CHAPTER XIII--RESENTING AN INSULT

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.