"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!