“If you have anything to say about the plebe entertainment, I can hear it also. I guess I am as much interested as Blakely.”
“Yes, it’s about the show,” was Judson’s eager reply. “I sympathize with you fellows and I’ll put you on to a scheme to down Clif Faraday and his gang.”
Blakely made a gesture of disgust.
“What do you think we are, confound you?” he demanded, angrily. “We haven’t any use for traitors, and that is what you are. Get out of here with your dirty propositions. Come, Ferguson.”
Judson slunk away without a word, and the honest-hearted big senior resumed his walk with Ferguson. A few minutes later he was called on duty.
As soon as he was alone Ferguson promptly hunted up Greene. Taking him to a secluded spot, he held a long and earnest conversation with him, the result of which was evidently satisfactory to both.
In the meantime the object of their conspiracy was busily engaged in preparing the details of the coming entertainment.
He had secured permission to partition off the forward part of the gun deck as a hall for rehearsals, and, as only three days intervened before Saturday, he ordered one held that night.
Curious upper class men, attracted by the unwonted sounds of music, gathered about the spot, but they were kept in order by a special detail of plebes, reinforced by the master-at-arms and his assistant.
Shouts of laughter, a confused murmur of voices, an occasional snatch of song, and the rattling of bones and banging of tambourines only added zest to the curiosity of the hearers outside the canvas partition.