“I wonder where they got them,” said Bland. “I wonder who has command of them.”
I could answer, or thought I could answer, both questions. As we struggled through the crowds which thronged the quay I told Bland of the visits of the Finola to our bay and of the piles of huge packing-cases which Godfrey had shown me in the sheds behind the store.
“But who fired them?” said Bland. “Who have you got who understands them? Those were big guns.”
“Malcolmson,” I said, “always said he understood guns.”
“He does,” said Bland. “If he’d shot just the least shade better he’d have sunk that ship.”
On the bridge we met McConkey, sweating profusely, taking his favourite weapon along at a rapid trot. He stopped when he saw us and halted his breathless team.
“I have her working again,” he said, “and she’ll shoot the now.”
“You’re too late,” said Bland.
“Is she sunken?” said McConkey. “Man o’ man but I’m sorry for it. I wanted sore to have a shot at her.”
“She’s not sunk,” said Bland, “but she’s gone. Steamed clean out of range of your gun.”