'If we can slap it into her first, we can deal with the
barges at our leisure.'
As he spoke he was squinting along the barrel, his right hand busy with
the sighting screw.
'Hang this fog!' he muttered. 'I can hardly see what I'm shooting at.'
The launch was now within little more than a hundred yards of the tug
which was puffing noisily along, her string of barges tailing heavily down
the current, and her crew utterly unaware of the hidden danger gliding
down upon them through the fog.
'I'm beastly rusty,' continued Dimmock. 'Still, I hardly think I can miss
her at this range.'
As he spoke his finger pressed the electric button, and the gun barked
with that ear-splitting crack peculiar to the 6-pounder.
The tug staggered and rang like an iron drum.
'Not much miss about that!' cried Roy triumphantly. 'You must have got her
slap in the boilers.'
'No, it was too high,' said Dimmock in a discontented tone.' This gun
jumps a bit. Sharp there, with that other shell.'
Roy slipped it in as though it were a toy, the breech-block snicked to,
and five seconds later a second report roused the echoes.
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