“No,” spoke Dick promptly.  “I don’t believe in patting the plebe on the shoulder and increasing his conceit.  When a candidate first comes to West Point, and is admitted as a cadet, he is one of the most conceited simpletons on earth.  He has to have that all taken out of him, I admit.  He must be taught to respect and defer to upper classmen, just as he will have to do with his superior officers after he goes from here out into the service.  The plebe must be kept in his place.  I don’t believe in making him feel that he’s a pet.  I do believe in frowning down all b.j.-ety.  I don’t believe in recognizing a plebe, except officially.  But I don’t believe in subjecting any really good fellow to a lot of senseless and half cruel hazing that has no purpose except the amusement of the yearlings.  Now, I think I’ve made myself clear.  At least, I’ve said all that I have to say on the subject.  For the rest, I’ll listen to the ideas of the rest of you.”

There was silence, broken at last by Greg, who said: 

“I think I agree, in the main, with Prescott.”

“Oh, of course,” grunted Dobbs, in a tone which might mean that Greg Holmes was but the “shadow” of Dick Prescott.

Greg looked quickly at Dobbs, but saw nothing in the other’s face that justified him in taking open offence.

Somehow, though none of the others said anything to that effect, Cadet Prescott began to feel that he was a bit in the way at a conference of this sort.  He didn’t rise to leave at once, but he swung around on his campstool near the door.

Without throwing the flap open, Prescott peeped through a slit-like opening.  As he did so he saw something that made his eyes flash.

The rain was pouring a little less heavily now.  Down the company street came a cadet with a pail of water.

It was Mr. Briggs, a round faced, laughter loving, somewhat roly poly lad of the plebe class.

Just as Mr. Briggs was passing the tent in which Anstey lay making up some needed sleep, a snore came out.

Briggs halted, glancing swiftly up and down the company street.

No upper classman being in sight, Mr. Briggs peeped into the tent.  He saw Anstey, asleep and alone.

Instantly raising the flap just enough, Mr. Briggs took careful aim, then shot half the contents of the pail of water over the chest and face of Yearling Anstey.

Dick Prescott watched unseen by the b.j. plebe.  Mr. Briggs fled lightly, but swiftly four tents down the line and disappeared into his own quarters.

From across the way, came a roar of wrath.

Anstey was up, bellowing like a bull.  Yet, roused so ruthlessly from a sound sleep, it took him a few seconds to realize that his wetting must be due to human agency.

Then Anstey flew to the tent door, looking out, but the chuckling plebe was already in his own tent, out of sight.

“After what I’ve just said,” announced Dick grimly, “I think I know of a plebe who requires some correction.”