After our division had been mustered, “Long Tommy,” the boatswain’s mate and captain of our gun, said to “Hay,” “I think we’ll have some shooting to-day.  I saw the gunners’ mates rigging a target.”

“Good!” said “Hay,” “what does it look like?”

“Why,” explained Tommy, “it’s a triangular sail, having a black spot painted in the middle, supported by a raft, also triangular, which is floated by three barrels, one at each corner.”

“Can’t be very big,” said “Stump.”

“About ten feet at the base, tapering to a point.  The red flag that flies from the top is perhaps fourteen feet from the water, I should say.”

“And they expect us to hit that?” broke in “Lucky bag Kennedy.”

“Of course,” said Tommy the confident, “and we shall.”

As soon as the officers of the different divisions had returned from the bridge, where they had been to report, the quick, sharp bugle call which summons the crew to general quarters was sounded.

As the first notes were heard, the men scattered as if a bomb with a visible burning fuse had fallen in their midst.  Some hurried to lead out the hose, some to get the gun sights and firing lanyards, some to get belts and revolvers for the guns’ crews, some down into the hot, dark magazines, and some to open up the magazine hoists.  All was apparent confusion, but was in reality perfect discipline.  Soon boxes of shell were ready by the guns, but the order “load” had not yet been given.

The triangular target was then lowered over the side and cast loose.  In a few minutes the six-pounders on the spar deck began to bark.  “Getting the range, I guess,” said “Hod,” who had sneaked over from the powder division to get a look at the target.

“Pretty near it,” replied “Stump,” as a shot splashed close to the triangular piece of canvas.

“Here comes Scully,” some one whispered; “now we’ll have a chance.”

“The captain says fire when ready, at 1,500 yards,” said Scully, saluting Mr. Greene, the officer of the division.  “Captain says, sir, instruct your men to shoot at the top of the roll, and a little over, rather than under the target,” continued he, saluting again.

“Port battery take stations for exercise, load, set your sights at 1,500 yards, and when ready, fire.”  Mr. Greene’s orders came sharp and clear; there was never any misunderstanding of them.

Most of us of Number Eight’s gun crew had never stood near a big gun when it spoke, and most of us dreaded it and felt inclined to run away out of ear-shot.  It was our business to stand by, however, so we stood by while Tommy, firing lanyard in hand, sighted the machine.

“Right!” he sung out to “Stump” and “Flagg,” who were at the training wheels.  “Right handsomely,” added Tommy, working the elevating gear, as the gun moved slowly round.  The gun roared and jumped back on its mount six or eight inches, but promptly slid back again—­forced back by powerful springs.  The shell sped on its way, humming as it went, and struck a little short of the target, sending up a great fountain as it was exploded by the impact with the water.