The worthy surgeon was not a graduate of the academy, had not been an upper classman, therefore he could feel for the “miserable plebes.”
“You say the lemonade has been drugged?” asked the captain, incredulously.
“Undoubtedly. Just smell this peculiar odor. Can’t you trace the characteristic scents of gin and chloral?”
The captain could not, but he was willing to believe the surgeon, knowing that he was a very capable man who had made a hobby of drugs and narcotics.
“If that is true, it certainly alters the case,” he said, reflectively, glancing at the members of the late “Naval Academy Plebe Troupe,” who were either asleep or showing every indication of becoming so, with the exception of Clif.
The latter was evidently making a desperate effort to throw off the effect of the drugs. His eyes were brightening, and he stood erect.
“Just take them to the sick bay, doctor, and keep them there until morning. I’ll hold a strict investigation then,” said Captain Brookes.
Clif attempted to speak, but the kind-hearted officer told him to keep his story until the next day. The “troupe” was escorted by the master-at-arms and assistants to the surgeon’s quarters and a number of the crew placed at work clearing away the stage.
It was some time after pipedown before the excitement died out. Ferguson, Bryce and several others in the secret, discussed the affair rather gloomily. They were not afraid of discovery, as they felt assured neither Clif nor the others concerned would turn informer; but they were disappointed at the outcome of the plot.
Ferguson voiced the sentiments of his companions when he said, with emphasis: