Slowly he drew up abreast of Lazar; the third man was close at his elbow. He put forth his full power. To himself his muscles felt chained. He seemed fairly to crawl toward the finish. But the spectators saw him draw surely up to Lazar--then forge ahead. Phil heard a pistol shot, and gave himself into the grasp of a group of sailormen. He knew none of them, but they all wore “Connecticut” on their caps, and their faces were alight with pride and satisfaction. “Well done, Mr. Perry,” they shouted. He felt himself raised on a mountain of sturdy shoulders and heard the triumphant shouts of victory. Then his eyes fell on the face of Lazar, likewise honored by his delighted men. Amid the happy faces below him that of the older officer showed only anger and bitter mortification. CHAPTER IV THE FACE IN THE LOCKET Sports of whatever nature were now by the order of the admiral relegated to the past and all hands turned to for the coming target practice. With the Atlantic fleet the days were now indeed full of hard, but useful work. At eight o’clock in the morning the squadron would daily be under way. Drill after drill followed to perfect the officers in handling the unwieldy monsters, until even the ships seemed to have acquired an intelligence all their own. Phil, standing his watch duty under Lazar, spent many instructive hours. To see the eight battle-ships steaming at twelve-knots speed, with a distance between the bow of one and the stern of the next of less than three ship lengths, was a sight calculated to inspire a feeling of wonder and admiration. One day on the bridge, while the squadron was engaged in maneuvers, the real danger of this apparently simple drill was forcibly demonstrated. Phil, telescope in hand, was reading the fluttering flags hoisted by the flag-ship, calling out the numbers to Lazar, who was solving their meaning in the signal book he held in his hand. Suddenly the battle-ship directly ahead in the column swung herself across the path of their ship. Phil saw the “dispatch flag,” a signal of breakdown, flying at her main masthead. The danger of a collision appeared so suddenly that he was bound to the spot. He was new to such an emergency. Lazar’s eyes were upon the ship ahead. His attitude was alert, his face calm and his manner deliberate. “Port, hard aport,” he ordered, in a natural voice. The heavily-shod bow of their ship pointed fairly amidships of the ship now nearly broadside in their path. Slowly, painfully the “Connecticut’s” bow, in answer to her helm, moved along the length of the exposed and all but helpless white hull ahead. The ships drew together with such rapidity that it seemed to Phil a collision was inevitable.