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“Then I thought I might as well bear a hand as look pretty. So I let my bundoop go at fifteen ‘undred–sightin’ very particular. There was a sort of ‘appy little belch like–no more, I give you my word–an’ the shell trundled out maybe fifty feet an’ dropped into the deep Atlantic.

“‘Government powder, Sir!’ sings out our Gunnery Jack to the bridge, laughin’ horrid sarcastic; an’ then, of course, we all laughs, which we are not encouraged to do in puris naturalibus. Then, of course, I saw what our Gunnery Jack ‘ad been after with his subcutaneous details in the magazines all the mornin’ watch. He had redooced the charges to a minimum, as you might say. But it made me feel a trifle faint an’ sickish notwithstanding this spit-in-the-eye business. Every time such transpired, our Gunnery Lootenant would say somethin’ sarcastic about Government stores, an’ the old man fair howled. ‘Op was on the bridge with ‘im, an’ ‘e told me–’cause ‘e’s a free-knowledgeist an’ reads character–that Antonio’s face was sweatin’ with pure joy. ‘Op wanted to kick him. Does Antonio say anything about that?”

“Not about the kicking, but he is great on the gun-practice, Mr. Pyecroft. He has put all the results into a sort of appendix–a table of shots. He says that the figures will speak more eloquently than words.”

“What? Nothin’ about the way the crews flinched an’ hopped? Nothin’ about the little shells rumblin’ out o’ the guns so casual?”

“There are a few pages of notes, but they only bear out what you say. He says that these things always happen as soon as one of our ships is out of sight of land. Oh, yes! I’ve forgotten. He says, ‘From the conversation of my captain with his inferiors I gathered that no small proportion of the expense of these nominally efficient cartridges finds itself in his pockets. So much, indeed, was signified by an officer on the deck below, who cried in a high voice: “I hope, Sir, you are making something out of it. It is rather monotonous.” This insult, so flagrant, albeit well- merited, was received with a smile of drunken bonhommy’–that’s cheerfulness, Mr. Pyecroft. Your glass is empty.”

“Resumin’ afresh,” said Mr. Pyecroft, after a well-watered interval, “I may as well say that the target-practice occupied us two hours, and then we had to dig out after the tramp. Then we half an’ three-quarters cleaned up the decks an’ mucked about as requisite, haulin’ down the patent awnin’ stun’sles which Number One ‘ad made. The old man was a shade doubtful of his course, ’cause I ‘eard him say to Number One, ‘You were right. A week o’ this would turn the ship into a Hayti bean-feast. But,’ he says pathetic, ‘haven’t they backed the band noble?’

“‘Oh! it’s a picnic for them,’ says Number One.

“‘But when do we get rid o’ this whisky-peddlin’ blighter o’ yours, Sir?’

“‘That’s a cheerful way to speak of a Viscount,’ says the old man. “E’s the bluest blood o’ France when he’s at home,’

“‘Which is the precise landfall I wish ‘im to make,’ says Number One.’ It’ll take all ‘ands and the Captain of the Head to clean up after ‘im.’

“‘They won’t grudge it,’ says the old man. ‘Just as soon as it’s dusk we’ll overhaul our tramp friend an’ waft him over,’

“Then a sno–midshipman–Moorshed was is name–come up an’ says somethin’ in a low voice. It fetches the old man.

“‘You’ll oblige me,’ ‘e says, ‘by takin’ the wardroom poultry for that. I’ve ear-marked every fowl we’ve shipped at Madeira, so there can’t be any possible mistake. M’rover,’ ‘e says, ‘tell ’em if they spill one drop of blood on the deck,’ he says, ‘they’ll not be extenuated, but hung.’

“Mr. Moorshed goes forward, lookin’ unusual ‘appy, even for him. The Marines was enjoyin’ a committee-meetin’ in their own flat.

“After that, it fell dark, with just a little streaky, oily light on the sea–an’ any thin’ more chronic than the Archimandrite I’d trouble you to behold. She looked like a fancy bazaar and a auction-room–yes, she almost looked like a passenger-steamer. We’d picked up our tramp, an’ was about four mile be’ind ‘er. I noticed the wardroom as a class, you might say, was manoeuvrin’ en masse, an’ then come the order to cockbill the yards. We hadn’t any yards except a couple o’ signallin’ sticks, but we cock-billed ’em. I hadn’t seen that sight, not since thirteen years in the West Indies, when a post-captain died o’ yellow jack. It means a sign o’ mourning the yards bein’ canted opposite ways, to look drunk an’ disorderly. They do.