CHAPTER XII.
A CHRONIC PAP FRAPPER Another week had passed.
By this time all of the new midshipmen had had a very strong taste of what the "grind" is like at the U.S.Naval Academy.
If the lessons had seemed hard at the outset, the young men now regarded the tax demanded on their brains as little short of inhuman.
The lessons were long and hard.

No excuse of "unprepared" or otherwise was ever accepted in a section room.
The midshipman who had to admit himself "unprepared" immediately struck "zip," or absolute zero as a marking for the day.

Many such marks would swiftly result in dragging even a bright man's average down to a point where he would fall below two-five and be "unsat." "I thought we plugged along pretty steadily when we were in the High School," sighed Dave Darrin, looking up from a book.

"Danny boy, a day's work here is fully three times as hard as the severest day back at the High School.
"David, little giant," retorted Dalzell, "your weak spot is arithmetic.
It's just seven times as hard here as the worst deal that we ever got in the High School." "Oh, well," retorted Darrin doggedly, "other men have stood this racket before us, and have graduated into the Navy.

If they did it, we can do it, too.