‘Two thousand seven hundred yards,’—the order passed from gun to gun—‘ten knots right deflection—starboard battery.’ The gun-captains muzzled the rubber-faced shoulder-pieces, and the long lean muzzles behind the shields shifted fractionally. ‘Try a sighting shot with that three-pounder!’ The smack of cordite is keener, and catches one more about the heart, than the slower-burning black powder. There was a shrillish gasping wail—exactly like the preliminary whoop of an hysterical woman—as the little shell hurried to the target; and a puff of dirty smoke on the rock-face sent the gulls flying. So far as I could observe there was not even a haze round the lips of the gun. Till I saw the spent case jerked out I did not know which of the clean, precise, and devilish four had spoken. WHEN THE REAL THING COMES ‘Two thousand four hundred,’ the voice droned overhead, and the starboard bow four-inch quick-firer opened the ball. Again no smoke; again the song of the shell—not a shriek this time, but a most utterly mournful wail. Again the few seconds suspense (what will they be when the Real Thing comes?) and a white star on the target. The cruiser winced a little, as though some one had pinched her. Before the next gun had fired, the empty cartridges cylinder of the first was extracted, and by some sleight of hand I could not see the breech had closed behind a full charge. A Martini-Henri could hardly have been reloaded more swiftly. ‘Two thousand three hundred,’ cried the reader of that day’s lessons, and we fell seriously to work; high shriek and low wail following in an infernal fugue, through which, with no regard for decency, the Maxims quacked and jabbered insanely. The rock was splintered and ripped and gashed in every direction, and great pieces of it bounded into the sea. ‘Two thousand one hundred.’ ‘Good shot. Oh, good shot! That was a water-liner. . . . That was the Marines’ three-pounder. Good! . . . Ah—ah! Bad. Damn bad! Short! Miles short! Who fired that shot?’ A shell had burst short of the mark, and the captain of that gun was asked politely if he supposed Government supplied him with three-pound shell for the purpose of shooting mackerel. And so we went on, till the big guns had fired their quota and the Maxims ran out in one last fiends’ flurry, and target-practice for the month was over. The rock that had been grey was white, and a few shining cartridge-cases lay beside each gun. SQUIRTING DEATH THROUGH A HOSE