“Yes, wait a minute, and the answer, a big one, to this great riddle will come,” cried the captain. “Can’t you see, man? the lads are busy there getting ready for your friend to speak. Another moment or two and you will hear what he says—that Don Ramon is President of this Republic, and his seat in the chair is safe against any enemy that may come. Ah, all together. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!”
The skipper’s cheer was loud, but it was stifled before it was half-uttered, for once more that terrific roar arose, making the Presidential building quiver and the glass in several of the windows come tinkling down into the stone-paved court.
Most of those present had this time seen the flash—the roar had set the ears of all ringing once again, as a great puff of smoke dashed out like a ball and then rose slowly in the sunshine, forming itself into a great grey ring, quivering as another burst of cheering arose from the gunboat’s deck.
For it was neither attack from the cunning enemy nor the catastrophe caused by explosion, as the fresh burst of cheering from the gunboat fully explained, for they were British cheers from the prize crew, echoed by those on board the schooner.
There was nothing the matter, only a happy thought had occurred to the middy, and he wondered that it had not come before, as he hurried to the proper spot, made a little search, and found that he was right—that there was a spare breech-block on board which enabled him and Poole, after gaining access to the magazine, to thrust a blank cartridge into the great gun and announce the fact in what was literally a feu de joie.
Chapter Fifty Eight.
A regular young Filibuster.
“Oh, pray don’t say any more to me about it, sir,” cried Fitz, the next day. “It was only just an idea.”