"Carried!" says Beans. "Let the right worthy Buddies proceed to administer the Camp Mills degree."
"Signal!" calls out another cheerful. "Four—seven—eleven! Run the guard!"
Say, I couldn't tell exactly what happened next, for I was hustled into a corner and those noble young heroes of the Marne and elsewhere, full of lofty aims and high ambitions and—and other things—Well, they certainly didn't need any promptin' to carry out the order of ceremonies. Without a word or a whisper they proceeds to grab Hartley wherever the grabbin' was good and then pass him along. By climbin' on a chair I could get a glimpse of him now and then as he is sent whirlin' and bumpin' about, like a bottle bobbin' around in rough water. Back and forth he goes, sometimes touchin' the floor and then again being tossed toward the ceilin'. Two or three of 'em would get him and start rushin' him across the room when another bunch would tear him loose and begin some maneuvers of their own.
Anyway, runnin' the guard seems to be about as strenuous an act as anybody could go through and come out whole. It lasts until all hands seem to be pretty well out of breath and someone blows a whistle. Then a couple of 'em drags Hartley up in front of Brother Beans and salutes.
"Well, right worthy Buddies," says he, "what have you to report concerning the candidate?"
"Sorry, sir," says one, "but we caught him tryin' to run the guard."
"Ah!" says Beans. "Did he get away with it?"
"He did not," says the Buddie. "We suspect he's a dud, too."
"Very serious," says Beans, shakin' his head. "Candidate, what have you to say for yourself?"
To judge by the hectic tint on Hartley's neck and ears he had a whole heap he wanted to say, but for a minute or so all he can do is breathe hard and glare. He's a good deal of a sight, too. The cutaway coat has lost one of its tails; his hair is rumpled up like feathers, and his collar has parted its front moorin's. As soon as he gets his wind though, he tries to state what's on his mind.