Tommy was there at the appointed time. At the far end a crowd was gathered. Men were perched as closely as possible on the double-deck bunks. In their midst Bacchanalian rites were in progress. “Doc,” a stout man with a red, satyr-like countenance, was beating a huge bowl of eggs. Before him within easy reach and frequently applied, was an assorted row of bottles. Tommy read some of the labels—Cherry Brandy, Martell, D. O. M., Absinthe.
“My God,” he muttered to himself, “everything but nitroglycerine.”
The party was undoubtedly a success. There were songs and dances and stories. Finally it got to the speechmaking stage. An interruption in the form of a volley of shots was welcome to every one except the current performer. A trampling of feet, and then more shots followed. A voice at the other end of the barrack shouted “Attention!” as Major Krause stumbled in. He had evidently been running, but he tried to stalk around in a dignified manner. Somebody whispered—
“Those damn cadets have been shooting off their guns and raising hell again, and he’s been trying to catch them.”
The major approached the end of the barrack where the party had been in progress. He sniffed suspiciously, but the punch-bowl had been shoved under a bunk and the bottles into boots, and there was no evidence in sight. Finally he asked—
“Are there any guns in this barrack?”
“No,” Tommy spoke up. “I know, because I was trying to borrow one this afternoon to mount guard with.”
A partially suppressed titter rose and fell again. The C. O. wheeled around furiously.
“So it’s you again, is it?” he thundered. “Carousing in here while your superiors attend to your duties. Get out to your guard and put a stop to that indiscriminate shooting. I swear if I see you again tonight I’ll prefer charges and have you broke!”