As a matter for precaution, Peter turned out one of the anti-aircraft apparatus with its crew, but it was neither the time nor the occasion to make use of the rays. Had the hostile aircraft been bombing machines intent upon scoring a hit, the case would have been different; but they were spotting machines, up to record the results of salvoes and to acquaint the Rioguayan admiral of the disposition of the British ships. The light cruisers would deal with them. It was the _Cadogan_ that brought her rays into action. Both flying-boats dropped like shot partridges, recovering in time to enable them to volplane to the water. Here they drifted helplessly until a destroyer ranged alongside each in succession, removed the crews, who did not offer the slightest resistance, and sent the abandoned aircraft to the bottom. "Neat work that," thought Peter. "It proves that friend Ramon Diaz hasn't found an antidote for the rays. Apparently he's satisfied with stealing Uncle Brian's secret." Meanwhile the four battleships had deployed into single line abreast, each with the object of getting its four 15-inch guns of A and B turrets to bear upon the enemy. So engrossed was Peter with the little episode of the flying-boats, that the distant rumble of heavy gunfire--sounding like a subdued thudding upon a bass drum--failed to attract his attention. A few seconds later a veritable cauldron of foam, a dozen separate pillars of spray, announced to him and to a favoured few who could see what was going on outside the ship, that the action had commenced by the enemy opening fire. As a gratifying corollary was the knowledge that the salvo had fallen short. "Sixteen thousand five hundred," chaunted the range-finding lieutenant, the moment the battleship had emerged from the slowly dispersing wall of spray. "Train fifteen red," sang out another voice in a lower key. The two for'ard turrets swung a few degrees to the left. The long lean guns rose slowly, as if roused from slumber. Again the distant rumble. This time Peter could see the massive hostile projectiles approaching. The air seemed stiff with them,... and they were coming _his_ way. Instinctively he ducked behind the thin steel plating of the fore-top--a protection hardly more serviceable than brown paper. The beastly shells seemed in no great hurry.... He could see the bright copper rifling bands on the dark grey bodies of the projectiles. "Train twenty-five green," came the clear level tones again. The _Rebound_ had starboarded helm, and the enemy, instead of being on her port, were now well on her starboard bow. With an infernal screech, the salvo trundled past the flagship's foremast, falling within a radius of fifty yards, a good three cables' lengths astern. "Straddled, by Jove!" ejaculated a midshipman with Peter in the fore-top. "Why the----?"