“No. It——”
“Measles?”
“You quit fooling, Joy, or I fracture your face. I mean the cadets die with envy.”
The group of plebes gathered about the speaker, laughed.
When quarters were over on this morning in question, the exciting news circulated throughout the ship that Clif Faraday, the cheekiest plebe of the lot, had boldly asked Captain Brookes for permission to give a minstrel show.
And the captain had actually consented.
Deep was the wrath on board, and many the dire threats made that the entertainment would come to an untimely end.
Clif was no fool. He knew that trouble would ensue. But he was looking for trouble.
The show was simply one link in a chain of reprisals against the common enemy—the first and third classes.
After drill the six chief conspirators gathered in their usual meeting place, the port side of the forecastle.