One lovely May morning a few days after this found the _Spitfire_ off the glorious bay of Naples. The sun shone from a sapphire sky upon a sapphire sea, while in the distance rose the darker blue cone of Vesuvius, crowned with fire and flame. Across the rippling water swept innumerable sail-boats, while tall-masted merchantmen and steamships with inky smoke pouring out of their black funnels ploughed their way in and out the harbor. Near a huge government mole half a dozen majestic war-ships, strung out in a semicircle, rode at anchor. A great British battle-ship, all black and yellow, towered over the smart little cruiser near by, which also flew a British ensign from her peak. Not far away lay a French ship with remarkably handsome masts and spars and a wicked-looking ram as sharp as a knife, that could cut an armored ship in half like a cheese if ever she got the chance. Farther off still lay three Italian men-of-war, from one of which flew the blue flag of an Admiral. The Captain of the _Spitfire_ was with Mr. Belton on the bridge as they came in, with a fair wind, and a mountain of canvas piled on the ship. The Captain, knowing that no man could handle a sailing-ship more beautifully than his First Lieutenant, was quite willing that he should show his expertness before the thousands of sailors watching the _Spitfire_. On she rushed, the water bellowing against her sides as her keen bows cut her way through the blue waves. Mr. Belton, with a seaman's eye, selected an admirable anchorage, and just as the on-lookers were wondering where the _Spitfire_ meant to bring up, she made a beautiful flying move. Her yards were squared like magic, and her sails furled with almost incredible swiftness. With a gleam like lightning and a rattle like thunder her cable rushed out of the hawse-hole, and scarcely had the splash of her anchor resounded when the Italian colors were broken at the mast-head and the first gun of the salute boomed over the bright water.
"Well done, _Spitfire_!" cried the Captain; and well done it was.
Twenty guns roared out, with scarcely a second's difference in their steady boom!--boom!--boom!--and then there was a sudden break before the twenty-first gun was fired. Mr. Belton turned, and his eye instinctively flashed upon the starboard gun over the magazine. Yes, there it was--that accident he had been looking for ever since he set foot on the ship. The shreds of a blazing cartridge-bag dropped under the breech, and a faint puff of wind blew them over the edge of the open chute, and down they went into the powder-magazine.