The Dreadnought Boys grinned at this equivocal sort of a commission.
“I suppose we can have anything we want, sir. We’ve got to have carte blanche, you know,” spoke up the middy.
“Yes, anything, gentlemen, anything!” exclaimed the captain gratefully.
“All right, sir. Stanley, anything you want for your work?”
The boatswain’s mate had been gazing attentively at a group of the dusky-skinned crew. Without attempting to set the guns in shape or clean them after the brisk engagement off Miraflores, they were sitting about talking.
“Yes, sir,” rejoined the boatswain’s mate, turning from his disgusted scrutiny, “a service revolver and ammunition to match, please, sir.”
Some time after this the captain, seated in his cabin with Stark, who was listening with deep attention to the elder man while he outlined his plans, started up at a sudden noise borne in from the deck. It was an agonized wail of protest from one of the crew. Both occupants of the cabin sprang up, and, rushing up the companionway, gazed forward. They saw Stanley with raised gun prodding a reluctant gun-swabber to his work. All about was a scene of activity. Ned and Herc were already drilling a crew in the task of loading in American fashion, which was just five times as fast as the native way. A scene of activity of the most feverish character had succeeded to the leisurely appearance of things when the Americans came on board. The native officers stood about gazing on, astonished at the rapid change which was coming over their slovenly ship.
“Ah, you Americans! You’ll turn the world upside down some day!” breathed the captain admiringly.