But the racket of other guns drowned their voices. Up in the tops the spiteful crash of the little three-inch guns could be heard cracking viciously. The eight-inch rifles rumbled and roared. It was like being on a train going through a vast tunnel at sixty miles an hour. That is about as nearly as the uproar of the vast forces of power released at gun practice can be described.
Two hours after the signal to “commence firing” had been given, the night practice was over and all hands were set to work to clean ship. But even before this, it was known on board the Manhattan that the coveted “Meat-ball,” the token of supremacy at the guns, was still the flag-ship’s trophy; and that Ned Strong had contributed no small share to the retention of the red flag with the black center that means so much to the Jackie whose ship is entitled to fly it.
CHAPTER XXIII.
HERC LUNCHES WITH AN IDOL.
“Talk about the poetry of motion! This is what I call a first-class ride.”
Herc Taylor lolled negligently back in the ’rickshaw in which he and Ned Strong were being spun along on a smooth road outside Yokahama.
“It’s comfortable, all right, but somehow I hate the idea of seeing a human being playing the part of a horse,” rejoined Ned.
In front of the two Dreadnought Boys, between the shafts of the ’rickshaw, a half naked Jap toiled along at a dog-trot. His skin was as dry as a bone and showed not a sign of fatigue, yet he had drawn the boys some distance in the vehicle which is peculiar to Japan.
The road along which they were riding was an attractive one in every respect. Odd temples, bridges that looked like toy spans crossing miniature brooks, little pine trees, tiny people were to be seen everywhere. As it was the month of the cherry blossom, the trees of that variety were decked with delicate, fragile flowers and the neat little houses were decorated with the fragrant petals.
The Jap between the shafts jogged along as unconcernedly as if he had been not a human being but a beast of burden.