lifting his feet as high as he could, and yet obliged to bring
them down noiselessly to the floor, Plebe Briggs quickly began
to drip with perspiration.

Yet his inquisitors sat by with the judicial gravity of drill
sergeants. For ten minutes Mr. Briggs continued this grotesque
work. He knew better than to stop; it would not be wise, even,
to send any appealing glances at his inquisitors.

"Halt!" called Prescott softly, at last.

Briggs stopped, holding himself at attention after he had allowed
the butt of the rifle to touch the floor noiselessly.

"Mister, return Mr. Furlong's piece."

The plebe obeyed, wondering what next was in store for him. Prescott
noted that Mr. Briggs's legs were trembling under him.

"That is all, for the present, mister," announced the class sergeant.
"But you will hold yourself in readiness, in case we call you out
for a soiree this evening."

"Yes, sir," assented the plebe.

"You may go."

Mr. Briggs judged that he had better salute the yearling class
president very carefully as he passed out with his bucket. This
he did, then hastened down the company street.