Roy Norton stopped it with his foot and called, “Steady, Billy!  Take your time.”

Thump!  The second ring, tossed more cautiously, dropped at least six inches in front of the goal.

Thump!  Thump!  Thump!  Three more landed in quick succession, draping themselves gracefully against the standard that upheld the post.

“One more, Billy.  Make this one count,” coached his captain urgently.

By this time, Billy’s face was scarlet and his hand shaking.  He took a long breath, fixed his eye on the top of the slender post, and tossed the ring desperately.  It fell well to the right of the goal and rolled up against Dave’s feet.

Dave quickly stooped to pick it up, trying to hide the wide smile that parted his lips.

Billy’s scout friends made no attempt to be so polite.  Pickets and Pirates alike, they burst into a roar of laughter.

Captain Vinton, his weather-beaten face wrinkled into a dozen humorous lines, called out: 

“Billy, words is sometimes like a boomerang—–­they fly back and ketch ye, ef ye don’t watch out!”

And so the contest progressed; now luck favored the Pirates, and again Captain Vinton’s skill brought up the uncertain score of the Pickets.

At the end of the final round, however, Dave’s team had a clean balance of ten counts over the combined records of the Pickets, the winners showing a total of ninety-five successful throws out of a possible one hundred and twenty.

Captain Vinton had the best individual score, securing twenty-six out of a possible thirty points, while Hugh, thanks perhaps to Billy’s inspiring comments, stood next with a record of twenty-four.

The sun was setting redly over an almost calm sea as the games were finished.  Dave, beaming at the success of his team, vanished without urging and soon the welcome odors of supper cooking were wafted to the eager nostrils of the hungry boys.

That evening they all gathered around the old captain as he sat at the helm and guided the lazily-moving craft, begging him for another tale from his own reminiscences or from his favorite history.

“Wal’, boys,” agreed the captain at length, “I’ll tell you about one sea fight that I almost witnessed myself.  Fact is, I was a little too young to be thar, but my father was mighty nigh bein’ in the thick of it, and I’ve heard him tell the tale a hundred times ef I hev once.

“It was in March, ’62,” the captain resumed after a little pause.  “The North was consid’rably stirred up over rumors of how the Confederates hed raised the Merrimac and made out of her a terrible ironclad vessel, warranted to resist all ord’nary attacks.  Then these rumors were followed by news of the destruction of two sailin’ frigates, the Cumberland and the Congress.