“Hay” pulled the breech lever and the breech plug came out, allowing “Stump,” who wore heavy gloves for the purpose, to extract the empty shell.  This he dropped in the concrete waterway, then ran to his place at the training wheel; a fresh shell had been put in the gun, meanwhile, and it was ready for business again.  A number of good shots were made by different gunners.  Enough to show that, amateur tars that we were, there was the making of good gunners in us.  As the “Kid,” in his overweening confidence, said, “Ain’t we peaches?  When we get down south we will have a little target practise, and the ‘dagos’ will be so scared that they will haul down their colors tight away.”

During the day we steamed slowly along, a bright lookout being kept by the men at the foremast-head for suspicious steamers.  After dinner at eight bells (12 o’clock), the smoking lamp, which hangs near the scuttle butt aft, was kept lighted about fifteen minutes.  Smoking is allowed aboard only when the smoking lamp is lighted, and as “Hay” was wont to say, it was lighted “when you did not want to smoke.”  At ten minutes past one “turn to” was piped by the boatswain’s mates, followed by the call for sweepers.  Then came the order, “Stand by your scrub and wash clothes.”  So the “Kid” and I hastened forward, both anxious to see if our initial clothes-washing venture was a success.  We had depended on the sun to bleach our much be-scrubbed clothes, but—­well—­I would have left them where they were if I could.  As for the “Kid’s”—­after holding them off at arm’s length for a while, he remarked, “Why, I would not use such rags to clean my bicycle at home,” and threw them overboard.  He was always a reckless chap.

The infantry drill we had at afternoon quarters at 1:30, served to keep us busy.  The same thing had been gone through on the “New Hampshire” many a time and oft.  We found it rather difficult to march straight and keep a good line on a swaying deck.  So we were kept at it until we had got the hang of it.  We were still parading to and fro on the spar deck, when some one sighted land off the starboard bow.  The dismissal call was given none too soon, for the curiosity as to what we were heading for made discipline lax and attention far from close.

We soon learned that this was Block Island.

The gig was lowered, and the captain and mail orderly went ashore.

“Now we’ll get our real orders,” said Potter.  “Ho! for the Spanish main,” he shouted, forgetting his narrow escape of the day before.

“It will be Ho! for the ship’s brig, and Ho! for five days on bread and water, if you don’t look out,” said “Stump,” dryly.

About dark, the gig came back again, bringing the captain in it and the mail orderly—­but no mail, and how we did long for a word from home.  A scrap of newspaper, even, would be a blessing.

We had just sat down to evening mess when the order, “All hands on the gig falls!” was given, and the master-at-arms chased us off the gun deck.  Soon the measured tread of many feet could be heard, and then the order was given by the officer of the deck to the coxswain of the gig, “Secure your boat for sea.”