The "Long Island" was still lying inside the breakwater when the lads were piped to their gun station the following morning.

"Seaman Dan Davis and Sam Hickey will hereafter act as gun pointers in number four turret," said the gun captain. "You will get your rating badges at the canteen, meaning the ship's storeroom. See that you have them before the afternoon practice at four bells."

The Battleship Boys looked at each other triumphantly, and Sam winked wisely at his companion. How the lads did go through their work that day, performing each duty with a snap that drew nods of approval from the gun captain and wondering looks from their companions.

After the noon meal they hastened to the canteen, where they procured the rating badges. This was a square of blue cloth on which was a white circle with two fine lines drawn across the circle at right angles to each other, representing the crossed sights such as one finds in a telescope rifle.

The boys lost no time in sewing them on their sleeves, after which they paraded the forward deck, doing their best to look unconcerned. Their efforts in this direction were failures.

"h.e.l.lo, Dynamite! I see you've got your hash marks," greeted a companion.

"Oh, you mean this," answered Dan, with glowing face, as he held up his arm.

"I've got one, too, even if I couldn't hit the side of a barn," spoke up the red-headed Hickey. "I told the captain of number four how I had plugged woodchucks back home, though, and I guess that convinced him that I could shoot big guns."

"Say, Hickey, speaking of hash marks, have you got any on you yet?"

"I'm just telling you I have one here. I'm a gun pointer. If you don't believe it, come over to the turret and I'll point one at you.

It'll make you jump when the pop-gun goes off, I'll bet."

"No, no; I don't mean that kind of a hash mark," laughed his companion.

"What kind, then?"

"Tattoo marks. We call them hash marks."

"I get tattooed--is that what you mean?"

"Of course; every sailor--every real sailor--has that done."

"What for?"

"Just to be the real thing; that's all."

"I don't know. I hadn't thought of it."

"I'll take you over to Needle Johnson, if you want to have it done."

"Well, I don't know," reflected Sam. "Does it hurt?"

"Of course it doesn't. You will not even feel it. Doesn't hurt half as much as the sting of a Jersey mosquito."

"I'll go and talk with What's-his-name----"

"Needle Johnson."

"Yes. Where's Dan?"

"I think he has gone below. You come along, and he'll be surprised and envious when he finds you have had the job done," continued the boy's shipmate with a wink at some of the others standing by.

Sam somewhat reluctantly followed the jackie below, where, after some searching about, they finally located Needle Johnson. Needle was an old-time sea dog, wearing a heavy crop of whiskers and with a voice that would have done credit to a boatswain's mate.

"Here's a lad who hasn't had a hash mark put on his skin, and he's been on board for three months."

Needle gazed at the red-headed boy pityingly.

"You don't mean it?"

"Yes. I told him he wouldn't be a real sailor until he had some paint stuck under his hide."

"That's the sure thing, my lad, and I'm the salt that can give you the purtiest hashings you ever set eyes on. Where did you reckon you wanted the marks put?"

"I hadn't reckoned anything about it. I guess I don't want any of those hash marks, as you call them," Sam returned.

"What? Not want them? Of course you do."

Sam reflected a moment, then gave a reluctant consent.

"What kind of a tattoo would you suggest?"

"A pig's foot, by all means, matey. That's the latest and most fashionable decoration that a gentleman can wear. How'll you have it!"

"I'll take mine pickled, if it's all the same to you," answered Sam soberly.

The jackies roared.

"What do you take me for--a sea-cook?" growled Johnson. "Take off your right shoe if you want to do business with me."

"What for?"

"For the hash. You wouldn't have a pig's foot anywhere else, would you?"

"I--I don't know."

"That's the only place to put it, and it will bring you luck."

In the meantime Needle Johnson had gotten out his case of needles and his coloring matter.

"You are sure it won't hurt?" asked Sam.

"You won't feel a thing. Now, hold perfectly still. If you jerked, or anything, I might make a pig's tail instead of a pig's foot. That would be tough, wouldn't it, matey?"

"It might be tough for you. Ou-u-u-uch!"

Sam Hickey's foot came up with such suddenness that Needle was unable to dodge it. The foot caught Needle fairly on the nose, bowling him over to the deck, while all hands were shrieking with delight over his discomfiture.

"What--what do you mean, you--you lubber?" demanded Needle angrily, rubbing the injured member, then shaking a fist under the red-headed boy's nose.

"You--you said it wouldn't hurt."