Wahr, just arrived on deck, haughtily gave Nicht the already given order to fire. But the impertinent, though accurate, Nicht said, “Our guns are not carrying that far, excellency,” ignoring Wahr for his superior.
“What?” cried Ruhet, “you rump of a sacred cow! There is not a gun on this ship that will not shoot half a mile and kill at that, Wahr!”
“Precisely, sire,” said Wahr, odiously.
“Excellency, you must take my word or his,” cried the hot Nicht. “You cannot take both. One of us don’t know.”
“Take your choice,” said Wahr to him.
“The little ship is precisely a mile away,” said Nicht. “I have a good eye.”
“Then,” snarled the cunning Wahr, “if that be true, your majesty”—he would call the admiral such things sometimes as if by mistake when he was about to ask for something—or wanted to puff his superior up with pride—“your majesty will be certain to accomplish what you wish—the skeering and not the destruction of the plaything.”
“By the curry—Fire—we are leaving her behind!”
The thirty-six guns spoke at the same moment with a noise which seemed to rend earth and sky—such was the practice of the gunners of the Tonans under the accurate and admirable Weiss Nicht.
“Now, then,” cried the Wise One, leaping to the bulwarks, “we will see whether I am right—or Nicht.”