"Here, sir," said Kennell, stepping forward in his turn.
His face shone with soap, which yet had not been able wholly to eradicate the traces of slate-colored paint with which he had been shower-bathed. Over his left eye a big bit of plaster showed where "Pills" had patched him up. Beneath the same eye a dark bruise was beginning to spread. His jaw was also woefully swollen where Herc had landed his effective blow.
"Now, Kennell," began the captain, who was perfectly aware of the bully's record, and marvelled as much as his officers how such a slim lad as Herc could have inflicted such injuries on him; "now, Kennell, tell us in as few words as you can what occurred this morning between you and Ordinary Seaman Taylor."
"Well, sir," began Kennell sullenly, "I was making my way aft to clean brasswork, sir, when this man here, sir, drops a pot of paint on my head, sir, out of pure malice, as I believe, sir."
"Never mind what you believe. What happened then?"
"Then, when I protested, sir," went on Kennell, "he climbs down from the turret he was a-painting, sir, and strikes me."
"Where?"
"Right by the forward twelve-inch turret, sir."
"You mean your eye, don't you?"
"Well, sir, he struck me all over, sir," complained Kennell.