"Why should we---say, did you hear the man?" appealed Furlong,
looking around him despairingly at the other yearlings. "Why
should we do anything to the plebes? And yet, in a trusting moment,
we elected old ramrod to be president of the class! Why should
we---o-o-o-o-h!"

Cadet Furlong made a gurgling sound in his throat, as though he
were perishing for lack of air.

"Prescott isn't serious," hinted Griffin.

"Yes, I am," contended Dick, half stubbornly. "Griffin, what
did you think of yearlings---last year?"

"What I thought, last year," retorted Cadet Griffin, "doesn't
much matter now. Then I was an ignorant, stupid, unregenerate,
unsophisticated, useless, worthless and objectionable member of
the community. I hadn't advanced far enough to appreciate the
very exalted position that a yearling holds by right."

"We now know, quite well," broke in Dobbs, "that it is a yearling's
sacred and bounden duty to lick a plebe into shape in the shortest
possible order. Though it never has been done, and never can be
done inside of a year," he finished with a sigh.

"Do you seek words of wisdom from your class president?" Cadet
Prescott inquired.

"Oh, yes, wise and worthy sir!" begged Furlong.