"A terrible big ship!"

"A Liverpool clipper, by the lines of her."

"God help the poor passengers, then!" sobs a woman. "They're past our
help: she's on her beam ends."

"And her deck upright toward us."

"Silence! Out of the way you loafing long-shores!" shouts the
Lieutenant. "Brown--the rockets!"

What though the Lieutenant be somewhat given to strong liquors, and
stronger language? He wears the Queen's uniform; and what is more, he
knows his work, and can do it; all make a silent ring while the fork
is planted; the Lieutenant, throwing away the end of his cigar, kneels
and adjusts the stick; Brown and his mates examine and shake out the
coils of line.

Another minute, and the magnificent creature rushes forth with a
triumphant roar, and soars aloft over the waves in a long stream of
fire, defiant of the gale.

Is it over her? No! A fierce gust, which all but hurls the spectators
to the ground; the fiery stream sweeps away to the left, in a grand
curve of sparks, and drops into the sea.

"Try it again!" shouts the Lieutenant, his blood now up. "We'll see
which will beat, wind or powder."