"Hit her hard, sir?"
"Dead amidships. Smash another in the same place and you'll have her on the way to Davy Jones's ditty box."
Again the forward starboard seven-inch spoke.
"Miss," came the warning. "Poor work. Cease firing and give the after turret's crew a chance."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The after-turret's crew sprang to their work with a shout of joy. In an incredibly short time after receiving the command, their weapon began to roar, shot following shot, as if they were engaged in record target practice for the silver cup.
"Hit," came the call down the speaking tube after each shot. Projectile after projectile landed in the hull of the doomed schooner.
"There she goes!" cried the captain, catching a faint glimpse of the "Oriole" as she slipped down a great sloping hill of water. "That's the last of her."
"Shall we give her another round, sir?"
"No; cease firing. She is no doubt broken to pieces by our shot by this time. You do not see her, do you?"