a rivalry between the guns' crews. It is a rivalry as to which
shall make the best shots and create the most damage. The members of
Number Eight--the after gun on the port side--are proud of their record.
Their second captain--he whom they call "Hay"--has received the public
commendation of the captain himself, sent down from the bridge in the
midst of the battle. It is a mark of distinction not given freely, and
Number Eight is eager for more honors.

But the men have not forgotten a similar case, occurring on the voyage
down the coast, when another cartridge failed, and on being extracted
from the breech chamber, exploded, killing a marine corporal and
wounding others.

The men of Number Eight have not forgotten that tragedy, and that is why
their gun is now to them a menacing creature of steel, whose breath may
be the breath of death. They stand in groups, they eye it, they
speculate, and they feel that a desperate and perilous duty is before
them.

The risk must be taken. The cartridge must be extracted. It is a fortune
of war which all who enlist must expect. But it is one thing to fall
before an enemy's blow, and another to lose your life at the stroke of
your own weapon.

The officer of the division steps forward.

"We will see if we can't take it out without much danger," he says,
briefly. "Bring a rope."

One is hastily procured, and the first captain--a great, brawny,
good-natured fellow, who has spent years at sea--deftly fastens the
bight of the rope to the handle of the breechblock. He then retreats a
short distance and signifies his readiness.

"When I give the word," calls out the officer, "pull handsomely.
Ready--pull away!"

From out the smoke-filled compartment men lean forward,
eagerly--anxiously. They instinctively shrink back as the breech plug
slowly moves. Then, when it finally opens, revealing the brass head of
the cartridge inside the firing chamber, a sigh of relief comes from
all.

But the danger is not yet over.

The defective projectile must be taken out and tossed into the sea. The
second loader steps forward at a signal from the gun captain. This
second loader is "Stump." He shows no fear, but draws out the heavy
cartridge, handling it as he would a harmless dummy, and passes it to
another man and myself. Carrying it between us--and carrying it
gingerly--we hasten to the side, and with a powerful swing, launch the
hundred-pound projectile through the open port.

It barely