"Carry on, men! Carry on!" exclaimed a boatswain's mate, coming round the barbette at this moment.
"Why, what's all this?" he exclaimed the next minute, as his eyes lighted on the recumbent and paint-smeared figure of Kennell, and the flushed faces and anxious eyes of Ned and Herc.
"It's Kennell, sir; he's knocked out," volunteered one of the jackies.
"So I see. Who has so grossly violated the rules of the service as to have been guilty of fighting?"
All eyes rested on poor Herc, who, coloring up to the roots of his colorful thatch, said, in a low voice:
"I have, sir."
Though the lad's tone was low, his voice never quavered.
"What you—Recruit Taylor—fighting?" queried the amazed boatswain's mate, who was no stranger to the record of the redoubtable Kennell, and inwardly marveled at what sort of fighting machine Herc must be to have laid him low.
"Yes, sir; I'm sorry to say that I have," replied Herc, looking his superior straight in the eyes.
At this juncture the officer of the deck hastened up. From his station amidships he had noted the sudden cessation of all activity forward. He had at once hastened to see what had occurred to stop the monotonous clock-work of the routine duties aboard.