Cadet Furlong now paused, glancing solemnly about him before he continued:
"What are we going to do with the plebes?"
Dick dropped his tone of presiding officer as he answered:
"I take it, Miles—-pardon me, Furlong, that your question really means, what are we going to do to the plebes?"
"Same thing," contended the other yearling.
"Why should we do anything to them?" asked Dick gravely.
"Why should we—-say, did you hear the man?" appealed Furlong, looking around him despairingly at the other yearlings. "Why should we do anything to the plebes? And yet, in a trusting moment, we elected old ramrod to be president of the class! Why should we—-o-o-o-o-h!"
Cadet Furlong made a gurgling sound in his throat, as though he were perishing for lack of air.
"Prescott isn't serious," hinted Griffin.
"Yes, I am," contended Dick, half stubbornly. "Griffin, what did you think of yearlings—-last year?"