The gun was still trembling from the force of the recoil when the swish of air-compressors, driving dangerous stray sparks out of it, was heard. This was done so that there should be absolutely no danger of a speck of fire remaining when the next charge was rammed home.
The next projectile, well oiled, was jerked into the big gun and rammed home with clock-work-like precision. Then came the powder bags and the snap of the breech block as it was slammed to.
The speaking tube whistled once more.
“Hit!” cried the ensign, announcing that he had just got the news that Ned had hit the target. Then the red light flashed again, and once more the ship shook to the thunders of the giant forces released when Ned lightly pressed the trigger.
Again and again was the process gone through. The shots came with the rapidity of an automatic shot-gun. It seemed incredible almost that human beings could work with such precision and accuracy. Hardly a word was spoken. Only short commands and brisk replies were heard.
From the spotters’ roost, where with night glasses they followed the flaming trailers, came the monotonous report to bridge, switchboard and turret, “Hit—hit—hit—hit—hit!”
And then finally, as the command came to cease firing the twelve-inch, was this report:
“Ten shots, ten hits. Time, thirty seconds!”
Then, as the other guns took up the deafening fusillade, all discipline vanished in Ned’s turret. The ensign shook his hand while the gun-crew danced around shouting:
“What’s the matter with Ned Strong? He’s all right!”