Suddenly, the supposed disabled _Holton Heath_ underwent a transformation. Portions of her bulwarks dropped, revealing the muzzles of half a dozen quick-firers. Simultaneously, swarms of men appeared on deck to gloat over the anticipated spectacle, while several machine-guns were being placed in position with a view to mowing down the survivors of the helpless and foundering British ship. There was now no doubt in the minds of the officers and men of the _Complex_ who were in a position to see what was going on, of the manner in which so many craft flying the Red Ensign had vanished without a trace. The Rioguayan crew were in no hurry. They prepared to prolong the business, before commencing a general and cold-blooded massacre. But on this occasion, the already sinking victim was to prove a very unpleasant surprise-packet. Captain Meredith was quick to act. Alarm gongs rang out in all parts of the stricken ship. The panic-party, abandoning their role, threw themselves prone and began to wriggle their way to their appointed battle stations. The Red Ensign was hurriedly lowered, to be replaced by the emblem of British naval power. Down clattered the gun-screens. Before the astonished and terrified Rioguayans could realize their mistake, the vengeful quick-firers took a heavy toll, receiving but one shell in reply--a 4-inch missile that whizzed harmlessly between the rigging. The British gun-layers made one mistake. In their anxiety to settle with their treacherous foes, they aimed, not at the enemy's waterline, but at the dense mob on deck. There the havoc was beyond description. Before the error could be corrected, the _soi-disant_ S.S. _Holton Heath_ had forged ahead, until she was end on to the bows of the _Complex_. The latter, stopped dead and unable to gather way, was sorely handicapped, for her 4.7-inch was masked by the rise of the fo'c'sle and the explosion of the torpedo had disarranged the training gear of the for'ard 12-pounder--the only gun that in ordinary circumstances could be brought to bear upon the fleeing vessel. A triple-screwed cruiser disguised as a tramp, the _Cerro Algarrobo--alias Holton Heath_--was "legging it" at twenty-two knots, yet it was evident that, apart from the raking she had received, she had been hulled aft, since she was yawing badly. A 12-pounder shell had penetrated the submerged steering flat and had put the rudder out of action. All need for concealment now at an end, Captain Meredith emerged from the fo'c'sle conning-tower and climbed the bridge-ladder. By this time, the _Complex_ had settled well down aft. Fumes and steam were still issuing from her engine-rooms. The acrid smell of burnt cordite still wafted from the unsecured guns. The skipper had to make up his mind quickly--whether it were worth while pretending to abandon ship again and thus lure the submarine into rising to the surface, or to wireless for assistance.