Dick Prescott's Second Year at West Point Part 3

"Humph! That wasn't much!" grunted Furlong.

"I guess that was why Mr. Briggs felt that he had to get square,"

mused d.i.c.k aloud. "But a plebe is not allowed to get square by doing anything b.j."

Again Anstey turned as if to go out, but d.i.c.k broke in:

"Don't do it, Mace. Try, for the next half hour, to keep as cool as an iceberg. Trust the treatment of the impish plebe to us.

Greg, old fellow, will you be the one to go down and tell Mr.

Briggs that his presence in this tent is desired immediately?"

Plebe Briggs was alone in his tent, his bunkies being absent on a visit in another tent. Mr. Briggs was still grinning broadly as he remembered the roar with which Anstey had acknowledged the big splash.

But of a sudden Mr. Briggs's grin faded like the mist, for Greg was at the doorway.

"Mr. Briggs, your presence is desired at once at Mr. Furlong's tent."

"Yes, sir," replied the plebe meekly. He got up with an alacrity that he did not feel, but which was the result of the new soldierly habit. Mr. Briggs threw on his campaign hat and a raincoat, but, by the time he was outside of the tent, Holmes was just disappearing under canvas up the company street.

"I guess I'm in for it," muttered the plebe sheepishly, as he strode up the street. "Confound it, can a yearling see just as well when he's asleep as when he's awake?"

He halted before Furlong's tent, rapping on the pole.

"Mr. Briggs, sir."

"Come in, Mr. Briggs."

The plebe stepped into the tent, drawing himself up and standing at attention.

For some seconds none of the yearlings spoke. In fact, only d.i.c.k looked at the fourth cla.s.sman.

"Mr. Briggs," demanded Prescott at last, "where is your bucket?"

"In my tent, sir."

"You will fill it, and report back here with it at once."

"Very good, sir."

"Now, what on earth is coming?" quaked the plebe, as he possessed himself of his bucket and started for the nearest tap.

In the shortest time possible the young man reported hack at the tent, his bucket as full of water as it would safely carry.

"Set the bucket down, Mr. Briggs, at the rear of the tent."

The plebe obeyed, then stood once more at attention.

"Mr. Briggs," continued the president of the yearling cla.s.s, "it was you who threw water over Mr. Anstey?"

"I am not obliged to answer that, sir," replied the plebe.

"You're quite within your rights there, mister," d.i.c.k admitted.

"But I looked out of this tent just in time to see you do it.

Have you any wish to deny it now?"

"No, sir."

"Mister, you have given us the impression that you are altogether to b.j.-ish to amount to anything in the cadet corps. Your sense of humor is bubbling over, but your judgment is so small that it would roll around inside the eye of a needle. This is a serious condition, and we judge that your health will be sadly affected if the condition is not promptly cured. One the first symptoms to be subdued is that of a swollen head. The head needs reducing in size. Take off your hat, and kneel in front of the bucket."

This Mr. Briggs did, meekly enough, now. There is never any sense in a mere plebe refusing to follow the commands of a yearling.

"You will remain in that kneeling posture, mister, unless you are released from it. Now, thrust your head down into the water, as far as you can without interfering with your breathing.

Remain in that position. Take your hands off the floor, sir, and do not rest them on the floor again. Continue with your head in soak until you are directed to do otherwise."

Even Anstey had to look grimly satisfied with this punishment.

The unhappy plebe certainly did present a most laughable yet woeful appearance. It seemed impossible to keep this position, without occasional steadying by the hands, but it had to be done.

If the reader does not consider it a hard feat to kneel thus, with one's head immersed in the water, the reader can easily satisfy his curiosity on the point.

Having thus put the plebe in soak, the yearlings all turned away from him, conversing among themselves on one subject and another.

Yet, had the plebe ventured to raise his head somewhat out of the water, or to seek support from his hands, he would quickly have discovered that he was being effectively if covertly watched.

Minute after minute the plebe remained "in soak." To him it seemed, of course, like hours.

At last, when human endurance of the Briggs brand could last no longer, the plebe gave an expected lurch sideways, falling flat, upsetting the bucket and causing much of the water flow along his own neck and beneath his underclothing.

"Mister, you are not on your knees, as directed," exclaimed Cadet Prescott.

"I---I am sorry, sir, but I couldn't help falling over," replied crestfallen Mr. Briggs, standing at attention beside his overturned bucket.

He wriggled slightly, in a way eloquently suggestive of the water that was trickling over his skin under his clothing.

"Did you get wet, mister?" asked d.i.c.k.

"Yes, sir."

"Skin wet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, that is really too bad, mister," continued Prescott in a tone that hinted at a great deal of sympathy. "You mustn't be permitted to get chilled. Exercise is what you need."

d.i.c.k paused.

"Poor, young Mr. Briggs stood mute, blinking back.

"Milesy, may Mr. Briggs have the use of your piece for a few minutes?"

"Why, surely," declared Cadet Furlong in a tone of great cordiality.