ant celebration of the
ever-memorable anniversary of Sloper's release.

It was precisely at this hour that the _Tom Bowling_, with Plum at the
helm and Joe Westlake in full rig, marching up and down the
quarter-deck, came leisurely rounding down Halfway Reach before a
pleasant northerly breeze of wind blowing over the flat, fat levels of
Barking. The _Tom Bowling_, opening Jenningtree Point, ported her helm
and floated in all her pride of white canvas and radiant metal and
fathom and a half of shining bunting at her masthead into Erith Reach.

Just as she came abreast of Labour's Retreat a gun was fired; the
white powder-smoke clouded the tailor's lawn; the thunder of the
ordnance smote the ear of Joe Westlake, who, dilating his nostrils and
directing his eyes at Sloper's villa, bawled out: "Peter! that's meant
for us, my heart! Down hellum! slacken away fore and aft! pipe all
hands for action!"

A second gun roared upon the lawn that sloped from the tailor's house;
and almost as loud was the shout that Westlake delivered to all hands
to look alive and bring the guns to bear. The Tom Bowling was thrown
into the wind and brought to a stand abreast of Labour's Retreat; Plum
took a turn with the helm and went to help at the guns, and in a few
minutes the three of a crew, with Westlake continuously bawling out
orders to bear a hand and load again, were actively engaged in firing
blank at the enemy on the lawn.

It might have been that Mr. Sloper and his friends were a little
tipsy; it might have been that they were irritated by their _feu de
joie_ being interrupted and complicated, so to speak, by the cutter's
artillery; it is certain that they continued to load and discharge
their guns as fast as they could sponge them out; whilst from the
river the cutter maintained a rapid fire at Labour's Retreat. In an
evil moment, temper getting the better of Sloper's judgment, he loaded
one of his pieces with stones, and the gun was so well aimed that on
Joe Westlake looking aloft he beheld his beautiful flag of a fathom
and a half in holes.

For some moments the old man-of-wars man stood staring up at his
wounded flag, idle with wrath and astonishment. He then in a voice of
thunder shouted: "Plum--Robins--Tuck! D' ye see what that there fired
little tailor's been and done? Why, junk me if he ha' n't shot our
colour through! Boys, load with ball; d' ye hear? Suffocate me, but he
shall have it back. Quick, my hearts, and go for