"Two hundred and fifty yards over," came through the telephone, and on the glass-plate of the distance-register, faintly illuminated by an electric lamp, appeared the number 2550. "2550 yards!" repeated the lieutenant to the captain of the left gun, giving the angle of direction himself. The _Connecticut_ again heaved over to port, and the thunder of cannon rolled over the waves of the Pacific. "The shell burst at a thousand yards!" called the lieutenant. "What miserable fuses!" "Bad shot," came down reproachfully through the telephone, "use percussion fuses." "I am, but they're no good, they won't work," roared back the lieutenant. Then he went down into the turret and examined the new shell on the lift before it was pushed into the breech. "All right," he said aloud, but added under his breath, suppressing an oath: "We mustn't let the men notice there's anything wrong, for the world!" Another shot rang out, and again the shell burst a few hundred yards from the _Connecticut_, sending the water flying in every direction. Again came the reproachful voice from above: "Bad shot, take percussion fuses!" "That's what these are supposed to be," replied the lieutenant in a terrible state of excitement; "the shells are absolutely useless." "Fire at the forepart of the _Satsuma_ with shrapnel," rang out the command from the wall. "Shrapnels from below!" ordered the lieutenant, and "shrapnels from below" was repeated by the man at the lift into the 'phone leading to the ammunition chamber. But the lift continued to bring up the blue armor-piercing shells; five times more and then it stopped. During a momentary pause in the firing on both sides, the buzzing and whirring of the electric apparatus of the lift could be distinctly heard. Then the lift appeared once more, this time with a red explosive shell. "Aim at the forepart of the _Satsuma_, 1950 yards!" The _Connecticut_ rolled over heavily to starboard, the water splashed over the railing, rushing like a torrent between the turrets; then the ship heeled over to the other side. The shot rang out. "At last," cried the lieutenant proudly, pointing through the peep-hole. High up in the side of the _Satsuma_, close to the little 12-cm. quick-firing gun, a piece was seen to be missing when the smoke from the bursting shell had disappeared. "Good shot," came from above; "go on firing with shrapnel!" The distance-register silently showed the number 1850. Then came a deafening roar from below and the sharp ring of tearing iron. A hostile shell had passed obliquely below the turret into the forepart of the _Connecticut_, and clouds of thick black smoke completely obscured the view through the peep-hole. "Four degrees higher!" commanded the lieutenant. "Not yet correct," he grumbled; "three degrees higher still!" He waited for the _Connecticut_ to roll to port. "What's the matter?"