“Well, that beats the nation!” exclaimed Ferguson, with a prolonged whistle. “Fellows, the service is going to the bowows. I’ve been a naval cadet in the service of these great and glorious United States almost four years, and never have I dreamed of such a state of affairs.”
“It’s all the fault of that Faraday,” muttered Payne. “He’s kicked up more rows than enough since he entered the academy last month.”
“He’s too fresh.”
“That’s what.”
Blakely looked over the side at the vast stretch of shimmering water surrounding the practice ship, and smiled.
He was a young man of very fair and even temper, was Walt Blakely, member of the first class, and captain of the Naval Academy football team. He rather liked “that cheeky plebe,” Clif Faraday, and he secretly admired him for that cheekiness, but he also believed firmly in the divine right of the upper classes.
Therefore when Payne and Ferguson broke out in loud remonstrance he added his voice to theirs.
“The truth of the matter is,” said Ferguson, resentfully, “the old man thinks the sun rises and sets in Faraday’s vicinity.”
“Sure thing,” agreed Payne. “Ever since Faraday jumped from the top and saved Nanny Gote from drowning, he’s in luck.”
“It was a splendid act,” commented Blakely.