“Besides, I don’t want to use either of the powder-bags, and they’re made for a regular charge.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” cried Cross. “Might make small charges up with a snuff of powder wrapped up in paper; and then I could prick and prime.”
“Um–m–m!” the captain growled, and frowned, while the gun crew stood with parted lips, looking as eager as so many boys on the Fifth of November. Then the captain grunted.
“There, Mr Rodd,” he said, “it will be a bit of practice for the lads, and it won’t please you, of course. You don’t want to see the gun really fired?”
“Oh, I have seen salutes fired, at Plymouth.”
“Ah, so you have, of course, my lad. But those are bangs, and this would be a bit of a whiff.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Rodd. “It will be real, and not pretending to fire.”
“Very well,” said the captain, smiling grimly. “Maybe you’d like to fire?”
“Yes, I should,” cried Rodd. “No; let Joe Cross and the other men do that. I’ll stand aside.”
There was a little more discussion, quite in opposition to ordinary drill, while the skipper went below and then returned with a pound gunpowder canister painted red.