The officer in charge, a lieutenant with absurdly pink cheeks and curly hair, was stationed at his periscope, one end of which protruded through a hole in the armoured roof of the turret, and gave him a view of the surrounding sea.
'Can yer see anythink, sir?' some one asked in a hoarse whisper, his curiosity getting the better of him as the officer bent down to wipe the eyepiece of his instrument with a gaudy bandana handkerchief.
'Yes,' he answered cheerily, 'five battle-cruisers, some light cruisers, and a good many destroyers! Stand by. It'll be starting in a minute.' He replaced the handkerchief in his pocket, and applied his eyes to the periscope again.
The loading number of the right gun, he with the hairy arms, was busy with a piece of chalk, and the other members of the gun's crew who had nothing particular to do watched him with some amusement. 'To Hunny, with love from Bill Mason, A.B.,' he traced out laboriously on the sleek, yellow-painted side of the huge lyddite projectile. He stepped back to survey his handiwork with a little chuckle of glee. 'That'll tickle 'em!' he remarked, winking solemnly.
The men tittered.
The lieutenant at the periscope suddenly held his breath as a muffled, whistling shriek and the roar of an explosion from outside brought the men's heads up in eager, listening attention.
'Garn!' said Mason with a grin; 'that ain't gone nowhere near us. 'Ave another go, ole son!'
'Stand by, men!' cautioned the officer, who was the only person who could see what went on in the outside world.
Mason licked his hands and rubbed them unconcernedly on the seat of his trousers.
Whe-e-e-w! whe-e-e-e-w! B-o-o-m! from the outside again, followed by the sound of another detonation and a slight jar, which showed that the ship had been struck somewhere.