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

Dan Dalzell favored his callers with a nod, but remained seated, both hands thrust deep in his pockets.

“Get up on your feet, mister!” ordered one of the midshipmen, so sternly that Dan obeyed like a shot.

“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.  Dan subsided.

“What’s your name, mister?” demanded the last speaker, as he favored Dave with his next glance.

“Why, my name is Dave Darrin,” replied that plebe pleasantly.

“Say ‘sir,’ mister, when you address an upper class man.  When asked your name, reply, ‘Darrin, sir.’”

“Darrin, sir,” replied Dave promptly.

“Stand at attention, both of you!” commanded another visitor.

Both plebes obeyed.  Now still another caller wheeled upon Dan.

“What’s your name, mister.”

“Dan Dalzell.”

“Dalzell ­Sir!” thundered Dan’s questioner.

“Dalzell, sir,” Dan 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 Dave, “what did you come to the Naval Academy for?”

“To, sir, become, sir, a sir, Naval, sir, officer.  Sir.”

“Very good, mister.  Mister,” to Dalzell, “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 Dalzell with a look of tremendous sternness, “can you talk French?”

Dan’s eyes twinkled briefly.

“I don’t know, sir.  I never tried, sir,” replied Dalzell, in pretended embarrassment.

For a moment it looked as though Dan had turned the tables of mischief upon his tormentors.  His reply was so absurd that all of the upper class men, for a moment, betrayed signs of twitching at the corners of their mouths.  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: 

“Touge!”

“Very touge, indeed” replied the one addressed.

A “touge” plebe, in Naval Academy parlance, is one who is wholly “fresh.”

“Mister,” continued Dan’s quizzer, “we find you too full of levity 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.”

Dan’s first impulse was to grin, his second to laugh.  Yet something in the tone and look of the last speaker made “touge” Dalzell feel that the simplest way out of difficulty would be for him to obey as carefully and speedily as he could.  So, with a hurried “very good, sir,” Dalzell turned in quest of his basin.  He brought it, just about half full, for the inspection of his imperious visitor.

“Place it there on the floor, beside the wall,” ordered the tormentor

Dan obeyed.

“Now, mister, stand on your head in that water!”

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

It was not as easy a feat as might be supposed, even for a rather well trained and hardened athlete like Dan Dalzell.

He got his head into the bowl all right, 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 wall that he came to grief.  His feet slid along the wall and came down to the floor again.

Dan fell out of the bowl with a good deal of splash.

“If, at first, you don’t succeed, mister,” began Midshipman Trotter, who had constituted himself chief of the tormentors, “try, try some more.”

“I’ll make it, sir,” responded Dan cheerily, and his very manner, now, inclined his tormentors to go a little more lightly with him.

At the third trial, with his eyes closed, just below the level of the water, Dalzell 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 Trotter.  “As you were, mister.”

Dan, unfortunately, tried to be a bit “smart.”  He made a half somersault forward, trying to spring up on his feet.  He fell back, however, and sat down squarely in what was left of the water.

“Never mind a little wet, mister,” advised Midshipman Trotter, with a very serious face.  “We always rate a man as highly awkward, however, if he breaks the washbowl.”

“Which one of you is the better athlete?” suddenly asked Midshipman Harris.

Neither chum intended to be caught, by this crowd, as wanting in modesty.

“He is, sir,” replied Dan, with great promptness, nodding toward Darrin.

“Dalzell is, sir,” contended Dave.

“In view of this conflicting testimony, we shall have to settle the question by actual test,” replied Mr. Trotter.  “Mister,” to Dan, “bale out your boat.”

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

“Mister,” to Darrin, “launch your boat on this water here.”

Plainly the “water” signified the floor.  Dave brought out his own wash basin with alacrity.  Under further orders the chums placed their bowls about four feet apart.

“Here,” announced Midshipman Trotter, taking two toothpicks from a pocket, “are a pair of oars.”

Dave Darrin received the toothpicks with a grin.

“And here are your oars, mister,” supplemented Mr. Trotter, handing another pair of toothpicks to Dan Dalzell.

At this instant 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.”

Four new midshipmen, in the custody of three youngsters, now stepped into the room and the door was closed.

“Bender’s in charge of the floor tonight, you know,” nodded one of the newly-arrived youngsters, “and Bender’s duty-crazy.  Besides, 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 responsible 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 good many minor breaches of discipline.  When the man in charge of the floor reports all breaches that come to his notice he is said to be duty-crazy.  He is also charged with “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 general popularity.

Midshipman Bender, second class, was, at this time, regarded as one of the worst “greasers” of all.

“What’s on?” inquired Midshipman Hayes, one of the newcomers in the room.  “Tub race?”

“No, sir; fast spurt in single-pair shells,” replied Midshipman Trotter impressively.

“Whew!  You’ve caught some real athletes, have you?”

“That’s what we want to find out,” responded Mr. Trotter.  “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 which rows with the more finish.  Take your seats in your craft.”

Dave and Dan seated themselves, with all possible gravity, in their respective wash basins.

“Up oars!” commanded Mr. Trotter.

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 row-locks.

“Now, at the outset, take your strokes from my count,” directed Mr. Trotter.  “One, two three, four, five, six, seven ­”

And so on.  It was all ludicrously absurd, to see Dave and Dan bending to their tasks as seriously as though they were rowing real craft with actual oars.

One of the visiting plebes was stupid enough to giggle.

“Go over and stand by the window in arrest, mister,” ordered Midshipman Hayes.  “You shall be tried later!”

Then the “boat race” continued.  It soon proved to be more than absurd; it was decidedly fatiguing.  Both Dave and Dan found that their strained positions, and the motions required of them, made backs and shoulders ache.  Their legs, too, began to suffer from cramp.

It was not until both showed signs of decided weariness that the race was brought to an end.

Then the cadet who had giggled was called forward, ordered to half fill one of the washbowls and to stand on his head in it.

While this was going on there was not a smile from anyone.  From the serious faces of all this might have been one of the most important bits of drill in the whole course at the Academy.

Dave, however, made the best impression upon the youngsters.  All the other new men came sooner or later, to the ordeal of standing on their heads in the wet bowl, but Dave seemed destined to escape.

The rowing was carried on until all of the youngsters had tired of this sport.

“Fall in, in platoon front,” directed Midshipman Trotter.

The six plebes, solemn as owls, stood up in line, “dressing” their line carefully.

“Now, attend me carefully,” cautioned Mr. Trotter, 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 Trotter, 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 yellow tragedy.  Some weeks ago three Chinamen 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 Mr. Trotter, “one customer, more curious than the others, reported his observations to the police.  Today the Johnny Tinplates made a raid on the place.  A most curious state of affairs came to light.  So ­but 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 Mr. Trotter, in a voice that now sounded slightly awestruck, “was this:  a week ago the three Chinese partners had a serious row.  They quarreled, then fought.  Two of the yellow partners 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 Trotter looked at each of the wondering plebes in turn.  It looked as though he were asking the question of them.

“I don’t know, sir,” admitted Dan Dalzell, at the left of the line.

“I don’t know, sir,” admitted the man next to Dan.  So it went down the line, until Dave Darrin, at the further end, had admitted himself to be as much in the dark as were the others.

“Then, listen,” resumed Mr. Trotter impressively.  “The Chinese, being descended from a very ancient civilization, are not only very ingenious but also very thrifty.  They were burdened with two hundred pounds of evidence on the premises.  In their extremity 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.

“Now, then,” rasped out Midshipman Trotter, “that being the state of affairs at the laundry ­what was the telephone number?”

Trotter’s gaze was fixed on Dan Dalzell’s face almost accusingly.

“How the ­” began startled Dan 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 telephone number.”

“You try, mister,” ordered Midshipman Trotter, turning to the plebe next to Dalzell.

“I can’t solve the problem, sir.”

So it ran, straight down the line, each confessing his ignorance, until finally Mr. Trotter glared at Dave Darrin.

“Come, come, mister, from the very exact narrative that I have given, can’t you deduce the telephone number of that laundry?”

“Yes, sir; I think so,” answered Darrin, with a slight smile.

“Ah!  Then there’s a man in the squad who is more than a mere saphead.  Let us have the telephone number, mister!

“Two-ate-one-John,” replied Dave promptly.

This was the correct answer.  Dave had heard that “gag” before.

“Mister,” beamed Mr. Trotter, “I congratulate you.  You are no mollycoddle.  Your head is not over-fat, but 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 the washbowl, fill it half full of ideas, and stand on your head in them until they have soaked well in!”

Poor Dave, his face flushed crimson, could have dropped in his humiliation at having thus fallen into the trap.  But he started manfully for the washbowl, which he half filled with water.  Meanwhile the other five plebes were choking.  They could have screamed in their glee ­had they dared!

Placing the bowl where ordered, Dave 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, preparatory to hoisting them into place against the wall.

“Up oars!” commanded Mr. Hayes dryly.

From one of the visiting plebes came an incautious giggle.  Mr. Hayes turned and marked his man with a significant stare that made the unfortunate giggler turn red and white in turn with alarm.

At the order, “up oars,” Dave Darrin sent his feet aloft.  By rare good luck he succeeded the first time trying.

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

Just at this moment, though, the sound of trouble was in the air, even if it reached interested ears but faintly.

A step was heard in the corridor outside.  There was a faint knock.

The upper class midshipmen knew on the instant what the knock meant ­and so indeed did Dave Darrin.