“Step over to that, basin, mister,” ordered Youngster Eaton, eyeing Flint, who promptly obeyed.

“Now, mister, stand on your head in that bowl,” commanded Midshipman Eaton.

Looking doubly red and uncomfortable, with these two grave-looking second classmen present, Flint bent down, attempting to stand on his head in the bowl of water, while he tried, at the same time to push his feet up the wall, thus standing on his head.  Twice Flint essayed the feat and failed, splashing a good deal of water over the floor.  Then, for the third time, Flint tried the performance.  This time he succeeded, but his two previous failures had provoked such a storm of laughter that no man present heard a cautious rap on the door.  The next instant that door was flung open and Lieutenant Preston stepped into the room.

With the entrance of that discipline officer half of the midshipmen present wheeled about, then, startled as they were, did not forget to come to attention.

“Hm!” said Lieutenant Preston, at which the other half heard and came to attention.  Flint, whether too scared, or perhaps enjoying the discomfiture of his tormentors, made no effort to return to normal position.

“What’s your name, sir?” thundered the discipline officer, glaring fiercely at Midshipman Flint.

“Flint, sir,” replied the fourth classman in a gasp.

“Bring your feet down and come to attention, sir!”

Flint obeyed.

During this time Lieutenant Preston had stood so that no midshipman in the room could slip by him into the corridor.

“I will now take the names of the gentlemen present,” went on the discipline officer, drawing a notebook and pencil from an inner pocket and commencing to write.

“All except the fourth classmen present will at once fall in by twos outside,” commanded Lieutenant Preston, closing the notebook and slipping it away.  “Midshipmen Flint and Austin will mend their appearances as speedily as possible and then form the last file outside.”

“Wow!” whispered Dan in his chum’s ear outside.  “Talk about the fifty-seven varieties!  We’re in all the pickles!”

“Yes,” murmured Dave.

“What are you going to do about it, Davy?”

“Take my medicine,” Dave replied.

“But we weren’t really in the thing.”

“Danny boy, never get out of a thing, or try to, by playing cry baby!”

“No danger,” retorted Dalzell.  “David, little giant, we’ll just console ourselves with the realization that we’re in the worst scrape we ever struck yet.”

“Yes,” nodded Dave.

Fourth classmen Flint and Austin were not long in making themselves presentable.  Then they fell in at the rear of the line.

“Squad, forward march!” commanded the discipline officer dryly.

Through the corridor and off that deck the little squad of thirteen midshipmen marched.  Never had thirteen been more unlucky, for the present superintendent was known to be a man determined to stamp out hazing.