“Maybe you’d better have it regulation, sir,” he suggested with heavy emphasis.
Snip-snip-snip went the shears. Cadet Crayle writhed as if they were a savage’s scalping knife, but he knew he was helpless. Barry Blake chuckled inwardly. “Regulation length” would mean no loss to his own short, wavy hair, or to Chick’s blond bristles.
Six barbers and ten minutes for a haircut! In little more than a quarter of an hour, Squad 17 was marching back to the drilling area. Another half hour of close-order drill—then dinner formation.
Scarcely were they seated in the big cadet mess hall, when the nervous dum-dums found their worst suspicions realized. Mealtime was just another opportunity for hazing by the upperclassmen. Placed at the foot of a table seating eleven men, Barry and Chick discovered that they were the “gunners” of the group. That is, they must pass—“gun” or “shoot”—food and drink up the table whenever asked.
Two minutes after the meal began, the “table commander” at the upper end sent down his coffee cup for re-filling.
“A cup of coffee for Mr. Danvers,” murmured the lowerclassman nearest him.
“A cup of coffee for Mr. Danvers,” repeated Hap Newton as he passed the cup.
“A cup of coffee for Mr. Danvers,” Barry Blake solemnly announced, as he filled it and passed it back.
“You, Mister!” the table commander barked, looking straight at Chick Enders. “The potato dish is empty. You will signal the waiter by holding it up—like this.”
With his upper arm horizontal and his forearm vertical, the upperclassman demonstrated the proper gesture. Hap Newton giggled.