“You’re General Washington, out to take a ride on your horse,” announced Mr. Merriam, turning to Hal.  “It’s a ride for your health.  Do you understand?  It will be wholly for your health to take that ride!”

Hal Hastings couldn’t help comprehending.  With a sheepish grin he sat astride of Jack Benson’s back as the latter stood on all fours.

“Go ahead with your ride, General,” called Mr. Merriam.

Jack pranced as best he could, on all fours, Hal making the load of his own weight as light as he could.  Over the ground the pair moved in this nonsensical ride, the cadets following and grinning their appreciation of the nonsense.

Two of the young men followed, holding Eph by the arms between them.  Mr. Merriam now turned upon the unhappy freckled boy.

“Down on all fours,” ordered Mr. Merriam.  “You’re the measly dog that barked at General Washington on that famous ride.  Bark, you wretched yellow cur—­bark, bark, bark!”

Though Eph Somers was madder than ever, he had just enough judgment remaining to feel that the wisest thing would be to obey instructions.  So, on all fours, Eph raced after Jack, barking at him.

“See how frightened the horse is,” muttered one of the midshipmen.

Taking the hint, Jack shied as well as he could.

“That’s all,” said Mr. Merriam, at last.  “All of that, at least.”

As the three submarine boys rose, each found himself gently held by a pair of cadet midshipmen.  It was a more or less polite hint that the ordeal was not yet over.  Mr. Merriam turned to whisper to one of the cadets, who darted inside the barracks building.  He was back, promptly, carrying a folded blanket on his arm.

A grin spread over the faces of the assembled cadet midshipmen.  The bearer of the blanket at once unfolded it.  As many of the cadets as could got hold of the edges, bending, holding the blanket spread out over the ground.

Jack Benson’s two captors suddenly hurled him across the length of the blanket with no gentle force.  Instantly the cadets holding the blankets straightened up, jerking it taut.  Up into the air a couple of feet bounded Jack.  As his body came down the cadets holding the blanket gave it a still harder jerk.  This time Jack shot up into the air at least four feet.  It was the same old blanket-tossing, long popular both in the Army and Navy.  Every time Jack landed the blanket was given a harder jerk by those holding it.  Benson began to go higher and higher.

And now the cadets broke into a low, monotonous chant, in time to their movements.  It ran: 

Sir, sir, surcingle!

Sir, sir, circle!

Sir, sir, with a shingle—­

Sir, sir, sir!

As regular as drumbeats the cadets ripped out the syllables of the refrain.  At each word Jack Benson’s body shot higher and higher.  These young men were experts in the gentle art of blanket-tossing.  Ere long the submarine boy was going up into the air some eight or nine feet at every tautening of the blanket.