Sam took his seat at the mess table mechanically. As a matter of fact he
felt dazed. He had expected a rebuke and he had received a promotion
instead.
He was aroused from his abstraction by the voice of his chum.
"Good boy!" breathed Dan. "I am proud of you. Fine! I knew you would
show them the material you are made of when you got the chance. Were you
really struck by lightning?"
"I don't know. I think it must have been the thunder clap that hit me,
though I didn't hear it. But wasn't that gun a sight? Nearly tore the
clothes off my back in the bargain."
"Burn you anywhere?"
"I guess not." Sam turned his palms up mechanically and opened his eyes
in amazement. They had been burned by the electric fluid until they were
black to the finger tips.
"Waugh!" he exclaimed. "Good thing it didn't do that to my face, or I'd
look just like the Pennsylvania Dutchman."
Sam, having his liberty, made a trip to the town that afternoon. It was
his first trip there since arriving at the Training School. First,
however, he procured his new rating badge and, after consulting with a
petty officer, sewed it on his sleeve. Sam strutted around for some time
after that, holding up his arm so that he might feast his eyes on the
red-lined rating mark. He felt very proud of it, and his companion, Dan
Davis, was no less proud of him.
In the town Sam found many other apprentices on liberty, and at their
invitation he joined them, spending the rest of the afternoon in
wandering about. They made him tell about his experiences in being
struck by lightning that morning, which Sam did with more or less
relish.
"I imagine it was almost like being in a battle, fellows," he said.
"If you got a clip like that in battle, I reckon you wouldn't be
bragging about it afterwards," suggested one.
"I'm not bragging about it," protested Hickey indignantly. "What's the
matter with you? Besides, I'm an officer, now, and officers don't have
to brag. They do things that speak for themselves."
"Hear him talk! He's got a swelled head already," jeered one of the
party. "You'll have a chance, to-morrow, to see whether you are any good
or not."
"What do you mean?"
"Can you shoot?"
Sam grinned.
"Don't make me laugh. I can shoot the eyes out of a spud as far as I can
see it."
"What's a spud?" piped a voice.
"You a sailor, and don't know what a spud is?" scoffed Sam. "A spud is a
spud, otherwise known as a potato. I am surprised at your ignorance."
"Louis Flink says he's going to clean up the whole crowd of us,
to-morrow, when we get to shooting."
"Shooting?"
"Yes."
"Shooting at what?"
"Targets."
"Are we going to do that?"
"Sure, and the ones who make the best scores will be promoted, I
understand. The officers always do that. They are going to try out the
apprentices, to see who is good enough to qualify for the sharpshooting
record of the station."
Hickey's eyes glowed. As soon as possible thereafter he excused himself.
Boarding a street car, he returned to the station.
"What do you think, Dan?" questioned Sam, as soon as he had gotten his
chum off away from the others.
"Well, what is it? Been getting into more trouble, young man?"
"Not I. It's news, and you'll say it's real news when you hear it."
"Well, I am listening," smiled Dan good-naturedly.
Sam's face was flushed with excitement, for this had been an eventful
day for him.
"Tell me all about it?"
"We are going to shoot to-morrow," whispered Sam in a stage whisper loud
enough to be heard a dozen yards away.
"Shoot what?"
"Target work."
"You don't say?"
"Yes," chuckled Hickey. "We won't do a thing to the targets, will we?"
"I don't know about you, but as for myself I never thought I was much of
a marksman. Of course, I have done some shooting, but there are boys
here who have done much more, I guess. What's the range?"
"I haven't heard. But, being an officer, perhaps I might ask some one."
"Do not presume too much on your promotion," warned Dan. "You are only a
very little officer. You may lose that rating if you are not careful."
"Then I'll get struck by lightning again, and get another one," answered
Sam confidently.
That night the boys swung themselves up into their hammocks, full of
anticipation of what lay before them on the following day. It seemed as
if they had no sooner gotten to sleep than the bugle sounded the
reveille.
They were up and at their shower baths, laughing and chatting, a few
minutes later. A happier, more care-free lot of hardy, brown-faced young
fellows it would be difficult to find.
The early morning duties were quickly disposed of, for the word had been
passed along that they were to take their first turn at the targets that
day. Some of the boys who had never handled a gun before were more
curious than those who had. The latter, however, were no less anxious to
be at it. When the command, "Fall in for target practice," was given,
all hands felt like setting up a shout of joy. They restrained
themselves, knowing full well that such a demonstration would bring
swift and sure punishment.
After they had lined up, the officer in charge ordered certain of the
men to fall out, they being wanted for other work. There were
disappointed ones among these, but these were told they would be given
their chance later in the week, as very many men could not be
accommodated at one time. The target practice was to last nearly a week,
two hours a day being devoted to it during this time.
All preparations having been made, the men were marched to the armory
where they were equipped with their rifles and ammunition for the day.
The apprentices were to fire five rounds apiece, each day, only the
average for the week to count.
"Keep your nerves steady, and don't try to do anything fancy, just
because you are an officer," warned Dan.
"You squint through your own sights; I'll look after mine," retorted
Sam.
Immediately after arriving at the range, the shooting began, one man
taking a shot, then giving place to another.
Dan took his place and fired. He missed. Sam followed, a few numbers
later, and he also missed. But when it came the turn of Louis Flink he
made a bull's-eye the first shot. Flink favored the two boys with a
sarcastic grin as he stepped aside to give the next man a chance.
The Battleship Boys had adjusted their sights in the meantime, and with
their next shots they, too, each made a bull's-eye. When the five rounds
had been fired it was found that Flink was one point ahead of them.
The lads were disgusted with themselves. On the following day the score
was the same; that is, each of the two boys made center every time and
so did Flink. Their only hope now was that he might make a miss, but
this he evidently had no intention of doing, for he shot with rare
judgment and coolness.
"I've got a good notion to break him up by saying something to him
to-morrow," Sam confided to his companion that night.
"I should be ashamed of you, if you did," rebuked Dan.
"Ashamed of me? Why?"
"Because it would be an unsportsmanlike and a cowardly trick. If we
cannot outshoot Blinkers, as you call him, we shall take our medicine
like men. It seems he's the better man at the butts."
The last day of the target practice arrived. It was Saturday morning
when the boys started out for the shooting grounds. The targets stood
out strong and clear in the morning sunlight, against the big mound of
earth before which they had been placed. By this time the shooting of
the three boys had aroused no little interest among the others of the
apprentices, and even the officers began to feel more than ordinary
interest, for such shooting was not usual among the rookies in their
early days.
The range had now been extended to three hundred yards. It was safe to
predict that the story of the week would be changed at this range.
The firing began almost at once, the men with lower scores competing
first, it having been decided to let the three leaders take their turns
at the butts after the others had finished.
"Keep your eyes open," suggested Dan. "Get your range well, for we
mustn't miss a shot to-day."
"We're beaten anyway," complained Sam.
"Stop it. You're a fine sailor, you are. We are not beaten. We are never
beaten until the last shot has been fired, and even then we won't run up
any white flag. See that Flag over there?"
"What flag?"
"The one on the staff--the Stars and Stripes."
"Sure."
"Well just imagine you are under that, and that those targets over
against the hill are enemies shooting at the Flag. What would you do to
them?"
"You know what I would do to them if I could--I'd put them every one out
of business."
"That's the talk! Well, they are enemies--our enemies. You must put them
out of business."
"All right; I'm it. I'll drill them in the eyes. You watch me when I go
to bat."
The firing, which had been going on for the past hour, suddenly ceased.
"Leaders shoot off scores," came the command.
"It's our turn," nodded Dan. "Keep cool."
"I'm as cool as the hot sun will allow me to be, but I wish they would
let me take off my jacket. I'll ask them."
"No, no, no," protested Dan.
"Flink take your place."
The dark-faced Pennsylvanian, a confident smile on his face, took his
place toeing the mark. He took careful aim, pulled the trigger and
lowered his weapon to his waist line.
"Bull's-eye," wig-wagged the signal man at the butts.
"Davis!" called the officer in charge.
Dan stepped to the mark, stood for a moment gazing off at the range.
Then, raising his gun, he took aim and fired without loss of time. The
onlookers thought he had missed, for his shot was apparently carelessly
executed.
"Bull's-eye," came back the wig-wag signal.
A number of officers of the post had gathered to see the shooting, and a
murmur of comment ran over the little throng.
"Hickey!"
"To the bat!" muttered Sam under his breath, taking his place. Hickey
took long and careful aim, lowered his gun for a free look at the target
then raised the weapon again. At last he fired.
He too, made a bull's-eye.
One round had been fired and without a single miss on the part of any
one of the three contestants. This was continued for three more rounds
with no change in the result.
Excitement ran high. Nearly every apprentice on the grounds was hoping
that either the red-haired boy or his companion might win. Flink had few
admirers, though all gave him full credit for what he had accomplished
so far in the contest.
This time Dan was called to the mark first, the officer in charge
varying the routine for some reason of his own.
Dan scored a bull's-eye.
Flink came next. This time he shot with less caution than before, and
missed. Sam, however, made a bull's-eye.
"Tied, sir. Shall they shoot it off?" asked the quartermaster, saluting
the commandant of the station.
"Shoot it off," was the reply.
"Aye, aye, sir. Leaders take their places for another round."
Flink was called to the mark first. He was plainly nervous. Perhaps his
nervousness was not lessened by the glimpse he caught of Sam Hickey's
face. Sam was grinning broadly, but he could not be accused of
attempting to interfere with Flink, because he was not looking at him.
Sam was looking at Dan at that particular moment.
Flink took his sight, then pulled the trigger with a nervous finger.
"Miss," came the wig-wag signal.
Dan took his place and fired. He made a bull's-eye.
Sam came next. As before he took a great deal of time in preparation.
"He's posing," muttered Dan. "He might better attend to his business."
However, Sam Hickey knew what he was about. If he missed, he would have
the satisfaction of knowing that it was not through carelessness.
At last he seemed satisfied as to his position, arriving at which
decision, he lost no time in bringing the rifle to his shoulder and
pulling the trigger.
"Bull's-eye!"
A great shout went up from the apprentices. Discipline, for the moment,
was swept aside. Even the officers smiled approvingly as their young
charges threw hats high in the air, yelling lustily, shouting the names
of their champions. Dan Davis and red-haired Sam had outshot them all.
As it had grown late, there was no time for the two friends to shoot it
off. Between them, it was a tie.