"Don't you know that? Guns are to fight with."
"Yes, I know," said Dolly; "but how can you fight with them here in a row? and what would you fight with? I mean, who would you fight against?"
"Some other ship, if Fate willed it so. Look here; this is the way of it."
He took a letter from the breast of his coat, tore off a blank leaf; then resting it on the side of a gun carriage, he proceeded to make a sketch. Dolly's eyes followed his pencil point, spell-bound with interest. Under his quick and ready fingers grew, she could not tell how, the figure of a ship,—hull, masts, sails and rigging, deftly sketched in; till it seemed to Dolly she could almost see how the wind blew that was filling out the sails and floating off the streamer.
"There," said the artist,—"that is our enemy."
"Our enemy?" repeated Dolly.
"Our supposed enemy. We will suppose she is an enemy."
"But how could she be?"
"We might be at war with England suppose, or with France. This might be an English ship of war coming to catch up every merchantman she could overhaul that carried American colours, and make a prize of her; don't you see?"
"Do they do that?" said Dolly.