"Do you think they'll fight, sir?" inquired a midshipman, as he passed Cavendish on his way to the fire-bridge. Cavendish, by virtue of his having been in action with the _Cerro Algarrobo_, was regarded by the members of the gun-room as an unimpeachable authority on Rioguayan matters. "They probably will," was the non-committal reply. "Hurrah!" exclaimed the "snottie". "Won't it be something to write home about!" Poldene, the Paymaster-Commander, who happened to overhear the conversation, stopped to speak to the two lieutenants. "That youngster," he remarked, nodding in the direction of the receding midshipman, "that youngster is a bit too optimistic. I wonder whether he'll sing the same tune after the show's over?" "It'll be a pretty stiff business," declared Cavendish. "Those fellows fight when they're cornered--fight like a cargo of mad devils--'specially if they think they're going to win. Spanish blood, you know." "They want teaching a lesson," continued Poldene, "and we'll do it. But, by Jove, I don't mind admitting that I funk going into action." The Paymaster-Commander wore the ribbon of the D.S.O., awarded him for a particularly gallant deed at Jutland. He had seen the real thing, shorn of all the ornamental trappings of glory. A vision of a shell-shattered battery, tenanted only by mangled human beings and illuminated by the vivid white glare from a pile of burning cordite cartridges only three yards distant from the open ammunition hoist--that was his sole clear recollection of the greatest naval battle that the world had seen. No, Poldene did not hanker after another similar experience. One was enough, more than enough, for a lifetime. Almost without exception, the older officers and men who had been under fire during the Great War held similar views. But as the present job _had_ to be done, they jolly well meant to do it thoroughly. The British ships had a stupendous task in front of them. Apart from the disadvantage of numerical inferiority, they were fighting thousands of miles from home waters. There was no docking accommodation for the battleships within a few hours' steaming. The smaller "lame ducks" might be patched up in the neglected dockyard at Kingston, Jamaica, and also at Bermuda. In either case, it was a long distance for a shell-torn vessel to go. The wavering neutrality of San Valodar and San Benito had also to be taken into account. A slight success of the Rioguayan arms might turn the scale and induce those two Republics to declare war. But one thing the Rioguayans had grossly under-estimated--the character of the man behind the gun. CHAPTER XXVII In Action--Fore-top Eight bells had just sounded off. Cavendish, the officer of the forenoon watch, had been relieved and was descending the bridge-ladder, when he ran against Peter Corbold, who, having completed the daily examination of the anti-aircraft gadgets on board the flagship, was about to report to the Commander.