No, Pincher's impressions of the first foreign country he had ever visited were not exactly enthralling. Spain looked a very ordinary place from the water, and it did not improve on further acquaintance when he went ashore with Billings the same afternoon.
The town, Villagarçia, was not a delectable spot. It smelt of garlic and ancient fish. Its streets, badly paved and odoriferous with heaps of nameless garbage, seemed to provide a happy hunting-ground for many lean, fierce dogs, perambulating pigs and goats accompanied by their families, and prowling poultry. The people, too, looked dirty and ill-favoured, and the better-class men all smoked cigarettes and wore long black cloaks and wideawake hats, like clergymen at home in England. Numbers of barefooted boys and girls of all ages between three and seventeen followed Pincher and Billings about wherever they went. 'I say! On' penni!' they demanded persistently, holding out their grubby hands. 'I say, Jack! Damn you! I say, on' penni!' There was no getting rid of them until the pennies were forthcoming; and their stock phrases—all the English they knew—seemed to have been handed down from generation to generation, ever since British men-of-war first started to visit the place in the year one. It was a paying game, for the bluejacket is always free with his hard-earned money.
No, Villagarçia was not attractive. There was nothing to do except to drink vinegary vino blanco in the taverns, and to buy picture post-cards, silk shawls, paper fans showing fierce and bloodthirsty bullfights, and hideous tambourines depicting plump, gaily dressed ladies in short skirts dancing the mattiche. On the whole, Pincher was not sorry to get back to the ship, and he did not trouble to go ashore again.
A fortnight later they arrived at Gibraltar, where the ships went alongside the Mole in the inner harbour to take in coal. But here the operation was quite gentlemanly compared with coaling from a collier, for the fuel was carried on board in small baskets on the backs of nondescript, garlic-scented aliens known as 'rock scorpions,' and all the ship's company had to do was to stow it in the bunkers as it came on board. There was none of the back-breaking work of shovelling.
Coaling completed, the ships went out almost daily for aiming rifle practice; and then came the annual 'gunlayers' test' with the twelve-inch, six-inch, and lighter guns.
'Wot is this 'ere gunlayers' test they talks abart?' Pincher, rather mystified, asked Billings.
'Gunlayers' test!' the A.B. returned, staring at him very much surprised. 'You've bin in this 'ere ship nigh on six months, an' yer don't know wot a gunlayers' test is?'
''Ow can I know wot it is?' Martin sniffed. 'I ain't see'd it, 'ave I?'
'Ain't see'd it, ain't yer?' Joshua snorted. 'Ignerance, that's wot it is! 'Owever, I'll larn yer. Gunlayers' test is wot we carries art every year wi' orl th' guns in th' ship—see? Th' ship steams parst a targit at fairly close range, an' orl th' gunlayers fires in turn. It's a bit of a competition like, an' they orl 'as a certain number o' rounds ter fire in a certain time—see? It's just ter see if'——
''Ow fur orf is th' targit?' Pincher wanted to know, for even he could understand that this was rather a vital point.