"Henley," broke in Midshipman Bailey decisively, "you can't risk your graduation again by resuming this fight at some other time. As far as the mill had gone Mr. Darrin had the best of it. I award the fight to him."
"I'm glad you do, Bailey," replied Henley heartily. "And, as soon as I'm dressed, and my cap is set on square, I'm going to apologize and ask Mr. Darrin to shake hands with me."
"Will you do me a favor, sir?" inquired Dave.
"A dozen," agreed Henley instantly.
"Then, sir, cut the apology and confine it to the hand-shake."
In another moment they were ready for hasty departure. But Dave had to wait for a quick, hearty handclasp from each of the upper class men. Then all divided into three groups, by classes, and thirty seconds later found these midshipmen too far from the scene to be identified with any fight party.
"It was a remarkably good and cheeky piece of work, sir," Lieutenant Hall reported, twenty minutes later, to Commander Jephson, commandant of midshipmen. "I had a fight party right under my hands when that call of fire sounded. It was so natural that I bolted away and lost my party before I discovered that it was a hoax."
"Did you recognize any of the fight party, Mr. Hall?
"No, sir; I was not close enough, and the night is dark."
"Did you recognize the voice of the man who gave the fire-call?"