, if you want to make sure that others have a chance to know it," warned Anson.

"Does Luth say that I sneaked information against him?"

"Luth and the others are so sore over their demerits that they will believe almost anything now. They will say almost anything to move the blame of being caught to anyone else but them. Of course, Luth remembers the row he had with you last night. In some fool way he puts two and two together, and decides that you helped set the trap for them."

"If I had done a dirty thing like that, then I'd deserve to be cut by the whole brigade," retorted Philip, his face flushing again.

"But I want to tell you, right now, Philip, that some of the fellows of our class know you too well to believe any such thing against you."

"I'm properly grateful to the few, then," retorted Warren, his eyes softening a trifle. "Well come along, Anson, if you will. I mean to start in at once to sift this thing down."

"Let me take a look at you," ordered Bigelow, as he looked his friend over.

A moment later, Anson added: "I believe you're cool enough, I think. I'll go with you. But remember that the easiest way to destroy yourself is to let your temper get on top. If anybody is to get mad before the crowd, let me do it. Then, you can restrain me if I get too violent."

Philip Warren picked up his whisk broom, flecking off two or three imaginary specks of dust from his uniform. He then took his uniform cap down from the nail and determinedly put it on.

"I guess we can do some sifting now," he remarked, in a tone of ominous quietness.

"Where are you headed?" murmured Bigelow, as they reached the room door.

"To Luth's quarters," answered Philip Warren coolly. "Do you suppose he's there?"

"He was, a few moments ago" Anson answered.

"Then let us hope he is now."

Carrying himself with his most determined military air, Warren stepped down the corridor, Bigelow keeping in his step and exactly at his side.

The friends arrived at the door to Luth's quarters. Philip gave a light knock on the door, as custom and protocol, then pushed open before anyone could acknowledge.

Luth and a dozen other members of the fourth class were present and instantly evident that some of those were discussing the burning class issue.

"But are you sure he did it? Luth?" one midshipman inquired, as Warren and Bigelow entered.

"Sure?" repeated Luth. "Of course, I am! Didn't I tell you what a hot row we had? Warren went..."

"I'm here to speak for myself, Luth," boomed in the quiet, steady voice of Philip Warren. "But I'll hear you first, if you wish."

"Oh, you're here, are you?" cried Luth hotly, as he spun to the visitors.

Some of the other fourth class men present turned and glanced coldly at the two last-comers. Others looked on with eager curiosity.

"I've heard," announced Warren, "that you are saying some things about me that don't sound well. So I've come to ask you what you are saying."

"I won't keep you waiting," jeered Luth. "You know, from hearing morning orders that six of us were ragged and given fifty demerits apiece."

"For taking French leave over the wall," nodded Philip.

"You wouldn't go with us," continued Luth angrily, "and gave us a greaser's talk-fest instead."

"I didn't advise you against going," responded Philip, standing with his arms folded, utterly cool as he eyed his accuser.

"Then, after we went, some one went and wised the powers," charged Luth. "Now, no one but a most abandoned greaser would do that."

"The fellow who would willfully inform the Naval officers would be worse than what you term a greaser," agreed Philip.

"Careful," warned Luth ironically. "You know who told, or who caused the wise word to leak to the powers."

"I don't," Philip denied bluntly.

"You're the sneak, yourself!" cried Luth angrily.

"I am not," spoke Philip, with clear denial.

"Do you mean to say I lie?" demanded Midshipman Luth threateningly, as he took a step forward.

"Do you deliberately state that I informed upon you, or caused you to be informed upon?" demanded Philip Warren.

"Yes, I do!" Shouted Luth.

"Then, you lie," returned Warren calmly.

With a suppressed yell Luth sprang at Warren.

Philip planted his feet and quickly struck out at his accuser.

# Chapter 7

Midshipman Luth had the bad judgment to stop that blow with the side of his neck.

He spun across the room landing with his head under the study table.

Philip Warren looked on with a cool smile, while Luth lay there before he scrambled out and up onto his feet. Before the two could come to blows three midshipmen sprang between Philip and Luth.

"We can't have a fight here, Luth," urged the three in the same breath.

"Let me at the sneak!" sputtered Luth who was boiling over with rage.

"Yes; let him at me," voiced Philip coolly, "and I shall hit him so that his soul will venture into the next term!"

The three midshipmen clung with all their might to Luth who furiously strove to fling them off.

"Let me at him!" insisted the accuser. "He struck me."

"You struck at him first, and didn't land," replied one of the peacemakers. "You go on with a fight here, and you'll bring the officer in charge down on us all. Luth, if you feel you've a grievance you are privileged to take recourse to the regular code."

"The fellow has lied about me, and I'm ready to settle it with him now, or outside by appointment," broke in Philip, speaking as coolly as before.

"He calls me 'fellow' and 'liar,'" panted Luth, turning a deep red. "Do you think I can stand for that?"

"You don't have to," replied one of those who held Luth back. "Send Warren a challenge, in the regular way."

"I will!" panted Midshipman Luth. "And I'll hammer him all over and out of the meeting-place!"

"Then it's settled for a challenge," interposed Anson Bigelow. "That will suit us all right. We'll be ready whenever the challenge comes. And to prevent getting a lot of decent gents into a needless scrape, Warren and I will withdraw."

Anson took Philip by the arm, and both turned to leave the room.

"You..." began Luth hoarsely, when another midshipman clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Shut up Luth! Save all your grit for the field."

The door closed softly behind Warren and Bigelow.

Once the door was closed, the three midshipmen released Luth from their clutches.

"Why didn't you let me at the sneak?" bellowed Luth.

"See here, Luth," advised one of his friends, "and cool down. Warren behaved twice as well as you did. If you don't look out you will lose any sympathy you have with the class. Just keep cool, and restrain your tongue from wagging. Don't try to start the row again on this side of the field. If you do, you'll get many a cold shoulder."

Other midshipmen present spoke in the same vein. Luth who always sought popularity, took the advice.

Of course, the news of the meeting, and of the more emphatic one to come spread fast through Bancroft Hall. There is an unknown courier who carries all such news on wings through the brigade of midshipmen.

Half an hour later Midshipmen Hoeffel and Flagg brought the challenge to Philip Warren. Anson; meanwhile, had been busy, and had induced Midshipman Andrew Creesy, of the fourth class, to act with him as second.

Creesy needed little urging as he was eager to see the fight.

Merrill Kinne, of the second class, was secured as referee, while Berkey, of the third class, gladly agreed to act as time-keeper.

The time was set for an hour before taps, as it would be easy for all the young men involved to slip away and be back in time for taps.

"I won't let the thing run over two rounds," promised Luth who thought of himself as a good fighter. Luth was heavily-built and very active in athletics. He had shown promise of making the boxing team by winning many bouts in the gymnasium.

On the day, the fight was scheduled to take place Philip and Luth were required to pass each other in a corridor. Philip did not even seem to know that his enemy was around. Luth; however, fixed his eyes on Warren as if trying to bore holes through Warren's chest.

Midshipman Berkey wanted to offer Philip some friendly advice. However, his position as an official prevented him from doing so.

Over the course of the day, Philip's prompt action had veered many of his classmates around to his side. It was the majority opinion of the class; however, that Luth would make good on his prediction of victory. Seeing as how Luth was more muscular and showed prowess in the boxing ring.

At half-past eight that evening, while scores of cadets strolled through the grounds, thinking of the beginning of the academic term, some small groups made their way more directly across the grounds. Many interested glances followed them.

Over in the direction of the Old Government Hospital stepped Philip, accompanied by Anson, and Creesy.

They were the first to arrive, though a few minutes later Midshipmen Kinne and Berkey appeared.

"Luth doesn't seem in a big hurry to make his own challenge," remarked Anson Bigelow laughingly.

In fact, it was not until close to the time of the challenge that Luth, Hoeffel, and Flagg came on the scene.

"We want to put this mill through briskly, gentlemen," announced Midshipman Kinne, in a low tone. "Both principals will be good enough to get ready as rapidly as possible."

Philip had only been awaiting the order. He took off his cap and uniform blouse, handing them to Anson who folded the coat and laid it on the ground, placing the cap on top of it.

By this time Warren had pulled his shirt over his head. Anson took that also, while Creesy produced a belt which Philip strapped about his waist.

Like a young war horse, sniffing the battle, Warren stepped forward.

Luth was more leisurely in his preparations, though he did not appear nervous. In fact, Luth meant to "wind up" the fight in such short order that there would be an abundance of time to spare.

"There's no use in giving you any advice, old fellow," murmured Anson. "We both know you have been in too many scraps for me to give you anything that would be worthwhile."

"I can handle myself," nodded Philip, "unless Luth proves to be a veritable wonder."

"He certainly thinks he is," warned Creesy. "And a good many of the fellows believe Luth to be the best man of the class in this line of work."

"They won't think so much longer," returned Anson, as simply as though merely stating a proven fact. "You see, Creesy, you never had the great fortune to get your training with our old crowd. We always went in to win because we had no idea that there was any possible chance of losing."

"Did you always make good?" asked Creesy curiously.

"Just about always, I reckon," nodded Anson confidently.

"You must have been a wonder-bunch then," smiled Creesy.

Luth was ready, now, and coming forward with a second on either side of him.

"Time to step in old fellow," directed Anson to Philip.

Philip came forward to where Midshipman Kinne awaited them.

"Gentlemen," announced the referee, "this is to be a fight to the finish, bare hands. As time is short, you are urged to mix it up briskly to a conclusion. The usual ring rules will guide the officials of this meeting. Hand-shaking will dispensed with. Are you ready?"

"Ready!" hissed Luth venomously.

"Ready," nodded Philip calmly.

"Time!"

With a yell Luth leaped forward at Warren. He didn't want it to last more than one round, if it could be helped.

The fury of his assault drove the lighter Warren back. Luth followed with more sledgehammers. His hurricane style made him a dangerous contender. He was fast and heavy, calculated to bear down a lighter opponent.

With that assortment of blows coming at him, Philip Warren was forced to resort to footwork.

"Stand and fight!" jeered Luth harshly.

Philip's footwork and search for the angle caused Luth to wheel for his attack.

"Don't play sneak on the field!" yelled Luth, still throwing out his hammer blows.

Philip didn't even flush. His training took over as he began calculating his moves. Warren was too old a hand to be taunted into indiscretion. In spite of his footwork; however, Luth succeeded in landing two strikes, though neither blow did much damage.

Then, a third blow landed, against the side of Warren's head that jarred him. It was all he could do to stand off Luth until he recovered his wits enough to dodge once more.

All the while, Warren was watching for his chance.

# Chapter 8

"This isn't a sprint!" yelled Luth, in high disgust. "Come back here!" Philip did come back.

Wheeling suddenly, he struck his right arm up under Luth's now loose guard opening it wide.

In the same fraction of a second Philip snapped his hips while pivoting on his toes to add speed to his left hook.

_Smack_!

It wasn't such a very hard blow—but it landed on the tip of Luth's nose.

With a yell of rage Luth made a dive at his lighter opponent.

"Time!"

In his rage Luth tried to strike after the call, but Philip bounded to one side. The intended strike to Philip's jaw missed by a wide margin.

Then, turning his back, Warren walked away to where Anson and Midshipman Creesy awaited him.

"Be careful, Mister Luth," warned Second Class Man Kinne, striding over to him. "You struck out after the call of time. Had you landed that blow I would have been compelled under the rules to award Warren the fight on a foul."

"First blood for our side!" cheered Anson, as he sprang at Philip with a towel.

In a few moments the young man had been well rubbed down, and now Anson and Creesy, on opposite sides, were kneading his tiring muscles.

From over in Luth's corner came a growl:

"I came here to fight, not for track work. That fellow can't fight. Or, he's too much of a caitiff to fight."

"I find your remarks puzzling; dear sir!" remarked Anson cheerfully. "Seeing as we hold all the honors so far."

Just then the call of time came.

Luth, the flow of blood from his nose stanched, came back as full of steam as before.

Philip's footwork was as nimble as ever. Speed, angles, and skill in dodging were features of Warren's fighting style.

Yet Luth caught him, with a blow on the chest that sent him to his knees.

Warren was rapidly upon his feet, and Luth lunged at him heavily at full tilt.

In the very act of reaching his feet; however, Philip Warren angled slightly to the left.

With an exclamation of disgust Luth turned and swung again.

But Philip dropped down, then shot up under his opponent's guard once more.

_Crack!_

This time an exclamation of real pain came from Luth, as the blow had landed solidly on his left eye, nearly closing it.

Warren had an opening for a second shot, but he was taking no chances under a steam-roller like Luth.

As Philip danced away his opponent followed bellowing from the sudden jolt his eye had received. Warren saw that Luth was now fighting almost blind.

Anson Bigelow now jumped in as close as he had any right to be trying to see what would happen next.

He wasn't kept long guessing, for Philip had slipped around on the blind side of his opponent.

"Confound you! Can't you stand and fight square like a normal person?" demanded Luth harshly.

Philip trying not to laugh at the remark, flushed, this time. Dodging two of Luth's blows he moved as though about to retreat. As predicted Luth fell for the deception.

Warren then leaped up and forward.

_Crunch_!

Philip's hard left fist landed crushingly near the point of Luth's jaw. The larger man crumbled to the mat, while his seconds rushed to him.

Midshipman Berkey, watch in hand, began calling off the seconds. Luth remained still one the mat with both eyes closed.

Under the rules, seconds are not permitted to close on their downed man until he counted out.

Steadily Berkey counted off, until he came to "...eight, nine, _ten_!"

"He loses the count," announced Second Class Man Kinne, in businesslike tones. "I award the fight to Mister Warren."

Always the ceremonious 'mister' with which upper class men refer to new fourth class men. It is not until the plebe becomes a 'youngster' in his second year that the 'mister' is dropped for the friendlier social address.

Luth's seconds were kneeling at their downed man.

"Can you bring him out easily?" asked Midshipman Kinne, going over to the defeated man's seconds.

"It seems he is soundly asleep, just now," put in Midshipman Berkey.

"My, but that was a fearful crack you gave your man, mister!"

"I'm sorry if I hurt him much," replied Philip coolly. "I am not keen for fighting."

Anson and Creesy offered their services in helping to bring Luth to, only to met by a curt refusal from Midshipman Hoeffel.

So Philip and his seconds distanced themselves and stood mutely by while the two officials added their efforts to those of the knocked-out man.

They finally brought a sigh from Luth, and the defeated midshipman opened his eyes.

"Is—Warren—dead?" he asked slowly, with a bewildered look.

Midshipman Berkey chuckled. "Not so you could notice it, mister. But, you surely had a close call. Do you want to try to sit up?"

Soon enough Luth concluded to do so.

"Now, see if you can stand on your feet," urged Midshipman Kinne.

Aided by Hoeffel and Flagg Midshipman Luth got to his feet. There he stood, dizzily, until his late seconds gave him stronger support.

While his seconds assisted him with getting dressed, Luth's wits had returned sufficiently for him to have a very fair idea of what had passed.

"You can't go back to Bancroft while you are in this condition, mister," hinted Kinne decidedly. "You'll have to pass in review before one of our medical gentlemen, and do whatever he deems best."

"Anson," murmured Philip who had finished dressing "go over and ask Luth whether he cares to shake hands."

Anson crossed and posed the question.

"Never!" growled Luth, with a hissing intake of breath.

"It's a shame to have bad blood after the fight is over," muttered Kinne rebukingly.

"I don't want anything to do with that fellow until we meet again," growled Luth.

"Great Scott, mister! You don't think of calling Mister Warren out again, do you?" demanded Kinne.

"Yes; if he can be made to fight fair!" snarled Luth.

"He fought fairly this time, mister," replied Second Class Man Kinne, almost with heat. "You're a fast, heavy, and hard scrapper for your age, mister, but the other man simply out-pointed you all through the game. If you call him out again, and he meets you, he can kill you if he sees fit. You would do well to remember to properly address those senior to you with 'sir.' Regardless of your state or condition!"

"Misters," directed Midshipman Berkey, addressing Hoeffel, and Flagg, "you'd better hurry to get your man over to a surgeon if you want to be in your rooms at lights-out."

As Flagg and Hoeffel started away with their unfortunate comrade, Philip approached Kinne.

"Sir, do you believe that I fought with entire fairness?" asked Warren of the referee.

"Fair? Of course you did, mister," replied Kinne. "Come along, Berkey."

Philip now turned with Anson and Creesy and started back to Bancroft Hall. They took pains not to be seen close to the upper class men.

"Who won?" demanded a curious fourth class man, as they neared Bancroft Hall.

"Luth will tell you tomorrow if he's able," grinned Anson.

That evening the midshipmen were in their rooms when the bugle sounded taps.

As the last note of taps broke the air the last of the midshipmen was in his bed. The electric lights were turned off from a master switch by the night watch. The inspection of rooms was on. Luth was absent from his in his room.

# Chapter 9

Fourth Class Man William Clark Luth did not show up for breakfast formation in the morning.

As this was the opening day of the first term of the academic year, it was a bad time to be "docked for repairs" at the hospital.

Merely reading over the list of the fourth class studies did not fully convey to the new plebes just how hard they were to find their work.

In the department of Marine Engineering and, Naval Construction there were lessons in mechanical drawing. No excuse is made for a midshipman's natural lack of ability in drawing. He must draw satisfactorily if he hopes to pass the class.

Also, during the first term, the new midshipman had courses in English and in French. Besides all this, the new plebe had to recite in algebra, logarithms and geometry in mathematics.

As at West Point, mathematics is the stumbling block for many at Annapolis. In the first term algebra, logarithms and geometry had to be finished, for in the second term trigonometry was the subject undertaken.

Shortly before eight in the morning the bugle call sounded for the first period of recitation. The midshipmen fell in by classes in front of Bancroft Hall. After the morning muster the classes marched away by sections.

Each section contained an average of ten men, under the command of one person from that section who was known as the section leader.

It was the section leader's duty to march his section to the proper recitation room in Academic Hall, to preserve discipline while marching, and to report his section to the instructor.

At the beginning of the academic year men of the fourth class were divided into sections in alphabetical order. Afterwards the sections would be reorganized according to order of merit.

It just so happened that Philip had been appointed the leader of his section.

When the command rang out Philip marched away with his section, feeling somewhat proud that he had attained a small a degree of command. He knew the number of the room which his section was headed, and knew also the location of the room.

It was an interesting sight to see hundreds of midshipmen, split up into so many sections, marching across the grounds in so many different directions. Not all the sections were headed for Academic Hall.

Philip enjoyed the inspiring rhythmic sound of so many heels marching in step against the pavement.

Some of the midshipmen in Philip's section however, were not so confident that morning. They had been looking through their textbooks and felt a dread that they would not be able to keep up the stiff pace of learning long enough to get past the semiannual examinations that were scheduled to be given in January.

Philip and Anson; however, both felt in good spirits. They had looked through the first lessons in algebra and felt that they would only stand a slight challenge. They had followed the academies advice of not attending a preparatory school and remained at their High School. Their High School instructors knew better than a stranger how each of them best learned, and so they felt that they had a firm grasp of the subject matter.

On their way to Academic Hall, Warren's section was passed by three officers of the Navy. Customs and courtesies state that midshipmen must always salute officers of the Navy. While marching in sections; however, the only midshipman who salutes is the section leader.

Three times Philip's hand came smartly up to the visor of his cap in salute, while the other men in his section looked straight ahead.

Reaching Academic Hall Philip marched his section mates into the recitation room. Another section with Anson in it arrived up soon after.

Mathematics instructor Lieutenant Junior Grade Bowdey, was already present and standing by his desk. Warren saluted the Lieutenant as soon as he had halted the section.

"Sir, I report all members of the section present."

The section leader containing Anson did the same soon after.

Five of each section were directed by Lieutenant Junior Grade Bowdey to take seats at the desks. The remaining ten, including Philip and Anson, were ordered to blackboards.

Those at the blackboards were each given a problem to lay out on the blackboard. Then, the instructor turned to the plebes who remained in their seats. These he questioned each of them on various aspects of the day's lesson.

All midshipmen at the blackboard worked busily away, each man blocking out phase after phase of his problem.

Philip Warren was first to finish. He turned his back to the board, taking the position of parade rest to signal his work was complete. Anson was third to finish.

"Mister Warren, you may explain your work," announced Lieutenant Bowdey.

Philip explained his work in a slow careful, deliberate manner without painful hesitation to his attentive instructor. When he had finished the instructor asked him several questions about the problem, and about some other phases of the day's work. Warren did not jump at any of his answers, but made them thoughtfully.

"Very good, indeed, Mister Warren," commented the instructor. "But, when you are more accustomed to reciting here, I shall hope for a little more speed in answering."

As Philip stepped from the blackboard to return to his seat Lieutenant Bowdey gave him a mark of 3.8 per cent on the day's work. With four being the highest mark, a 3.8 was a very respectable score. The lowest average in any course of study which a midshipman may have, and hold his place in the Naval Academy, is 2.5. Anything below 2.5 is unsatisfactory. Midshipmen refer to this as being 'unsat' while achieving the mark is known as being able to 'pull sat.'

"Good old Philip speaks too slow at the spout, does he?" chuckled Anson to himself, as he waited at parade rest. "I happen to know this problem as well as the fellow who wrote the book. I'll rattle off my explanation so fast that the Lieutenant will have to come to his feet just to catch everything I say."

Bigelow was the fourth man called upon at the blackboard.

Assuming an earnest look, and taking a deep breath, Anson plunged into the exposition of his problem as fast as he could fire the words out.

Lieutenant Bowdey, however, remained seated and calmly listened through to the end.

"Your demonstration is correct, Mr Bigelow," said the instructor quietly. "However, while speed in recitation is of value, in the future try to speak just a little more slowly and much more distinctly. You are fitting yourself to become a Naval officer one of these days. On shipboard it is of the utmost importance that an officer's voice be always distinct and clear, in order that every word he utters may be instantly understood. Try to keep this always in mind, Mister Bigelow, and cultivate the habit of speaking distinctly."

The rebuke was a very quiet one, and courteously given. But, Anson who knew that every other man in the room was grinning in secret over his discomfort, while he was quickly losing his nerve.

Lieutenant Bowdey then questioned Anson searchingly on other details of the day's work without showing any favor. Anson stammered, and forgot much of what he knew.

Lieutenant Bowdey set down a mark of 2.9. Anson Bigelow cursed himself as he knew if had just stuck sensibly to the business in hand, would have been marked as high as Philip.

As the sections were marching back to Bancroft Anson whispered:

"Philip, did you hear the old owl go at me in the section room?"

"Stop talking in section!" ordered Philip crisply.

"Blazes! There isn't a single spot on Annapolis where a fellow can take a chance at a little humor!" muttered Bigelow under his breath.

The two friends made their way through Bancroft Hall and entered their quarters.

"Philip, old friend," cried Anson tossing his cap on the bed. "Are you going to turn greaser, and stay greaser?"

"What do you mean?" asked Warren quietly.

"You told me to shut up in the ranks."

"That was right, wasn't it? I am under orders to see that there is no talking in the section when marching."

"Not even a solitary, teeny little word, eh?"

"Not if I can stop it," replied Philip.

"And what if you can't stop it?"

"Then, I am obliged to direct the offender to put himself on report."

"What! Would you tell your friend to frap the pap for a little thing like that, and take the D's unto himself?"

"If I had to," nodded Philip. "You see, Anson, we're here trying to learn to be Naval officers and to hold command. As outlined, very well I might add, in the 'Bluejacket.' Now, it's my belief that a man who can't take orders, and stick to them, isn't fit to give orders at any period in his life."

"This sort of thing is getting on my nerves a bit," grumbled Anson. "Just think of all the freedom we had in the good old days of life!"

"This is a new life, Anson, a different and better one."

"Maybe," half assented Bigelow who was beginning to accumulate the elements of a 'rhino.' Midshipmen who become chronic grumblers acquires the prestigious title of 'rhino' from their fellow class men.

"Anson," asked Warren, as he seated himself at his desk and opened a book preparatory to a long bit of hard study, "don't you know that your bed isn't the regulation place to hang your cap?"

"Oh, hang the cap, and the regulations, too!" grumbled Bigelow. "I'm beginning to feel that I've got to break through at some point."

"Pick up your cap, and put it on its hook," said Warren coaxingly.

Simultaneously he looked with a smile that showed that he thought his friend was acting in a juvenile manner.

Something within Anson induced him to comply with the request. Then, with great flourish and showmanship the disgruntled one hung his cap. He then slipped to the study table and picked up a book.

Just as he did so there came a knock on the door.

Lieutenant Wolleson stepped into the room wearing his white gloves and sword. Just behind the Lieutenant was a midshipman, also white-gloved.

Lieutenant Wolleson was the officer in charge; the young midshipman was in charge of the floor.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said the Lieutenant pleasantly, as both the plebes promptly rose to their feet and stood at attention. Philip and Anson remained standing at attention while the lieutenant stepped quickly about the room, taking in everything with a practiced glance.

"Everything in order," commented the lieutenant, as he turned to the door. "Resume your work, gentlemen."

"Maybe you're glad you hung your cap up just in time," grinned Philip.

"Oh, bother the whole scheme!" grunted Anson "The idea of a fellow having to be a jumping-jack all the time!"

"A midshipman has to be a jumping-jack, I reckon," replied Philip, "until he learns to be a man and to live up to discipline as only a man can."

"See here, do you mean to say..."

"Go on with your study, unless you're sure you know all the fine points of the English language," interrupted Warren. "I know I don't, and I want time to study."

Anson gazed steadily at his friend, but Warren seemed too deeply absorbed in his work to be conscious of the gaze.

Altogether studies and recitations passed off rather pleasantly for both friends that day, though both could see that there were water breakers ahead.

After supper a few minutes were allowed for recreation, which consisted mostly of an opportunity for the midshipmen to chat with each other. Then came the call that sent them to their rooms to study for two solid hours.

"I wish the powers that be would let us sit up an hour later," sighed Philip, looking up from his book in the middle of the study period.

"I'd rather they'd let us sleep an hour later in the morning," rhinoed Anson.

"But, really, it would be great to have chance to study an hour more each evening," insisted Philip.

"Huh!"

"I'm beginning to feel that we're going to need more study time than we are getting, if we're ever going to pass."

At 9:30 the release bell rang. Anson closed his book with a joyful bang, Warren closing his more reluctantly.

"I'm going visiting," declared Bigelow, starting to the door.

Before he could reach the door; however, there sounded a slight knock and two midshipmen of the third class stepped in.

"Mister, what's your name?" demanded one of the visitors.

"Bigelow, sir," replied Anson, standing at attention.

"What's yours, mister?"

"Warren, sir."

"Stand on your head, mister."

Philip obeyed with good-natured speed.

"That will do, mister. Now, on your head, mister."

Anson made a grimace, but obeyed.

Then, the other visitor demanded:

"Do either of you middi's intend to try to be ratey?"

Normally 'middi' was a shortened term used to refer to midshipmen. Warren; however, was taken aback when this implication of middi was being used as referring to them as the lowest form of life, lower than a plebe.

"No, sir," replied Warren promptly.

"Do you, mister?" turning to Bigelow.

"No, sir."

"Are you both a bit touge?" asked the youngster questioner.

"I hope not, sir," replied Philip.

"Do you feel that way, mister?" questioned the youngster looking at Anson.

"What way, sir?"

"Do you feel inclined to be touge, mister?"

"I'm willing to be anything that's agreeable, and not too much work, sir," replied Anson, grinning.

Upper class men who are not spoons to plebes take offense to fourth class men grinning at them.

Moreover, two other youngsters had just stepped into the room to watch proceedings.

"Mister," commanded the youngster whom Anson had answered, "wipe that grin off your face."

Bigelow drew out his handkerchief, making several elaborate passes across his expression with it.

"Not Touge, but bazoo!" growled his inquisitor.

"Agreed, bazoo" assented the other three youngsters.

"Why did you bring out your handkerchief, mister?"

"Just obeying orders, sir," replied Anson, with another grin.

"Middi, wipe that grin off your face! No, not with your handkerchief!"

Bigelow thought quickly as to the best way to follow the orders he was given. He thrust the handkerchief into his pocket and then used the sleeve of his blouse to wipe his face.

"Stop that, mister!"

"Yes, sir," replied Bigelow meekly.

"Don't you know how to wipe a grin off your face?"

"I'm not sure, sir," Anson admitted, "my efforts so far have not been to your liking, sir."

"Mister, you are wholly bazoo! I'm not sure but that you're a ratey plebe middi as well. Stand at attention you middi."

Anson snapped to attention as ordered, without a hint of a grin present. Youngster Frank Marston then plunged into a scathing lecture on the subject of a plebe being bazoo, touge or ratey. Anson respectfully listened as the lecture wore on, even as Youngster Marston came inches from Anson. However, a huge grin began to illumine Bigelow's face.

"Wipe that grin off, mister!" commanded Youngster Marston sternly.

"I—I simply can't!" gasped Anson, then began to roar with laughter.

"Why can't you?" insisted Marston. "What's the matter with this middi?"

"It's—it's your face!" choked Anson.

"My face?" repeated Marston, reddening "What do you mean, my face?"

"I—I—it would be a shame to tell you!" sputtered Bigelow between spasms of laughter.

It was well known among the class that when Midshipman Marston tried to look overly stern that his face took on some rather-amusing points. Marston was sensitive about his face and would spend hours practicing his 'discipline look' in the mirror. Yet it was not, strictly speaking, the face, but the look of precocious authority on that face which had sent Anson, with his keen sense of humor, off into spasms of laughter.

"Mister," spoke Midshipman Marston, with an added sternness of look that sent Anson off into another fit, "you have been guilty of insulting an upper class man. Your offense has been so serious—so rank—that I won't accept any form of apology. You shall fight, mister!"

"When? Whom?" asked a giggling Anson, the big grin still on his face.

"Me"

"You? Seriously?" Anson responded, almost going into another laughter spasm.

"Yes me, mister, and as soon as it can be pulled off."

"Oh, all right, sir," nodded Bigelow. "Any time you like, then, sir. I've been accustomed, before coming here, to getting most of my exercise out of fighting. But, begon the pardon sir, if we fight I shall have to hit, pardon me that face."

"Call this plebe out, Marston, and trim him in good shape," urged one of the other youngsters present. "He's a bazoo, and believes to be touge all the way. He'll need trimming."

"And he'll get it, too," wrathfully promised Midshipman Marston who was rated high as a fighter at the Academy.

The third class men left the room.

Philip Warren stood for a second with his mouth agape, only to come back when Anson broke out in laughter again.

"Did you see his face?" Anson cried.

"I'm not exactly sure what took place here," stated Warren, "what I did see was most likely a huge mistake being made."

# Chapter 10

The next evening an hour before taps third class man Marston and fourth class man Bigelow meet behind the old hospital.

"Now, then, mister, keep your eyes on my humorous face!"

Midshipman Marston had just stepped forward, from between his seconds, two men of the third class.

"I can't keep my eyes away from that face, and my hands are aching to follow the same route, sir," grimaced Bigelow.

He, too, had just stepped forward from the preliminary care of Philip and Creesy. Andrew Creesy was as anxious to see this fight as he had been see the other one.

"Stop your talk, mister," commanded second class Midshipman Farrar who was to officiate as referee. "On the field, you talk with your hands. Don't be bazoo all the time, or you'll soon have a long fight calendar."

"Very good, sir," nodded Anson, his manner suddenly most respectful—as far as appearance went.

Philip Warren did not by any means approve his friend's conduct of the night before. Philip was Anson's long time friend so he was on hand as his second. He knew Anson was a good fighter, but he heard much about Marston and could only hope that Anson might get at least some share of the honors in the event.

"Gentlemen," began Midshipman Farrar, in the monotonous way of most referees, "this fight is to be to a finish, without gloves. Hand-shaking will be dispensed with. Are you ready?"

"Ready!" assented both.

"Time!"

Both men advanced warily.

Marston knew well enough that he could whip the plebe, but he didn't intend to let Bigelow get in any blows that could be guarded against.

Both men moved about trying to read the other while trying to locate an opening.

"Stop eating chocolates and mix it up, we don't have all night!" broke Farrar.

"Like this, sir?" questioned Anson. Darting in, on a feint, he followed Marston's block with a blow that jolted the youngster's chin.

Then, Anson slipped away again, grinning gleefully, well aware that nothing would anger Marston more easily than would than would the grin that started it all.

"I'll wipe that disgrace off your face myself," growled Marston, closing in briskly.

"Come over here and get it," taunted Anson, showing some of his finest footwork.

Marston sent in three fast blows; two of them Bigelow blocked, but one hit him on the chest, staggering him slightly. Midshipman Marston saw an advantage and began to follow it. In another moment; however, he was backing away with a cut lip.

"There's something to wipe off your own face," suggested Anson, grinning harder than ever.

Stung, Marston made strenuous efforts to pay back Bigelow with a little extra. He was still trying when the call of time sounded.

"Anson, you're not even trying to go after him," murmured Philip, as Creesy quickly toweled their man in the corner.

"If I had, I might have gotten more of him than I wanted," muttered Bigelow.

"Well then why don't you mix it up faster?" queried Creesy.

"Because," proclaimed Midshipman Anson, "I don't really want to fight at all. I also don't want to get hurt and docked for repairs in the hospital. The only reason I'm doing this is for the exercise, you understand."

Over in the other corner Marston had been counseled to crowd the plebe hard, and to hammer him when he got close.

The call for the second round was given.

Marston started to put his advice into action and began broadside work. At last, he scored fairly, hitting Bigelow on the nose and starting the flow.

Bigelow had return the blow with interest a moment later. After that things went slowly for a few more seconds, when time was again called.

"That little middi isn't exactly easy," Marston confided to his seconds. "I need to be cautious with him. I haven't seen a plebe as cool and ready as he is in a long while."

In the third, round Marston was perhaps too cautious. He did not rush enough. Anson; however, bore down a bit. Just before the call of time he ducked under Marston's guard and closed Marston's right eye.

Both Marston and his seconds were now uncertain, though the youngster's fighting nerve and resolve ran as high as ever.

"I've got to wipe him off the field this round, or go to the grass myself," murmured Marston, while his seconds did the best they could with him.

"I'm warming up finely," confided Anson to Philip and Creesy.

"You're coming through all right," nodded Philip confidently. "I would say that right now you have twice as much vision as the other fellow, and only a fraction as much soreness. But keep on the watch to the end."

For the first twenty seconds of the new round it was Marston who was on the defensive. Anson followed him up just enough to be annoying.

Anson grew a bit tired of his pot-shots and straightened, stiffened, and there was a quick flash in his eyes.

This gave him exactly what he wanted and saw his chance, and now he jumped at it. His feint reached for Marston's solar plexus, but the real blow came from Bigelow's right hand. The shot hammered in and all but closed Marston's other eye.

_Smack_!

Right on top of closing the eye came a hook that landed on the youngster's forehead with such force that Marston fell over backward. He tried to catch himself, but failed, and lurched to the ground.

"...six, seven, eight..." counted the timekeeper.

Marston staggered bravely to his feet, but stood there, his knees wobbling, his arms hanging at his side.

Anson slightly backed off keeping only at half-guard and watching his opponent.

"Marston, are you okay?" called Mister Farrar. "Can you go on?"

"Yes; I'm going on, to the knockout!" replied the youngster doggedly.

He tried to close in, but was none too steady on his feet. Anson, watching him, readily footed, but not delivering a single blow.

"Time!"

Marston's two seconds rushed to his side. Midshipman Farrar and the time-keeper also gathered around.

"Marston," spoke the referee, "you're in no shape to go on."

"I can stand up and be hit," muttered the youngster gamely.

"Mister Bigelow, do you care to go further?" asked Mister Farrar.

"I will not attempt to hit Mister Marston, sir, unless he develops a good deal more steam."

Farrar looked at Marston's seconds. They shook their head.

"I award the fight to Mister Bigelow," declared Midshipman Farrar.

"Oh, give it to Midshipman Marston, if you don't mind, sir," begged Anson Bigelow.

"He got the game, and might as well have the name along with it."

"Mister, don't be bazoo all the time," second class man Farrar stated sharply.

"I don't mean to be, sir," replied Anson quite meekly. "What I meant to convey, sir, is that I don't care anything about winning fights. The decision, sir, is of very little importance to me. I don't fight because I like it, but merely because I need the exercise. A fight about once a week will be very much to my liking, sir."

"You'll get it, undoubtedly," replied Midshipman Farrar dryly.

"Oh, this will work just fine!" chuckled Anson, in an undertone, as he stepped over to his seconds. "Give me that towel, Philip. I can rub myself off."

While Anson was dressing, and Marston was doing the same, one of the seconds of the youngster class came over, accompanied by the timekeeper.

"Mister, you really do fight as though you enjoyed it," remarked the timekeeper.

"But I don't," denied Anson. "I'm willing to do it, though, to keep myself in shape. Say once a week, except in really hot weather. A little game like this really tones up my liver. It happens so quick that I can nearly feel it toning already."

As he spoke, Bigelow clapped both hands to his lower left side and jumped up and down.

"You heathen, your liver isn't there," laughed the time-keeper.

"Its not?" demanded Anson. "Well, I'm ready to maintain it at all times now that I know more about my liver than anyone, and its hanging out place."

There was a note of half challenge in this, but the time-keeper merely laughed and turned away. Members of the second class usually feel dignified to 'take the bazoo out of' plebes. That work is left to the 'youngsters' of the third class.

The groups broke away and went their separate ways. Youngster Marston and his seconds made their way to the hospital so he may present himself for medical attention.

Anson Bigelow, Philip Warren and Andrew Creesy made their way back to Bancroft Hall.

Anson and Philip bid Creesy a good night and once inside their room Philip fell into a chair next to the study table.

"Anson, why in the world are you so fresh?" challenged Philip, "You talk as though you wanted to fight every man in the upper classes. You'll get your wish, if you don't look out."

"Old fellow," replied Bigelow quizzically, "I expect to get into two or three more fights. I don't mean to be overly bazoo or touge, but I do intend to let it be seen that I look upon it as a festivity to be called out. Then, if I win the next two or three fights as well, I won't be bothered any after that. This is my own scheme for joining the peace society before long."

It was not wholly doubtful that Anson's was the best plan, in the long run, for a peaceful life among a lot of spirited young men.

# Chapter 11

It took nearly a full week for the life at the Naval Academy resumed in some manner of normalcy.

The release bell had just sounded, giving all the young men a brief interval of freedom before taps.

"Busy" asked Midshipman Hoeffel, of the fourth class, stepping into the room which Luth and Flagg shared.

"Not especially," laughed Luth, as he finished stacking his books and papers neatly.

"Come under the light and let me get a good look at your face, Luth," continued Hoeffel. "Looks almost natural again. That was a rough pounding that fellow, Warren, gave it!"

"Yes," nodded Luth, flushing.

"Don't you think it about time that you squared matters up with Warren?" went on Midshipman Hoeffel.

"How? What do you mean?" demanded Luth.

Midshipman Flagg turned from his activity and looked on with interest.

"Well, first of all, Warren gets the whole bunch of us ragged by the watchman. Then when you object, he pounds your face at his own sweet will."

"What are you trying to do?" laughed Luth. "Are you trying to fan my embers of wrath against Warren?"

"Such embers shouldn't need much fanning," retorted Mister Hoeffel coolly. "Surely, you are not going to let the dead dog lie?"

"Warren and I fought the matter out, and he had the good fortune to win the appeal," replied Plebe Luth stiffly. "I don't associate with him now, and don't expect to, later on, if we both get our delusion of being ensigns and graduate into the Navy."

"That satisfies your notions of honor, does it, with regard to a man who not only injured you, but pounded your face to a fearful pulp?" Hoeffel's tone as he put the question, was one of bitter irony.

"Mister," demanded Luth, rising, his face now flushing painfully, "I don't wholly like your tone."

"Forget it, then," begged Hoeffel. "I don't mean to be offensive to you, Luth. But, I take this whole Warren business so bitterly to heart that I suppose I am unable to comprehend how you, out of all of us who were ragged, can be so meek about it."

"Meek?" cried Luth. "What do you mean by that word?"

"Well, see here," went on Hoeffel coaxingly, "are we men of spirit, or are we not? We fellows devise a little outing. It's harmless enough, though it happens to be against the rules in the little blue book. We are indiscreet enough to let Warren in on the trick, and he pipes the whole lay off to some one. Result, we are 'ragged' and papped fifty 'd's' apiece. When you accuse Warren of his work, he gives you the lie. True, you show spirit enough to fight him for it, but the fight turns out to be simply more amusement for him. Now, I've been thinking over this thing and I can't rest until the work is squared. But I find you who suffered further indignities under Warren's fists, quite content to let the matter rest. That's why I am astonished, and why I say so frankly."

Having delivered this oration with an air of patient justice, Hoeffel seated himself with a leg thrown over the edge of the study table, waiting to hear what Luth could say in reply.

"Well, what do you plan to do further in the matter?" insisted Luth.

"To get square with Warren!"

"How?" inquired Flagg.

"First let all of us here take a look at what has happened. At first, we had the class pretty sore against Warren for getting our crowd ragged. Since the fight; however, in which you were pummeled like..."

"Never mind my fate in the fight," interposed Luth. "It was a fair fight."

"Well, ever since the fight," resumed Hoeffel, "Warren has been climbing up in class favor. Most of the quoir in the fourth class who follow Warren seem to feel that, the beating you received proves Warren's innocence of a mean act perpetuated by you."

"I can't help what the class concludes," retorted Luth stiffly.

"Flagg, you have more spirit than that, haven't you?" demanded Hoeffel, turning upon Midshipman Luth's roommate.

"I hope I have spirit enough," replied Flagg, constraining slightly, "but I am aware of one big lack."

"What is that?"

"I seem to lack the intelligence needed to understand what you are driving at, Hoeffel."

"That's the point, Hoeffel," broke in Luth who was now pacing the floor. "Just what are you driving at? Why are you trying to stir me up by such frequent references to the fact that Warren won his fight with me?"

"I'm probing you fellows," admitted Hoeffel.

"That's just what it rings like," affirmed Flagg, nodding his head. "Well, out with it! What's your real proposition?"

"Are you with me?" asked Midshipman Hoeffel warily.

"How can we tell," demanded Luth impatiently, "until you come down out of the thunder clouds, and tell us just what you mean?"

"Pshaw, fellows," remarked Mister Hoeffel, in exasperation, "I hate to think it, but I am beginning to wonder if you two have the amount of spirit with which I had always credited you."

"Cut out the part about the doubts," urged Flagg, "and tell us, in plain English, just what you are driving at."

"Fellows, I believe, then," explained Midshipman Hoeffel, "that we owe it to ourselves, to the Naval Academy and to the Navy, to work Philip Warren out of here as soon as we can."

"How?" challenged Luth flatly.

"Why, can't we put up some scheme that will pile up the 'd's' against that industrious greaser? Can't we spring a game that will wipe all his grease-marks off the efficiency slate?" asked Midshipman Hoeffel mysteriously.

"Do you mean by putting up a job on Warren?" inquired Flagg.

"That's just it!" nodded Hoeffel, with emphasis.

"Putting up a job on a man usually calls for craftiness, doesn't it?" questioned Luth.

"Why, yes—that is—umm—ingenuity," admitted Hoeffel.

"Trickery isn't the practice of a gentleman," insisted Luth.

"It has to be, sometimes, when we are fighting a rascal," retorted Midshipman Hoeffel.

"I'm afraid I don't see that," rejoined Flagg, shaking his head. "Dirty work is never excusable. I'd sooner let a fellow seem to win over me, for the time being, than to resort to fraud or anything like underhanded methods for getting even with him."

"Good for you, Flagg!" nodded Luth "That's the whole game for a gentleman—and that's what either a midshipman or a Naval officer is required to be. Hoeffel, old fellow, you are a little too hot under your blouse collar tonight. You need to cool off."

"Then you fellows are going to play the meek waiting game with Warren, are you?" sneered Hoeffel.

"We're going to play the only kind of game that a gentleman may play," put in Flagg incisively, "and we are not going to fool with any game about which a gentleman need feel the least doubt."

"You've spoken for me, Flagg," added Luth.

Midshipman Hoeffel took his leg off the desk, stood there for a moment, eyeing his two comrades half sneering.

"Good night, fellows," rebuffed Hoeffel.

He then turned on his heel and left the room closing the door after him.

"Well, what do you think of that?" demanded Luth, a moment later.

"I think," replied Midshipman Flagg, "just as you do that Warren, in his desire to bone grease somewhere, played a dirty trick on us. I consider Warren to be no better than a dog, and I apologize to the dog. But we're not going to make dogs of ourselves in order to even up matters."

"We're certainly not," replied Luth, with a nod. "and, Hoeffel is a mighty good fellow, at heart. He'll cool down and come around all right."

However, a furious Midshipman Hoeffel was just outside Luth's door whispering mysteriously with his roommate Brimmer.

# Chapter 12

A week passes for the men at Annapolis without consequence.

By this time all the new midshipmen had received a very strong taste of what the 'grind' is like at the Naval Academy.

If the lessons had seemed hard at the outset, the young men now regarded the tax demanded on their brains as little short of inhuman. The lessons were long and hard. No excuse of "unprepared" or otherwise was ever accepted in a section room.

The midshipman who had to admit himself "unprepared" immediately struck 'zip,' or absolute zero as a marking for the day. Many such marks would swiftly lead to dragging even a bright man's average down to a point where he would fall below two-five and be 'unsat.'

Once the young man was below 2.5 he would 'hit the tree' where a list of every person who was unsat for the week would be posted. Once on the tree the unlucky man would then be 'squidging.' To squidgy is to make every possible effort to 'sat.'

"I thought we plugged along pretty steadily when we were in the High School," sighed Philip Warren, looking up from a book. "Anson my boy, a day's work here is fully three times as hard as the severest day back then."

"Philip," retorted Bigelow, "your weak spot is arithmetic. It's just seven times as hard here."

"Oh, well," retorted Warren doggedly, "other men have stood this racket before us, and have graduated at that. If they did it, we can do it, too. Mister Berkey was telling me, yesterday, that the plebe year is the hardest year."

"Mister Berkey is a highly intelligent individual, then," murmured Anson Bigelow.

"He told me that the reason it's so hard is because plebes never really learned how to study. After our first year, he says, we'll have it so the work given goes more easily on us."

"If we ever live through the first year," murmured Anson dejectedly. "I'm just squidging all the time, and constantly fearing that I'm going to be unseated. If I could actually see myself getting through the first year here, with just enough of an average to save me, I'd be just as happy as ever a fourth class man can hope to be here."

"Remember the spirit, Anson my boy," coaxed Philip. "We can't be licked, because we don't know how to take a licking. We're going to get through here, Anson, and we're going to become officers in the Navy. It's just tough on the way, that's all."

"And we green young excursionists," sighed Bigelow, "thought the life here was just a life of parading, with yachting thrown in on the side. We were going to feel swell in our gold lace, and puff out our chests under the approving smiles of the girls. We were going to lead—and, say, Philip, what were some of the other fool things we expected to find happiness in doing at Annapolis?"

"It served us right," grunted Warren, "if we imagined that we were going to get through without real work. I don't believe there's a single thing in life, worth having, a fellow can get without putting in good hard labor for it!"

"Yes, but labor around this place is defined as a days work done in two hours," grunted Anson.

Just then the bell sounded.

"There goes the call for mathematics, Philip. We'll tumble out and see whether we can get a two-six today."

"Or a two-seven," suggested Warren ; hopefully. "My, but how far away a full four seems!"

"Did someone get a full four?" asked Anson, opening his eyes wide.

As each, with his uniform cap set squarely on, and his book and papers carried in left hand, turned out, he found the passageway to be swarming with midshipmen fully as anxious as they were.

A minute later hundreds of midshipmen were forming by classes. Then, the classes parted into sections and the little groups marched away in all directions. Philip got through better, than usual. He made a three-one, while Bigelow scored a two-eight.

Then this section, one of many, marched back.

As Philip and Anson swung down the passageway, and into their own room, they halted, just inside the door, and came quickly to attention. Lieutenant Cabaniss, the officer in charge for the day, stood there, and with him the midshipman who served as assistant cadet officer of the day.

"Mister Warren," spoke Lieutenant Cabaniss severely, "here is your dress jacket on the floor, and with dust ground into it."

"Yes, sir," replied Philip, saluting. "But I left it on its proper hook, I am sure of that."

Up came Anson's hand in quick salute.

"May I speak, sir?"

"Yes, Mister Bigelow," replied the officer in charge.

"I remember seeing Mister Warren's coat hanging properly on its hook, sir, just before we marched off to math recitation."

"Did you leave the room, Mister Bigelow, after Mister Warren, or even with him?" questioned Lieutenant Cabaniss.

"No, sir. I stepped out just ahead of Mister Warren."

"That is all, then, Mister Bigelow. Mister Warren, there is a pair of your shoes. They are in place, but one of them is muddy."

Philip glanced at the shoes uneasily, a flush coming to his face.

"I am certain, sir, that both shoes were in proper condition when I left to go to the last recitation."

"Then how do you account for the dust-marked dress jacket on the floor, and the muddy shoe, Mister Warren?"

"I can think of no explanation to offer, sir."

"Nor can I imagine any excuse," replied Lieutenant Cabaniss courteously, yet skeptically.

Lieutenant Cabaniss made a further inspection of the room, then turned to Philip.

"Mister Warren, you will put yourself on the report for these two examples of carelessness of your uniform equipment."

"Very good, sir."

Saluting, Philip crossed to the study table, laying his book, and papers there. Then, again saluting, he passed Lieutenant Cabaniss and made his way to the office of the officer in charge.

Taking one of the blanks, and a pen, Philip Warren filled out the complaint against himself, and turned it over.

"Philip, you didn't leave your things in any such shape as that?" burst from Anson as soon as Philip had returned to his room.

"Of course I didn't," came impatiently from Warren.

"Then who did?"

"Some fellow may have done it for a prank."

Anson shook his head, replying, stubbornly:

"I don't believe that any fellow in the Naval Academy has a sense of humor that would lead him to do a thing like that. Philip, this sort of report against you on pap means d's."

"Fortunately," smiled Warren, "the pap sheet is so clear of my name that I can stand a few demerits without much inconvenience."

But at breakfast formation, the next morning, Philip's name was read off with twenty demerits.

"That's a huge shame," blazed forth Anson, as soon as the friends were back in their room, preparing to march to their first recitation.

"Oh, well, it can't be helped can it?" grimaced Philip.

Over the next two weeks, Warren's equipment and belongings were found to be in bad shape no less than five other times. With a few demerits, which he had received in the summer term Philip now stood under one hundred and twenty demerits.

"I'm allowed only three hundred demerits for the year, and two hundred by January will drop me," muttered Philip, now becoming thoroughly uneasy.

He was now certain that some unknown enemy had it in for him. Warren felt almost morally certain that someone, and it must be a midshipman, was at the bottom these troubles. Though he and Anson had done all they could think of to catch the enemy, neither had any success.

"Eighty demerits more to go," muttered Philip, "and the superintendent will recommend to the Secretary of the Navy that I be dropped for general inaptitude. It seems a bit tough, doesn't it, Anson?"

"It's infamous!" blazed Bigelow. "If I could only catch the slick rascal who is at the bottom of all this!"

"But both of us together can't seem to rag him," replied Warren dejectedly. "Hopefully there won't be any more of it. After all, I am already a miser having lost all privileges. Not that I did much in the first place. It's the big danger of losing my chance to remain here at the academy that is worrying me."

Yet outwardly, to others, Philip Warren was patient. His surplus irritation he vented in extraordinary effort in the gym, where he was making a remarkable record for himself.

But of course his worries were reflected in his studies and recitations. Philip was dropping steadily. He seemed soon destined to reach the 'wooden section' in math. This wooden section is the section composed of the young men who stand lowest of all in a given study. The men of the wooden section are looked upon as being certain of dismissal when the semiannual examinations come along.

Five days had passed, and nothing had happened. Warren was beginning to hope that his very sly persecutor had ceased to annoy him for good.

On the sixth day; however, the friends returned from recitation in English.

"Nothing seems to be wrong here," remarked Philip, with a sigh of satisfaction.

Anson was standing stiffly as a board in the middle of the room. "Doesn't it smell a little as though some one had been fuming in here?"

"Don't even suggest the thing!" begged Philip turning white at the thought.

Tap-tap! Sounded at the door. The door opened, and the two friends saw the white-gloved cadet assistant officer of the day.

"Mister Warren, you will report immediately to the officer in charge."

"Very good, sir," Philip answered.

This was again Lieutenant Cabaniss's day to be in charge. Philip walked into O.D's office, saluted, reported his presence under orders and then stood at attention.

"Mister Warren," began Lieutenant Cabaniss, "I had occasion to inspect your room. The air was quite thick with tobacco smoke. I felt it necessary to make a very thorough search. In the pocket of your raincoat, I found..." Lieutenant Cabaniss produced from his desk a pouch of tobacco and a well-seasoned pipe "...these."

The officer in charge looked keenly at Warren who had turned almost deathly white. Certainly, Philip had the appearance of one wholly guilty.

"Have you anything to say, Mister Warren?" continued the officer in charge.

"I have never, in my life, sir, smoked or used tobacco in any form," Warren truthfully answered.

"Then how did these articles come to be in your possession?"

"They were _not in my possession_ , sir, were they?" Warren asked, with the utmost respect. Lieutenant Cabaniss frowned perceptibly.

"Mister Warren, I warn you to not attempt any quibble. The circumstances under which these articles were found place them sufficiently in your possession. What have you to say that will clear you?"

"I can offer, sir, the testimony of my roommate, Mister Bigelow who will declare most positively that he has never known me to use tobacco."

"Did Mister Bigelow leave your room with you when you went to your last recitation?"

"No, sir; he left fifteen minutes before, by permission, to go to his locker in the gym to look over certain articles there."

"Then you are unable to call your roommate to support your assertion that you did not smoke before going with your section to recitation in English?"

"I have only my unsupported word, sir, as a midshipman, and a gentleman, to offer."

"Under almost all circumstances, Mister Warren, a midshipman's word of honor should be sufficient. But, you have been reported several times of late, and with apparent justice. You will make in writing, Mister Warren, at once, such report as you wish to hand in on this incident, and the report against you will be considered in the usual way."

Philip then returned to his room. Though he was discouraged his face looked grim, and his air was resolute.

Taking pen and paper he began to prepare his report on this latest charge. Having finished and signed, Philip next picked up a scrap piece of paper and began to figure.

"What are you doing, old chap?" asked Anson sympathetically.

"My head is spinning too much of a for me to trust myself to do any mental math," Warren answered. "I have been figuring how much further I have to go. Twenty-five demerits are given for the first offense of being in possession of tobacco. That brings the total up to one hundred and forty-five. Philip, I have a lease of life here amounting to fifty-four more d's in this term. The fifty-fifth signs my ticket home!"

"The next trick of this kind attempted," cried Bigelow, his face glowing with anger, "must sign the ticket home of the middi who is at the bottom of all this instead!"

"But how?" demanded Philip blankly. "He has been entirely too sophisticated to allow himself to be caught."

# Chapter 13

The gloom that now hung over Philip Warren was the thickest that he had ever encountered in his short life. He was, fully convinced that his troubles were the work of some determined enemy or enemies. He was equally convinced that he was unlikely to catch the person. He and Anson had already tried everything that seemed to be within their power to do.

On the Saturday afternoon, following the tobacco incident the first ray of light seemed to come through the gloom, though it did not take away any of the awesome amount of demerits that had piled up against Warren.

Philip and Anson were chatting in a group of about twenty or so fourth class men when Luth and Flagg stepped briskly in their direction.

Philip glanced at the pair in bewilderment, for it was some time since he had been on speaking terms with either of them, and now both looked as though they were going to break the silence.

"One moment gentlemen, all, if you please," called out Midshipman Luth. "Let no one leave just now. I have something to say that I wish to make as public as possible."

Then, turning to the astonished Warren, Luth continued:

"Warren, I got into a bad scrape once, and I accused you of carrying the information that resulted in several others and myself being detected. I was positive in my charge. I now wish to make you the most public apology that is possible. I know now that you did not in any way betray myself and my companions."

"I'm glad you have come to this conclusion," Philip Warren replied.

"It is not exactly a conclusion," frankly, replied Luth, "it is a discovery."

"How did you find it out, Luth?" asked Anson Bigelow.

"I have the word of the watchman who caught us. That is old Ramsay, and there isn't a more honest old fellow in the yard."

"Did you ask Ramsay, Luth?" questioned another midshipman gravely.

"No; that would just pile on another offense," replied Luth readily. "I am well enough aware that a midshipman has no right to go to a watchman about a matter in which the watchman has reported him. But, a civilian is under no such restrictions. As some of you fellows know, my cousin, Breen, was here at the Academy yesterday. Now, Percy Breen is a newspaper man, and a fellow of an inquiring disposition. I told Percy something about the scrape I had been in, and Percy, being who he is, hunted up Ramsay soon after. Ramsay told Percy the whole truth about it. It seems that Ramsay did not have any information from anyone. He saw us go over the wall the night we Frenched it. But, Ramsay was too far away to catch any of us, or recognize us. So he made no alarm, but just waited until we came back. He heard the noise we made trying to get up over the wall from the outside, and laid in wait in the shrubbery until we had all dropped over. Then, he stepped out, and demanded our names. He had us ragged cold, so there was nothing to do but give him our names. Now, there's the whole story fellows, and I'm mighty glad I've got at the truth of it."

"So am I," muttered Anson dryly.

"Warren, you haven't said whether you accept my apology," Luth continued insistently. "I'm sorry for the whole thing, and I'm glad you thrashed me as you did when we met. In all rights richly deserved that for my hotheadedness."

For just a moment Philip Warren couldn't speak, but he held out his hand.

"Thank you, old fellow," piped Luth, grasping it. "From now on I hope we shall trust each other always."

Luth had been a good deal spoiled at home, and had a hasty, impetuous temper. His career at Annapolis, however, was doing much to make a man of him in short time.

Several of the other midshipmen spoke, expressing their pleasure that the whole thing was cleared up, and that Philip was fully proven to be above suspicion.

"I'm off to find the other fellows who were with me," continued Luth. "I've told Flagg, already, but I've got to find Ludlow and William, Hoeffel, and Brimmer, and put them straight also."

Five minutes later Luth was explaining to Midshipman Hoeffel.

"Well, you are the softy!" said Hoeffel, in a sneering tone.

"Why?" demanded Luth stiffly.

"To fall for a frame-up like that."

"Do you mean that my cousin lied to me?"

"No; but Ramsay certainly did."

"Old man Ramsay is no liar," retorted Luth. "He is one of most trusted employees in the yard. He has caught many a midshipman, but Ramsay is such a square old brick that the midshipmen of two generations love him."

"You're too easy for this rough world," jeered Midshipman Hoeffel.

"Perhaps I am," retorted Luth. "But I'm going through it decently, anyway."

"So you went and rubbed down Warren's ruffled fur as gently as you could," continued Hoeffel.

"I went to him and apologized; the only thing a man could do under the circumstances."

"And now I suppose some of the fellows are trying to build up an altar to Warren as the class idol?"

"I don't know. As far as I'm convinced, Philip Warren is as decent a fellow as ever who signed papers at Annapolis."

"Why not go out and buy some incense to burn before Warren," laughed Hoeffel harshly.

Perhaps Mister Hoeffel might not have been as flippant had he known that Luth intently was studying him the entire time.

"So, in spite of all explanations, you still have no use for Warren?" asked Midshipman Luth.

"I have just as much use for him as I have for any other middi sneak," retorted Mister Hoeffel. "He betrayed us to the watchman, and I don't care what explanations are offered to show that he didn't."

"And you won't be cordial with Warren?" insisted Luth.

"I?" exclaimed Hoeffel scornfully. "Not for an instant!"

"Well, I hardly believe that Warren will care much," replied Midshipman Luth, turning and walking out of the room.

"It's a mighty good thing that Warren is going to be dropped," growled Hoeffel to himself. "He's altogether too slick in laying a messy trap for people and then swinging them around so that they'll fawn upon him. When Luth first came here he was a fellow of spirit. He's had a bad time of it for a while. Now he's so clean he's going for that grease mark, and trying to earn some stripes!"

The remaining Saturday proved a dull time for Philip Warren. The heavy pile of demerits opposite his name prevented his getting leave even to stroll out into town. Anson could have gone, but would not leave his friend.

Sunday, morning there was chapel, but Philip, usually attentive, heard hardly a word being said. Sunday afternoon he turned doggedly to his books. Anson who was doing much better and now stood three sections higher than Philip in math, went visiting among the members of his class.

Sunday evening all the cadets were again busy at their studies until 9:30. As early as the regulations allowed Philip climbed into bed feeling the full weight of his troubles upon him.

"It's no use," he told himself, as he lay awake. "Some one has it in for me. But, Anson and I together can't find out who it is. He may try nothing against me again, for weeks, but sooner or later he'll turn another demerit trick against me. Before January I shall be home again, looking for some sort of job."

The following morning after muster the class broke into sections and marched away to recitation in math before eight o'clock.

Anson Bigelow was now the section leader of one group. Philip marched in the ranks of a much lower section.

This morning the section which Philip marched was one man short. Not until the members had taken their seats, or places at the blackboards, did Warren take note that it was Luth who was absent.

The section leader, however, had reported that Midshipman Luth was absent by permission of the head of the Department of Mathematics, "for purposes of study." Unusual as this excuse was the instructor had accepted it without making any inquiry.

If Luth was in his room for purposes of study, then what kind of "study" could it be?

Midshipman Luth was in his room peering between a tiny crack between the edge of his room door and the jamb.

Luth's roommate Midshipman Flagg had also been excused from attending section work. Flagg; however, sat tilted back in his chair, with his feet resting across the corner of the study table.

Flagg's position was a minor infraction of academy code. He was not in fear of being reported with Luth standing at the only entrance though.

So, Mister Flagg hummed softly to himself and stared out of the window.

Both gentlemen remained in their positions for nearly forty minutes and becoming rather bored.

Then, all of a sudden, Midshipman Luth turned with a low, sharp hiss.

"It?" whispered Midshipman Flagg, rising swiftly.

"Yes," nodded Luth.

Midshipman Flagg walked swiftly out of the room making as little noise as possible.

Just after Flagg had left the room Midshipman Luth stole along the corridor, halting before a door.

There he paused, as though on duty. It was not long before his position was accounted for by the officer in charge, Lieutenant Neal who was followed by the cadet officer of the day and Midshipman Flagg.

Luth stood quickly at attention, saluting the officer in charge who returned the salute.

# Chapter 14

A tap-tap sounded Lieutenant Neal's knuckles on the door.

Just a shade longer than usual the lieutenant officer in charge waited before he entered the room.

Behind him, like a faithful orderly, stood the cadet officer of the day Cadet Ensign Wicks, of the first-class.

Lieutenant Neal took a quick look around the room, then turned to the cadet officer of the day.

"Cadet Ensign Wicks," spoke the O.C., "Mister Warren seems to be growing worse in his breaches of duty."

"So it seems, sir," agreed Wicks.

"Mister Warren has left his bed turned down," continued the inspecting lieutenant. "And, judging by the looks of the sheets, he has been abed with his boots on."

"Yes sir."

"You will put Mister Warren on the report for this, Mister Wicks."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Lieutenant Neal continued the inspection of the room.

"Mister Warren has neglected to empty his washbowl. He has also thrown his towel on the floor. Place Warren on the report for that as well."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"That is all here, Cadet Ensign."

"Very good, sir."

The officer in charge and cadet officer of the day turned to leave the room. As they were crossing the threshold Midshipman Luth, saluting, reported:

"I think, sir, if you look again, you will find someone in this room."

"Very good," replied the officer in charge, turning back.

Lieutenant Neal went straight to the cupboard in which Philip Warren's uniform equipment hung. Pushing aside a dress uniform and a raincoat that hung like curtains, Lieutenant Neal gazed into the face of, Midshipman Hoeffel!

Hoeffel suddenly had been caught so that his grin of enthusiasm of not being caught had not quite faded from his face by the time that he stood exposed.

In another second; however, that midshipman's face had turned as white as dirty chalk.

"Stand forth, sir!" ordered Lieutenant Neal intensely.

With his legs shaking under him, Hoeffel obeyed.

"What is your name?"

"Hoeffel, sir."

"Hoeffel, what are you doing in the room of another midshipman, in the absence of both occupants?

"I—I—just dropped in, sir!" stammered the distressed midshipman.

"Mister Hoeffel, sir," continued Lieutenant Neal sternly, "it has long been a puzzle to the discipline officers why Mister Warren should so deliberately and senselessly invite demerits for lack of care of his equipment. You may now be certain that you will be accused of all breaches of good order and discipline that have been laid at Mister Warren's door. Have you anything to say, sir."

Midshipman Hoeffel, thought swiftly and had time enough to realize that no one had seen him doing anything in the room. The only offense would be of visiting another midshipman's room improperly which would call for ten demerits. This scrape was such a simple one that he would lie valiantly out of the graver charge and escape with ten demerits.

"I admit being here, sir, without propriety. I am innocent of any further wrongdoing, sir," Hoeffel lied.

Lieutenant Neal studied the young man's face keenly.

"Mister Hoeffel, was Mister Warren's bed turned down and in its present disordered state when you entered the room?"

"Yes, sir."

"You declare this on your honor as a midshipman and gentleman?"

"Yes, sir," lied the unabashed Hoeffel.

"Was Mister Warren's washbowl in its present untidy state?"

"I don't know, sir. I didn't notice that."

"Very good, Mister Hoeffel. Return to your quarters and remain there in close arrest. Do not leave your quarters, except by orders, or proper permission, sir."

"Very good, sir," replied Hoeffel, saluting. He then turned and marched from the room. Aware he was still under scrutiny he did not venture to even glance at either Luth or Flagg.

Lieutenant Neal stood outside the door of his office while the sections were outside Bancroft Hall were released.

"Mister Warren!" called the O.C. and, a moment later, "Mister Bigelow!"

Both wondering midshipmen approached the officer, and saluted.

"Mister Warren," stated Lieutenant Neal, "you and your roommate go to your quarters and leave your books. Then report back to me. You will find some evidences of disorder. Do not attempt to set them straight."

"And I also, sir?" queried Anson, saluting.

"You, also, Mister Bigelow," replied the officer.

"Has this thing broken loose again?" groaned Philip Warren, as the two friends hurried below.

"It seems as if it ought to stop some time," gasped Bigelow.

"It will, and soon," gritted Warren. "In a very short time, I shall have the full course of two hundred demerits. Cor blimey!"

The two friends saw the full extent of the mischief there. "I guess I may as well wire home to Rockford for the price of my return ticket," hinted Philip bitterly.

"Don't do anything of the sort," urged Anson, though with but little hope in his voice. "You may still have a margin of ten or fifteen d's left to hold you on."

"We're under orders, Anson my boy, to report back to the O.C."

"Okay."

"Come along, then."

In the office of the officer in charge stood Midshipman Luth and Flagg. Just after Philip and Anson entered Hoeffel came in, accompanied Midshipman Wicks, the cadet officer of day.

It was an actually ferocious gaze that Hoeffel turned upon Warren. In that same instant Philip believed that a great light had broken in upon his mind.

"Mister Wicks," requested the O.C., "ascertain whether the Commandant of Midshipmen can see us now."

Saluting, the cadet officer of the day passed out of the room, very prim and erect, his white gloves of duty a very conspicuous part of his uniform.

In a few moments, he returned, raising his right, white-gloved hand to the visor of his cap.

"The Commandant of Midshipmen is ready, sir."

"Come with me, then," directed Lieutenant Neal who had already risen to receive the cadet officer's report.

The O.C. led the way into the office of Captain G.W. Logan, U.S. Navy, the Commandant of Midshipmen.

"Lieutenant Neal I understand this relates to Mister Warren's late apparent course in matters of discipline?" inquired Captain Logan.

The Commandant was middle-aged and slightly bald, removed his eyeglasses, holding them poised in his right hand while he gazed calmly at Lieutenant Neal.

"Yes, sir. This is the matter," replied the O.C., saluting his superior.

Captain Logan usually had a manner of slow and gentle speech. At first sight, he impressed one as being a man lacking in boldness, which was a great mistake, as many a midshipman had found to his cost.

The Commandant of cadets, however, did not believe in becoming excited or excitable until the occasion arose.

"Be good enough to make your statement, Lieutenant," requested Captain Logan.

Consulting a slip of paper that he held in his left hand the younger Naval officer recounted the previous instances in which Midshipman Warren, fourth class, U.S. Naval Academy, had been found delinquent in that he had slighted the care of his equipment or of his room.

Having made this preliminary statement, the officer in charge now came down to the present day.

Midshipman Hoeffel kept his gaze fixed on Lieutenant Neal's face. Hoeffel's bearing was almost arrogant. He had fully decided upon his course to keep out of this serious matter.

# Chapter 15

"It is already, sir," spoke Lieutenant Neal, "a matter of knowledge with you that Mister Warren denied his responsibility in each case of disorder among his personal belongings. It is also a matter within your knowledge, sir that Mister Warren, finally, in his desperation, informed you that he believed that some enemy in the brigade of midshipmen was responsible for all the bad appearances against him. The reply of this department, sir, to Mister Warren, was to the effect that, while there was a possibility of his claim being correct, yet it was nearly inconceivable. Mister Warren was given permission to bring forward any evidence he could secure in support of his view. As time passed, and he confessed himself unable to secure any such evidence; one set of demerits after another accumulated against Mister Warren. Yesterday, sir, so I am informed, Mister Luth and Mister Flagg approached you, stating that they believed they had good reason for suspecting a member of the brigade of seeking to injure Mister Warren. Midshipmen Luth and Flagg also stated to you that they believed the offender to be a member of the half of the fourth class which does not recite in mathematics at the same time as does the half of the class to which Mister Warren and his roommate belong. As Midshipmen Luth and Flagg belong to the half of the class that recites during the same periods as do Mister Warren and Bigelow, Midshipmen Luth, and Flagg requested permission to remain in their room during the time when they would otherwise be reciting in mathematics. They were thus, to remain for two mornings, and other members of the fourth class were then willing to stay on watch for two mornings more, and so on, until the offender against Mister Warren, if there was one, could be caught in the act."

With this revelation of information Midshipman Hoeffel shot a dire glare at Luth and Flagg! Then, Hoeffel saw the eye of the Commandant fixed curiously on him, and glanced down at the floor.

"This very unusual permission, sir, you finally agreed to seek from the head of the Department of Mathematics. So, this morning, Mister Luth and Mister Flagg did not march to recitation in mathematics, but remained in their room. Presently Mister Flagg reported to me, in haste that a midshipman other than Mister Warren, or Mister Bigelow had just entered their quarters. I thereupon went down to that room, knocked, waited a moment, and then entered, accompanied by the cadet officer of the day. The condition of things that I found in the room you already, sir, know from my written report. While in the room I detected a pair of feet showing under the bottom of Mister Warren's uniform equipment hanging in his cupboard I pretended to not to see the feet, and turned to leave the room. Mister Luth, as prearranged, stepped forward and informed me that he had seen some one enter the room a while before. I then turned and compelled the prowler to step forth. That prowler was Mister Hoeffel."

"You questioned Mister Hoeffel as to his reason for being in the room?" asked Captain Logan.

"I did, sir."

"Did he deny guilty intention in being there?"

"He did, sir, other than admitting that he had broken the regulations by entering another midshipman's quarters in that midshipman's absence."

Tapping his right temple with the eyeglasses that he held in his hand, the Commandant of Midshipmen turned to look more directly at Hoeffel.

"Mister Hoeffel, did you arrange any or all of the disorder which Lieutenant Neal reported having found in Mister Warren's room?"

"I did not, sir." Hoeffel's voice was clear, firm and almost convincing.

"Have you, at any time, committed any offense in Mister Warren's room, by tampering with his equipment or belongings, or with the furniture of the room?"

"Never, sir," declared Midshipman Hoeffel positively.

"You are aware that Mister Warren has been punished by the imposition of a great many demerits for untidiness in the care of his equipment?"

"Yes, sir."

"But you were not responsible for any of these seeming delinquencies on Mister Warren's part?"

"Never, sir."

"You did not turn down, disarrange and soil his bed this forenoon, or create the appearance of untidiness in connection with Mister Warren washbowl?"

"No, sir."

"You make these denials on your word of honor, as a midshipman, and a gentleman?" persisted Captain Logan.

"I do, sir, and most earnestly and solemnly, sir," replied Midshipman Hoeffel.

"One word, more, Mister Hoeffel," went on the Commandant of Midshipmen. "When you improperly entered Mister Warren's room this morning, did you then observe the signs of disorder which Lieutenant Neal subsequently discovered and reported?"

"I did, sir, as to the bed. The washbowl I did not notice."

"That will do, for the present, Mister Hoeffel. Mister Luth, will you now state just what you saw, while watching this forenoon?"

Midshipman Luth told, simply, how he and Flagg had commenced their watch.

"In the first place, sir," declared Luth, "as soon as Mister Warren and Mister Bigelow had left their quarters, and the corridor was empty, Mister Flagg and I, acting by permission and direction of this office, went at once to Mister Warren's quarters. We made an inspection. At that time there were no such signs of disorder as those which Lieutenant Neal subsequently found. Then, sir, Mister Flagg and I went back to our quarters. I held our door very slightly ajar, and stood in such a position that I could glance down the corridor and keep Mister Warren's door constantly within my range of vision."

"As a matter of vital fact, Mister Luth," interrupted the Commandant, "did you at any time relax such vigilance, even for a few seconds?"

"Not even for a few seconds, sir."

"After the inspection that Mister Flagg and yourself made, who was the first person that you saw enter Mister Warren's room?"

"Mister Hoeffel."

"Was he alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you then immediately send Mister Flagg to the officer in charge?"

"I did, sir."

"And yourself?"

"Without allowing my glance to turn from Mister Warren's door, sir, I stepped out into the corridor, walked close to Mister Warren's door, and then stood there until Lieutenant Neal and Mister Wicks arrived."

"Then, Mister Luth, you are certain that there was no disorder in Mister Warren's room at the time when he and Mister Bigelow left to recite in mathematics?"

"I am absolutely positive, sir."

"And you are also certain that none but Mister Hoeffel entered that room up to the time when the disorder was discovered by Lieutenant Neal?"

"I am certain, sir."

Midshipman Flagg was then questioned. He bore out the testimony just given by Luth in every particular.

The manner of the Commandant of Midshipmen was still gentle when he turned again to Hoeffel.

"Mister Hoeffel, do you wish to modify your previous statements in any way?"

"No, sir," replied Hoeffel. "In all my answers I have told the whole and exact truth, as I know it. I am eager, sir, to answer any further questions that you may wish to put to me on the subject."

Commandant Logan then rested back in his chair as if in mild thought.

"Gentlemen, you may all withdraw, save Lieutenant Neal and Mister Hoeffel," announced the Commandant. "Mister Wicks; of course, you understand that what you know of this matter you know officially, and that you are not to mention or discuss it until such time as official action shall have been taken. As for you other midshipmen, I see no harm, gentlemen, in your discussing it among yourselves, but you will see to it that information does not, for the present, spread through the brigade. You may go, gentlemen."

Once outside the commandant's office Luth and Flagg rapidly walked away so that Philip and Anson did not attempt to catch up to them in the corridors. But, they found Luth and Flagg waiting outside Philip's quarters.

"May we come in?" asked Luth.

"If anyone on earth may," replied Philip heartily, throwing open the door and allowing them enter.

"I'm afraid we've cooked a goose for some one," cried Luth, with grim satisfaction.

"Great Scott, yes," breathed Anson Bigelow, in devout thankfulness.

"Is it fair, Luth, for me to ask you whether you suspected Hoeffel before you caught him?" asked Warren.

"Yes; and the Commandant knows that. Hoeffel came here one night, weeks ago, and mysteriously tried to interest us in putting up a job to get you dropped from the Navy rolls. When Flagg and I really knew that an enemy was working against you, it didn't take us two minutes to guess who it was. Then, we started on the warpath."

"I wonder," asked Philip Warren huskily, "whether it is really necessary for me to assure you of the tremendous burden of obligation that you've put upon me?"

"It isn't necessary, any way that you can look at the question," retorted Luth promptly. "What we did for you, Warren, is no more than we'd stand ready to do for any man in the brigade who was being ground down and out by a trickster."

"Wouldn't I like to take peep in on Hoeffel, now, while the Commandant is grilling him in that gentle way the Commandant has?" mocked Midshipman Flagg.

"Philip, little giant, the matter is cleared and as good as squared," cried Bigelow.

During the next two days, it was known through the brigade at large that Midshipman Hoeffel was in close arrest. The brigade did know the cause of the arrest though. Yet, in such appearances as Hoeffel was permitted to make, it was noted that he bore himself cheerfully and confidently.

Then, one day, just before the dinner formation, Warren was ordered to report at the Commandant's office.

"Mister Warren," announced Captain Logan, "I am glad to be able to announce that we have been able sufficient evidence against Mister Hoeffel that the young man finally confessed that it was he, and he alone who created all the disorders with your equipment, and in your room for which so many demerits have been inflicted upon you. Therefore, when the orders of the day are published at dinner formation by the brigade adjutant, you will again hear that your demerits, given for the offenses unjustly charged against you, have been remitted by order of the superintendent. You will also learn that you have been restored to the first conduct grade, with all the rights and privileges belonging to midshipmen of that grade."

Philip Warren left the Commandant's office with a light heart, though he had been expecting that very decision.

Yet, despite the fact that he knew it was coming, he was still slightly overcome as he heard the order read out in the brigade adjutant's quick, monotonous tones.

Then, immediately following, came another order. Midshipman Hoeffel, for dishonorable conduct, was dropped from the rolls!

"Fours right, march!"

By companies the brigade wheeled and marched into the mess hall—the air resounding with the quick, martial tread of the brigade.

One man, however, fell out of the ranks. Hoeffel, from the moment of the publications of the order, was no longer a midshipman.

He had fallen deservedly, as one not fit to associate with gentlemen, or to figure among the future defenders of his country of honorable men.

As the brigade marched indifferently off, and left him there, Hoeffel gazed, for a few moments at the solid ranks of blue and gold. In this supreme moment, he realized all that he had lost.

Then, crushing down any feeling of weakness, he turned, a sneer darkening his face.

Hoeffel collected himself and then sprang up the steps and hastened to the room that had been partly his. He discarded his uniform for his civilian clothes that had been brought to him from the midshipmen's store. His own few belongings that he cared about taking with him he quickly packed.

Before he could finish packing and make his departure his roommate, Brimmer, was back before.

"You'd better wait, now, until the coast is clear," whispered Brimmer. "Hosts of the fellows are hanging about outside."

"They won't see me," jeered Hoeffel harshly. "I'll wait until they're off at afternoon duties. But see here, Brimmer, don't you dare forget that I might have said much about you, and that I didn't. Don't dare forget that I leave to you the task of humbling that fellow, Warren. If you fail me, Brimmer, it won't be too late for me to do some talking."

"Oh, I'll get Warren out of here," grimaced Brimmer. "But I won't try to do it the way you did. I'm going to undo Warren by being his friend."

"Well that be that," muttered Hoeffel, buckling his suit case. "But I'm not going until the coast is clear."

Seating himself by the window, he stared moodily out, thinking of the life that had strongly appealed to him, and from which he had exiled himself. While he was so occupied a knock sounded at the door; then the cadet officer of the day stepped in:

"I see you are ready to go, Mister Hoeffel," announced the cadet officer. "The published order was to the effect that you leave the Naval Academy immediately. The officer in charge has sent me to see that you comply with the order at once."

"Well," muttered Hoeffel bitterly. He turned, holding out his hand to his late roommate.

"Goodby, Brimmer; good luck!"

"The same to you," replied Brimmer, as their hands met. That was all that was said with the cadet officer of the day looking on, but both of the late roommates understood the compact of dishonor that lay between them concerning Philip Warren's coming fate.

With his derby hat pulled low over his eyes and gripping his suit case, Hoeffel slunk through the corridors of Bancroft Hall. Now, he faced the hardest ordeal of all in going out through the entrance of the great white building, beyond which stood many groups of midshipmen.

Now, these young men of the Navy caught sight of Hoeffel. No goodbyes were called out to him. Instead, as his feet struck the flagging he was made endure a final humiliation. The midshipmen gave the departing one a whistled tune and furnished the drum part with clapping hands. That tune was "The Rogue's March."

# Chapter 16

"Warren, I hope you don't hold me in any way responsible for that fellow Hoeffel's actions."

"Why should I?" asked Philip, turning and looking into the eyes of Midshipman Brimmer.

"I know that, for a while, there was hard feeling between us," continued Brimmer seriously. "It took me a long time to get it out of my stubborn head that you were the one responsible for having our crowd ragged by the watchman the night of the spread in Annapolis. Even after Luth changed his mind it took me a long time to believe that he was right."

"I forgot that whole matter long ago," replied Warren.

"Then will you accept my tardy apology?" urged Brimmer, holding out his hand.

It was not Philip Warren's way to hold a grudge forever. He took Brimmer's hand in a welcomed shake.

"And I hope you'll let me know you better," continued Brimmer, turning to Anson Bigelow.

"Most people who know me at all think they know me too well," laughed Anson, holding out his hand.

Maybe, in other walks of life, the friends might suddenly have been more wary about accepting Brimmer's proffered friendship, as they stood in the open air just after dinner that November day. In days past Philip and Anson would have been more cautious in accepting such an overt offer of apology and friendship. But, this day was so fine and mild that it seemed a shame to be cooped up between walls and holding others at bay.

The midshipmen at the academy are ranked as gentlemen, and as such are taken on trust unless they betray themselves as dishonorable. Ninety-nine per cent of the young men are earnest, honest, and wholly aboveboard.

During the next three weeks, Brimmer cultivated the acquaintance of Warren and Bigelow at every possible opportunity. Often, in the evening, he came hastening to their room for a short visit after the release bell had sounded at 9:30. When he called, Brimmer always remained until the warning call just before taps.

"It took you a long while to find out that Warren is clean enough to shake hands with," laughed Luth, one day.

"As I remember, it took you quite a little while as well," laughed Brimmer. "I admit that I am slow at forming my friendships. But there's no mistake about Warren, when you get to know him. He's about the finest fellow in the class."

"He certainly is," nodded Luth heartily.

Being shorn of the long list of unjustly-given demerits that had stood against his name, Warren was now in the first conduct grade. So was Anson. That gave to both a considerable amount of privileges. On Saturdays and Sundays, for instance, they were at liberty to accept invitations to call on or dine at the houses of officers and their families. This privilege, while pleasant, amounted to little, for Philip and Anson had been too busy over their studies to have any opportunity to attract social notice.

Fourth class men do not, by tradition, attend any of the midshipmen's social dances, which are reserved for upper class men.

Neither is a plebe midshipman expected to be seen escorting young ladies. A fact that most fourth class men find true is that the plebe has no social pleasures within the academy walls.

Outside, however, it is different. If the fourth class men are acquainted with young ladies in the town of Annapolis, they may visit them on Saturday afternoons when so invited. Here, again, Philip and Anson found no delight.

They could, however, on Saturday afternoon secure permission to go into town. Any change outside the Academy walls now became welcome, though the young midshipmen had no other form of pleasure than merely to stroll through the streets of the town, and occasionally regale themselves with a dish of ice-cream or a glass of soda at Bernard Wiegard's store at the corner of State Circle and Cornhill Street. The confectionery shop was famous among cadets who would go there to satisfy a sweet tooth or socialize with the many town girls who also frequented the establishment.

On a Saturday afternoon while strolling through the town, Brimmer discovered a new little shop on Main Street.

This was a little store that had just been fitted. Some fruit was displayed for sale, though the main business of the place appeared to be a new temperance bar.

On the sign over the door seemed strange and read "Yoanis Topanzis" and underneath was a second sign reading "Topa's."

Felling the urge of thirst Brimmer stepped inside.

"Are you Yoanis?" he asked of the young man behind the counter.

"Yes, sir. Topa please," grinned Topa. "What will you have?"

Brimmer looked over the stock of large bottles containing herb bitters, dandelion and burdock, vimto, and cream soda. He finally selected a ginger ale.

"What, sir, may I inquire is the nationality of your name?" asked Brimmer.

"It is Greek. I am from Greece." Replied the smiling man.

"Business good?" asked the midshipman.

"No, sir. Very bad." Replied Topa sadly.

"Oh, well, it will pick up by-and-by."

"I hope so, sir. I thought when I came here to America, and then here next to the U.S. Navy Academy and built a temperance bar I would be visited often by the shipmen. You, sir, are the first shipmen to come here since I open weeks ago."

"You have a neat little place," continued Brimmer. "And this ginger ale," holding up his glass, "is good. You'll have trade enough by-and-by."

"You tell the other shipmen; sir?" asked a hopeful Topa.

"Why, yes; I think perhaps I can send you a bit of trade," replied Brimmer. Young Brimmer's father was a prosperous politician, and he had learned the wisdom of making friends wherever he could, since there could be no telling when a friend anywhere might be useful.

"Come with me, sir, I have something to show you," urged Topa, taking a gentle hold on Brimmer's arm, and leading him to the rear of the store.

Topa threw open a door, revealing a rear room with three card tables.

"Maybe shipmen like to play cards, sometime?" suggested Topa, with a grin.

"Great!" cried Brimmer. "Yes; sometimes the fellows do like to know a quiet little place where they can have a good game without a discipline officer butting in. Good enough; I'll tell some of the fellows, but you must keep it quiet, and not let anyone else into that room."

"It's for shipmen only," promised Topa solemnly.

"Good enough, then," smiled Mister Brimmer. "I'll bring you a party as soon as possible."

"Then, we are friends, sir, very good," praised the Topa.

Brimmer finished his drink and strolled the streets when a plan began to rapidly hatch in his mind. He thought he saw how Topa could made a most valuable ally.

It was not long before Brimmer would meet some midshipmen who had some rather wild tendencies to whom he proposed a quiet little game of cards. He led his classmates back to Topa's. Here, they refreshed themselves with ginger ale, and cream soda, then passed on into the rear room. For more, than two hours the midshipmen remained here. Occasionally they ordered up some more of the temperance drinks. As they left Brimmer passed Topa a two-dollar bill. Brimmer had disregarded the regulations of receiving money from home and was always well supplied with cash on hand.

"Thank you, sir," hailed Topa.

The following Saturday Brimmer returned to the little shop with a small party of friends. Late that afternoon Topa was a few dollars richer.

"You are one very good friend, sir," proclaimed the delighted Topa. "I am your very good friend, too. I will do anything for you, sir. Try me!"

"If I am in any need," said Mister Brimmer. "You will be the first to know mister Topa."

Thanksgiving came and went without fan fair. The Christmas Holidays were nearing. Brimmer was playing his game slowly, and without the slightest risk to himself. He was taking every available step to ensure that Topa had all the risk. This way Brimmer could deny all knowledge of the matter if the temperance bar owner got into any trouble.

On Saturday afternoon, just before Christmas Midshipman Brimmer came down Main Street, looked in and found the Topa standing alone in his shop.

"Howdy, Topa," was the midshipman's greeting, as he sauntered into the store.

"Hello, my good friend, sir."

"Wish you a Merry Christmas, Topa."

"I don't know, sir, I don' know," replied Topa, shaking his head.

"Why, isn't business good now, Topa?"

"You help make it better," replied Topa, shaking his head, "but still I do not make much money."

"Are you hard up at Christmas, Topa?" asked Brimmer, with pretended sympathy.

"Oh, yes, sir; all the time."

At that moment Brimmer's gleaming eyes saw Philip Warren and Anson Bigelow passing on the other side of the street.

"Quick, Topa! Get a look at my friends over there!" whispered Brimmer. "Take such a good look that you will know them again anywhere. Now, it's the one on the inside, especially. Note him sharply, Topa."

"I see him, sir," replied the Topa gravely.

"Do you see many of these ten-dollar bills nowadays, Topa?" questioned Brimmer, taking a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket.

Topa shook his head grievously.

"This is yours now, Topa; and twice as much more afterwards, if you do what I want of you. It's a good joke that I want to play on a midshipman down at the Academy."

"A joke, eh?" repeated the Greek. "Then if it is only a joke, I will help."

"Oh, it isn't anything bad," Brimmer lied cheerfully. "But that fellow played a warm one on me, and I want to pay him back."

"I understand, my friend."

Within five minutes, Topa understood much better. Still, Topa saw no real harm in what he now engaged himself to do.

That night Topa had a smile as he slept with Brimmer's ten-dollar note under his pillow. Philip Warren slept as soundly as ever, unconscious of the impending harm hanging over his head.

Midshipman Brimmer did a lot of chuckling after taps, as he lay on the bed in the room that Hoeffel had once shared with him.

"Now, let's see anyone get a chance to bring this job back to me!" laughed Brimmer. "And goodby, Warren! The Naval Academy won't know you much longer!"

# Chapter 17

Up to this time Warren had dropped in at Topa's but once, and Anson not at all.

The Saturday after Christmas was an anxious one for nearly all the midshipmen. Only a few availed themselves of any privilege of going into Annapolis this Saturday afternoon. Most of the young men remained in their rooms at Bancroft Hall, anxiously going over the work in which their semiannual examinations would cover.

This was especially true of the fourth class men in the "wooden" or lowest sections. Most of these men knew that, if they succeeded in staying at all, it would be by a very small margin. Even the men in the 'savvy sections,' with the highest marks of their class, were eager to come out of the dreaded simi-ans as unscathed as possible.

Knowing they would need some type of break; Philip and Anson both had secured permission to go into Annapolis. They did not intend to go townward; however, until rather late in the afternoon.

Anson, when he could stand the grind no longer picked up his cap. Philip wanted to put in least fifteen minutes more over his book.

"I've got to get out in the air," Bigelow muttered.

"Going to town?" Philip asked.

"Yes. Coming along?"

"I've got a little more in logarithms to clean up," murmured Warren, looking dismally at two flags in one of his textbooks in math. "Will it do as well, if I follow in fifteen or twenty minutes?"

"Yes; you'll probably find me on Main Street, though you can look in at Wiegard's on the way."

A prudent fourth class man would not stop at Wiegard's if he noticed plentiful patrons of upper class men and ladies. A man of the fourth class who was wise would not invite such trouble, and keep walking.

Anson left Bancroft Hall quite certain that his friend would not be along for at least an hour.

At the gate Anson made his report of liberty, then kept on up Maryland Avenue. As he turned into State Circle he slowed, glancing in through the door at Wiegard's.

"Too many upper class men for me," decided Anson, so turning he made his was way through the State Capitol grounds, and on into Main Street.

Enjoying his break from studies he strolled slowly. Occasionally, he would pass a member of his class, though none with whom he was particularly familiar with.

Bigelow's eye caught Topa's small shop when he decided he wanted something to drink.

Topa saw the fourth class man coming, and a peculiar smile crossed his lips. From the time Brimmer had pointed out the friends he understood that it was Anson who was to be the principal victim.

"Good afternoon, Topa!" was Anson's greeting, as he stepped into the shop. "Merry Christmas."

"Thank you, sir, good friend," was Topa's reply turning briefly, to hide a grin.

"Crowd seems to have left you, Topa," said Anson sympathetically.

"Saving their money to buy present for girls. As any wise young man would do," Topa reconciled.

Smiling at the mans logic, Anson inquired "Topa, have you a small bottle of lemon soda that's good and cold?"

"Yes, sir, one left until the next batch is ready."

"Then, I want it."

Topa fumbled among bottles clinking in ice under the counter. At last, he found what he wanted and held the bottle up to the capping machine. Then, he did something unusual. Instead of his customary emptying the bottle into a glass on the counter, he performed the service underneath the counter. A moment later he produced the filled glass to Anson.

"Makes me even more thirsty just looking at it," muttered Anson, picking up the glass.

He sipped the last out of the glass, put out a coin to pay for it, and stood, for a moment, chatting with Topa.

"Excuse me, sir," broke in Topa, suddenly. "I hear my wife calling me."

Opening a door behind him Topa stepped into a hallway.

The short December afternoon was drawing to a close. Standing in the shop Anson saw that the light in the street was growing less.

Anson then felt a small amount of dizziness come over him as he stood there in the empty shop.

"I'm going to look for my friend," called Anson to the back of the shop.

Stepping out into the cold night air he headed to State Circle when the feeling of dizziness returned. The moment was brief, but soon it came on again, heavier than before.

"What ails me?" wondered the astonished midshipman. "I can't be turning sick; I've been feeling fine all day."

Anson gathering all his might while holding himself as erect as he could tried to walk slowly in a straight line. As he made his way through the street, a few passers-by turned to look at the unsteady young man in a midshipman's uniform.

Two men passing in an Abner Frisbie runabout auto glanced quickly at Anson.

"Look at that fool midshipman, throwing away a great future for a few glasses of strong drink," one of the men remarked.

Anson Bigelow no longer understood clearly what was happening. He made his way to the lower end of Main Street where there were not many people to take notice. Topa; however, was following stealthily on his trail.

As Bigelow reached the head of a short, narrow alleyway Topa caught up with him in the darkness that had now fully fallen.

Topa gave the midshipman a quick shove causing Anson to helplessly stagger into the alleyway. Losing his footing he tripped and fell landing face down on the cobblestone path. Topa passed on as though he had merely accidentally jostled another.

Seeing that no one had taken notice of the incident he wheeled and went back to the alley. Anson Bigelow was lying still, in a complete stupor.

Topa came upon the young man with a chuckle and drew a small bottle from one of his pockets. Taking the stopper out and throwing it away he quickly began sprinkling the contents on Anson's uniform coat.

Just as he was about to finish Topa's right arm was caught in a tight grasp. He quickly spun around to find Philip Warren in full uniform standing over him.

"You wretch!" vibrated Philip's angry voice. "What are you doing here?"

With the low light of the alley and the gas lamps of the street being to Philip's back Topa did not recognize the captor. Topa fully believed he had been caught by an officer of the Navy.

"Speak up, before I shake the truth out of you!" warned Warren.

"Do you understand that this is a crime! That I can place you under arrest, and have you sent to the penitentiary for years?"

Topa was now sure that he was in the clutch of a Naval officer. Moreover, Warren's grip was one that said he was holding more strength in reserve.

"Let me go, sir!" begged Topa, squirming. "This is all a joke. I do this man no harm."

Philip answered by using his free hand to snatch away the bottle that Topa still held.

"Alcohol!" detected Philip, and hurled the bottle to the other end of the alleyway. "You poured this on this man's uniform? Wait, you are the fellow who runs the temperance drinks place? A nice business for you to be in, drugging midshipmen and trying to ruin them! To prison you go, unless you limber up your tongue. Who put you up to this business? Talk quickly!"

Philip knew this was a bluff as he was under twenty-one and could not make an arrest, even as a citizen. But, he saw that he had the store owner scared, and he resolved to push his advantage to the limit.

"Talk this instant, or I shall drag you to the police!" warned Philip. "Then, it will be years before you are a free man again."

"Mercy, please, Captain!" howled the frightened Topa.

"Then out with it! The whole truth," ordered Philip Warren with an accompanied shaking that made the Topa's teeth rattle.

"Stop, sir, stop! I tell you!" whined Topa.

"Go ahead, then, you imp."

"Shipman Brimmer! You know shipman Brimmer?"

"I know him," repeated Philip.

"He tell me, sir, about a joke he wanted to play. He gave me bottle of stuff, and he tells me when this shipman, or his friend, comes in my place I am to put half of the bottle in the glass of what the shipman orders. I am then to follow the shipman, and watch him until he falls. Once he does, I am to sprinkle some alcohol on him then leave him to be found. See, it's just a simple joke. It is not meant to be a crime, sir."

"Give me what is left of the bottle of stuff that Midshipman Brimmer gave you to put in the drink," commanded Philip sternly.

Topa's first impulse was to deny that he had the vial with him. But, Warren's grip on the fellow's arm tightened so alarmingly that Topa thrust his left hand down into his trousers pocket to retrieve the vial.

"So this is Brimmer's work," snarled Philip as he pocketed the vial.

"Some one is coming, sir," warned Topa. "Please let me go."

"Stay where you are, and don't dare make a move to get away," warned Warren. "It would do you no good, anyway. I know where to find you."

Then, Warren glanced cautiously toward the street. Some one was coming, and that some one wore the Naval uniform. Philip's heart began to beat faster. Then the wearer the uniform passed the light from a store window, and his face was briefly revealed. Warren's heart, for a few seconds, seemed almost to stop beating as he recognized Midshipman Brimmer.

Further up in the town that midshipman had heard a fleeting word about a staggering midshipman having been seen going down Main Street.

"A dollar to a doughnut it's Warren," flashed through Brimmer's mind when he heard the news. He walked quickly but was being careful to not look as though he was in a hurry.

"I wish Hoeffel were here at this moment!" Brimmer said to himself. "Oh, it will be great to see that sneak, Warren..."

Just at that moment Brimmer stopped short, his face blanching white as the snow on the ground.

Standing before him, towering in his wrath, was Philip Warren.

# Chapter 18

Before Brimmer could utter a word Warren pounced upon him, seizing him by the collar and to some extent dragging him into the alleyway.

Then, Warren demanded, while still gripping his astounded dismayed adversary: "Topa, is this the fellow who paid you to drug my friend?"

Brimmer's eyes flashed wide with surprise when he spotted Topa, then narrowed to small slits with anger.

"Let go of my collar, Warren!" he commanded loudly. "If this lying Greek has dared to say that I..."

"Shut up!" ordered Philip tersely.

Ever since coming to Annapolis Philip had tried to keep his temper in check. But now, Warren has returned to the more hotheaded, impulsive, thrasher of lowlife thief's of days past.

"No, no, no! Mister Brimmer, he no tell me, he no hires me," protested Topa, his careful correct English failing in his excited state.

"Be silent, fellow!" commanded Philip Warren. "You've told the truth once. Don't spoil it with a dozen lies! Brimmer, you are a disgrace to the noble old uniform."

With a quick, forceful twist Brimmer had freed himself from Philip's clutch. The move to free himself availed him but little freedom; however.

Philip moved like lightning and let drive with his right fist, landing a blow on the chest that sent Mister Brimmer flat to the cobble stones of the alley.

"You coward!" screamed Brimmer, as he rose.

But, no sooner was he on his feet than Philip planted another blow over his left eye. Brimmer flattened again, his eye closed "until further notice."

"Don't try to get up!" warned Warren, crouching over his new opponent. "If you make any move upward, until I'm through talking, I'll kick you clean over the roof tops of Annapolis and so far out into Chesapeake Bay that it will a fleet of navigators a month of Sundays to locate you. Brimmer, if you send me a challenge when we get back to Bancroft Hall, I won't pay any attention to it until after the class has passed on the merits of the case. You may also choose to fight here and now. I'll let you up, and we'll settle it right off. But, it will not be a formal fight, under adherence to regular rules. You hear me? You understand?"

Brimmer made no reply.

"All right, then," nodded Philip. "Don't try to provoke me into a formal fight, at the Academy, unless you are prepared to defend your side before a class committee."

Philip stood and collected himself while calming his nerves. He then looked down at Brimmer.

"Now get up and take yourself away from here you disgraceful fraud!"

Topa; meanwhile, had swiftly vanished. In seeing the events unfold in front of him, he was crafty in denying his charge against Brimmer. A quick plan came to mind as he made his escape.

"Mister Brimmer will not pay twenty dollars. He will pay every penny he can get," chuckled Topa. "Otherwise, he will be afraid I tell too much. If I say too much, he will have to leave the Navy Academy!"

Brimmer got up and made off as quickly as he could. He was boiling with helpless rage, and he would have fought, on the spot. He also knew that with one eye closed he would be nothing but a toy football for the formidable Warren.

The alley now empty, Philip bent over his friend whom, still unconscious, was breathing heavily.

"He's in no immediate danger," breathed Warren, in great relief.

Hearing wheels from the street he stepped to the end of the alleyway.

There was the answer to his prayer. A horse drawn cab in need of a fare.

"Driver, I need you here!" called Philip, "Follow me," directed Warren, leading the way up the alley.

Catching sight of a downed midshipman the driver grinned.

"No, he's not intoxicated!" flashed out Warren half angrily. "He's been drugged. Help me lift him into your cab. Then get us to the best physician in the town."

Anson was propped in place on the back seat. Warren got in beside him to hold him in place.

"Give me the card of your stable, driver," Philip requested. "I haven't money enough to pay you, but I'll write and have my father send you the amount of your bill."

"That'll be all right, sir," nodded the driver who knew the ways of midshipmen. He knew the risk was a safe one as he had dealt with this very situation many times.

A few minutes later the cab stopped at the home of Doctor Vogan.

"See if the doctor is in," directed Warren.

The physician was home and directed that Anson be brought into his examination room.

"Too bad," murmured the physician. "Intoxicated, eh?"

"No, sir," responded Philip quietly, "and that's one of the things I wish you to note positively, so that you can be prepared to certify if necessary. This is the stuff, I believe, with which my friend was drugged."

Philip passed over the vial Topa had handed him. Dr. Vogan smelled the contents, then touched the bottle lightly to his tongue. Giving some thought he stepped over to a cabinet, poured a small quantity of the liquid into a test tube. He conducted some experiments with the liquid before coming to a conclusion.

"Chloral hydrate," he smiled grimly.

"What's that?" questioned Philip.

"You probably know it as knockout drops," replied the doctor, "Now, help me to take off your friend's overcoat. Whew! He's drenched in alcohol."

"Only on the overcoat, doctor," suggested Philip. "You don't notice any on his breath, do you?"

The doctor placed his thumb on Anson's chin and pulled his mouth open. He then got his nose as close to the open mouth as he dared and took in a deep breath.

"No," Doctor Vogan.

"There has been a plot to make it appear that he had been indulging. I hope you can prove positively that such was not the case."

"The first step in getting him back to consciousness is to pump his stomach out. That will also show convincingly whether he has been using alcoholic drinks."

Within three minutes, Dr. Vogan was positive that Anson had not been using any sort of alcoholic beverages.

Not long after the doctor pumped his stomach Anson started to regain consciousness. Dr. Vogan gave him a dose of Pabst Tonic to help restore his faculties.

Catching sight of the office clock Philip broke in:

"Doctor, if it is possible, we must be back for supper formation. Can you fix it?"

"I think so," nodded the physician. "You can help. Turn on the fan, the electric switch is next to it. Then place your friend's overcoat where the fan will play upon it to drive away most of the smell of alcohol."

"Alcohol?" mumbled Anson wonderingly.

"Don't try to think, now, Mister Bigelow," ordered the physician. "Mister Warren will explain to you later."

Anson lay on the lounge, the physician keeping a finger on his pulse. After a minute, the doctor prescribed another dose of the hop and barley Pabst Tonic. "Now, get up, and walk with me," commanded the physician. Once Anson had made it to the other side of room, the doctor opened a window. "Here, now, take in as many deep breaths as you can."

Philip, meanwhile, was standing near fan attending to driving the fumes from his friend's coat.

A few minutes later Dr. Vogan gave Bigelow a third draught of the tonic.

Five minutes passed before the doctor was satisfied with Anson's recovery process.

"You can take your friend away safely, now," declared Dr. Vogan, at last. "He can thank a strong constitution for recovering so quickly under treatment."

"Shall I take him near the gate in a cab, or walk him there?" asked Warren.

"It will bring about his recovery more completely if he walks."

"Doctor, if you'll hand me your bill, Mister Bigelow here will see that his father remits to you."

Dr. Vogan nodded, wrote the bill, and passed it over.

"A fairly brisk walk, gentlemen, will be best," said the doctor, as he walked the two to the door. "Good evening, and good luck."

"Another Naval mystery, I suppose," smiled Doctor Vogan, as he turned back to his office. "As always, I shall never hear how this one turns out."

Arriving at the Maryland Avenue gate of the Academy grounds Philip turned in report for both of them. Then, the friends continued across to Bancroft Hall.

Midshipman Brimmer was reported absent, but accounted for, at that supper formation. At that moment Brimmer was undergoing a Naval surgeon's treatment for his eye. Brimmer's brief explanation to the surgeon was that he had run his face against something hard in a dark alleyway while in town. The surgeon noted down the explanation, with a knowing smile.

That evening and being released from studies, Philip slipped down to the door of Luth and Flagg, and invited them to his quarters to meet with him and Anson.

Both Luth and Flagg listened almost in bewilderment. They had always rather liked Brimmer. Yet, they were convinced that Warren spoke the truth.

"Now, help me with your advice," begged Philip. "Should I make an official report of this whole matter?"

"Not until you have stronger evidence against Brimmer," suggested Luth.

"Would it do any good to ask for a class committee, and to bring Brimmer before it?"

"You will need a better case to offer," replied Flagg.

"Then what should I do?"

"Cut Brimmer, of course," said Luth thoughtfully. "And don't let him guess that you're going to let up at any point of the matter."

"We won't let up," blazed Philip, "if we can think of anyway to probe the facts."

"I don't believe it will do much good to fool with Topa," suggested Midshipman Flagg. "Brimmer has more money than any of us, and he'll pay to keep Topa's tongue quiet."

Midshipman Brimmer returned to formations the following Tuesday. Immediately, following breakfast Philip Warren went to Brimmer.

"Mister Brimmer, a word with you."

"I don't want any words with you, at any time, Warren," Brimmer retorted bitterly. Philip did not let the fact that Brimmer left off the customary 'Mister.'

"You won't have any that are not necessary," retorted Philip. "Yet I think it will be to your advantage to step aside and hear what I have to say now."

"Make it very short, then."

The two walked to a nearby alcove away from the bustling midshipmen.

"Mister Brimmer," continued Warren, "all I have to say is to confirm the language that I used to you the other evening. Further, I will say that you are quite at liberty to report me for having assaulted you. Or, you may ask for a class committee to investigate this affair between us. The last that I have to say is that I have the vial of knockout drops that you gave Topa to serve Bigelow and myself, and I have also expert testimony as to the nature of the contents within the vial. Nor do I mind admitting to you that Bigelow and I are going to go as far as we can in getting the evidence that; will warrant our making an official report your conduct. If possible we shall do all we can to bring about your dismissal from the Academy."

Brimmer's eyes flashed. The next minute his lower lip started to quiver.

"Warren, show a little mercy," begged Brimmer, "if you came at me like this you could be dismissed as well as Bigelow. You don't want to be dismissed do you?"

"Not any more than Bigelow would like it," replied Philip dryly.

"Then, you must realize that it would spoil my life, too."

"Mister Brimmer," retorted Warren sternly, "it is no longer a question of what your feelings in the matter may be. The plain fact is that you are not a gentleman and not honorable. You are not fit to be in the corps of gentlemen. You are a desecration of the uniform of the United States. It is for the good of the service, that several of us have resolved to keep on the hunt for evidence until we get enough to drive you out of these hallowed halls."

Having said all that needed to be said Warren turned and walked away.

Seeing his coaxing would not work, Brimmer became infuriated.

At the first opportunity for liberty to go into town Philip, Anson, and Luth went to Topa. Their questions were pressing and demanding of answers. Topa; however, would decisively not say a word beyond denying that he had any part in the prank, and that he had ever said he did.

Topa had about two-hundred reasons for his silence in his pocket that he received from Brimmer.

Philip, Anson, Luth and Flagg tried hard in other directions to secure the needed evidence. The vial did not have a druggist label on it, so the four midshipmen visited all the druggists in Annapolis. The druggists, however, had no knowledge of the vial or of its contents.

The friends appeared to be at a dead end. However, they were not deterred in their efforts for seeking clues to the evidence they needed.

Brimmer did all he could in keeping track of the four midshipmen. Because of his efforts he became moody, and neglected his studies.

Even with the group keeping up in their investigations the academy became a haven of activity with the semiannual exams. Philip passed better than he had hoped, making two-nine as his standing.

Bigelow was forced to be content with two-seven, but as two-five was minimum mark for passing Anson was delighted. Luth and Flagg made it through their examinations unscathed as well.

Fifty-nine of the men of the fourth class were dropped for failing to keep the two-five standard.

Midshipman Brimmer was one of the few who failed in his exams. As soon as the results had been announced, he and the others left the academy for home. Brimmer in all probability would have passed, had he not been so worried that four of his comrades were working to secure the evidence which could have warranted his expulsion. So Brimmer left as Hoeffel had done. The only difference was that Brimmer did not have to endure the rogue's march.

Warren worked his way past other midshipmen on his way to his quarters when he was spotted by third class man Berkey.

"You're past the worst of it, now, mister," murmured Youngster Berkey, "you'll do well after this."

But, Philip Warren could hardly help feeling that he was most thankful that the poisonous pair, Hoeffel and Brimmer, were both out of the Navy for good.

# Chapter 19

With the holidays and semi-annuals over the weeks slipped by quickly for the young academy men.

The try outs for some athletic teams had started and both Philip and Anson were asked to go out for the baseball team. Both asked to be excused as unlike other universities and colleges athletics cannot occupy as prominent a place with Midshipmen if they will stand high enough in their academic work.

Anson would have enjoyed being part of the Navy nine. There is little doubt he would have made the team if he had gone for it. But, it was Warren who was being cautious who dissuaded Bigelow from trying.

"Better shy away from athletics until you've made your academic footing secure," was Philip's advice.

"You didn't talk that way back at home," argued Anson.

"No; there the athletics were more necessary, if we were to keep in condition. Here, athletics are regarded as the luxury, which we are not yet entitled. With all the gym work, the fencing, the drills under arms and the boat drills, we're kept in physical condition without need for special training. Next year, when we feel absolutely solid in our marks, we can go in for athletics, if we wish," explained Philip.

Bigelow could not argue against the logic Philip had devised. He was beginning to realize that his friend had a knack for seeing trouble if the wrong choice is made, and that his advice was always good.

Boat drills had resumed with the coming of spring weather.

Philip, standing well in grease, became a captain of one of the boat crews, for he had developed unusual skill in boat handling.

On a late April, bright afternoon the brigade marched to the shore line. Half the brigade continued to the docks while the other stayed at the seamanship building for instruction.

Today, the members of the third class were to embark on a fleet drill practicing steam launches. Each manned craft was to represent a war vessel. The fourth class men embarked in the sailboats.

As each captain gave the order to shove clear of the dock the mainsail was hoisted. Then, each crew captain kept one eye on the watch for the signals of the instructor who was aboard a boat designated as the flagship.

The boats began their sail downstream. Just beyond Annapolis the boat crews had to begin put some of their advanced maneuvering skills to work. The drill proceeded without much fanfare when the wind began to die out considerably giving the crews another challenge. Then, as if nature were playing a trick, the wind changed direction forcing the young captains to beat back against a near head wind.

Being late April the crew captains took note of the weather and saw no signals of squalls or gusts so there was no need to exercise additional caution. The members of the crews however did not have much work because of the head winds and stood rather inactive at their stations.

However, Philip took his duties as boat captain seriously and was as alert as ever. He stood close to the tillerman so he could give commands to steer the boat the instant he got a from the flagship, or any saw any signs of wind.

The crews had endured more than an hour of little to no activity. Some of Philip's boat crew was becoming restless. Many were starting to complain at the prospect of getting back late for supper.

"The steam-launch fleet might show up and give us a tow," grumbled Luth.

Philip smiled at the comment but said nothing. He was just as eager as any man in the boat to have his supper on time, but he felt that the crew captain must appear above any sign of complaint.

Warren went back to his duties of searching the weather in hopes of finding the hidden wind.

"Motor boat 'George Duncan' on the port bow, two points off and bearing this way, sir," reported the bow watch.

Warren turned but the mainsail was blocking his view, and he could not see the approaching boat. He bent down to catch a quick glance under the boom, and his eyes widened. He darted quickly forward, to take up his stand by the mast.

"Pass me the megaphone, Mister Bigelow," he requested.

With this mouthpiece in hand, Philip watched the nearing craft.

The 'Duncan' was a Fay and Bowen semi-speed boat, some twenty-six feet over all. The passenger cover was up protecting the engine from water spray.

Mister Duncan appeared in the forward section. His engineer was mid-deck and steering the craft. The boats engine making a loud clamor as it bilged smoke, and picked up speed.

Philip waited, well knowing that his hail could not carry to either engineer or owner over the noise.

Luth took up position next to Philip as he kept a careful eye on the approaching craft. The tillerman kept his eyes moving from the approaching boat to Philip ready to carry out any order given. The remainder of the crew saw no danger as George Duncan and his boat were well known on these waters. He was known as a capable boat handler and man of judgement. Even Warren did not believe that there was any real danger from the 'Duncan.'

"Throw her head a point and a half off to the starboard," called Philip Warren evenly.

"Aye, aye, sir," responded the tillerman, making the correction.

The sailboat was slow in turning because of the headwind. Warren kept his eye on the power boat and saw it did not correct its course in the slightest.

"Great Scott, don't those fellows know that a sailboat has the right of way over a power craft?" demanded Warren suddenly.

"Perhaps they're going to see how close they can come to us without hitting us," remarked Luth.

Philip raised the megaphone to his lips, waiting until he judged that there was a chance of his hail being heard.

"Duncan, 'ahoy!" bellowed Warren. "Go to port of us!"

Still the motor boat kept coming at a speed Warren judged greater than fourteen miles per hour.

"Hard-a-starboard!" Warren roared back to his own tillerman.

He repeated his hail in a near frenzied state as the motor boat kept on its original course without correction.

The two crafts were at near collision when the Duncan engineer suddenly threw over his wheel and held up one hand indicating his mistake.

Before Philip could guess what the gesture meant, the Duncan emerged at speed over the sail-boat's port bow.

The crew of Midshipmen dove for safety as the motor boat's bow cut a deep gap in the sailboat.

The force of the impact threw most of men into the water. Spars crashed, rigging snapped, and the mast gave way to the sudden shock and came down forcing the remaining crew to jump overboard. The academy vessel was taking on water so quickly that the men did not have a chance to don their life preservers.

The Duncan engineer responded quickly and backed off on the engine setting the craft in reverse. As they backed away from the wounded sailboat, it could be seen that the Duncan had taken a death blow. George Duncan and his engineer had just enough time to adjust their live preservers before the Duncan slipped beneath the waters surface.

Philip pitched overboard and immediately sank below the surface. As he felt, the water close over him he felt a terror within himself. The terror was not for himself, but for the crew of his boat. Being the captain he knew that most of his crew were not great swimmers.

# Chapter 20

Philip shot above the water and barely paused to expel the water from his mouth.

"Boat's crew close together, to stand by the poor swimmers!" he yelled hoarsely.

Being a windless day the water was calm. Warren could count eight men. Warren had five men still down.

Just then Midshipman Driscoll broke the surface beside Philip.

"Help!" sputtered Driscoll.

Swimming with powerful strokes Philip thrusts his left arm under Driscoll's chest.

"Float on my arm, sir," ordered Philip.

Knowing there was still men unaccounted for Warren swam Driscoll over to a small group of his crew "Who here can support Mister Driscoll."

"Here!" called another midshipman.

"Keep Mister Driscoll up," called Philip, as he swam away. "I've got to count heads fast."

Anson and Luth trailed after Philip until another midshipman came above water. Anson Bigelow was at him before the new arrival could go under again.

Three men to be accounted for.

Another head appeared just down stream for only a moment before disappearing again below the surface.

"I'll get that man," cried Luth, as he started with powerful strokes after the man who appeared once more and was going down for a third time.

"There's a seat floating!" shouted Bigelow.

Warren plunged forward for it, until he saw one of his crew nearing it ahead of him.

"Hold that as a life-buoy!" called Philip.

He had hardly given the order when another midshipman who was treading water made himself heard. The board was pushed toward him, while Philip made a rapid count.

"All up but Mister Flagg," muttered Philip, but even one man missing made him feel sick.

The minutes passed, and any man down should have returned to the surface to let their presence be known by now.

Warren saw Mister Duncan and his engineer but paid no heed to either as he saw them with their life preservers.

The other boats in the sailing fleet were making their way to the disaster scene. It would not be an easy task with the light breeze and would take time for even the nearest vessel.

Signals had been sent for the steam-launch fleet, but the launches were far down the bay. The sailing fleet would be on hand before the first of the steam fleet would arrive.

Warren assigned his strongest swimmers to remain with the crews weakest. He kept himself free so that he may go to Flagg's assistance should he ever show himself.

"Every man keep his eyes peeled for Mister Flagg!" shouted Philip. "We cannot stand the loss of any member of the crew!"

"There's a hat!" shouted Anson, pointing further down the bay. "Can you make it out, sir."

"I have it," called Philip, potently swimming for the spot. "But I don't see a head there. Watch, all of you, and give me a hail if you see Mister Flagg's show up anywhere."

Midshipman Luth was committed to a less skilled swimmer. Tormented over the possible loss of his roommate he wanted to assist. But, his duty was with the man he could save.

"Fifteen yards west of the cap, there's a face!" shouted one of the crew.

To get a better view Philip Warren did; the best he could to spring above the water surface.

"I see him!" he roared back. "It's Flagg."

Philip put all his strength into each stroke. He came within yards of the spot only to see Flagg sinking out of view.

He noted the point he last saw Midshipman Flagg and surged forward. Philip arrived at the spot he noted and taking a deep breath he dove. The silt stinging his open eyes and fighting the upper current Philip searched for the lifeless figure.

His lungs burning he kept his downward dive to a depth where the light of day began to fade. He then caught sight of something slipping slowly past him. With an inward prayer, the young crew captain surged downward and forward. He latched onto the figure and fought his way to the surface.

Philip shot above the water and pulled in much needed air into his aching chest. His next moment he looked to see what he had brought to the surface.

It was indeed Midshipman Flagg.

"Got him safe?" bellowed Luth, over the water.

Philip thrust a hand up in acknowledgement as he was still too winded to answer. He then attend to his work of reviving Flagg.

Philip spent a few moments assessing his situation when he noticed the first of the sailing cutters closing in on his wrecked crew. He realized he would be the last to be rescued.

The young crew captain watched as his crew climbed aboard the rescue boat as he treaded water and did his best to bring Midshipman Flagg back to life.

Flagg then slowly opened his eyes.

"Welcome back Mister Flagg," remarked a relieved Philip.

Warren was fully grateful that he had not lost a single man of his crew. He now just needed to tread water long enough to be rescued by the remainder of his class.

He could see Mister Duncan and his engineer further up stream still in the water. Philip didn't pay them much mind as he knew they would be picked up, eventually. It would not be any time soon as they had the privilege of wearing their life preservers.

The wrecked midshipmen however were not so safe. Every able bodied man who could keep himself afloat was engaged in helping another who could not.

As the long minutes passed Philip was finding his strength becoming weaker. He had exerted himself so much that he was using his energy reserves to keep him and his crewman above the water surface.

"Can't you help yourself a little more, Mister Flagg?" he asked.

Warren had not noticed that Midshipman Flagg had been slipping in and out of consciousness, or the small cut on his head. In the collision Flagg had been hit by the traveller block. In a clouded mind Flagg heard Philip say he could not keep both of them afloat. Midshipman Flagg then swiftly wound both arms around Warren.

"Here!" commanded the young captain the crew, "What are you doing?"

In his clouded state Flagg did not hear Philip's cries. In his obscure state Flagg held onto Philip in desperation binding Philip's arms to his sides.

Philip struggled to break free from Flagg's tight grip, fighting with what energy he had left to remain above the waters surface. Then, Warren felt the waters close over him. Both midshipmen were going down.

Warren was fully aware of the situation as he fought to break free. Flagg with his hazy mind was unwittingly dragging his friend to his death.

The other midshipmen were focused on the continued rescue of the wrecked crew and did not see the Warren and Flagg go under. That is, until, Anson Bigelow took notice.

"Where's Warren?" cried out Anson.

Anson felt helpless as his instinct was to help his lifelong friend, but he could not leave a shipmate who could not fend for himself. To do so would be to abandon him to certain death. To not help Philip would be to resign his friend to death.

# Chapter 21

Seconds counted as hours as the two men continued to sink.

Flagg would be spared of the revulsion of drowning as he passed into unconsciousness once again. He retained only consciousness enough to fight like a wild beast.

Warren was able to wrestle one arm free from Flagg's grip, but Flagg seemed determined to pin that arm again.

Philip fought to free his other arm. He didn't fight too hard as he was worried he would lose Flagg to the currents if he did. Warren was adamant that he not going to the surface alone. He was going to get his comrade to the surface or go to the deep with him.

There was enough light that Warren could only make out shapes. Though the shapes were blurred and indistinct. He cautiously struggled to make his mind work fast.

He thought of a plan to choke Flagg until he blacked out. He decided against this as it would cause Flagg to open his mouth and insure his drowning.

Philip then saw an obvious course of action and took it.

Clenching his fist he swiftly moved his free hand back and struck Flagg on the forehead with all his might.

The effect brought Flagg back into semiconsciousness, and he began to fight harder than before. The ensuing struggle causing them to sink deeper into the murky water.

Warren delivered another blow to the fighting midshipman. Then another, and another.

Finally, the midshipman halted his fighting.

Philip cautiously freed himself and with his left hand griped the collar of Flagg's blouse, and with his right hand struck out for the surface.

Philip powered to the surface and life giving air. As he approached he could see the water growing lighter as the suns rays pierced through. Then, he broke through, and took a great gulp of the heavens. He then turned to ensure that Flagg was above water and able to breathe.

One of the sailboats of the fleet was close and bearing down on them.

"There they are!" shouted a voice.

No sooner was the statement made than two classmates leapt in the water, swimming superbly toward the exhausted Philip.

"Keep up a moment or two longer, Mister Warren!" hailed the voice of Midshipman Hanafee.

"Won't I keep up, though!" chimed Philip, as he heard the hail.

As he awaited the rescuer's Philip made sure that Flagg remained above water.

"I have Mister Flagg!" called out Midshipman Bontz, coming up alongside and taking Warren's burden.

"How are you, Mister Warren? Enjoy a little help?" queried Midshipman Hanafee, throwing out a supporting arm to his classmate.

"I'm nearly all in," confessed Philip, with an anemic smile.

"But not all in? Good enough! Get hold of my arm, and just float."

Two sailboats were now fully engaged in rescuing the wrecked crew. A third was on its way to pick up Mister Duncan and his engineer.

Philip and Flagg were laid in the boat and being tended to by several midshipmen.

"Tend to Mister Flagg first, he's injured!" urged Philip, almost in a whisper. "He has gone close to being drowned."

His energy wavering Philip was just able to get the words out before his eyes closed.

The steam launches arrived, and Philip and Flagg were transferred along with the two drenched fourth class men. Then, the steam launches made for the docks as fast as they could cut the water.

Mister Duncan and his engineer were also taken to the docks by steam power. Mister Duncan offered his explanation of the mishap to the boat captain.

He and his engineer had both believed that they had enough room to clear the sailboat. When they realized that they would not have the clearance they tried their helm and found the gear was broken. There was no way in which to change the course of the motor boat in time. They then went forward to engage the reversing gear, but it was impossible to engage full reverse and stop before the collision.

It was an accident, and that was all there was to it. Had it not been for Warren's quick judgment, and the cool conduct of some of the members of his crew, there could have been some fatalities among the midshipmen.

Nothing but Warren's distinguished conduct saved Midshipman Flagg from certain death.

On the way, back to Annapolis Philip opened his eyes but still felt drained of any energy to do anything more. Flagg remained unconscious the entire voyage.

When the emergency signal was sent for the steam launches word was sent to have an ambulance waiting at the dock to take casualties.

"I don't want to go to the hospital, sir," Philip objected weakly.

"You'll come with me, Mister Warren," responded the Naval surgeon, "and we will discharge you at any time we find you strong enough for duty."

Philip was taken without further argument. He was stripped of his wet clothes, rubbed down, put in bed and given a regimen of hot liquids.

Midshipman Flagg was put on the cot next to Philip's. His treatment was much the same except for the hot liquids as he was still unconscious and had a bandage around his head.

Some four hours later Captain Logan, Commandant of Midshipmen, came through the hospital, accompanied by Lieutenant Cabanisse who had been the sailing instructor of the afternoon.

"Good evening, Mister Warren," was the Commandant's very cordial greeting.

"Good evening, sir."

"The surgeon says, Mister Warren that you a fit to do some talking," continued the Commandant.

"I am certain of that, sir," smiled Warren. "In fact, my only trouble is that the surgeon insists on my staying here tonight."

"Then, it is an official order, and can't be dodged," laughed the Commandant pleasantly. "But, Mister Warren, you were crew captain this afternoon. Lieutenant Cabanisse wishes to secure your official report of the accident."

"Very good, sir," responded Philip briefly.

"The Lieutenant will scribe every word, read it to you, and if you agree with the written account you will then sign it," concluded Commandant Logan.

"I understand, sir," acknowledged Warren.

Warren gave only the simplest answers to the Lieutenant's questions. The Lieutenant had only the barest sketch of everything that Warren did for the safety of his crew after the foundering of his craft.

The Commandant sat quiet listening to every word Warren spoke.

Once Lieutenant Cabanisse was finished writing the brief, dry recital of fact, he read it over, and Warren signed it.

"Mister Warren," said Captain Logan, at last, "I am obliged to say that, in some respects, your report does not agree with that of members of your crew."

"I have made a truthful statement, sir, just as I recall the incidents of the affair," replied Philip, his face flushing.

"Don't jump too speedily at false conclusions, Mister Warren," cautioned the Commandant. "My remark is founded on the statement, made by other midshipmen of your crew, that you displayed the utmost judgment and coolness, with great bravery added. That you clung to Mister Flagg to the last, and even went below with him at the almost certain risk of being drowned yourself."

"You didn't expect me, sir, to include any praise of myself, in my official report?" questioned Warren.

"You have me there, Mister Warren," laughed the Commandant, while the Lieutenant turned to hide a smile. "I am quite satisfied with your official report, but I wish to ask you some questions, on my own account, about your own experience in rescuing Mister Flagg."

It took a long time for Commandant Logan to pull the information he wanted from Warren. Warren did not try to conceal information or hesitate in his answers. Philip had a natural aversion to singing his own praises. At first, he answered the commandant's questions directly and sparingly. Yet, Captain Logan eventually succeeded in drawing out the story and the entire matter made the old seadog's eyes glisten with pride.

"Mister Warren," announced the Commandant," I have had a rather long life in the Navy. From experience and observation I am able to state that the kind of courage that enables a man go down in drowning with a comrade, sooner than leave the comrade to his fate, is the highest type of courage known among brave men!"

"You must have been aware, Mister Warren," added Lieutenant Cabanisse, "that you were taking a chance of offering up your life."

"Gentlemen," replied Philip, becoming rather restless, "I have signed under the Flag, to give my life up for it at any time in the line of duty. Does it make very much difference in which year I turn that life over to the Flag?"

The two officers stood for a second in thought with the unexpected statement. Then they each shook Mister Warren's hand with a smile and turned to leave.

"Cabanisse," said the Commandant, rather huskily, "I am mighty glad that we didn't lose Warren today. We are going to need men like him in tomorrows Navy."

# Chapter 22

The next day as the midshipmen stood in ranks ready to march to the mess hall the brigade adjutant marched to the cadet commander and stopped directly in front of him.

"Sir, the brigade is formed," reported the brigade adjutant, as he snapped a salute.

"Publish the orders," directed the cadet commander.

The brigade adjutant rattled off the orders, reading them in his usual quick monotonous voice.

"For coolness, judgment and remarkable bravery displayed in an accident encounter in the sinking and foundering of a sailboat under his command, which accident was not any way due to his own negligence or incapacity..."

Philip stirred and became red faced when he realized what was being said. He listened as the brigade adjutant continued reading:

"Midshipman Philip Warren, fourth class, is hereby specially commended, and his conduct is offered as an example to all his comrades in the brigade of midshipmen."

Once the orders were complete the crisp marching orders rang out, and the brigade was marching into the mess by classes. Philip was still flushed and he found it pleasing to be reviewed in orders, but Philip was not going to let himself be over excited.

It was to Philip's understanding that courage may sometimes be mentioned in orders, but the Navy did not make a fuss over it. As a matter of course and training all officers and men in the Navy are expected to be brave.

As it turned out, it was Anson who was more pleased over that one paragraph in orders than was his friend.

A copy of the order giving Warren special commendation was mailed to his father in accordance with custom. Philip's father after all had a right to know of his son's record at the Naval Academy.

The senior Warren was indeed proud of his son. Many of his friends were treated to a glimpse of the official communication from Annapolis when the editor of the Rockford Morning Star heard of it. Mister Lundquist asked for the privilege of making a copy of the official communication, which contained a copy of the paragraph in orders.

Mister Lundquist, however, could not be content with just publishing just a simple copy of a single paragraph provided by the Naval Academy authorities. The editor continued with printing a column and a half to remind all his readers that Midshipman Warren was one of a recently famous foursome in Saint Thomas High School athletics. Not only did Philip receive an abundant amount of flattering praise in print. Anson also received a fair amount of notice as well.

Philip's father was so happy of his boy that he sent a marked copy of that issue of the 'Star' to Philip. Philip had nervous chills coursing through him as through the column and a half.

"Anson my boy," shuddered Warren, passing the 'Star' over to his roommate, "read this awful stuff. Then help me to destroy this paper!"

As Anson Bigelow read he got a nervous look on his face.

"Just awful, isn't it?" demanded Midshipman Bigelow.

"Awful?" muttered Warren uneasily. "Why that doesn't begin to describe it. If any upper class man should see that paper..."

"He won't see this copy," proclaimed Anson, beginning to shred the paper.

To the midshipmen of Annapolis, any newspaper from a midshipman's home town is also known as the 'bazoo.' It is known that the hometown bazoo has an inclination to print rather delightful remarks about their local representative at Annapolis. While the home editor always means this as pleasant service, the detection of such articles by any upper class man always means unpleasant time for the poor plebe who has thus been honored in the said columns of the bazoo.

Although the Rockford Morning Star was torn to the smallest possible pieces and carefully disposed of Philip still shivered. He and Anson both knew that upper class men always got a hold of the bazoo through a clipping agency, or by some other mysterious means.

Four days passed, and there was no mention of the column from Philip or Anson's home town.

Just after the release bell rang on the fifth day there was brief knock on the door. That barrier then flew open and both Philip and Anson quickly stood at attention.

Midshipman Wedderburn, Richards, and Morgan of the second class filed intensely into the room, followed by Midshipman Swink, Wynkoop, Massman, Berkey and Ginder of the third class.

Youngster Ginder stared at the two plebes with a grim a look. As if he were an executioner, he carefully presented a newspaper.

"Mister," he ordered Warren, "receive this foul sheet. Unfold it, mister. Now, mister, what depraved sheet do you hold in your hands?"

"The Rockford Morning Star, sir," replied Warren, his face reddening.

"The— _what_ , mister?"

"Pardon me, sir—the Rockford bazoo, sir."

"Have you seen another copy of the bazoo lately, mister?"

"Yes, sir," admitted Philip, his face growing still redder.

"Ah! He saw it, and still he did not die of shame!" murmured Second Class Man Wedderburn.

"Shocking depravity," groaned Midshipman Hurlburt.

"Since you have already scanned the bazoo," resumed Midshipman Ginder, "you will have no difficulty in finding the flag, mister, on which the editor of the bazoo sings his tribute of you. Turn to that flag, mister."

Philip unfolded the paper until he came to the article in question. To his horror, he saw that each paragraph had been marked and numbered in blue pencil.

"Since you admit having read the bazoo's infamous article, mister," continued Midshipman Ginder, "tell us whether any of those lewd charges therein are true?"

"The quotation from the official report, sir, is bound to be true—"

"Official reports at the Naval Academy are always true," retorted Ginder severely. "Proceed, sir, to the comments which the ink-slinger of the bazoo has made concerning you. Mister, read the paragraph numbered 'one.'"

In a slightly quivering voice Philip read:

_" Philip Warren is, beyond any question or censure, one of the brightest, smartest, bravest, and most popular boys who ever went forth into the world as a true son of Saint Thomas High."_

"Mister," declared Ginder, "you may gloss over some of the slander in those words by singing them to the tune of 'Yankee Doodle.'"

Philip flushed slightly, and there was a momentary flash in his eyes. Anson was briefly certain that Warren was going to fight.

A moment later Philip's mouth softened to a grin.

"Wipe off that ha-ha look, mister!" warned Youngster Ginder.

"I'll sing, gentlemen, if you think you can stand it," Philip promised.

"You'll sing, mister, because you've been ordered to do so," reported Ginder. "Now, then, let us have that paragraph to the air of 'Yankee Doodle.'"

Philip obeyed the order. He sang the absolute best he knew how, but that did not say much for the quality of his tune. Philip's voice could lead men, but would clear an opera house. He got through the ordeal, but it was not pretty.

"Now, cast your eye on the paragraph marked as number two," directed Mister Ginder. "Mister, with the bazoo in your left hand. Thrust your right hand in under the front of your blouse and strike the posture popularly accredited to Anson Bigelow. No comedy, either, mister; give us a serious impersonation, sir!"

Philip was not amused at this in the least but he gave his best pose.

"Effective!" murmured Midshipman Wedderburn.

"Superb indeed!" voiced Mister Hurlburt.

"Now, for the diatribe, mister, of paragraph number two," commanded Youngster Ginder.

In a deep voice, and with a ring that was meant to be convincing, Philip read the paragraph:

_" Since a school consists of pupils as well as instructors, the brightest student minds may be said to make the life and history of a famous school. It has been so with our justly famous Saint Thomas High School. Formerly, Mister Philip Warren has aided in establishing many of the traditions of the famous school that claims him as her own son. The young man's heroism at Annapolis, under the most exacting conditions, will surprise no one who knows either Mister Warren or the splendid traditions that he helped establish among the youth of his home town. In the years, to come we may look confidently forward to hearing the name of Warren as one of the most famous among the newer generation of the United States Navy. Philip Warren will always be a hero—because he cannot help it."_

Philip's face flushed hotter than ever as he read through these lines. He that the upper class men were giving him a comical gaze as he continued. At times, he was interrupted and had to stop because of the ridiculous mock admiration bestowed upon him.

"I feel," announced Mister Hurlburt, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, "that I am indeed honored in being one of the menial few at this great school on which our beloved comrade has shed the majesty of his presence."

"It seems almost profane to look at such a young man," protested Midshipman Morgan.

"What's your name, mister?" demanded Midshipman Swink.

"Warren, sir," Philip answered, with the becoming of a fourth class man.

"Any relative of the Warren mentioned in the requiem you have just been reading?"

"I hope not, sir," replied Philip, fighting to stifle a grin.

"Mister," stormed Midshipman Denton, "you are attempting to deceive us!"

Philip's eyes widened as he gazed blankly at the last speaker.

"You are trying to evade the fact that you are the real Warren, the identical hero whom the bazoo so lovingly, so reverently describes. Deceit fills your system, mister! You will stand on your headlong enough to let it run out of you."

Though Midshipman Ginder was a hardened runner of fourth class men he knew the dangers of overstaying the visit, and kept his eye on the time.

Warren's face became redder than ever while standing on his head as the blood ran downward. He remained in his position long enough that he became unsteady, and twice his feet slipped along the wall, and he had to return to his attitude of standing on his head.

"Better let up on the beast, Ginder," murmured Midshipman Swink.

"Yes," agreed Ginder. "The warning bell will go any minute. Mister, on your feet!"

A relieved Philip promptly returned to his feet, standing respectfully at attention.

"Mister," continued Ginder, "you will be allowed to retain this marked copy of the bazoo. You are warned to keep it out of sight of the discipline officers. But, you will continue to refer to it several times daily, until you are sure that you have committed all of the marked paragraphs to heart, so that you can reel them off in song or in declamation. And you will be prepared, at all times, to favor any of the upper class men with these selections, whenever called for. Good night, mister!"

"Good night, sir."

As the visitors left Philip graciously returned the salutations of the upper class men. The warning bell before taps sounded as Midshipmen Swink passed through the door.

Warren closed the door and stood staring at it for a moment. Then with a grimaced face he stamped his feet and shook his fist at the door while uttering undecipherable words. When the moment passed collected himself and straighten his clothes.

"Why didn't you have your little outburst while they were in the room?" asked Bigelow bluntly.

"The least consequence to be received would have been a fight," replied Philip, more soberly.

"A fight?" chuckled Anson. "Philip, I don't know what has come over you lately. There was a time when you didn't mind fights."

"I have fought three times since coming here," Warren replied soberly.

"And I have fought seven times, so what of it?" retorted Anson.

"Here's a puzzle, guess which one of us was found the fresher," laughed Warren.

"I never thought you would stand for anything such as you've endured here at Annapolis, without pounding your way through the ranks of such runners," mused Bigelow aloud. "Philip, I can't fathom your timidness."

"Perhaps it isn't about being timid or meek," returned Warren, turning to look at his friend.

"If it isn't meekness, then what is it? I remember the Philip of old. And you used to be the hothead, the living firebrand Saint Thomas that is mentioned in that bazoo of setting so many traditions! Traditions, my boy that were set to make sure our actions were never repeated."

Philip took a long deep breath and looked out the window over the grounds of the academy.

"Anson my boy, if hazing has lived nearly seventy years at Annapolis, then it's because there is something within it that is a good for the seedling Naval officer. I believe in the running of the new man. Now I, along with the Navy, do not wish a man to be injured. But, I believe in being forced to respect and obey my elders. I believe in a fellow having every grain of conceit driven out of him by heroic measures. And if that is the definition of hazing, then long may the practice live and flourish!"

"Why? What good is all of this doing you?" insisted Bigelow.

Philip turned from the window and seated himself at the study table. He then looked seriously at Anson.

"It's teaching me how to submit and to obey. How to forget my own vanity, before I am put in command of other men later on. Anson, do you suppose it has cost me no effort to keep my hands at my the seams of my trousers when I wanted to throw my fists out? Do you imagine I have just tamely submitted to the abuse because my spirit was broken? I'm trying to train my spirit, Anson, instead of letting it boss me! Many a time, when the youngsters unmercifully have started in on me I ached to jump and thrash all of them. But, instead, I've tried to conquer myself!"

"I reckon you're the same old Philip. You're just an improved one," murmured Midshipman Bigelow.

The two friends shook hands as the last note of taps played, and the lights of the Naval Academy went out.

# Chapter 23

"On your head, mister. Now, let us have paragraph number four, with tragic, blank-verse effect," Barked out Midshipman Wynkoop.

Swink manifested a fondness for paragraph number one, to the air of "Yankee Doodle."

After the evening 9:30 release others dropped in on Philip and called for other paragraphs rendered in various ways. There was the occasional outdoor overhauling during the recreation period following dinner. During this time Philip was made to perform various stunts while reciting the unfortunate paragraphs from the bazoo.

By the time, the first week of this was over Philip Warren wished most heartily that Mister Lundquist had never founded the Rockford Morning Star.

The second class and first-class leave the running of plebes to the third class in the Naval Academy. It is a rare thing for second class men to take part in any of it. It is nearly unheard-of for a first-class man to take any active part in the running of a plebe.

Ever an exception to the rule was Midshipman Nash of the first-class. Midshipman Nash met Warren once per day regularly and ordered him to sing paragraph number one to the tune of "Let Me Call You Sweetheart."

If ever there was a time of day that Philip resented any part of the torment it came at Nash's unusual conduct.

However, the needs of the Navy brought about a strange sort of revenge.

Reports from commanders of warships had reached the Navy Department that many of the graduates of the Naval Academy serving with the fleets did not possess sufficient knowledge of the commanding of boat crews.

First-class men were to have thoroughly mastered the section earlier in the course of instruction, so they were not bothered with rowing drills. The superintendent of the Naval Academy immediately acting on the word ordered the first-class men out for rowing drills. Those who demonstrated sufficient skill were released from the drills. The others were sent to drill with the fourth class men.

It was announced that Philip's boat crew would have four of his men transferred to other crews and be replaced by first-class men who were sadly deficient in rowing drill. Philip thought for sure he would lose command of his boat. Then, he decided to ask whether this would be true.

"Will one of the first-class men serve as crew captain, sir?" asked Warren.

"Certainly not," replied Lieutenant Cabanisse. "You will keep the command of your crew, Mister Warren. And you will be expected to see that the men of your crew are thoroughly grounded in boat drill. Do not, and I say again, do not spare any of them in the least because they are upper class men."

"Very good, sir," Warren answered, saluting.

Lieutenant Cabanisse then read off the new assignments of each boat crew. Midshipman Nash was to take his place among Philip's crew.

As Nash reported to his new plebe crew captain he could not help but to scowl at the having to take orders from a plebe middi.

Warren took to his duty as the man in charge of his boat as the men embarked, and the boat was pushed off.

The boat had only gone a hundred yards before Philip saw trouble.

"Number four, handle your oar with more energy and precision!" Philip called crisply.

"Don't get too stiff, mister," sneered Midshipman Nash.

Warren's attention came full draw to his oar man.

"Number four, when addressing the crew captain, you will employ the word; 'sir.' And you will pay strict attention to criticisms of your work."

"Beats all how these plebes think they are men!" growled Mister Nash disgustedly.

"No talking in the crew," called Philip

Having developed a habit of obedience Nash subsided. He resented having to take orders from a fourth class man and had the boat captain been a member of his own class there would have been no trouble.

"Number four, you are lounging," rebuked Warren firmly.

"Correct your deportment, sir."

Midshipman Nash's face went red with anger, but Warren steadily held his ground. Nash sharply corrected his position and in doing so mistakingly bumped the men next to him. Nash tended his duties with a seething attitude before he again struck his improper posture.

"Mister Nash, upon your return put yourself on the report for taking an unseaman like attitude after having been once corrected," directed Philip.

Nash's lips curled and clenched his teeth as he spun in his seat. The veins in his temples were visibly pulsing. Intent upon making a stinging retort he opened his mouth.

Philip held his position of command while looking to Nash with such a calm and compellingly expression that the older midshipman realized that he had gone as far as was safe.

The rest of the drill Mister Nash performed his work to the satisfaction of Warren that he escaped any further rebuke.

Once the boat had docked Lieutenant Cabanisse dismissed the crews for the day. Nash then made his way to the office of the officer in charge and with flaring nostrils and shaking voice requested a report blank.

His muscles shaking he filled it out as briefly as possible and signed his name. He stood for a second staring at the report with cold eyes before turning in the report.

No sooner had supper ended that night than Nash immediately stepped up to Philip.

"Mister, I want a private word with you."

"Certainly, sir," replied Philip with the decorum of a fourth class man answering a first-class man.

Nash had Warren follow him out of earshot of the other midshipmen milling about in their small groups awaiting the call to studies.

"Mister, you used an upstart's privilege of abusing your authority this afternoon," hissed Nash.

"I think not, sir," replied Philip quietly.

"You put me on report for no other reason than I had a bit of fun running you,'" charged the first-class man.

"Honestly, sir that thought never entered my head, sir."

"I say it did!"

"Then, I apologize when I have to reply that you are entirely in error."

"You tell me that I am making a false statement?" demanded Midshipman Nash. His body visibly tensing and beading sweat beginning to show on his brow.

"If you choose to consider it in that light, sir."

"Mister, you are touge, ratey, impudent and worthless!" declared Nash in a deepening tone .

"Then, I infer, sir, that you do not wish to waste any more time upon me?" questioned Philip who was beginning to enjoy watching the first-class man anger growing hotter by the second.

"Oh, you will not get off as easily as that," sneered Midshipman Nash.

Nash stepped so close to Warren that Philip could feel the shallow noisy breath from Nash's flared nostrils. Nash then thrust his chest out almost hard enough to knock Philip from his position of attention. "You are a good-sized fellow, and you have some fourth class reputation as a fighter. We should be about evenly matched. Mister, I shall send a friend to inform you that I have called you out."

"Then, sir, your friend will save time by seeking Mister Bigelow, of the fourth class who will be informed that he is to represent me."

"Very good, mister."

"That is all you wish to say to me; sir?" asked Philip.

With this question Nash's lips flattened and his knuckles cracked as his hands curled into fists. He then took a long deep breath as he took a step back from Philip.

"You may go, mister."

Philip snapped a salute and held it for a second before realizing it would not be returned. He then did an about face and walked away. His mind reeled with what had just taken place. It was a very serious offense for a midshipman to call out another for reporting a breach of discipline. If the calling is found out it insures the instant dismissal of the challenger. If the one who is challenged accepts the calling, he will be held equally accountable and dismissed as well.

Those who act as representatives of the principals will be found guilty of participating in the challenge and instantly dismissed from the Naval Academy for their part.

Philip Warren knew that he placed his chances of remaining at the Academy at great risk. He was so caught up in watching Midshipman Nash becoming so enraged that he accepted the challenge as soon at it was made. In doing so he placed his friend Anson in the same danger of dismissal as he found himself in.

Warren also knew that custom and tradition among the midshipmen would not allow him to evade fight just posed to him. He also could not fail to ask Anson to be his second as that would be a serious slight to his friend.

Philip quickly found Bigelow and explained what had taken place. Interestingly Anson was more excited about the whole thing than Warren expected him to be.

"Good enough, Philip!" approved Bigelow. "When you meet Nash on the field just close in and pound him!"

"Anson, I'm afraid I'm letting you in for a tough risk."

"You wouldn't be my friend if you kept me out of it," retorted Bigelow decidedly.

Once again, Creesy proved only too glad to have the privilege of being the other second. He knew that he ran a high risk of being dismissed if he were caught at this fight. It was known, however, that Creesy had a strong love for risk.

Saturday, evening at 8:30 was the agreed time. They would meet at the usual place behind the old hospital.

As usual, Warren was the first principal to show up. He found it worked to his advantage to use the time to look over the ground.

Second class man Mister Burstan agreed to serve as referee, and Mister Calvert, of the second class as time-keeper. No midshipman from the first-class served as an official. It was against custom since one of the fighters was a member of the first-class.

"I wonder what sort of fellow Nash is with his fists," mused Creesy, after they had reached the agreed place.

"Warren will find out for you," replied Anson.

"I'm not as afraid of seeing him lose as I might have been earlier in the year," went on Creesy.

"Any fellow who thrashes Philip is almost certain to carry away a few trophies of his victory!" laughed Anson.

Philip slipped of his blouse once he saw Nash and his seconds approaching.

Five minutes later the two men had received the rules and squared off with each other. Mister Calvert gave the word.

"Now, Mister Touge," warned Nash, "guard that striking face of yours!"

"Oh, I don't do any striking with my face," retorted Philip dryly. "I do all my killing with my hands."

"Then stop this one," urged Nash, feinting cleverly with his left, then following it up with a crushing right hand.

Philip easily stopped both blows, then sidestepped and passed a fist over Nash's guard that grazed Mister Nash's face.

"I just wanted to make sure I knew where your face is," mocked Warren.

"Talk less and fight more, Mister Touge!" warned refereeing Burstan.

"Very good, sir," Philip retorted. "But it's going to be hard on Mister Nash."

"So you believe!" sneered Nash.

Philip calculated that Nash would make a followup comment and momentarily drop his guard. Just as the guard dropped Philip delivered a hook that cut Nash's lip a bit. That lesson stirred the first-class man to make more swift and astute efforts.

Nash did not score as heavily on the fourth class man as he had hoped. Most of his efforts only seemed to encourage Philip. Then just before the call for time of the first round Nash's nose had the unfortunate duty of stopping Warren's fist. First-class blood had been struck.

"Mister Touge is a hard fighter," muttered the time-keeper to the referee.

"We've plenty of fellows who can punish Warren," replied Midshipman Burstan.

The two men took their positions for the second round, and the time was called. Each man using his footwork intently as they moved around each other. Then, everyone's blood froze as a hail came from the darkness.

"Halt! Remain as you are for inspection!"

The midshipmen recognized the voice of discipline officer and the boat drill instructor Lieutenant Cabaniss. The fighters, their friends, and everyone present had just been ragged.

# Chapter 24

Blank dismay fell over the whole of the fight party.

Three first-class men, two-second class men, and three members of the fourth class stood on the brink of near instant dismissal.

This was to be a savage end for all of them. It would be a savagely merciless for the first-class men who had survived the four years of hard grilling and were on the eve of graduation.

The midshipmen had no thought of running. They knew it was too dark and the lieutenant was too far away to have recognized any them. They also knew that Lieutenant Cabaniss was in suburb physical condition and would surly catch one or two of them. He would then obtain all the names of everyone present under the oath of a midshipman and gentleman.

Utter terror flowed freely among the frozen men.

Then, a voice broke on the still night air.

"All hands to the fire apparatus! Fire in Bancroft Hall!"

The men looked at each other in wonderment as to which order to follow. Do they disobey to do their part for the Academy building, or stand for inspection and instant dismissal?

The answer came soon enough as they heard officer's running footsteps speeding away to Bancroft Hall.

"You two fellows get on your clothes, quickly!" ordered Midshipman Burstan crisply "Be fast about it! We've got to turn in with the rest!"

Every man's heart stopped as another figure darted out of the darkness. Midshipman Luth came up beside Anson only slightly out of breath.

"Get on your clothes with some classy speed," chuckled Luth, "The Lieutenant will surely come back with every watchmen, the entire Marine guard, or any other old crow, when he finds that he has been lured on the reefs by a false signal!"

"Mister, did you give that call of fire?" demanded Midshipman Burstan sternly.

"Yes, sir."

"And there's no fire?"

"None that I know of, sir."

"Mister, what's your name?"

"Midshipman Luth, of the fourth class, sir," answered Luth, with an air of trepidation in his voice.

"Then, Luth, sir, come and receive a well-earned handshake and hug," a relieved and exuberant first-class man Burstan ordered.

Within a few seconds, a lot of fuss was made over the young midshipman for saving their Naval careers.

"It can't do much harm to use you something like a human being and a comrade, now," declared second class man Calvert, as he wrung both of Luth's hands. "Within a few days, you'll be a youngster anyway."

Luth explained that he had heard of the fight and wanted to watch. He was close enough when he heard the lieutenants hail, but far enough that he was able to call out the alarm.

Nobody in the party would leave until Warren and Nash were finished dressing. No sooner had they donned one article of clothing than another was thrusted at them.

"Nash," broke in Midshipman Burstan adamantly, "you can't risk your graduation again by resuming this fight at some other time. As far as the mill had gone Mister Warren had the best of it. I award the fight to him."

"I'm glad you do, Burstan," replied Nash while buttoning his blouse. "As soon as I'm dressed, I'm going to apologize and ask Mister Warren to shake hands with me."

"Will you do me a favor, sir?" inquired Philip, overhearing the conversation while squaring his collar.

"A dozen," agreed Nash instantly.

"If you would, sir, cut the apology, and confine it to the handshake."

The two men were dressed and ready for a hasty departure before the discipline officer returned. But, according to custom Philip had to wait for the traditional handshake from each of the upper class men. Although they made it quick, it felt like an eternity.

The men divided up by class into three groups and stole their way into the night. Within seconds, they were too far from the scene to be identified as being with any fight party. Minutes later each man was in his room and thankful to be finished with the whole affair.

Twenty minutes later Lieutenant Cabaniss was speaking with Captain Logan in his office.

"It was a remarkably good piece of work, sir," reported Lieutenant Cabaniss, "I had a fight party right under my hands when that call of fire sounded. It was so natural that I turned away and lost my party before I discovered that it was a hoax."

"Did you recognize any of the fight party, Mister Cabaniss?" inquired the Commandant of Midshipmen.

"No, sir; I was not close enough."

"Did you recognize the voice of the man who gave the fire-call?"

"No, sir, I believe the man also disguised his voice."

"Well, it seems the young men have tried a new one on you, and succeeded, Mister Cabaniss. I wouldn't take it too harshly if were you."

"I won't, sir," replied the lieutenant. If he had caught the party, he would have done his duty and seen to it that they were dismissed instantly. It did not annoy him that he did not catch the men. What angered him was that the men used a serious alarm to lead him away.

Annual examinations and daily dress parades encompassed the Naval Academy. The first of incoming visitors had started to arrive in preparation of graduation week. Among the family members who came to see their sons graduate were official visitors from the nations capital. Two Senators, three Representatives, and seven people who were appointed by the President of the United States.

Many fourth class men thought the annual examinations were made harsher than they needed to be. They also tired of the endless dress parades which they were required to attend. To the welcome relief of these poor fourth class men, they did not participate in graduation exercises.

To many of those in the upper classes, a fourth class man does not know anything of the Navy and would just add to the clutter of graduation. When the annual examinations came to a close it was announced that twenty-two of the fourth class men had bilged and would be promptly sent home. Unless their Congressmen reappointed them, they would not return. If the young men were fortunate enough for a second try they would return to take up life with the new fourth class. However, whether he returns or not, he would forever be known among the brigade as a bilger.

Philip Warren's academic standing among his class for the year was one-seventy-seven. Anson ranked significantly higher with a class standing of eleven. Midshipman Flagg ranked two-thirty-five and Luth acquired one-thirty-four.

Even with Anson's surprising close call, none of the young men were in the "savvy" section. None of the men were particularly concerned with the making the section. They were mostly concerned with just having sufficient credit to pass the first year.

The graduation ceremonies were commencing all across the Naval Academy grounds. The fourth class men were meanwhile divided into two groups for drills on land and water.

Marching up in a squad from the steam building Philip and Anson heard a distant commotion. The two were just able to catch a glimpse of caps in the air and is the distance, crowds surging from the graduation ceremony. This was the second year that a graduation had caps tossed.

As soon as the command to dismiss was given Bigelow ran and clasped Warren's shoulders.

"Philip," murmured Anson ecstatically, "we are no longer fourth class men. The instant that tail ender 'may-pole' received his diploma we became the reigning third class men."

"Yes, sir," smiled Philip. "We're youngsters now."

"Poor fourth class men," sighed Anson.

Philip looked questioningly at Anson who had his chest out, and eyes closed. Anson then opened his right eye and glanced at Philip before closing it.

"I'm professing to all those who new comers who will have to look up to and reverence me as a youngster!" whispered Bigelow with a smile.

The drills and workday came to an end. The two friends quickly changed from their work clothes to the prescribed uniform of the day. As they stepped out of Bancroft Hall, they saw a proud Mister Nash coming their way.

Mister Nash kept his stride as he approached the new 'youngsters.'

Philip Warren then spotted something he did not expect. He swiftly brought his heels together with a resounding click and brought his right hand smartly to the visor of his uniform cap.

Nash returned the salute with a new sense of existence.

Anson Bigelow then snapped a salute as he caught the bright brass bar on Nash's uniform just in time. The previous year Congress approved the commissioning of graduates on graduation day. This approval ended the requirement of two years of sea service of all passing midshipmen.

"May we congratulate you, Ensign Nash?" asked Philip.

"I was hoping that you both would," replied the new ensign. "And, one of these days, I may have the pleasure of congratulating you as officers, when you first come up over the side to start in with your real sea life."

"I'm thinking, now, of our first taste of sea life," murmured Warren, a dreamy light coming into his eyes.

"Well, just as soon as we new officers are gotten out of the way you new youngsters will join the two upper classes on the big battleships. Your first summer practice cruise will be here short enough." Ensign Nash took his leave of the two youngsters to join in the festivities of his graduating classmates.

"I feel as if I couldn't wait another second," muttered Anson.

"You'll have to, however," laughed Philip. "Don't be impatient. Think what a very small insect a youngster midshipman is aboard a battleship!"

The two friends made it through with their first year at Annapolis. Within a single moment in time, when the last of the graduating classes caps were tossed they entered the next year. New experiences await them aboard their summer cruise and in the new academic year that follows. At last, Philip and Anson entered the life of Midshipmen. They are now 'somebodies' among the brigade to be 'counted.' A full life of experiences were ahead of them.

# Terms and history used within this book.

"French Leave" and "Frenching" was referenced in a copy of _Los Angeles Herald_ dated February 8, 1903.

* * *

Many of the additional slang used by the Midshipmen of Annapolis of the time period of this book can be found in a 1908 copy of " _The Silly Syclopedia_ " by Andrew J. Pendelton Jr.

* * *

The "Southern Cooking" referenced was found in a cookbook dated 1867 titled " _Dixie Cookery._ "

* * *

Wiegard's Store reference can be found in Volume 40, page 18 of " _Confectioners and Bakers Gazette_ " dated October 10, 1918.

* * *

References to the buildings and architecture of the U.S. Naval Academy can be found in the historical time line of the academy at:

www.usna.edu/USNAHistory/History.php

* * *

Pricing list, rules and regulations, entrance exams, class schedules, and ship references of the Naval Academy for 1912 can be found in the "Annual Register" of the 1912-13 for the U.S. Naval Academy in the United States Archives.

* * *

Description of rank of Naval Officers can be found on page 32 of the _Uniform Regulations of the United States Navy_ that was published by the Navy Department in 1913.

www.quarterdeck.org/uniforms/

* * *

Historic buildings and sites mentioned can be found on multiple travel sites. The sites used for this book were:

www.downtownannapolis.org

www.tripadvisor.com

www.visitmaryland.com

* * *

Temperance Bar history in Maryland can be found at " _Report of the Maryland State Temperance Society_ " of 1884, and " _Journal of the Proceedings of the Senate of the State of Maryland_ " of the Maryland Senate General Assembly of 1918. Also available is the " _Journal of the American Temperance Union_ " The American Temperance Union was established in 1836 and had over 1.5 million members. Only three states did not have an established temperance society. History of temperance bars can also be found on Wikipedia.

books.google.com/books?id=oUAZAAAAYAAJ

books.google.com/books?id=FStEAQAAMAAJ

books.google.com/books?id=Xc9OAAAAYAAJ

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temperance_bar

* * *

Pabst Tonic (Pabst Malt Extract/Pabst Blue Ribbon) was a common feature at the turn of the century. Advertisements in _Harper's Magazine_ 1915 which states "A Perfect Physical Condition Brings Mental Poise" and _Vogue_ Magazine 1913 with the statement "invigorates mind and body." Both can be found at www.bonkersinstitute.org/medshow/pabstonic.html

Print ads from 1911 can be found at www.periodpaper.com/ and on Amazon with the search term 'Ad Pabst Extract Co.' The " _Boston Medical and Surgical Journal_ " Volume 164, No. 14 printed April 6, 1911 also covers Pabst Tonic.

* * *

Referenced songs of the period were found at:

www.tsort.info

www.playback.fm

library.duke.edu

* * *

Automobiles mentioned were found at:

www.earlyamericanautomobiles.com

* * *

Boats mentioned were found in " _Early American Boats_ " by Robert Carse published in 1968, and " _American Small Sailing Craft_ " by Howard Irving Chapelle published in 1951.
