"Mister, return Mr. Furlong's piece."
The plebe obeyed, wondering what next was in store for him. Prescott noted that Mr. Briggs's legs were trembling under him.
"That is all, for the present, mister," announced the class sergeant. "But you will hold yourself in readiness, in case we call you out for a soiree this evening."
"Yes, sir," assented the plebe.
"You may go."
Mr. Briggs judged that he had better salute the yearling class president very carefully as he passed out with his bucket. This he did, then hastened down the company street.
This time, when he had vanished behind his own tent flap, Mr. Briggs didn't indulge in any grimaces or chuckles. Instead, he made haste to get off his dripping garments and to get out others, after he had enjoyed a rub down.
"Serves me right!" muttered the plebe. "I had been getting along first rate, with nobody bothering me. Then I had to get that b.j. streak on this afternoon. Now, I suppose I'm a marked plebe!"