Lifting it threateningly aloft on a level with the captain’s form, he cried out:
“Don’t you strike me, Captain Morris; I am not your slave, if that poor boy is.”
“Drop that!”
At the captain’s foaming, rage-filled tones Will Bertram did drop it.
The bucket fell between them. Its contents splattering far and wide, and trickling over the deck, made the captain retreat summarily.
In so doing the soft, slimy substance gave him a slippery foothold. He slid forward with a muttered imprecation and fell.
Will Bertram experienced a vague alarm as the captain picked himself up.
From head to foot the soft soap clung to his clothing, while from his nose and mouth the blood spurted freely.
“I’ve done it,” muttered Will, apprehensively. “I’d better keep out of his way now.”
It was well that he clambered ashore at that moment, for the captain, frenzied with rage, was rushing towards the spot where he had stood.