Sam’s toe caught the projection. Just then the battleship gave a great lurch to port. This being the direction in which the boy was traveling at that moment, it gave him added impetus.
The captain opened his eyes in amazement as Hickey’s red-head shot through the curtain.
The Battleship Boy covered about half the width of the cabin, barely touching the floor with his feet, his arms beating the air wildly in his fruitless effort to clutch something that was not moving.
Then the crash came.
Sam landed on his head and shoulders, skated along the slippery floor, headed for the captain’s breakfast table. He hit the mark squarely. That is, he slid right underneath the table, at the same time turning over on his back in an effort to stop his rapid flight.
Sam threw up his feet. The move was fatal. The captain’s table was lifted right up into the air. A crashing of dishes followed as the table turned turtle. A shower of broken glassware rained down over the head of the Battleship Boy followed quickly by the table itself.
Sam lay buried beneath the wreckage.
He did not move, not because he could not, but because he dared not. He feared any movement on his part would mean the end of the world so far as he was concerned.
CHAPTER XIX—THE WORK OF AN ENEMY
“Get up, lad!” commanded the captain, himself removing the table from his unfortunate orderly.