"Here comes Scully," some one whispered; "now we'll have a chance."

"The captain says fire when ready, at 1,500 yards," said Scully,
saluting Mr. Greene, the officer of the division. "Captain says, sir,
instruct your men to shoot at the top of the roll, and a little over,
rather than under the target," continued he, saluting again.

"Port battery take stations for exercise, load, set your sights at 1,500
yards, and when ready, fire." Mr. Greene's orders came sharp and clear;
there was never any misunderstanding of them.

Most of us of Number Eight's gun crew had never stood near a big gun
when it spoke, and most of us dreaded it and felt inclined to run away
out of ear-shot. It was our business to stand by, however, so we stood
by while Tommy, firing lanyard in hand, sighted the machine.

"Right!" he sung out to "Stump" and "Flagg," who were at the training
wheels. "Right handsomely," added Tommy, working the elevating gear, as
the gun moved slowly round. The gun roared and jumped back on its mount
six or eight inches, but promptly slid back again--forced back by
powerful springs. The shell sped on its way, humming as it went, and
struck a little short of the target, sending up a great fountain as it
was exploded by the impact with the water.

"Hay" pulled the breech lever and the breech plug came out, allowing
"Stump," who wore heavy gloves for the purpose, to extract the empty
shell. This he dropped in the concrete waterway, then ran to his place
at the training wheel; a fresh shell had been put in the gun, meanwhile,
and it was ready for business again. A number of good shots were made by
different gunners. Enough to show that, amateur tars that we were, there