"Yes, sir; I think so," answered Darrin, with a slight smile.

"Ah! Then there's a man in the squad who is more than a mere
saphead. Let us have the telephone number, mister!

"Two-ate-one-John," replied Dave promptly.

This was the correct answer. Dave had heard that "gag" before.

"Mister," beamed Mr. Trotter, "I congratulate you. You are no
mollycoddle. Your head is not over-fat, but somewhat stocked
with ideas. As soon as you have soaked in a few more ideas you
will be fit to associate with the young gentlemen at this
sailor-factory. You may, therefore, take the washbowl, fill it
half full of ideas, and stand on your head in them until they have
soaked well in!"

Poor Dave, his face flushed crimson, could have dropped in his
humiliation at having thus fallen into the trap. But he started
manfully for the washbowl, which he half filled with water. Meanwhile
the other five plebes were choking. They could have screamed
in their glee--had they dared!

Placing the bowl where ordered, Dave bent down to his knees, immersing
the top of his head in the water.

With hands on opposite sides of the bowl he balanced his feet,
preparatory to hoisting them into place against the wall.