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 Dick.

“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.”

Dick 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.

“Mr. Briggs, take Mr. Furlong’s piece, and go through the silent manual of arms,” ordered the president of the yearling class.

Mr. Briggs picked up the rifle that Furlong pointed out to him.  Then, trying to look very grave in order to hide the extreme sheepishness that he really felt, Mr. Briggs brought the rifle up to port arms.

“Proceed through the manual, mister,” Dick counseled.  “And keep going until we decide that you have done it long enough to put you past the danger of pneumonia.”

Standing stiffly, the plebe started through the manual of arms.  As soon as he had gone once through, with West Point precision in every movement, the plebe started in all over again.

“Now, do this to the stationary marching, mister,” added Dick gravely, as though prescribing something for the very immediate benefit of the luckless fourth classman.

With that, Mr. Briggs began to “march,” though not stirring from the spot on which he was stationed.  Left, right! left, right! left, right! his feet moved, in the cadence of marching.  At the same time the victim was obliged to raise his feet.