The eighty-odd feet descent seemed interminable. Momentarily, Peter's burden grew heavier. The lad's grip, at first so strong as to threaten to choke him, was becoming feebler. His own leg-muscles were giving indications of cramp, or else, perhaps, he had received an injury of which at the time he was unaware. Presently his left foot, groping for the next rung, failed to find a temporary resting-place. For the first time in the descent, Peter looked down. Where a series of rungs should have been, was a gaping void, encompassed by a saw-like edge of riven steel. In ordinary circumstances, he could have dropped without risk, since he was only about eight feet above the boat-deck. But where the leg of the tripod passed through the boat- and flying-decks was an abyss, out of which acrid fumes were wafting. A shell that had penetrated the side had burst on the upper-deck and had blown upwards, completely isolating the stricken leg of the tripod from the other two decks by a gap at least fifteen feet across. "If I cast you adrift, can you hang on for a couple of minutes?" asked Peter, shouting at the top of his voice above the discordant din. There was no response. The midshipman had lost consciousness. CHAPTER XXVIII In Action--'Tween Decks On parting with Peter Corbold, Cavendish made his way for'ard, through the battery and out by the armoured door of the screen. Throughout his progress, he could not help remarking upon the enthusiasm of the crews of the quick-firers as they cleared away and triced up the mess-tables and closed up round their guns. They were the pick of Britain's manhood, for the most part men under twenty-five, tall, deep-chested, clean-shaven fellows, looking in their singlets and trousers like zealously-trained athletes. The battery was in semi-darkness, save for the yellow gleam of the candles in the battle-lanterns. Oil lamps, for obvious reasons, were not lighted, while the electric lamps were disconnected from their holders and stowed away. The lesson of Jutland had shown how dangerous an electric-light globe can be. The concussion of gunfire alone will shatter it into a thousand jagged little fragments with disastrous results as far as the bare feet of the guns' crews are concerned. Fire-hoses, sending their jets of water from their unions, lay along the deck like healthy serpents, ready to trip the unwary. "Present use" ammunition was stacked in the rear of the guns, ready to feed their rapacious maws when the order to open fire with the secondary armament was received. Above the chatter of men's voices came the rattle of the ammunition cages and the steady purr of the engines far below the waterline. "Close up round your guns, my lads," the bronzed and bearded gunner kept on shouting, "close up and give the greasy swine socks when the time comes."