“After all,” he thought, when the pleasure seekers had gone, “what do I care for Lazar’s praise. He has taught me to curb my temper and I have worked harder than I thought myself capable in order to be free from his faultfinding tongue.” The problem was only one of many Phil had fought out alone, and he finally saw the solution. Putting his drawings aside, he went up into the turret to test his ideas practically. “Boyd,” he shouted as he reached the gun platform. “Here, sir,” answered a slim, active looking sailorman, the gunner’s mate of the turret, emerging from under the guns, a number of tools in his begrimed fingers. “Get O’Neil and come down below in the handling room. I have a scheme I want to try.” “Aye, aye, sir,” answered Boyd with alacrity, putting his wrenches in the tool-racks. “I’ll get him and join you in a second, sir.” He disappeared through the smoke hatch to the top of the turret. Phil glanced about him. The objects which to him three weeks ago seemed so confusing were now wonderfully simple: the guns in their massive steel carriages, the weighty cylinders with their internal pistons and springs to check the force of the recoil when the guns are fired and send them back again to their normal position without undue jar to the structure of the ship. Here were the electric ammunition hoists, reeling a stout wire about a metal drum and this bringing up the heavy ammunition car with its burden of shell and powder from the handling room fifty feet below, and placing the charge directly in front of the open breech of the guns, to be driven home by the swiftly moving electric rammers. Phil saw below him the twin motors which turned the massive turret at the will of man. All these, to their minutest detail, were clear to him. Did other midshipmen master as much in so short a time? Was it not an advantage to serve under a man who could inspire such a desire to learn, even though the craving for knowledge was aroused by a determination to be free from his sarcastic taunts? Standing thus deep in thought, the stillness in the turret was broken by a sound from below. It was faint but distinct. He listened with held breath. It seemed to be caused by a file against a metal surface. He could see nothing. The heavy iron shutters, built to protect the crew of the handling room from accidents in the turret, were shut tightly. The sound continued, seemingly becoming louder. Then it ceased and a metal object rattled on the deck below. It was so clear and distinct that he thought it must be caused by Boyd in the handling room. Doubtlessly he was already there awaiting him. “Boyd,” he raised his voice in order to be heard beyond the shutters. No answer.