The services of two jackies were required to boost Hickey into his
hammock that night at nine o'clock, when hammocks were piped up.
At five o'clock next morning, when the bugle piped all hands out, the
red-haired Jackie was in a sad state. His hair was standing up like the
quill of a porcupine, fairly bristling with disorder. When Dan helped
him down to the deck Sam fell in a heap.
"Brace up!" urged Dan. "Don't let them think you a landlubber."
"I don't care what they think. I'm a sick man."
"Never mind; you will feel better after you get some hot breakfast
inside of you."
"Breakfast! Waugh!"
Dan helped his chum to the shower baths, where Sam took a cold bath that
tuned him up considerably. He was still very uncertain on his feet,
however, as he made his way forward for his deck swab, for the first
duty of the day was to take up his occupation of swabbing decks.
Sam's footsteps lagged that morning. He was several paces behind the
other swabbers all the time.
"What's the matter, red-head?" questioned one of the jackies.
"I'm sick, that's all."
"Trying to work the list, eh?" asked another.
"I don't know what working the list may be, but I'm anything you want to
call me."
"He means getting on the binnacle list,"
"What's that?" wondered Sam.
"Being excused by the doctor for one day on account of a fit of laziness
that makes a fellow think he's sick."
"I don't think; I know," was the lad's muttered response. However, Sam
resolutely stuck to his work, though every plunge of the battleship
threatened him with a final collapse to the deck.
Somehow, he managed to pull himself through that long morning without,
as he called it, "disgracing myself." When the command came, "knock off
scrubbing decks," Sam broke ranks and ran for the forecastle. He did not
dare trust himself to walk, for he feared he would be unable to keep on
his feet.
But his headlong course was an unsafe one through the narrow corridors
of a man-of-war, and many a jackie and marine's shins were rapped
soundly by the handle of the deck swab, during Sam's wild dash. The
jackies yelled at him, now and then one hurling something at the fleeing
lad, but Sam did not stop until something finally happened to check his
mad career.
Somehow his swab handle was thrust between the feet of a man standing
with his back to the lad. This occurred on the gun deck.
The man went down flat on his face, and Sam likewise tripped over the
handle of the deck swab, plunging headlong on the fallen man.
There was instant commotion. Those of the crew who chanced to be
standing about set up a roar of laughter.
"Look out, Bill. His head will set fire to your uniform," shouted one of
them.
Sam was struggling to his feet, very red in the face and very much
ashamed of his clumsiness. He started forward to help the other man up,
when the latter regained his feet with a bound. The man's face was
bloody, a deep gash having appeared across his nose.
"Did the red-head do you up, Kester?" shouted several voices at once.
Bill Kester, in falling, had struck a sharp edge on the carriage of an
eight-inch gun, and had sustained a painful wound. Besides this, his
face was smeared with grease that it had collected in scraping along the
carriage.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," begged Sam.
Kester was mopping the blood and grime from his face, regardless of the
fact that the sleeve with which he was performing the operation would
not stand an inspection.
"It was an accident. Believe me, I could not help it. I was feeling sick
and was hurrying to some place where I could lie down."
The injured seaman did not answer at once.
"Is there anything I can do for you? May I get you some water?"
"Go soak his head under the scuttle butt," shouted another sailor.
It was quite plain that, for some reason, all hands seemed to enjoy Bill
Kester's unexpected downfall, for no one expressed any sympathy for him,
or regret at the accident. This Sam did not observe, however. He was too
much concerned over the result of his carelessness. In fact he forgot,
for the moment, that the deck was heaving under his feet and that
everything movable about him was on the move.
"Hit him again, red-head!"
"I said it was an accident, and that I am very, very sorry. Did you
understand?"
"You lie!"
Sam Hickey's face had been pale since the beginning of his recent
internal disturbances. But the color now surged to his cheeks, mounting
to the roots of his red hair, with which it merged.
"If you were not hurt, I'd make you take back those words. I don't allow
any man to apply that term to me."
"That's the talk. Hand him one for luck, anyway, red-head!"
"You lie!" This time it came out with such an accent that there was no
misunderstanding. Bill Kester's intent was plainly to goad Sam into
attacking him.
The Battleship Boy stood with tightly clenched fists at his side, his
teeth grinding in his great effort to control himself. Something of this
seemed to convey itself to the jackies who, up to this moment, had
looked upon the little scene as a delightful diversion. They saw at once
that the red-headed, freckle-faced boy before them was holding himself
in check under circumstances that would have driven any one of them into
a blind, uncontrollable rage.
"Coward!" shouted Kester.
At the same time he sprang forward, landing a resounding slap on Sam
Hickey's cheek.
Smack!
The Battleship Boy's right fist shot out. Sam had gone the limit in
self-control. He could endure no more.
The fist landed squarely on Bill Kester's sore nose, but with a force
that must have surprised that worthy. The man staggered backward,
falling all in a heap, wedged in between the sides of the eight-inch gun
carriage.
"Whoop! Now let the eagle scream!" shouted the sailors. "Pretty hot
stuff for a shipmate who's on the binnacle list. Go over and give him
another on the same spot, red-head."
Sam's deck swab dropped from his hand.
"I'm sorry I did that. I ought not to have hit him, but I just couldn't
help it."
"Don't you worry about that, lad," soothed a shipmate. "Bill got what
was coming to him, only you ought to hit him once more in the same
place. If you want to finish the job we'll see that you get fair play."
"I do not want to fight. I am no fighter," said Sam.
"No fighter?" the sailors laughed uproariously. "Do you know, red-head,
that Bill Kester is a bully and that he's licked half the crew already?"
"I don't care if he has licked the whole fleet; he can't call me a liar
and a coward. I could stand for the liar business, because maybe he
didn't mean it that way. But 'coward' I draw the line at."
By this time Kester had extricated himself from his uncomfortable
position. No one had offered to help him, and for reasons of his own,
Sam had not gone to the fallen man's assistance. The lad stood calmly
awaiting the result of his act.
Bill got to his feet unsteadily, blinked his eyes, gingerly felt his now
flattened nose, then thrusting out his chin, he glared at his young
adversary.
Sam gave back the look unflinchingly.
"Shall we call it square? I'm sorry I tripped you and sorry I had to hit
you," announced Hickey in a manly tone, wholly free from anger.
For an instant Kester hesitated.
"All right; shake, shipmate," he said, advancing.
Sam met him half way with a pleased smile on his face, his right hand
extended to complete the truce that had been declared.
"Look out, red-head!" warned a voice with a trace of excitement in it.
The warning came too late.
Quick as a flash Bill Kester planted a cowardly blow squarely between
the boy's eyes. Sam Hickey settled down on the gun deck, toppled over
and straightened out.
For an instant there was silence. Then an angry roar burst from the
indignant jackies as they made a concerted rush for Kester, who had
sought to follow up his advantage and inflict further punishment on his
victim while in this defenseless position.