“Then I thought I might as well bear a hand as look pretty. So I let my _bundoop_ go at fifteen ’undred—sightin’ very particular. There was a sort of ’appy little belch like—no more, I give you my word—an’ the shell trundled out maybe fifty feet an’ dropped into the deep Atlantic. “‘Government powder, Sir!’ sings out our Gunnery Jack to the bridge, laughin’ horrid sarcastic; an’ then, of course, we all laughs, which we are not encouraged to do _in puris naturalibus_. Then, of course, I saw what our Gunnery Jack ’ad been after with his subcutaneous details in the magazines all the mornin’ watch. He had redooced the charges to a minimum, as you might say. But it made me feel a trifle faint an’ sickish notwithstanding this spit-in-the-eye business. Every time such transpired, our Gunnery Lootenant would say somethin’ sarcastic about Government stores, an’ the old man fair howled. ’Op was on the bridge with ’im, an’ ’e told me—’cause ’e’s a free-knowledgeist an’ reads character—that Antonio’s face was sweatin’ with pure joy. ’Op wanted to kick him. Does Antonio say anything about that?” “Not about the kicking, but he is great on the gun-practice, Mr. Pyecroft. He has put all the results into a sort of appendix—a table of shots. He says that the figures will speak more eloquently than words.” “What? Nothin’ about the way the crews flinched an’ hopped? Nothin’ about the little shells rumblin’ out o’ the guns so casual?” “There are a few pages of notes, but they only bear out what you say. He says that these things always happen as soon as one of our ships is out of sight of land. Oh, yes! I’ve forgotten. He says, _‘From the conversation of my captain with his inferiors I gathered that no small proportion of the expense of these nominally efficient cartridges finds itself in his pockets. So much, indeed, was signified by an officer on the deck below, who cried in a high voice: “I hope, Sir, you are making something out of it. It is rather monotonous.” This insult, so flagrant, albeit well-merited, was received with a smile of drunken bonhommy’_—that’s cheerfulness, Mr. Pyecroft. Your glass is empty.” “Resumin’ afresh,” said Mr. Pyecroft, after a well-watered interval, “I may as well say that the target-practice occupied us two hours, and then we had to dig out after the tramp. Then we half an’ three-quarters cleaned up the decks an’ mucked about as requisite, haulin’ down the patent awnin’ stun’sles which Number One ’ad made. The old man was a shade doubtful of his course, ’cause I ’eard him say to Number One, ‘You were right. A week o’ this would turn the ship into a Hayti bean-feast. But,’ he says pathetic, ‘haven’t they backed the band noble?’ “‘Oh! it’s a picnic for them,’ says Number One. “‘But when do we get rid o’ this whisky-peddlin’ blighter o’ yours, Sir?’ “‘That’s a cheerful way to speak of a Viscount,’ says the old man. “E’s the bluest blood o’ France when he’s at home,’