"How do you come to know all this?" asked Ned.
"Why, I'm the stroke-oar of the captain's boat—when he uses it—which isn't often, nowadays," lamented old Tom, who hadn't much use for "steamers" and gasoline launches. "Well, when we was at Key West, I rowed him ashore—helped to, that is—and I overheard him talking to this fellow Varian himself about the gun. I wasn't eavesdropping, you understand; just overheard."
"That's mighty interesting," mused Ned; "of course, I have read of the government's experiments with Chaosite. It is supposed to be, I believe, the most powerful of all explosives yet discovered. It's great to think that we are on board the first ship to try it under actual battle conditions."
"I wish we could get on the crew of that gun," put in Herc. "I'd like mighty well to see just how that Chewusite acts when it's touched off. Regular Fourth of July, I guess. Pop-boom-fizz! Up in the air!—stars!—bang—down comes the stick!"
As Herc spoke, in his newly recovered vitality, he swung his pot of slate-colored paint about, to illustrate his meaning. As ill-luck would have it, the wire handle was not oversecurely fastened, and off flew the receptacle of the pigment with which the turret was being covered.
"Oh, crickey! Now I've done it!" groaned Herc, as he felt the bucket slip from the handle and go hurtling down.
The next moment Ned echoed his chum's exclamation of dismay, as he saw what had occurred.
To make matters worse, at that very moment the redoubtable Kennell was passing beneath the turret, on his way aft to clean some brasswork, and had turned his face upward, preparatory to flinging some jeering remark at the two Dreadnought Boys.
The contents of the unlucky pot of paint fell full on his sneering features, blotting them out in a sticky cloud of gray pigment!