“Well, now you talk of it, sir,” replied the man, grinning, “I never thought of that. Perhaps it would if one of us held it lightly in his hand and eased off a good deal when we fired. If you didn’t do that of course the ball might go right through.”
“Well, I’ll ask the captain, Joe.”
“Yes, sir; do, sir. As I said afore, it would please the lads, and do good too, for it would clean the gun’s teeth, sweep away all the scales and rust.”
“Scales and rust!” cried Rodd. “Why, it isn’t an iron gun; it’s brass.”
“Why, so it is, Master Rodd, sir. Why, only fancy me not thinking of that! But here he comes. Try it on, sir.”
“Shall I, Joe?”
“Yes, do, sir; as I said, it would please the lads. They’re just like a lot of school-boys when they gets a chance of a change.”
“And Joe Cross doesn’t care a bit,” said Rodd.
The man gave the speaker a comical look as he replied—
“Well, sir, you see, I was a boy once, and I was born with a lot of human natur’ in me, and I never got rid of it, and I am afraid I never shall. There, go on, sir,” whispered Joe. “Pitch it into him at once.”