“I say, Johnson, did you—er—hear or see anything just now?”
Johnson was an old seaman, and he had made many a cruise on board academy practice ships. He knew and liked the cadets and found their pranks a source of infinite fun. He was not the man to tell tales out of school. Concealing a grin, he answered, with a fine assumption of surprise:
“See anything, sir? Hear anything, sir? No, indeed, sir. Was it a hail?”
“A hail? No. It seemed to me”—the lieutenant hesitated, glanced nervously about the deck, then added: “I guess it was simply a fancy. I’ve lost considerable sleep lately, Johnson, and probably I am a little unstrung.”
He moved aft, and spent the rest of his watch signing imaginary pledges not to take another drop of anything stronger than lemonade.
In the meantime a scene unusual at that hour was being enacted on the forward part of the berth deck.
Over in one corner a cadet was cleaning his face of red paint and oakum whiskers. He was in a rage, and shook his fist at Clif and his crowd.
“Oh, but this is funny,” cried Clif. “It’s worth a year’s pay to see Crane do the circus act. Isn’t he a beauty in his war paint?”
“Him what you call one chromo,” giggled the Japanese youth. “I glad I woke all the fellows to see the sport. Hurray!”