To Mr. Butler this seemed very much like adding insult to injury.
"You thought it was funny, did you, mister, to rig a cord across the company street?" raged the yearling, though he kept his voice down to a gentlemanly pitch. "You play tricks like that on upper class men. Of all the b.j. imps that ever put on gray! Mister, all I'm sorry for is that the officer of the day, or the O.C. didn't trip over your cord! Or the K.C. himself!"
"Now, I want to understand this, sir," contended Cadet Holmes, rising from his mattress and stepping forward. "I've just been aroused out of a sound sleep, and I find myself with a cord tied to one of my fingers."
"Oh, you do, mister?" jeered Mr. Butler harshly.
"And you, sir, come into this tent and accuse me of something.
What I am anxious to know, sir, is what it is that I am accused of."
"See here, mister, I've no more time to waste on a b.j. beast.
You've spoiled my best white ducks, and, incidentally, my temper.
You compound this by adding more b.j.-ety. If you don't know
what I'm going to do about it, wait until you hear from me, mister!"
Turning, very erect and stiff, in his outraged dignity, Mr. Butler left the tent.
"Now, what on earth have I done, anyway?" wondered Greg.
In his perplexity he stepped to the doorway of his tent. He saw the business-like arrangement of the cord, and all was clear to him, now.
"Some hazer has rigged that cord and tied one end to my finger," gasped Plebe Holmes.