At that moment Wahr picked up the tell-tale object of their unhappy admiral’s undoing. “It is one of our own balls,” he said, with an odious glance toward Weiss Nicht. “Here is the name—Tonans.” “Oh, you villain!” cried Ruhet, shaking his fist at the unhappy gunner’s mate. “You shall be hanged at the yard-arm for this. You were always mutinous, anyway.” But at that moment, as is the custom of mankind, curiosity overcame pain in Hier Ruhet, admiral, of the Iupiter Tonans. “How did he get it here, Wahr?” For a moment—just a moment—Wahr was stalled. “Sire,” he temporized, “I have been thinking—” “Well, stop it and tell me how he got it here. That is what I want of you. Not reflections. Weren’t you looking?” “Sire,” said Wahr, hastily, before he had time to form a real hypothesis, “the poor man fired two broadsides in quick succession. An unfortunate mistake of Weiss Nicht—due to his impudence in not awaiting my order to fire. Undoubtedly one of the cannons was underloaded, and its ball travelled so slowly that the ball from an overloaded cannon of the second broadside overtook it—” “By my mother’s nightcap!” cried Ruhet, in disdain. “Hah!” “Then it must have collided with one of the balls from the other—er—ship—” Hier Ruhet actually laughed Wahr to scorn. “_That_ may have happened,” said Nicht. “Our balls travel slowly.” The clipping at bow and stern suddenly recommenced. “She’s at work again!” cried a sailor, in panic. Indeed, panic was now rife all through the ship. “Lift me up,” said Ruhet; “I will study this magic at close quarters if I die for it. Be calm, men! You still have Hier Ruhet!” They lifted him up. “Men, how did she get there?” asked the admiral now of the common, ignorant sailors who came, terrified, and grouped themselves about him as their protector. One of them said that she had jumped over them. Another said that she had dived under them. Yet others contended that she had wings—that she had fins—that she was not a ship, but an apparition. Now, again, suddenly, the little boat began to sink. “Now I shall see,” said the wounded commander, doubtingly. “Perhaps, after all, we have punctured her below the water line, and she is a goner. If they call for help, have the boats ready. Have them ready, anyhow. The fact is, we need a bit of help ourselves.” “And,” ventured Nicht Wahr, dreamily, in an evil way he had, when he had been too much crossed, “they may have needles and thread.” “Nicht Wahr,” said the commander, in ignorance of his irony, “do you know that I think that little thing is made of tin—perhaps several sheets nailed together?” “Precisely, sire,” said Wahr. “Tin will sink,” said the impudent Weiss Nicht, again on deck. “And,” went on Ruhet, ignoring the interruption, “the ball that broke my leg might have bounced against it and returned to this ship.”