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."

"Listen to our preacher!" jeered Furlong.