"What's your opinion about the loss of these merchant vessels?" asked Cavendish. Carr shook his head. "Ask me another," he replied. "That's what we're sent to find out." The _Complex_ was now well down the Solent. Yarmouth(1) was on the port bow, Lymington to starboard, and the high light of Hurst right ahead, rising like a needle out of the sun-flecked water. A light cruiser, with her distinguishing signals displayed and a commodore's broad pennant flying from the masthead, came pelting along, passing the decoy ship a cable's length to port. The _Complex_ dipped her ragged, smoke-begrimed Red Ensign. Carr and Cavendish exchanged glances. "I was expecting the 'Still' to sound," declared the former. "Wonder what Old Man Meredith thought of it all?" As a matter of fact, Captain Meredith, D.S.O. (with bar), had almost given himself away, and his vessel as well, by ordering the strangely-garbed crew to attention. To deliberately ignore a commodore's broad pennant was the most trying experience he had had that day, which was saying a lot. "Think we'll have any luck?" asked Cavendish, reverting to the burning topic of the hour--the hoped-for meeting with an as yet mythical pirate. "Goodness knows," replied Carr. "I trust so. 'Tany rate, whether we're up against a submarine or a commerce destroyer, we'll give 'em a thundering good run for their money." For the next few days, all hands were busily engaged in rehearsing for the forthcoming show. Every member of the crew took up his cue with zest, confident that should occasion arise they would play their part to the utmost satisfaction of the navy generally, and themselves in particular, and to the complete discomfiture of the enemy--whoever or whatever he might be. The drills took two distinct forms. The first was that of countering an attack by a surface ship. In this case, with the exception of a few hands leaning idly over the bulwarks and a couple of officers on the bridge, the crew were at action stations and carefully hidden from external observation. Right aft, crouching in a steel shelter made to resemble a skylight, was a seaman holding the uncleated halliards of the ensign staff. It was his duty, on hearing the "action" gong, to strike the Red Ensign and substitute the White. Simultaneously, all gun-screens were to be lowered and every gun that could be trained on the target was to open fire, while below the waterline the L.T.O.'s stood by the torpedo tubes ready to launch the deadly missiles on an invisible objective; the direction of the "run" being governed by controls from the conning-tower.