“James Owen O’Connor,” grinned Wallace.
A stamping of feet came from the audience. It was time for the curtain.
At a signal from Clif, the boys at the ropes promptly hauled up the canvas exposing to view the expectant audience.
In the front row were the captain and all the officers off duty. Back of them, seated upon benches, chairs, and ditty-boxes were the cadets and part of the crew.
As the curtain rose above the stage a low whistle was heard, and then came a perfect hail of soft potatoes, cabbages and wads of oakum soaked in slush.
But these testimonials from the envious upper classmen never reached their intended destination. Clif, with commendable foresight, had provided a second curtain of netting.
The offering of decayed vegetables fell harmlessly to the deck and a wail of disappointment came from the throwers.
“This tomfoolery must stop right now,” exclaimed the captain, rising from his chair and addressing the senior classmen. “If you cannot act as gentlemen you can leave this deck.”
He sat down, looking red and indignant.