'Don't yer git interruptin' w'en I'm spinnin' a yarn!' Joshua remonstrated. 'I loses th' thread o' wot I'm sayin'.' It was fairly early in the morning, and he was still feeling cantankerous.
The ordinary seaman apologised. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean no 'arm.'
'Course yer didn't; but if yer gits arskin' stoopid questions, 'ow kin a bloke remember wot 'e's sayin'? Wot wus it yer wanted ter know?'
''Ow fur orf th' targit wus.'
'Not werry fur,' Joshua explained. 'Leastways, it ain't exac'ly fur, an' it ain't exac'ly close. You oughter know wot I means; I carn't remember th' exac' distance. Any'ow, gunlayers' test ain't th' same as battle practice, 'cos then we fires orl th' guns at once, same as we do in haction, likewise at long range—see? Gunlayers' test is simply a competition like, ter see if th' blokes kin shoot strite—see?'
'An' wot 'appens then?' Pincher asked, still rather hazy as to what really did take place.
'Wot 'appens? Orficers comes aboard from other ships as humpires, an' they takes th' time each bloke takes ter fire 'is rounds, an' counts th' number o' rounds 'e gits orf; likewise th' number of 'its an' misses on th' targit. The results is then packed up an' sent ter th' Admiralty, an' them blokes wot's done extry well gits medals an' money prizes, an' them wot ain't 'as a court o' hinquiry on 'em, an' probably gits disrated from bein' gunlayers—see?'
'An' kin I git a medal fur this 'ere?' Martin eagerly asked, for he, also, was a humble member of one of the twelve-pounder guns' crews.
Joshua was amused. 'Kin you git a medal?' he laughed. 'A little cock-sparrer like you! Course yer bloomin' well carn't! They only whacks 'em art ter them gunlayers wot's done extry well, an' there's werry few on 'em given. You ain't a gunlayer, an' ain't likely to be one neither. Gunlayers 'as brains.'
'But 'oo gives these 'ere medals?' Pincher asked, ignoring the insult. 'The admiral?'