“Are you ready, Adams?” asked the lieutenant, as after a lot of squinting and adjustment the old man stood with the firing cord in his hand.
“Bin ready, tew minuts,” was the reply.
“Go ahead then.”
The Hotchkiss spat viciously, but the water spurted up a good ten feet of the mark.
The shot had missed.
Old Adams didn’t change a muscle of his face, though he knew every eye on ship but that of the helmsman was on him. He spat over the side, ruminatively, and then pointed the gun, once more.
By this time Bellman and his companion had seen there was mischief behind and had ducked through the slide of their craft and screwed it down. The lieutenant rightly interpreted this as a signal that in a few minutes the submarine would dive. If once she did so the chances against their getting her again would be remote in the extreme.
“Get her this time, Adams,” he beseeched.
“I’ll do my best, sir;” said the old salt as the gun cracked once more.
This time a cheer went up. The submarine had been hit.