That same Wednesday night, shortly before half-past nine, Bligh appeared in the room occupied by Stonewell and Robert Drake.
"By what authority are you visiting my room in study hours?" demanded Stonewell in coldly official tones.
"From the officer-in-charge, sir; I told him it was most important."
"What is it?"
Bligh's reply came in halting, jerky sentences.
"I wish to explain that signal to-day, sir. I was wild for our team to win; we could have won by the play; I gave the signal without thought, sir. It just sprang from my lips—I never once thought about the promise—and besides, it would be a greater honor to win from Harvard than from West Point—and probably we would have won by it from West Point, too—we have never yet won from Harvard. Don't you see, sir, I was working for the Academy? I was carried away at the time; it was a tremendous minute and the desire to use a play that would win crowded all other thoughts out of my mind; it's well enough to think of promises when you have time to do so; it's easy when you're sitting in a chair doing nothing, but too much outside matter should not be expected of the quarter-back in the middle of a fierce game. I want to go back on the squad."
"Mr. Bligh, from the very best possible construction of your act, even if it were agreed that your character is high, that with you a promise intentionally broken is impossible, your conduct has shown you to be irresponsible, a person in whom trust cannot be reposed. But from your words I judge you regard a promise lightly—to be broken easily. Your action was particularly bad because it might have caused other men, who have higher regard for their word than you have, to be faithless to a promise. But I'm going to make you one promise, and that is as long as you are at the Naval Academy you will never play football here again. You may leave my room, sir."
"Do you think I'm going to stand this?" cried Bligh, in passionate tones. "Do you expect me to sit idle while you are ruining my reputation? I'm not powerless, perhaps I know of some way I may injure you—and some others," and Bligh's eyes glared with savage intelligence.
"I know what you're thinking of, you miserable plebe. You're thinking you will write to both West Point and Harvard about the fake kick."