Somehow, though none of the others said anything to that effect, Cadet Prescott began to feel that he was a bit in the way at a conference of this sort. He didn't rise to leave at once, but he swung around on his campstool near the door.
Without throwing the flap open, Prescott peeped through a slit-like opening. As he did so he saw something that made his eyes flash.
The rain was pouring a little less heavily now. Down the company street came a cadet with a pail of water.
It was Mr. Briggs, a round faced, laughter loving, somewhat roly poly lad of the plebe class.
Just as Mr. Briggs was passing the tent in which Anstey lay making up some needed sleep, a snore came out.
Briggs halted, glancing swiftly up and down the company street.
No upper classman being in sight, Mr. Briggs peeped into the tent.
He saw Anstey, asleep and alone.
Instantly raising the flap just enough, Mr. Briggs took careful aim, then shot half the contents of the pail of water over the chest and face of Yearling Anstey.
Dick Prescott watched unseen by the b.j. plebe. Mr. Briggs fled lightly, but swiftly four tents down the line and disappeared into his own quarters.
From across the way, came a roar of wrath.