“Silence!” called the officer in charge.
Again came a whistle through the speaking tube.
“Yes!” answered the listening officer. “A hit? Good! You made a hit the first try!” he shouted to Frank. “Try again.”
Frank blushed with pleasure. But one would never have known that his cheeks reddened, for he was black with grease and oil, having been engaged in going over the mechanism before he made the shot. The smoke was gradually blackening every one.
No sooner had the gun recoiled and moved back into place again, than compressed air rushed automatically into the breech and barrel, to drive out any slow-burning pieces of powder that might possibly ignite the next charge when it was inserted.
“Once more!” called the officer in charge, as up came the supply of powder and the projectile. Ned and his mates shoved them into the gun, and again the breech was closed with a clang.
“Listen for the range,” directed the officer. “They may try to fool us.” For in order to get as nearly as possible to actual war conditions, the target-towers were often instructed to run a zigzag course, sometimes close to, and again far away from the firing ship.
Once more came the signal into the turret from the range-finder.
“Eight thousand yards!”
“Whew!” commented the officer. “They’re running in on us.”