The Orphan found himself training the gun towards where he could just distinguish the biggest and nearest of all the bastions, straight ahead of the ship.
"There's the front door of the castle, down there," continued his friend. "Turks are always coming in or out—lazy beggars they are—they want 'gingering up'. Wait till those field-guns, up beyond Cape Helles, fire; then you'll see it; the front door-steps show up white. Ah! there they go! That's about right! Keep her there! Let her rip!"
The Orphan, not really realizing what he was doing, pointed the gun towards a white patch, and jerked both his thumbs against the button. His eyes were blinded as "tut! tut! tut! tut!" flashed the gun, and the jar on his unaccustomed thumbs and wrists took off the pressure.
"Keep her going!" he heard his new friend shout; and setting his teeth and pressing with all his might, he tried to keep the maxim gun pointing in the right direction as it shook and rattled, and the empty cartridge-cases tumbled on to others upon the deck.
Immediately there were answering twinkles and sparks of rifles—a maxim somewhere above the castle doorway flamed out—the firing rang along the length of the beach, was taken on up above the cliffs; hundreds, thousands of shots were fired, and bullets whizzed over the fo'c'sle of the River Clyde, one or two thudding against the sand-bags.
"All right; let 'em go to sleep again," the Sub-lieutenant laughed, as the Orphan's tired thumbs and wrists refused to press the button any longer and the maxim stopped. In two minutes there was absolute silence.
"Well! Enjoy your battle?"
"Thank you very much!" the Orphan answered, tremendously pleased, and picking up a couple of the cartridge-cases he had fired, to keep as curios.
"What did happen?" he asked as he stood up again.
"A strong attack on the River Clyde was beaten off with heavy loss, thanks to the brilliant handling of the maxims under the charge of—what did you say your name is?"