“Go ahead, then.”
“It’s this in a nutshell: We’ll yank Faraday and the rest down into the orlop deck and give ’em a coat of varnish. There’s a whole pot down there, and paint, too. Then we’ll rig ’em out in spun yarn whiskers and set ’em adrift on the spar deck with some tin mess pans tied to their tails, that is, their ankles. It’ll be great sport.”
“Yes, and a tough job, too,” remarked the Georgian cadet.
“I’d like to know why?” exclaimed a sallow-faced youth. “He’s not so warm, this Faraday. He can be whipped.”
“Yes, but I’ve got five dollars which says you can’t do it, Morgan. Kelley could lay over you, and Faraday licked him.”
“Let’s quit talking,” growled Crane. “Pipe down will sound in a moment. Are you fellows satisfied with the scheme or not.”
The “fellows” were, and it was agreed to start the hazing as soon as possible after taps.
Presently the long, low notes of the last call sounded, echoing and winding through the rigging and hull in melancholy cadence. There was a momentary bustle, then quiet settled over the old frigate.