All this time the gun pointer—Jim Cooper by name—alert, watchful as a mousing cat, was crouched on a little platform at the side of the gun, sighting an imaginary mark through a telescope affixed to the gun's side.
The lens of this sight was marked with tiny, hairlike crosslines, affording the pointer the means of determining with almost unerring accuracy, the exact second at which the target and the gun were in line. In a heavy seaway, of course, or even in a moderate blow, the work of the gun pointer is much more complicated, as a dozen different elements and movements are at work to confuse and spoil his aim.
Then came the powder charge. Several canvas bags appeared on the ammunition hoist.
"More like flourbags than powder," thought Herc to himself, as he helped slap them into the carrying tray.
"Ram HOME!"
The powder was shoved in with the same flash-like rapidity that had marked the placing of the huge projectile.
"Ready, sir!"
The chief of the loading crew saluted.
"Ready, Cooper?"
"Aye, aye, sir!"