“Don’t be A fool, darry!”
A week went by without another class meeting.
For that reason Midshipman Jetson was still nominally in good fellowship.
The delay in action was by no means due to lack of class interest. The class seethed with interest in the affair, but with many of the midshipmen there was a belief that here was a case where slow and thoughtful consideration would be best for all concerned.
Darry was too good a fellow, and far too popular to be forced out of fellowship if it didn’t have to be done to preserve the present feeling of ruffled class dignity.
Knowing that the matter hadn’t been dropped, the first and third classes waited—in curiosity. The fourth class really had no standing in such weighty matters of the internal discipline of the brigade.
Every time that Dave Darrin passed Jetson he spoke pleasantly to the latter. The sulky one, however, did not respond.
“Some day, Darry, you’ll tumble that you’ve been played for a fool,” grumbled Farley.
“Then I’ll have the satisfaction, won’t I, of knowing that it’s all my own fault?” smiled Dave Darrin.
“Yes; but I hate to see you go to pieces for a fellow like Jetson.”
The following Saturday afternoon Darrin came in from a brisk walk, to find Dan poring over his books at the study desk.
“Letter there for you,” said Dan, without looking up, as Dave, after glancing into the room, had turned with the intention of calling on Farley and Page.
“Thank you.” Darrin crossed the room, picking up the letter. “From Belle,” he remarked. “The second from her this week, and I haven’t written her. Answering letters should be part of a man’s honor, so instead of cruising about on the deck, I reckon I’d better sit down and write Belle.”
“What are you going to tell her?” asked Dan quietly, without looking up.
“Hang it all!” grumbled Dave. “This is where the situation begins to be tough. Of course you understand how things are, Danny boy, and you are aware that I have asked Belle to take upon herself the right to be equally interested with me in my career.”
“It is tough,” assented Dan, with ready sympathy, and laying aside his book for the moment. “If my memory serves, Belle asked particularly, when she was here, that you let her know how the Jetson row turned out.”
“Yes; she did.”
“And now you’ve got to tell her—what?”
“Have I got to tell her?” wondered Darrin aloud. “Yes; any other course would be unfair. But another question is, have I a right to tell her just what took place in a class meeting?”
“I think so,” spoke up Dalzell. “Of course, you needn’t attempt to report the speeches, or anything like that, but it’s rather clear to me that you have a right to tell Belle the exact news so far as it affects you—and therefore her.”