The Germans raised a war-whoop of wild enjoyment.

And just at the height of all that, Fred's three-and-twentieth shot went home.
There was a loud report, followed by instant nothing except stampede on the part of the Germans to get out of reach of something.

Then the something grew denser; invisible hot vapor became a pall of steam that bid the launch from view, three more shots from Fred's rifle finding the proper mark by sheer accident, for there was another explosion; the cloud increased and the launch stopped dead.
"That gray sheet of metal wasn't her boiler at all!" Fred shouted back to me.

"The first shot pierced the boiler when I found out where to aim! I think three of them are scalded badly--hope so!--high pressure steam--superheated--did you see?
Now leave 'em to find their own way home!" "See if you can't get Schillingschen!" said I.
But Schillingschen was invisible in the white cloud, and Fred refused to waste one of the half-dozen cartridges remaining.

The light wind that bore us away from the launch also spread the screen of steam between us and them.