Ranged up against the ship's side at regular intervals, they resembled not a little a stud of sable chargers in their stall.

Among this iron stud little Quoin was continually running in and out, currying them down, now and then, with an old rag, or keeping the flies off with a brush.

To Quoin, the honour and dignity of the United States of America seemed indissolubly linked with the keeping his guns unspotted and glossy.

He himself was black as a chimney-sweep with continually tending them, and rubbing them down with black paint.

He would sometimes get outside of the port-holes and peer into their muzzles, as a monkey into a bottle.