As far as the _Rebound_ was concerned, there was a decided lull in the action. In turning through sixteen points, she had of necessity lost a considerable distance and was a good five miles astern of the _Royal Oak_ and the three other battleships. Cavendish went to the front of the badly damaged fire-bridge in order to see the damage to B turret. Clouds of smoke, pouring from both funnels and from a huge rent in the base of the foremost funnel, were sweeping for'ard. It was impossible to see with any distinctness. Descending to the boat deck, the lieutenant noticed that the inclined leg of the tripod mast was wreathed in smoke, and that the boat deck all around it had been torn away. A party of marines and stokers were playing hoses on the smouldering débris, and in answer to Cavendish's inquiries, replied that the fire was almost out. "Weeds! Bear a hand, there's a good sort!" Hearing his nickname shouted, Cavendish glanced aloft. Clinging to the lowermost intact rungs of the badly damaged tripod was Peter Corbold, with something looking like a scarecrow lashed across his shoulders. "Right-o!" bawled Cavendish. "Hang on a bit. I'll get you down." "I can hang on for two minutes," rejoined Peter. Realizing that there was no time to be lost, Cavendish turned out a party of bluejackets. A block was not to be had, but a length of two-inch rope was soon forthcoming. A hurried test proved it to be serviceable. One of the men swarmed up the jagged leg of the tripod like a cat, regardless of lacerated fingers and ankles. In a few seconds the rope with a "bowline on the bight" at one end was rove through one of the rungs above Peter's head. His burden was transferred to the bowline and lowered away until the unconscious midshipman was level with the shell-torn boat-deck and dangling in the centre of the jagged hole. By the aid of a short length of rope, the snottie was drawn within arm's reach of three or four bluejackets, and before Peter gained the deck the lad he had rescued was well on his way to the dressing station. "Hit, Peter?" inquired Cavendish laconically, as he noticed the smoke begrimed, blood-stained face of his chum. "Don't think so," replied Peter, stretching his arms to relieve the cramped muscles. "How are things going?" Except for the funnel smoke and wisps of steam and smoke from a dozen different sources, the air for some miles around was comparatively clear. In the distance could be discerned the four battleships still firing heavily. The hostile fleet, or, rather, those still flying the Rioguayan ensign, were invisible in the haze of gunfire.