The troops were simply pouring ashore all this time, and though we couldn’t actually see them land, on account of the trees near the sea, we were in an awful funk, because hardly any of Cousin Gerald’s men had got back to the town yet. We tried to make those cowardly brutes fire, but they wouldn’t; they were afraid of the ships spotting them, I suppose, or perhaps they were afraid of the guns bursting or doing something like that. ’Come on, you chaps,’ the ’Angel’ sang out, ’let’s show ’em the way. We’ll do it ourselves.’ We tumbled down from the slope, threw off our coats, Barton rushed away to the second gun, with Blotchy Smith, Sarah Jane, Young Lawson, and four more, singing out that he bet us a sardine supper in the gun-room that his gun made first hit, and the ’Angel’ and I, the Inkslinger and the rest, rolled up our sleeves, pushed the natives out of the way, and fell in behind the gun. Oh! it was a lark if you like. The ’Angel’ stood on the trail and squinted through the telescopic sight, I lugged open the breech, somebody jammed in a shell, the Inkslinger pushed in a brass cylinder after it, I whanged the breech-block back with a bang, hung on to the firing lanyard, and shouted out ’ready!’ whilst the rest of them tried to train the gun, the ’Angel’ singing out all the time, ’right,’ ’right a little,’ ’stop, you idiots,’ ’left.’ ’Do let me fire the first shot,’ the Clerk squeaked. ’Get out of it, Inkslinger!’ I yelled. ’Get another cylinder.’ The ’Angel’ sang out, ’stand by!’ and then ’Fire!’ I gave the lanyard a tug, and off she went, and off went Barton’s gun as well. We cheered; the grass and stuff flew up in front of the muzzle; the gun jumped back and slid forward again, and we dashed up the slope to see where the shots had gone. We were just in time to see the water shoot up in two great splashes, just short of their biggest ship, and then we dashed at the gun again, slung the breech open, hauled out the smoking cylinder, one of the mids. shoved in another shell, and the Ink-slinger, white with excitement, shoved in the cylinder. I shut the breech too quickly, and caught his hand. ’Pull it out,’ we yelled, and he did, just giving a yelp, and wrapping his handkerchief round it. Then I locked the breech and we fired again, ’Missed ’em—both of you,’ a gruff voice sounded behind us, and there was Mr. Bostock, the Gunner, standing with his hands in his pockets, and looking vexed. We jolly well thought that we’d have shells coming all round us, but they didn’t, though the ships started easing off quickly enough, and their shells banged about all over the town. The native gun-crews had cleared out altogether—they were so terrified. ’You ain’t doin’ no credit to the Royal Navy,’ Mr. Bostock snorted, lighting his old pipe, when we’d fired twice more and not hit anything; ’maybe you never learned the drill.’ This of course was meant nastily.