Dave and Dan seated themselves, with all possible gravity, in their respective wash basins.

“Up oars!” commanded Mr. Trotter.

As neither plebe knew just what was meant by this command they had to be shown how to sit holding their “oars” straight up in the air.

“Let fall!”

This time the two new men guessed fairly well.  They went through the motions of allowing their toothpick oars to fall into row-locks.

“Now, at the outset, take your strokes from my count,” directed Mr. Trotter.  “One, two three, four, five, six, seven—­”

And so on.  It was all ludicrously absurd, to see Dave and Dan bending to their tasks as seriously as though they were rowing real craft with actual oars.

One of the visiting plebes was stupid enough to giggle.

“Go over and stand by the window in arrest, mister,” ordered Midshipman Hayes.  “You shall be tried later!”

Then the “boat race” continued.  It soon proved to be more than absurd; it was decidedly fatiguing.  Both Dave and Dan found that their strained positions, and the motions required of them, made backs and shoulders ache.  Their legs, too, began to suffer from cramp.

It was not until both showed signs of decided weariness that the race was brought to an end.

Then the cadet who had giggled was called forward, ordered to half fill one of the washbowls and to stand on his head in it.

While this was going on there was not a smile from anyone.  From the serious faces of all this might have been one of the most important bits of drill in the whole course at the Academy.

Dave, however, made the best impression upon the youngsters.  All the other new men came sooner or later, to the ordeal of standing on their heads in the wet bowl, but Dave seemed destined to escape.

The rowing was carried on until all of the youngsters had tired of this sport.

“Fall in, in platoon front,” directed Midshipman Trotter.

The six plebes, solemn as owls, stood up in line, “dressing” their line carefully.

“Now, attend me carefully,” cautioned Mr. Trotter, sweeping a stern glance down the line of plebes.  “I am about to tell you a bit of the day’s news from over in Sleepy Hollow, which place is known to Maryland geographers as the village of Annapolis.  You must attend me with extreme care, for, after I have narrated the news, I shall question you concerning it.  Do you follow me, misters?”

“Yes, sir,” came in a chorus.

“You need not answer quite as loudly,” warned Midshipman Trotter, sending a backward look over his shoulder at the door.  “Now, then, the police over in Sleepy Hol—­Annapolis—­today learned the details of a yellow tragedy.  Some weeks ago three Chinamen came to town and opened a clean—­I mean, a new—­laundry.  During the last week, however, the public noted that the door leading from the office to the rear room was always closed.  You follow me?”