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“Does she starboard any?” he asked the man at the wheel.

The latter used the telescope and then said:

“Don’t seem to, sir.”

“Think she sees us?”

“Can’t tell, sir,” said the boatman gravely.

“Spec’ we’d better fire the gun, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You strip the gun. I’ll take the wheel.”

So a little gun—a tiny cannon, no less—was made ready and while it was being put in place at the lee rail, Germond, the oldest of the pilots, came on deck and took the wheel.

“Going to fire the gun, eh?” he observed, in deep bass tones.

“Yes,” said the pinochler.

“Well, that’s right. Blaze away.”

The boatman, who had superintended the charging of the gun, now pulled a wire attached to a cap and the little cannon spat out a flame with a roar that shook the boat.

“Do they do this often?” I asked the footman.

“Not very. When fogs are on and boats can’t find us it comes in handy. There’s hardly any use in this case. I guess she sees us.”

Germond, at the wheel, seemed to enjoy playing warship, for he called out: “Fire again, Johnnie!”