SAM GETS A PIG'S FOOT
The "Long Island" was still lying inside the breakwater when the lads
were piped to their gun station the following morning.
"Seaman Dan Davis and Sam Hickey will hereafter act as gun pointers in
number four turret," said the gun captain. "You will get your rating
badges at the canteen, meaning the ship's storeroom. See that you have
them before the afternoon practice at four bells."
The Battleship Boys looked at each other triumphantly, and Sam winked
wisely at his companion. How the lads did go through their work that
day, performing each duty with a snap that drew nods of approval from
the gun captain and wondering looks from their companions.
After the noon meal they hastened to the canteen, where they procured
the rating badges. This was a square of blue cloth on which was a
white circle with two fine lines drawn across the circle at right
angles to each other, representing the crossed sights such as one finds
in a telescope rifle.
The boys lost no time in sewing them on their sleeves, after which they
paraded the forward deck, doing their best to look unconcerned. Their
efforts in this direction were failures.
"Hello, Dynamite! I see you've got your hash marks," greeted a
companion.
"Oh, you mean this," answered Dan, with glowing face, as he held up his
arm.
"I've got one, too, even if I couldn't hit the side of a barn," spoke
up the red-headed Hickey. "I told the captain of number four how I had
plugged woodchucks back home, though, and I guess that convinced him
that I could shoot big guns."
"Say, Hickey, speaking of hash marks, have you got any on you yet?"
"I'm just telling you I have one here. I'm a gun pointer. If you
don't believe it, come over to the turret and I'll point one at you.
It'll make you jump when the pop-gun goes off, I'll bet."
"No, no; I don't mean that kind of a hash mark," laughed his companion.
"What kind, then?"
"Tattoo marks. We call them hash marks."
"I get tattooed--is that what you mean?"
"Of course; every sailor--every real sailor--has that done."
"What for?"
"Just to be the real thing; that's all."
"I don't know. I hadn't thought of it."
"I'll take you over to Needle Johnson, if you want to have it done."
"Well, I don't know," reflected Sam. "Does it hurt?"
"Of course it doesn't. You will not even feel it. Doesn't hurt half
as much as the sting of a Jersey mosquito."
"I'll go and talk with What's-his-name----"
"Needle Johnson."
"Yes. Where's Dan?"
"I think he has gone below. You come along, and he'll be surprised and
envious when he finds you have had the job done," continued the boy's
shipmate with a wink at some of the others standing by.
Sam somewhat reluctantly followed the jackie below, where, after some
searching about, they finally located Needle Johnson. Needle was an
old-time sea dog, wearing a heavy crop of whiskers and with a voice
that would have done credit to a boatswain's mate.
"Here's a lad who hasn't had a hash mark put on his skin, and he's been
on board for three months."
Needle gazed at the red-headed boy pityingly.
"You don't mean it?"
"Yes. I told him he wouldn't be a real sailor until he had some paint
stuck under his hide."
"That's the sure thing, my lad, and I'm the salt that can give you the
purtiest hashings you ever set eyes on. Where did you reckon you
wanted the marks put?"
"I hadn't reckoned anything about it. I guess I don't want any of
those hash marks, as you call them," Sam returned.
"What? Not want them? Of course you do."
Sam reflected a moment, then gave a reluctant consent.
"What kind of a tattoo would you suggest?"
"A pig's foot, by all means, matey. That's the latest and most
fashionable decoration that a gentleman can wear. How'll you have it!"
"I'll take mine pickled, if it's all the same to you," answered Sam
soberly.
The jackies roared.
"What do you take me for--a sea-cook?" growled Johnson. "Take off your
right shoe if you want to do business with me."
"What for?"
"For the hash. You wouldn't have a pig's foot anywhere else, would
you?"
"I--I don't know."
"That's the only place to put it, and it will bring you luck."
In the meantime Needle Johnson had gotten out his case of needles and
his coloring matter.
"You are sure it won't hurt?" asked Sam.
"You won't feel a thing. Now, hold perfectly still. If you jerked, or
anything, I might make a pig's tail instead of a pig's foot. That
would be tough, wouldn't it, matey?"
"It might be tough for you. Ou-u-u-uch!"
Sam Hickey's foot came up with such suddenness that Needle was unable
to dodge it. The foot caught Needle fairly on the nose, bowling him
over to the deck, while all hands were shrieking with delight over his
discomfiture.
"What--what do you mean, you--you lubber?" demanded Needle angrily,
rubbing the injured member, then shaking a fist under the red-headed
boy's nose.
"You--you said it wouldn't hurt."
"Hurt nothing!"
"I should say it did hurt. What are you trying to do--drill a hole all
the way through my foot? I don't want any hash marks. I'll get along
with just my natural skin, whether I have any luck or not. Give me
that shoe."
"Say, fellows," spoke up a jackie. "I reckon Red-head had better have
a pig's foot, eh!"
"You bet he had," chorused the others.
"And he won't do it of his own free will."
"So he says."
"Then it seems to be our solemn duty to take the job into our own
hands, does it not, mates?"
"It is."
"All right, then. Seaman Hickey, do we get it straight that you defy
the rules of our profession by refusing to wear the badge of that
profession?"
"Call it what you want to. I'm not going to have any heathen rites
performed over me, or my skin pricked full of holes."
"Then, shipmate, you'll have to take your medicine. Jump on him, boys!"
Black and White, the two Hawaiians who had been standing by grinning,
made a concerted rush for Hickey. He wheeled just as they threw
themselves upon him. But the Pacific Islanders were reckoning without
the cost.
"So that's the game, is it?" gritted Sam.
Grabbing Black by the collar and one leg, he pitched the fellow half
way across the deck, standing the Hawaiian on his head. White
followed. He, too, was sailing through the air before Black struck.
Both landed on the same spot, and instantly were fighting each other in
their efforts to get clear.
But the admiring jackies had no time to spare. They would have liked
nothing better than to have let that affair go on to a finish.
Instead, the whole crowd, fifteen or twenty of them, fell upon the
red-haired boy, hand and foot. Sam went down in a heap. He was not
angry, but he was giving these fellows all they wanted in their
attempts to hold him down.
"Grab the foot!" shouted one.
The jackie did so, but was promptly knocked over by a kick on the nose,
causing that member to bleed freely.
This time two sailors grasped the Battleship Boy's naked foot and
straightened it out.
"Get your tools out, Needle. Here's your foot."
Despite their efforts, the foot was working back and forth so fast that
Johnson was unable to do anything with it.
"Pass a rope around it. That's the way we used to rope cattle out
west. That's the idea."
A line was passed about Hickey's ankle and made fast to a stanchion.
"All right, Needle, drive the color in deep, so it won't wash out."
"Give him two pig's feet," suggested another. "He'll have better luck
if you do."
"I'll trim the whole bunch of you for this," growled a voice from the
bottom of the pile.
The jackies laughed loudly.
"Me fix him, me fix him," snarled Black, at that instant jumping into
the pile, his face contorted with rage.
"You get out and mind your own business," advised one of the men. "You
got yours; now run along and be good. Take your white friend along
with you, while you are about it, or we'll paint both of you."
While this conversation was going on Johnson was plying his needle
industriously, and under his hand Sam Hickey's foot was undergoing a
great change. Little by little the outline of a pig's foot was
appearing. The pig's foot was done in red, while the toe nails of the
foot were in blue.
"There; you can let the broncho up now," announced Johnson, after
putting the final touches to his artistic achievement.
The sailors piled off, while one of their number released the rope that
held the foot. Sam struggled to a sitting posture, much the worse for
wear, his hair standing up, his clothes soiled and disordered. But it
was the foot that attracted his attention. He surveyed it dubiously,
then his eyes wandered about the circle of laughing faces.
Sam grinned a sheepish grin.
"Fellows, you've insulted an officer and a gentleman, and I've got to
get even with you--no; I'll have you before the mast, every one of you,
so----"
All hands began grunting in imitation of a herd of pigs.
"I see I am not the only pig in the sty, after all," announced Seaman
Hickey cuttingly, as he calmly began pulling on his shoe over the sore
foot.