“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Both engines.”
The Manhattan slowly swung around and headed to sea, with her big guns belching yellow smoke and flashes of scarlet flame. Ashore, every whistle in the city sent up a deafening roar of screeching and hooting. The wharves and tall buildings on the water-front, black with people, added to the din.
Slowly, and in stately fashion, the huge dreadnought maneuvered till her bow pointed straight for the historic Golden Gate. Each ship of the squadron followed at a measured distance of four hundred yards. From each came clouds of smoke, the fulminating roar of the big guns and the crashing of bands.
Up on the signal halliards of the Manhattan went a string of bunting.
“Increase distance to sixteen hundred yards.”
Gradually and as perfectly measured as if they had been figures in a minuet, the great fighting ships lengthened the distance between each other.
Out through the Golden Gate they steamed “in column,” and as they passed the twin headlands, the guns from the forts on either side answered the barking throats of the fleet’s heavy artillery. Out past the Farallones they steamed, keeping perfect distance or “interval,” as it is called, between each ship.
“Say, Herc,” remarked Ned, when after the firing was over he rejoined his chum on the foc’scle, “I’ve been doing some figuring. Do you know how much water this fleet displaces?”
“I haven’t the smidge of an idea, ship-mate.”