Three men scuffed by, sanding the decks. D'ri was leaning placidly
over the big gun. He looked off at the white line, squinted
knowingly, and spat over the bulwarks. Then he straightened up,
tilting his hat to his right ear.

"They 're p'intin' their guns," said a swabber.

"Fust they know they'll git spit on," said D'ri, calmly.

Well, for two hours it was all creeping and talking under the
breath, and here and there an oath as some nervous chap tightened
the ropes of his resolution. Then suddenly, as we swung about, a
murmur went up and down the deck. We could see with our naked eyes
the men who were to give us battle. Perry shouted sternly to some
gunners who thought it high time to fire. Then word came: there
would be no firing until we got close. Little gusts of music came
chasing over the water faint-footed to our decks--a band playing
"Rule Britannia." I was looking at a brig in the line of the enemy
when a bolt of fire leaped out of her and thick belches of smoke
rushed to her topsails. Then something hit the sea near by a great
hissing slap, and we turned quickly to see chunks of the shattered
lake surface fly up in nets of spray and fall roaring on our deck.
We were all drenched there at the bow gun. I remember some of
those water-drops had the sting of hard-flung pebbles, but we only
bent our heads, waiting eagerly for the word to fire.

"We was th' ones 'at got spit on," said a gunner, looking at D'ri.

"Wish they'd let us holler back," said the latter, placidly. "Sick
o' holdin' in."