“Man magazines and ammunition hoists. Stand ready. Pass loads to the batteries!” came the sharp orders from the bridge in rapid succession.
High up in the superstructure, the range finders and “spotters” with telephone receivers clamped to their heads were ready. Down in the bowels of the ship the men who would transmit their reports of range and kindred matters to the batteries, sat at what looked like giant switchboards, covered with winking lights of different colors.
In Ned’s turret, the ammunition hoist came up with a bang and clang. Bags of powder and a great projectile were unshipped by the gun crew with what appeared to be magical speed. Every man had his work and knew just what to do.
“Load and stand by,” ordered the ensign in Ned’s turret. “We’re going to have some night target practice, my lads. See to it that you do your best,” he went on.
This was the information that Ned had heard flashed out over the wireless. The crew of the big twelve-inch gave a cheer. Stripped to the waist, they awaited the next order.
“Clear decks for action!”
The Jackies outside began stripping the ship of everything movable. Boats were lowered and cast off astern, railings, stanchions, everything movable came down and was marked “Overboard.” Some wag even affixed a label marked in this way to the horns of Blue Lightning, who was careering around the decks in great excitement.
“Strong, you take the gun.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Have your wits about you. We must hold the record we possess, if it is possible.”