"Keep your wool on, old man!" exclaimed Raeburn. "Strikes me, we all want shaking up——"
Before he could complete the sentence the ship seemed to leap vertically out of the water. A deafening crash followed. The gun-room furniture was thrown in all directions, the occupants were either hurled against the bulkhead or pitched violently on top of the overturned gear, while the failure of the electric light left the place in utter darkness.
Terence found himself lying across the remains of the gramaphone, with someone's heel beating a tattoo on the small of his back.
For some seconds he remained where he was, his senses dulled by the sudden shock. Then it occurred to him that the ship was not so lively as usual. Her movements seemed decidedly sluggish. A confused roar, the sound of many feet hurrying, mingled with the hiss of escaping steam, recalled him to his senses. Either the "Strongbow" had struck a mine or had been torpedoed. Above the tumult came the sound of the bugle, the notes quavering to such an extent that the sub. hardly recognized their significance.
"That's 'General Quarters'," he exclaimed, and freeing himself from the persistent attentions of the unknown's heels, he sprang to his feet and struck a match.
By its feeble glimmer he could form some idea of the chaotic aspect of the gun-room. Many of his comrades had regained their feet, and in their eagerness to obey the bugle-call were groping blindly for the door. The concussion had jammed it badly. Two of the officers were still prone amid the débris—stunned by the shock.
The match flickered and died out, but before Aubyn could strike another, one of the midshipmen thrust a hastily rolled newspaper into the remains of the fire on the stove and held it like a torch.
A combined effort on the part of O'Reilly and two of the midshipmen burst the door from its hinges. Aubyn, assisted by Raeburn, lifted one of the unconscious men and bore him on deck. Others performed a like office for the second victim, while the rest filed up the companion.
By this time the short burst of uproar had entirely ceased. Officers and men were quietly falling in on the upper deck, awaiting the captain's orders.
Silhouetted against the fitful moonlight could be discerned the cool and resolute form of Captain Ripponden as he grasped the bridge-rails and looked down upon the orderly mass of humanity. In that moment of peril he was proud of his crew. They were worthy of upholding the traditions of gallant British seamen. To what extent the "Strongbow" was damaged he knew not. He was awaiting the carpenter's and the boatswain's report.