Perhaps he detected the symptoms of something unusual having occurred in the excited faces of the jackies and in Ned's still heaving chest and flushed face, but he was too wise a man to inquire into something he had not witnessed with his own eyes. As it was, therefore, he simply contented himself by inquiring for Kennell. "With the gun crew," suggested one of the throng. "He won't be long," replied the boatswain's mate shortly and with a meaning look. "Why not?" asked old Tom, the privileged character. "Because, my boy, he has been relieved from duty in the forward turret and the two recruits put there in his place." "Phew!" whistled the jackies, as the boatswain's mate hurried forward on his quest. "Now look out for squalls!" CHAPTER XVIII. THE BOYS GET ACQUAINTED WITH BIG GUNS. Two days later the squadron sighted what at first seemed--to the boys, at least--to be a distant cloud of deeper blue than the surrounding sky. It floated on the southern horizon. "Cuba!" announced old Tom, who, with the boys, was standing on the fore deck in the "smoke time" succeeding the jackies' dinner. "How soon will we come to anchor?" inquired Herc. "About sundown," was the reply. "You boys are in for some strange sights and experiences down here." If Tom had been a prophet of old, he could not have spoken more truly. The boys were indeed "in for some strange experiences." That afternoon the gun crews were set to work on their various pieces of ordnance, and "dummy drill" was gone through again and again till the officers were hoarse with shouting commands. In the forward turret, Ned and Herc, the proudest bluejackets of all the _Manhattan's_ ship's company, were drilled again and again in their part of the gun-pointing and sighting performance. Just as in actual practice--only these were dummies--the projectile, shining and menacing, and the bags of make-believe smokeless powder were sent up from the magazines on the electric ammunition hoists. From these they were rapidly transferred by the gun crew, who used a sort of wooden trough in the process. "Like the hog troughs we put the mash in at home," mused Herc, as he laid hold of one of the six handles on the trough and did his best to fall into the rhythmic swing with which the men obeyed the sharp series of commands issued by the officer, who was Lieutenant Timmons himself. "Take up LOAD!" The projectile was laid in the trough almost as fast as it was shot up on the elevator. As the last echoes of the command rang sharply on the steel walls of the turret, the implement was reposing in its "bed." "Swing LOAD!" By this time the shining breech--as fine as the mechanism of a three-hundred-dollar stop watch--was swung open by the breech tender. It was then only the work of a second to flash the projectile into the glistening chamber. "Ram HOME!"