“I do not like to report Mr. Faraday absent,” said the young officer, as he took his place in the stern of the first cutter, “but duty is duty. Up oars! Ready! Let fall——”
“Cutter, ahoy!”
The hail, clear and sharp, came from the other end of the dock. The gate swung back and a youth clad in a naval cadet uniform ran toward the boats.
As he passed under a light a cry came from one of the cutters:
“Clif Faraday!”
The cry was followed by a commotion in the boat.
“What’s the matter there?” called out the ensign, sternly.
“Judson Greene has fainted, sir.”
A little later a group composed of the majority of the plebes and a sprinkling of upper class cadets was gathered around Clif as he leaned against the pivot gun on the Monongahela’s forecastle.