Fred Craven, the coxswain of the Spray, and secretary of the Sportsman’s Club, is a year older than Walter and scarcely more than half as large. He is a jolly little fellow, a great favorite with everybody, except Bayard Bell and his crowd, and always answers to the name of “Featherweight.” He is a good bat and short-stop, sails his own yacht, is Vice Commodore of the Academy squadron, and his record as a student is excellent. No one ever suspects him of being in a scrape, and his influence goes a long way toward keeping such wild fellows as Perk and Eugene within bounds. He now sits poring over his Virgil, and, like Walter, is so deeply interested in his book that he does not hear the rattle of the checkers or the conversation kept up by the other members of the Club.
There is another occupant of the room that we must not forget to speak of, for he bears a somewhat important part in our story. It is Rex, the Irish greyhound which lies stretched out on the rug in front of the fire. The dog always sleeps in the same apartment with Walter, who is the only one he acknowledges as his master, and whom he accompanies wherever he goes. He does other things, too, that we shall tell of by and by.
The hours fly rapidly when one is agreeably employed, and it was ten o’clock before the boys knew it. Long before that time Eugene had finished repairing his rifle and getting all his accoutrements ready for the hunt on the morrow, and after trying different plans for his amusement, such as reading, watching the game of backgammon, and teasing Rex, he picked up his flute. He was a good performer, and when he confined himself to music, the Club never grew tired of listening to him; but on this occasion, being possessed with his usual spirit of mischief, he imitated the squealing of pigs, the cackling of hens, the creaking of wagons, and produced other doleful sounds that were enough to drive one distracted. Walter endured it, and so did Perk and Bab. The former, with his feet stretched out straight before him, his chin resting on his breast, his eyebrows elevated, and both hands tightly clasping his book, read on all unmindful of what was going on around him, and the others rattled their pieces and talked and played without paying any heed to the noise; but the nervous little Featherweight, finding it impossible to construe his Latin with such a din ringing in his ears, raised a cry of remonstrance.