"This isn't a dream," cried Fitz sharply. "And this isn't a dream," cried Poole, flushing up. "I have been thinking about it, and I can't help seeing that as sure as we two are sitting here, those mongrel brutes that swarm in the gunboat will sooner or later get the better of us. Our lads are plucky enough, but the enemy is about six to one, and they'll hang about there till they surprise us or starve us out; and how will it be then?" "Why, you will all be prisoners of war, of course." "Prisoners of war!" cried Poole contemptuously. "What, of Villarayo's men, the sweepings and scum of the place, every one of them armed with a long knife stuck in his scarf that he likes to whip out and use! Hot-blooded savage wretches! Prisoners of war! Once they get the upper hand, there will be a regular massacre. They'll make the schooner a prisoner of war if I don't contrive to get below and fire two or three shots into the little magazine; and that I will do sooner than fall alive into their hands. Do you think you would escape because you are an English officer? Not you! Whether you are fighting on our side or only looking on, it will be all the same to them. I know them, Burnett; you don't; and I am telling you the honest truth. There! We'll take our chance," continued the lad coldly. "I don't want to know anything about your dreams now." Poole was in the act of throwing one leg over the bowsprit, and half turned away; but Fitz caught him tightly by the arm. "I can't help it," he cried excitedly, "even if it's wrong. Sit still, Poole, old chap. I've been thinking this. You see, when I went aboard the _Tonans_ everything was so fresh and interesting to me about the gun-drill and our great breech-loader.--Did you ever see one?" "Not close to," said Poole coldly. "Ah, well, I have, and you have no idea what it's like. Big as it is, it's all beautifully made. The breech opens and shuts, and parts of it move on hinges that are finished as neatly as the lock of a gun; and it is wonderful how easily everything moves. There are great screws which you turn as quietly as if everything were silk, and then there's a great piece that they call the breech-block, which is lifted out, and then you can stand and look right through the great polished barrel as if it were a telescope, while all inside is grooves, screwed as you may say, so that the great bolt or shell when it is fired is made to spin round, which makes it go perfectly straight." "Well, yes, I think I knew a good deal of that," said Poole, almost grudgingly. "Well, you know," continued Fitz excitedly, "perhaps you don't know that when they are going to fire, the gun is unscrewed and the breech-block is lifted out. Then you can look through her; the shell or bolt and the cartridge are pushed in, the solid breech-block is dropped in behind them, and the breech screwed up all tightly once again."