the
plight of the wireless man. He smiles.

"In exactly five minutes," he says, "you signal again." The radio man
goes to his room and the officer descends to the detector. In precisely
five minutes he hears the signal which had bothered the man on detector
watch. He hurries to the bridge with the solution of the incident. The
wireless had become disconnected and its signals had come in contact
with the detector. So there was no submarine. Everything serene. The
battleship settles down to her night routine.

The dark wears into dawn, and the early morning, with the dusk, is the
favorite hunting-time of the submarine, for the reason that then a
periscope, while seeing clearly, is not itself easily to be discerned.
The lookouts, straining their eyes out over the steely surge, pick up
what appears to be a spar. But no. The water is rushing on either side
of it like a mill race. A periscope.

There is a hurry of feet on the bridge. The navigating officer seizes
the engine-room telegraph and signals full speed ahead. While the ship
groans and lists under the sudden turn at high speed, the
ammunition-hoists drone as they bring powder and shell up to gun and
turret. From the range-finding and plotting-stations come orders to the
sight-setters, and in an instant there is a stupendous roar as every gun
on the port side sends forth its steel messenger.

Again and again comes the broadside, while the ocean for acres about the
periscope boils with the steel rain. It is much too hot for the
submarine which sinks so that the periscope is invisible. From the
plotting-stations come orders for a change of range, and on the sea a
mile or so away rise huge geysers which pause for a moment, glistening
in the light of the new sun, and then fall in spray to the waves, whence
they were lifted by the hurtling projectiles. The shells do not
ricochet. "Where they hit they dig," to quote a navy man. This is one of
the inventions of the war, the non-ricochet shell. One may easily
imagine how greatly superior are the shells that dig to those that
strike the water and then glance. Then comes the cry:

"Torpedo!"

All see it, a white streak upon the water, circling from the outer rim
of shell-fire on a wide arc, so as to allow for the speed of the
battleship. With a hiss the venomous projectile dashes past the bow,
perhaps thirty yards away. Had not the battleship swung about on a new
course as soon as the vigilant lookout descried the advanci