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.