“I wish I knew how to do things the way you do,” he said. “Somehow my feet and hands don’t fit the rest of my anatomy. I’m a thickhead and a landlubber, all in one.” “You are all right, if you would only think so,” replied Dan. After the noonday mess the boys were resting on the forward deck when Sam called the attention of his companion to a group of sailors on the port side, leaning against the rail engaged in earnest conversation. The spokesman was no other than Bill Kester. Bill was gesticulating. A sailor appeared to be opposing him in something. “I wonder what’s up?” mused Dan. “Quarreling again, I guess,” decided Sam, rising and strolling forward where he leaned over the bow of the ship, gazing thoughtfully down into the turbulent sea. Now and then a thin shower of spray would mount high in the air and dash over him, the anchored ship having swung about until its bow was headed into the half-gale that was blowing up the coast. After a time two jackies strolled over to where Dan was sitting, and leaned indolently against the forward twelve-inch turret. “How’s the shipmate to-day?” inquired one. “Very well, thank you.” “Feeling fit as a fiddle, eh?” “Never better, though I do feel as if I had been eating paint all my life. I’m all red on the outside and white on the inside. My walls do not need any more dressing,” laughed Dan. “Then we’ve got a proposition to make to you.” “A what?” “Proposition.” “What is it?” “It’s usual on shipboard, when one party gets a grouch on against another, to meet according to rules and fight it out.” “Well, what of it?” “How’d you like to fight, matey?” “No, thank you,” Dan replied, with considerable emphasis, the memory of his previous trouble still being fresh in mind. “Whom do you want me to fight?” “We haven’t said we wanted you to fight anybody. We ain’t very strong on having you fight somebody. Somebody wants to fight you, and we’ve been appointed a committee to come over and consult with you.” “Some one wishes to fight me, is that it?” questioned Dan. “That’s about it, shipmate.” Dan gazed at them inquiringly. “Who?” “Bill Kester.” “I might have known it.” “It’s only fair to tell you, Mr. Dynamite, that he’s about the scrappiest scrapper on board the ‘Long Island.’ We’ve been thinking of getting one of the men from aboard the ‘Michigan’ to come over and whale the daylights out of him some of these days. He’s got to get it before he’ll quit picking trouble with other folks. You’re under-size and lighter than Bill, even if you did lay him out the other day. But because of your size you’ve got a right to refuse, if you want to,” continued the sailor. It was plain, however, that he secretly hoped Dan would accept the challenge to do battle with the ship’s bully.