The sea stretched sparklingly blue under the tropic skies as far as the eye could reach.
Right ahead of them was extended the line of snowy targets, seeming huge enough at such close range, small as they appeared to the battleships a mile and a quarter off. In spite of the beauty of the scene and the glorious crispness of the sea air, Ned felt an oppression, the cause of which he himself would have found difficult to determine.
"If I was superstitious, I should say that I had a premon—a premon—— Oh, I forget the word! But, anyhow, that I had a 'hunch' that something was going to happen," mused Ned to himself.
But it was no time for musing.
The whaleboats were beginning to back away to safe quarters before the firing commenced. At the ensign's command, the wherry followed them.
"Give them the signal to go ahead, Strong!" ordered the ensign sharply at length, as they lay bobbing at some distance from the targets. The bronzed arms of the oarsman were motionless and his eyes were fixed intently on the far-off line of battleships.
Ned stood erect in the stern of the plunging wherry. Awkward as the motion would have been to a landsman, to the Dreadnought Boy it was hardly noticeable.
His brown arms dipped and rose, and with their motion the red signal flag cut arcs against the blue sky.
Far off, on the bridge of the flagship, the lookout, gazing through his telescope, reported to the anxious group of officers that all was ready.
Rapidly the word was passed to the port twelve-inch turret, it having been decided to use the big guns on test work.