Whereat Clif chuckled.
“They think this is a barn-storming troupe, eh?” he said. “Well, we will fool them.”
It was an exceedingly warm evening. A light breeze which had been previously blowing from the northeast, died out entirely by dusk, leaving the old Monongahela rolling sluggishly upon a long heaving swell—the after effect of a gale in some quarter of the ocean.
The “Naval Academy Plebe Troupe” found it very sultry and close on the gun deck, and when the boys donned their heavy costumes they were a very warm set of youngsters indeed.
Shortly before the hour set for the performance one of the wardroom stewards came forward with a large wooden pail of lemonade and said it was a present from aft.
The plebes were delighted, and they lost no time in refreshing themselves.
“Tell them we are exceedingly obliged,” said Joy, emptying his third glass. “This is great, simply great.”
The man grinned and withdrew. Five minutes later the seats in front of the improvised stage began to fill up.
“To your places, fellows,” ordered Clif, who was acting as stage manager. “Now, remember, we’ve got a reputation to maintain. The eyes of the—er—whole world are upon us. So behave yourselves and act like—er—like——”