“Aye! aye, sir!”
A shrill screech on his pipe followed as he tumbled forward on his duty.
Presently his voice boomed through the forecastle.
“A-l-l hands on deck! D’ye hear that now? A-l-l hands to s-t-ations!”
Buglers, hastily aroused, began sounding the “assembly!” Instantly the sleeping ship galvanized into what appeared to be a pandemonium. High on the masts the red and green “Ardois” lamps were winking and flashing the signal to the ships. The wireless was fretting and whining. “The idlers,” cooks, messmen, stewards and boys took their places below in the magazines. The Jackies tumbled out of hammocks and slipped into uniforms as if by magic. Officers hastily took their stations. Questions and conjectures as to the reason for the sudden call flew thick and fast.
Some thought that there had been a collision; others that the ship had gone aground; yet others hazarded a guess that fire had broken out. All knew that some urgent business was on hand and lost no time in getting on deck.
Ned was at his gun almost before the last notes of the bugle calls had died out. Herc was not much behind him. The Dreadnought Boy hastily inspected the shining butt of the big twelve-inch gun that was in his charge. He patted it smilingly.
“You’ll have to do your best to-night, old girl!” he said.
The captain passed among the men as they took their stations.
“They’ll do,” he remarked to the executive officer with him; “smart work. A likely lot of lads. They all have themselves well in hand even though they have no idea what is going to happen.”