"Hello, Weeds," exclaimed Peter. "Nothing through, I suppose?" Cavendish shook his head. "Absolutely nothing," he replied. "Patrolling destroyers twenty-five miles ahead of us haven't reported even a single sail. It's my belief the blighters have given us the slip and are back in the Rio Guaya. As for----" The sentence remained unfinished. A shrill bugle-call rent the air, its meaning as clear as its note. "Action stations at the double," exclaimed Peter. "That's business. S'long, old bird." The two chums parted company, Cavendish making for B turret, while Peter, having paid a hurried visit to his cabin for his gas mask, binoculars, life-saving waistcoat, and emergency ration, began the ascent to the fore-top. Here he found two other officers and three ratings; a midshipman followed, so that seven people were occupying rather cramped quarters in a steel, roofed-in box, 120 feet above the water-line. Peter's duties were chiefly confined to taking notes of the impending action. He was also to keep a lookout for hostile aircraft. Should any Rioguayan flying-boat appear in sight, he was to immediately warn the party told off to man the new anti-aircraft devices. The apparatus, until actually required, was kept below the armoured deck, whence it could be whipped up into position and connected with the dynamos supplying the necessary electric current. It was a weird experience. Viewed from aloft, the fore-deck and superimposed turrets of the _Rebound_ looked like a model. Even the enormous beam of the ship--slightly over a hundred feet--was dwarfed to such an extent that it seemed possible to jump clear of the sides. The guns of A and B turrets were being turned with a view to testing the training gear. Smoothly and easily the enormous weapons, looking no bigger than twin pairs of lead pencils projecting from an oval-shaped inverted dish, swung first on one beam and then on the other; at one moment trained to full elevation, at another depressed until the line of fire hardly cleared the slightly up-curved fo'c'sle. Ten feet above Peter's head the huge range-finder was being adjusted by a gunnery lieutenant, his assistant standing by with telephones and voice-tubes ready to communicate with the transmitting station for "direction" firing. The wind shrieked through the wire stays and shrouds and whistled past the now unemployed signal halliards, for the battleships had worked up to a speed of twenty-two knots. Each ship had hoisted two battle-ensigns, the wind-stretched bunting presenting the only dash of colour amidst a general tone of grey. The four battleships were still in line ahead, the following craft being almost hidden in the dense cloud of smoke from the flagship's funnels.