pportunity that
delighted the hearts of every jackie on board. It was something more
than the ordinary target practice. It was, in reality, battle
practice. Ammunition was quickly hoisted to the seven-inch gun turret,
and, taking a wide circle, the ship began swinging back toward the spot
where the "Oriole" had last been seen. The searchlights were playing
over the mountainous seas in search of her.

"There she is, four points off the starboard bow, sir," shouted a
lookout.

"What is the range, Mr. Coates?" asked the captain.

"About four thousand yards."

"Better make it three."

The outlines of the schooner could be faintly made out by focusing the
searchlight upon her.

"Within the range, sir."

"Very well, when you are ready."

A bell buzzed in the starboard seven-inch forward turret, while an
indicator told the waiting gun crew that the doomed ship lay three
thousand yards from them. An instant later a projectile had been
shoved into the big gun, the breech closed and the gun pointer crawling
to his station, was sighting the piece on the ghostly outline of the
"Oriole."

"Fire!"

The battleship heeled ever so little, followed by a report as if the
ship had blown up.

Again the bell in the turret buzzed.

"Aye, aye, sir," answered the gun captain.

"An excellent shot," came the information in the voice of the executive
officer. "You shot away the foremast. The schooner lies very low in
the water. You will have to depress your gun a little more this time,
or wait until the target rises on a swell. Drill her this time."

"Aye, aye, sir; we'll drill her."

"Boom!" roared the big seven-inch, as it hurled the second heavy
projectile straight at the unfortunate schooner.

"Fair hit," shouted the executive officer in a tone of exultation.

"Hit her hard, sir?"

"Dead amidships. Smash another in the same place and you'll have her
on the way to Davy Jones's ditty box."

Again the forward starboard seven-inch spoke.

"Miss," came the warning. "Poor work. Cease firing and give the after
turret's crew a chance."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The after-turret's crew sprang to their work with a shout of joy. In
an incredibly short time after receiving the command, their weapon
began to roar, shot following shot, as if they were engaged in record
target practice for the silver cup.

"Hit," came the call down the speaking tube after each shot.
Projectile after projectile landed in the hull of the