“Go on deck, all of you,” shouted the former, sternly.
“I’ll court-martial any cadet caught down here within three minutes.”
The order had an immediate effect. The deck was cleared in the time specified, then the officers, including the surgeon, took possession of the stage.
Trolley and a plebe from California had gotten into a fight over in one corner. They were quickly separated. Then the captain turned upon Clif, who was swaying back and forth with the greater part of his Neptune costume still on him.
“Mr. Faraday, what is the meaning of this?” demanded the commander, authoritatively. “You are drunk, sir, outrageously drunk.”
Something like a startled expression passed over Clif’s face. He rubbed his forehead vaguely and muttered:
“Beg your pardon, I guess I—I feel queer. My head is all dizzy.”
“I don’t doubt it!” snapped the first lieutenant. “You have made a beast of yourself. This is intolerable.”
“Doctor, examine him,” said the captain, curtly.