The officer discreetly withdrew, unseen.
As he stepped out on the spar deck he chuckled again, and said:
“By Jove! the plebes will get it hot and heavy to-night. Humph! It won’t do them a bit of harm. I was hazed and thousands before me. A little trouble makes a man of one. Let ’em go it.”
With this philosophical speech, addressed to the moon which beamed brightly overhead, he calmly walked aft, and the plebes, luckless and endangered, were left to their fate.
When Crane and his associates sallied forth, they had one object in view, and that was to make it an exceedingly torrid night for a certain fresh “function” or plebe.
Hazing to them was a delicious and edifying sport at any time, but on this particular occasion they had extra inducements to spur them on.
That evening, just before pipe down, the ringleader passed the word to his cronies that he had something in the wind. Six choice spirits met in the starboard gangway and went into executive session.
“I guess you fellows know what we ought to do to-night,” began Crane, without further preliminary.
“Devil plebes?” spoke up a cadet from Georgia.
“Correct. It is not only our pleasure, but our bounden duty,” said Crane, pompously. “It’s a duty we owe our country—er—I mean our shipmates and ourselves. You all know the present state of affairs and how the very foundation of the old academy is tottering to its fall. How every tradition has been shattered, every shred of cadet etiquette—er——”