Miss Allen had heard little or none of this last remark, for she was advancing to me as I stood at the breech of the fine brass gun.
“Do you give me the lock-spring. I see it does not need a port-fire like those ashore,” said she, coming to my side.
“It is not time to fire yet,” I said. “Mr. Hawkson will come from below and pass the word from the old man--I mean, Captain Howard.”
“Why, he and papa will never get through talking as long as there’s a bottle between them,” she said. “Let me have the cord. What care I for your Captain Howard?”
“Here, you fellow! Don’t give Miss Allen that lanyard,” said Mr. Curtis, in a tone such as he had probably been accustomed to use to his niggers. It rubbed me the wrong way. I was entitled to mister while on the poop.
I bowed and passed the string into her hand, and noticed how firm and round were the fingers that closed upon it.
“Fire whenever you are ready, Miss Allen,” said I. “Jerk hard upon the cord.”
The next instant there was a flash and roar. The blue powder smoke swirled over the harbour, and the echoes were loosened in the bay, while over all a slight, droning snore, rapidly dying away in the distance, told of a twelve-pound solid shot tearing its way through the quiet air between the ship and the governor’s house.
I looked vainly to see the effect of the shot, wondering how on earth the ball came to get into the gun. Then the humming of the signal halyards called my attention, and I saw Tim lowering the ensign, with a peculiar glint in his eyes, while Hawkson, Yankee Dan, and the captain came bounding from below.
“What the devil has happened?” bawled Hawkson, emerging first. “Who told you to fire that gun?” and he glared at me.