"Another dirty trick of Fritz's to keep us barging about in a seaway," bawled Wakefield through a megaphone. "Sorry I can't have you fellows on board to lunch."
"Don't want any, thanks," replied Cumberleigh feelingly. It was a far different motion, running dead slow in an M.L., from that of the heavily-ballasted Q 171. He was beginning to feel unpleasantly warm in the region immediately below the buckle of his belt.
"Nothing like a little rifle practice to buck a fellow up," shouted Wakefield. "I'll tow a bottle astern. Bet you fifty cigarettes you don't smash it in a dozen rounds."
"Done," replied Cumberleigh; and the skipper of M.L. 1499 proceeded to carry out his share of the programme.
Even at a bare five knots the bottle was a difficult target as it bobbed and zigzagged in the wake of the M.L. At the sixth shot Cumberleigh began to lose his optimism; at the ninth he looked positively glum; at the eleventh, that ricochetted clean over the target, he turned to Meredith.
"The barrel isn't leaded, is it?" he inquired. "I had the beastly bottle dead on the sights every time."
"One more to go," observed Kenneth.
Cumberleigh raised the rifle to his shoulder, took careful aim, and pressed the trigger. The bullet struck the water a couple of yards beyond the untouched target.
"You've won," shouted Cumberleigh.
"Have you a pistol on board?" inquired Morpeth, who had been a silent but interested spectator.