"It's a good thing Uncle Sam's shot locker is pretty capacious,"
remarked Flagg, as we shoved another cartridge into the yawning breech
of our five-inch gun. "If we haven't fired over three hundred rounds
since seven o'clock I can't count."

"It'll be double that before we get through," grunted "Long Tommy," as
we stepped back from the loaded gun. "Steady, there. Stand by!"

A motion to "Hay," who held the firing lanyard, and almost instantly
came the sharp, vicious report of the breechloader. Each man sprang back
to his station, and the process of reloading went on without delay. The
battle smoke from Number Six, which had filled our port for some time,
cleared away just then, enabling us to see "Hay's" last shot strike
squarely upon the outer line of earthworks of the Punta Gorda battery.

"Splendid shot, 'Hay'!" exclaimed our division officer, briefly.

"Bully, that's what it is--bully!" cried "Stump," patting the second
captain upon the back.

"Hurray! it's knocked out a gun," reported "Dye," from nearer the port.
"I saw the piece keel over backward."

There was no time for further comment. When a gun's crew is firing at
will, and the excitement of combat has taken possession of the
individual members, the task in hand requires all one's attention. We of
Number Eight had suffered one delay, and we really felt that the lost
time must be made up.