"By jingo, there's another," said somebody. "Nearby, too. Wonder what's up?" "Sounded more like a torpedo this time," said an invisible speaker in a heavy, dogged voice. A stir of interest gripped the bridge; one could see it in the shining eyes of the young helmsman. Two of the sailors discussed the thing in whispers, fragments of conversation might have been overheard.--"No, I should have said off the port bow." "Isn't this about the place where the _Welsh Prince_ got hers?" "Listen, didn't you hear something then?" From somewhere in the distance came three long blasts, blasts of a deep roaring whistle. "Something's up, sure!" The destroyer, in obedience to an order of the captain, took a sharp turn to port, and turning, left far behind a curving, luminous trail upon the sea. The wind was dying down. Again there were steps on the way. "Distress signal, sir," said the messenger from the radio room, a shock-haired lad who spoke with the precise intonation of a Bostonian. The captain stepped to the side of the binnacle, lowered the flimsy sheet into the glow of the lamp, and summoned his officers. The message read: "S.S. _Zemblan_, position x y z torpedoed, request immediate assistance." An instant later several things happened all at once. The "general quarters" alarm bell which sends every man to his station began to ring, full speed ahead was rung on in the engine room, and the destroyer's course was altered once more. Men began to tumble up out of the hatchways, figures rushed along the dark deck; there were voices, questions, names. The alarm bell rang as monotonously as an ordinary door bell whose switch has jammed. But soon one sound, the roaring of the giant blowers sucking in air for the forced draught in the boiler room, overtopped and crushed all other fragments of noise, even as an advancing wave gathers into itself and destroys pools and rills left along the beach by the tide. A roaring sound, a deep windy hum. Gathering speed at once, the destroyer leaped ahead. And even as violence overtook the lives and works of men, the calm upon the sea became ironically more than ever assuring and serene. [Illustration: To enjoy their leisure between watches these officers of an American destroyer lash themselves into their seats. A destroyer travelling at high speed in a heavy sea is like a bucking broncho.] "Good visibility," said somebody on the bridge. "She can't be more than three miles away now. Hello, there's a rocket." A faint bronzy golden trail, suddenly flowering into a drooping cluster of darting white lights gleamed for a furtive instant among the westering winter stars. "I saw her, sir!" cried one of the lookouts. "Where is she, O'Farrell?" "Quite a bit to the left of the rocket, sir. She's settling by the head."