“What is it, Toggles?” he queried, hastily. “Did you say some one was getting hazed?”
“Yes. It’s Nanny.”
“Nanny? Gorry! Have they tackled that little chap? Who’s got him?”
“It’s Crane and his gang.”
Clif’s handsome teeth came together with a snap, and a queer, grim smile crossed his lips.
“Crane, eh?” he said. “He’s broke out again. And he has tackled Nanny as a starter. What do you know, Toggles?”
T. Oggles Andrews, or “Toggles,” as he was familiarly called by his plebe associates, made haste to reply.
Throwing one long, skinny leg over a convenient mess chest, he explained:
“White, that young landsman who has taken such a shine to you, told me a few minutes ago that he saw Crane and five others drag Nanny down the orlop deck ladder. They had the kid choked so he couldn’t resist or make a noise. I met White on deck and he put me onto the racket. He said he overheard them say they were going to raise merry hurrah with certain gally plebes.”