"Rather!" I said; but it turned out that there was something to do that night much more exciting than a sing-song. *CHAPTER XIV* *Night Operations* Cooky has a Grumble—A Pirate Junk—"Hup, Hoff, and Hout of it"—Creeping Inshore—Four Pirate Torpedo-boats—A Dangerous Job—A Cunning Trap—The Fourth Torpedo-boat _Told by Pat Jones, Petty Officer, First Class, Captain of the 12-pounder, Destroyer "No. 3"_ I ain’t no blooming scholard, an’ writin’ ain’t much in my line. I writes to my ole missus once in a way, and to the kiddies when their birthdays come along, having got a list of ’em all written down proper inside the lid o’ my "ditty-box"[#], ’cause I can’t never remember ’em, but that’s all the writin’ I ever does, excep’ writin’ up the rough log when I’m on watch. And sometimes, when I’m a bit flush of the dollars, I sends ’em a curio, for the ole woman just ’ankers arter things from furrin’ parts, and shows ’em to all ’er pals in the village—living down Dorchester way, she does. I’ve knowed her just puff ’erself like a hen what ’as the dandiest lot of chicks in the farm-yard, just becos’ I gives ’er a real Chinee dollar when I goes home from this ’ere station three years ago come next Michaelmas, and they all peers over it and ’andles it, and says "I’m blessed! I’m jiggered! Well, my never! and them there ’eathen savidges made that all along ’emselves," and I larfs to myself (and ’as to take me pipe out o’ my mouth, I larf so ’earty), for all along I knowed it was made up to Birmingham in the mint there. But that’s jest like wimmin folk, they’s so blooming simple in some things, though you can’t get round ’em in others. [#] "_Ditty-box_", small wooden box in which men keep their letters and small personal effects. But that ain’t nothin’ to do with this ’ere story, so I’ll jest start right away. We’d ’ad a pretty ’ard time of it a-punchin’ up from ’Ong-Kong and then a-fightin’ most of the forenoon with them pirates, the which was just a bit of a picnic, and makes us all the more ’earty for our meals and pipe o’ baccy. Mr. Parker, says ’e, "That was your shot did the trick", ’e says, when the pirate we’d been worrying all the morning, like my little dawg at ’ome worries the rats over to Farmer Gilroy’s corn-bins, busts up; but I ain’t taking all the credit, because "No. 2" was firing furious-like all the time, and maybe she did it, though, mind you, that 12-pounder of mine don’t make bad shooting when we ain’t jumpin’ into a ’ead sea. Then we runs back to the flag-ship, an’ I has to go away in the dinghy an’ try to save some o’ them Chinese savidges. We gets upset, an’ that ’ere midshipman, Mr. Glover, ain’t very ’andy at ’anging on, an’ I have to look arter ’im pretty close.