The Battleship Boys at Sea Part 23

"How long does this scrubbing business keep up?" asked Sam when he met the boatswain's mate later in the afternoon.

"Let's see; you enlisted for four years?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, that's it."

"What is it?"

"The scrubbing. We are always scrubbing aboard s.h.i.+p; that is, when we are not painting. Do you like to paint?"

"I never tried."

"You will have a chance to do so to-morrow. We shall probably anchor off the Delaware breakwater to-morrow morning; then all hands will turn to and paint s.h.i.+p. Next to scrubbing decks the jackie is never so happy as when he has a paint brush in his hands."

But Sam was doubtful. He decided that he would much prefer to be an officer. When the day was ended both boys had appet.i.tes that would not bear trifling with. Mess, that night, was a real meal so far as they were concerned. Sam had a third helping of everything on the bill.

"Have some more canned Willie," urged a s.h.i.+pmate.

"Willie? Who's he?"

"Willie is meat."

"Red-head, you keep on eating that way your first day out, and Pills will have a job putting you on your feet again," suggested another sailor.

"I'll take the chance," mumbled Sam, his mouth full of food. "It won't be the first chance I've taken in this line of duty, either. But who is Mr. Pills?"

"'Pills,'" laughed the sailor, "is the doctor."

By the time supper had been finished the breeze had freshened considerably and the "Long Island" was pitching heavily. The watch was called on duty about this time, but being raw men the two boys were not to have this duty put upon them just yet. Instead, they repaired to the forward deck, where they lay down against the big gun turret, to rest after their day's work.

The smoke lamp had been lighted, and many of their companions were stretched about on the deck, smoking, telling stories or discussing the latest news that they had heard while in port. In the lighted corridors men might be seen sitting on the floor with their ditty boxes on their knees, writing letters.

About this time, the band came out, electric lights were strung over the deck on the starboard side, where the musicians would be protected from the strong breeze, and chairs brought out for the players.

Soon the regular evening concert began. The voices of the sailors were stilled; under the spell of the music many heads drooped, many tired eyes closed for a few moments of delicious sleep.

"Isn't it glorious?" breathed Dan.

"It might be if things weren't so upside down," complained Sam.

"What's the matter? Aren't you feeling well?"

"I have felt better," answered Sam in a husky voice. "I guess I'll take a walk."

His walk did not last long. Sam took a turn once across the deck, then settled down beside his companion, holding his head between his hands.

"Why, Sam, are you really ill?" questioned Dan, his voice full of concern.

"Ill? I think I'm going to die. Ugh!" Sam stretched out on the deck flat on his back.

"Sam Hickey, I believe you are seasick," exclaimed Dan.

Sam's only answer was a long-drawn moan.

CHAPTER XIII-RESENTING AN INSULT

The services of two jackies were required to boost Hickey into his hammock that night at nine o'clock, when hammocks were piped up.

At five o'clock next morning, when the bugle piped all hands out, the red-haired Jackie was in a sad state. His hair was standing up like the quill of a porcupine, fairly bristling with disorder. When Dan helped him down to the deck Sam fell in a heap.

"Brace up!" urged Dan. "Don't let them think you a landlubber."

"I don't care what they think. I'm a sick man."

"Never mind; you will feel better after you get some hot breakfast inside of you."

"Breakfast! Waugh!"

Dan helped his chum to the shower baths, where Sam took a cold bath that tuned him up considerably. He was still very uncertain on his feet, however, as he made his way forward for his deck swab, for the first duty of the day was to take up his occupation of swabbing decks.

Sam's footsteps lagged that morning. He was several paces behind the other swabbers all the time.

"What's the matter, red-head?" questioned one of the jackies.

"I'm sick, that's all."

"Trying to work the list, eh?" asked another.

"I don't know what working the list may be, but I'm anything you want to call me."

"He means getting on the binnacle list,"

"What's that?" wondered Sam.

"Being excused by the doctor for one day on account of a fit of laziness that makes a fellow think he's sick."

"I don't think; I know," was the lad's muttered response. However, Sam resolutely stuck to his work, though every plunge of the battles.h.i.+p threatened him with a final collapse to the deck.

Somehow, he managed to pull himself through that long morning without, as he called it, "disgracing myself." When the command came, "knock off scrubbing decks," Sam broke ranks and ran for the forecastle. He did not dare trust himself to walk, for he feared he would be unable to keep on his feet.

But his headlong course was an unsafe one through the narrow corridors of a man-of-war, and many a jackie and marine's s.h.i.+ns were rapped soundly by the handle of the deck swab, during Sam's wild dash. The jackies yelled at him, now and then one hurling something at the fleeing lad, but Sam did not stop until something finally happened to check his mad career.

Somehow his swab handle was thrust between the feet of a man standing with his back to the lad. This occurred on the gun deck.