of engines and a warm thick atmosphere smelling
strongly of oil and illuminated by white electric lamps. For the moment he
could not imagine where he was nor what had happened. It was not until he
rolled over and saw Roy lying stretched on another mattress beside him,
and Gill a little beyond, that any sort of recollection came back to him.

He stretched himself. He was sore all over, but otherwise fit enough and
very hungry. Then he sat up.

A burly figure came towards him, walking with that curiously light-footed
tread which becomes second habit in a submarine. It was Williams, the
coxswain.

'Well, young fellow me lad,' he remarked genially, 'how goes it?'

'Top hole, thanks. A bit empty. That's all.'

'If that's your only trouble, we'll soon fix it. Can you walk?'

'You bet.'

'Then come along forrard, and we'll see what cooky can do for you.'

Cooky's efforts consisted in biscuit, butter, sardines, jam, and lashings
of hot strong tea, to all of which Ken did the fullest justice.

'And how d'ye like life under the ocean wave?' asked Williams, who was
watching Ken's progress with the eye of a connoisseur.

'First time I ever tried it,' said Ken, glancing round the long, narrow
interior which seemed merely a packing case for a maze of intricate
machinery. 'What is she? What class I mean?'

'She's G 2, sonny, and don't you forget it. The last word in submarine
gadgets. Twenty knots on the surface, and twelve submerged. Carries eight
o' the biggest and best torpedoes, any one o' which is warranted to knock
the stuffing out o' the "Goeben" or any other o' Weeping Willy's
super-skulkers.'

'Where are we now?' inquired Ken with interest.

'Couldn't say precisely. But somewheres about ten fathom below the shinin'
surface of the Dardanelles.'

Ken felt a queer thrill. There was something uncanny in the thought that
they were spinning along, sixty feet below the sea-level, cut off from all
the living world.

'Pass the word the commander wishes to see Carrington,' came a voice.

'Lootenant Strang wants you,' said Williams. 'Go right aft. Sentry'll show
you. And go careful, mind you. Submarines ain't the sort o' shops for foot
races.'

Ken went cautiously back past the amazing tangle of spinning, whirling
machinery. Where the long interior narrowed to the stern hung a thick
curtain. The sentry silently parted it, and Ken found himself in the
officer's quarters of G2. They were as plain as the steerage on a