With one quick movement, that seemed to occupy no longer period than the tick of a clock, the projectile was slid to its proper place by a long wooden rammer. All this time the gun pointer--Jim Cooper by name--alert, watchful as a mousing cat, was crouched on a little platform at the side of the gun, sighting an imaginary mark through a telescope affixed to the gun's side. The lens of this sight was marked with tiny, hairlike crosslines, affording the pointer the means of determining with almost unerring accuracy, the exact second at which the target and the gun were in line. In a heavy seaway, of course, or even in a moderate blow, the work of the gun pointer is much more complicated, as a dozen different elements and movements are at work to confuse and spoil his aim. Then came the powder charge. Several canvas bags appeared on the ammunition hoist. "More like flourbags than powder," thought Herc to himself, as he helped slap them into the carrying tray. "Ram HOME!" The powder was shoved in with the same flash-like rapidity that had marked the placing of the huge projectile. "Ready, sir!" The chief of the loading crew saluted. "Ready, Cooper?" "Aye, aye, sir!" "Close breech! FIRE!" The two commands seemed to be merged into one, so rapidly did they come. The boys and the rest of the crew sprang to the back of the turret and crouched low, as did the others as the command was given. The gun pointer came last of all, springing backward like an acrobat. As he did so there was a sharp click. The lieutenant in command had thrown the switch that ignited the priming spark. The mighty charge had been touched off--in imagination. The lieutenant looked at his watch, which he had held on his open palm while the crew worked. "Twenty-five seconds! Good work," he announced. "Do as well as that at battle practice, men, and we shall beat the _Idaho_ to rags--on speed, at all events." "And on targets, too," grimly remarked Cooper, wiping his nervous hands with a bundle of waste. This was the final practice of the afternoon, and the rest of the time was devoted to familiarizing the two young recruits with their duties about the turret. Both were quick pupils and had already studied something of gunnery at the Newport Training School, so that in a short time they thoroughly understood the theory of firing the big guns. With quick eyes both lads had noticed that the other twelve-inch gun--the Varian projectile hurler--had not been unhooded, and its grim breech was swathed mysteriously in waterproof coverings. It was in the breech that lay the complicated mechanism which made it possible to handle the terrific explosive power of Chaosite--at least, so the inventor hoped. As a final lesson, the boys were instructed in the elementary theory of gun pointing, a much too technical subject to enter into here.