He had been thrown from his berth by the violence of the explosion. His face was cut and bleeding where he had struck a near-by stanchion. His left arm hung useless. He had lain dazed on the deck for a few moments until he heard the orders of his lieutenant. He was one of the signal midshipmen stationed on the signal bridge. Whatever happened that was the place to which to go; he still had a duty to perform. Picking himself up as best he could, he hurried to report to the lieutenant. With such means as were available signals were made. Calls for help? Oh, never! Warnings that the enemy's submarines were in the near vicinity and that other ships should keep away. The captain was on the half wrecked bridge above. The boy noticed how quiet he was, yet his voice rang over the tumult. "Steady, men, steady. Keep your stations. Stand by. Be ready." The old quartermaster whose business it was to tell the hours saluted the captain. "Eight bells, sir," he said, "midnight. Christmas day," he added. "Strike them," said the captain. And, as clear as ever, the four couplets rang out over the chaos and the disaster. "Christmas day," the boy murmured. "She's going, men," said the captain, as the cadences died away. "Save yourselves. Abandon the ship." "Christmas morning," said the boy. "I wonder what they're doing at home." "Overboard with you, youngster," said the signal lieutenant; "I wish I had a life-preserver for you, but--" "Merry Christmas, sir," said the lad suddenly. "Good God!" said the man. "Merry Christmas! They will think of us at home." What was left of the ship gave a mighty reel. "Quick or she'll suck you down," the officer roared, as he fairly flung the boy into the water,--and how he hurt that broken arm! "You can swim. Strike out. Good-by." The boy had caught a glimpse of the captain standing on the bridge as the wreck went down and then the wild waters closed over his head. It was frightfully cold. A hard gale was blowing. The waves ran terribly high. His left arm was helpless. His head ached fiercely. What was the use? Still the boy struck out bravely with his free hand. The instinct of life! It was too dark to see. The sky was covered with drifting clouds. Only here and there a little rift of moonlight came through. "Christmas morning," he sobbed out as the waves rolled him over. "Oh, my God!" He felt himself going down. All at once the waters seemed to grow still. It was suddenly calm. He was no longer cold. He threw his head up for one last look at the sky and life and then he hung, as it were, suspended in some strange way. He saw a figure walking across the smooth of the seas as it had been solid ground. The figure drew nearer, the wind seemed to have died away, but the draperies that shrouded it swung gently as they would while a man walked along. The face he saw dimly, vaguely, but there was light in it somehow. It came slowly nearer. "Christmas morning," whispered the boy.