“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.