Tripoli, June 23d.—H.M.S. Camperdown rammed H.M.S. Victoria yesterday five miles out at sea. The Victoria sank at once. Rear-Admiral Tryon, most of his officers, and over three hundred men were lost.
"The Mediterranean fleet," went on Wendell, talking to arrange his thoughts rather than to inform his friend, "has been cruising in the Levant. Victoria was the biggest and most formidable battle-ship in the world. Camperdown is almost as big. Tripoli is on the north coast of Africa—"
"No," interrupted Carter, who was looking at the Standard. "This paper says it is Tripoli, on the coast of Asia Minor."
"That's bad—small place—poor telegraph," Wendell was muttering, his forehead wrinkled so that it suggested sixty rather than twenty-three. Up went the trap in the top of the cab. "Drive to the Eastern Telegraph Company, Old Broad Street. And you get an extra fare if you do it quickly."
"What are you going to do there?" Carter inquired, as the cab began a mad dash down St. James's Street on its way to the City and Old Broad Street.
"Why, a very simple thing. I'm going to try to get a full account of this disaster, and print it in New York before an account is printed in England. Tripoli is miles away from nowhere at all. These English papers are very slow. I propose to show them what American enterprise is."
"But they are sure to be first with such a story as this, about their own navy. You have no correspondent there."
"Neither have they. I have a scheme, and the beauty of it is that even if these English fellows think of it they will dismiss it without a trial as too absurd."
"Then you admit there is practically no chance?"
"Chance? I don't admit that there is such a thing as chance. I know that it is my duty to do something. This is the only thing I can think of. The others will be hopeless and will do nothing."