As he hurried along, Jack Benson decided that he simply could not go to
the Naval Academy presenting any such grotesque picture as he did now. Yet
he had no money about him with which to purchase more presentable clothes
in town. So he formed another plan.

Within a few minutes he came in sight of Annapolis. Hurrying on faster, he
at last entered the town. The further he went the more painfully conscious
the boy became of the ludicrous appearance that he made. He saw men and
women turn their heads to look after him, and his cheeks burned to a deep
scarlet that glowed over the sea-bronze of his skin.

“The single consolation I have is that not a solitary person in town knows
me, anyway,” he muttered. Then he caught sight of a clock on a church
steeple—twenty-five minutes of eight.

“That means a fearful hustle,” he muttered, and went ahead under such
steam that he all but panted. At last he came to the Maryland House,
opposite the State Capitol grounds. Into the office of the hotel he
darted, going straight up to the desk.

A clerk who had been on duty for hours, and who was growing more drowsy
every moment, stared at the boy in amazement.

“See here, you ragamuffin, what—”

“My name is Benson,” began the boy, breathlessly. “I’m a guest of the
house—arrived last night. I—”

“You, a guest of _this_ house?” demanded the clerk of the most select