"I—I—it would be a shame to tell you!" sputtered Dalzell between spasms of laughter.
Truth to tell, Midshipman Quimby did look funny when he attempted to be over-stern. Quimby's face was one of his sensitive points, anyway. Yet it was not, strictly speaking, the face, but the look of precocious authority on that face which had sent Dan, with his keen sense of humor, off into spasms of laughter. But the youngster didn't propose to see the point.
"Mister," spoke Midshipman Quimby, with an added sternness of look that sent Dan off into another guffaw, "you have been guilty of insulting an upper class man. Your offense has been so serious—so rank—that I won't accept an apology. You shall fight, mister!"
"When? Whom?" asked Dan, the big grin still on his face.
"Me, mister—and as soon as the thing can be pulled off."
"Oh, all right, sir," nodded Dalzell. "Any time you like, then, sir. I've been accustomed, before coming here, to getting most of my exercise out of fighting. But—pardon me, if I meet, I shall have to hit—pardon me—that face."
"Call this plebe out, Quimby, and trim him in good shape," urged one of the other youngsters present. "He's touge all the way through. He'll need trimming."
"And he'll get it, too," wrathfully promised Midshipman Quimby, who was rated high as a fighter at the Naval Academy.