Supper was in full swing when Ned, who was at the head of the table which seated his "mess," was the recipient of a surprising testimonial.
It came in the shape of a hot baked potato, flung with accuracy and speed. It struck the Dreadnought Boy in the eye, and burst, spreading its pasty contents over his features. Herc, who sat by Ned, leaped to his feet in a flash, while Ned hastily pawed the mass out of his eyes.
"I saw who threw that," cried Herc, his face aflame, the freckles looming up like spots on the sun; "if he's a man, he'll stand up."
A stir ran through the forecastle. Herc's finger pointed to a distant table and rested on the form of Merritt. Chance sat by him. Both had been laughing an instant before, but as Merritt saw that he had been found out his face assumed a rather sickly grin.
"Sit down, Herc," ordered Ned rather sternly, "I'll attend to this. Am I to understand that you threw that potato?" he demanded, fixing his gaze straight on Merritt's face.
The other's eyes sank. He looked disturbed and a bit scared. Ned's voice had held no uncertain ring.
"It—it was just a joke," he said. "You don't need to get huffy about it."
"Rather a strenuous joke, wasn't it?" asked Ned in a firm, calm voice, while the eyes of every man in the place were fixed on him in breathless attention.
"I—I didn't mean to hit you," went on Merritt. "I just wanted to give you a jump. It was just a joke—that's all."
"That being the case," resumed Ned, "I shall have to ask you to remove the consequences of your joke."