"Aye, aye, sir."
One after another the rockets ascended, bursting high overhead and slowly falling.
From Grand Harbor, several miles distant, a rocket ascended and burst, showing red.
Darrin's signal had been seen and answered. Both fleets now knew that one of the launches had sighted the submarine craft. The three blue rockets had been the signal agreed upon in advance. Runkle was at the gun. Ensign Darrin gave him the range.
"I wish we had a four-inch gun in the bow," Dave muttered wistfully, "but we'll have to do the best we can with the one-pounder. Ready! Fire!"
Even before the command to fire had been uttered the craft ahead had begun to submerge.
As the brisk, snappy report of the little piece sounded, and a faint puff of smoke left her muzzle, Runkle's head bobbed up to watch the result of his shot.
"Forward of her turret by about a foot!" Runkle muttered in disgusted criticism of his own shooting.
A sailor had thrown the breech open, while a second swabbed the bore through and the first fitted in a fresh shell, closing the breech with a snap.
Runkle seemed to sight and fire almost in the same instant, and, as before, straightened up to watch the accuracy of his shot by the splash of water on the other side of the craft. The launch's searchlight held a steady glare on the mark.