Felton sprang out of his berth and dressed hurriedly. Until the enemy was within the "cruising radius" of torpedoes his station was on the bridge with the captain. As he ran along the gun deck he heard through the steel walls of the big ship the faint sound of distant firing, and when he had bounded up the forward companion steps to the main deck he could hear the singing of shells, and see through the inky blackness twinkling points of flame. A crash and a jar of the whole huge fabric told him that one ship of the enemy had the range, and that _something_ had struck _somewhere_, and penetrated. There was no time for sight-seeing. The bridge was above him, and the quickest road to it was by way of the turret, from the top of which he could swing himself up. He mounted the iron ladder bolted to the turret, but slipped on the hard steel roof and, with a force that deprived him of breath, was pressed sprawling on his face. But a deafening roar of sound from within the turret told him that the force came from below--from the explosion of a shell and one or more twelve-inch charges, perhaps the whole magazine in the depths. Hardly had his dazed faculties grasped this fact than another was borne in upon him. Gripping tightly the hand-hold of the turret hatch, and choked with gas fumes oozing through the sight holes in the hood, he felt that he was whirling through the air, upward and to port, he and the whole turret roof. As it turned in air he could see for a moment the dim, bulky outline of the ship below; then it faded into darkness, and he was clinging for dear life to that slowly canting disk of armored steel, until, as it assumed a perpendicular, he was holding his weight with one hand, very curiously, as he then thought, weighing very little. But he partook of the motion of the whole. Something hard and rigid brushed him on the shoulder, and in a moment he was torn from his support to find himself clutching a smooth, round rod of what seemed to be steel or iron. It was perpendicular, and beyond in the darkness he made out another, and beyond another. Looking down he saw a long, pointed platform or deck, to the edge of which the rods led. He was clinging to the stanchion of an airship, but what kind of an airship he could not determine. Thankful for life and a whole skin--though bruised and shocked almost into unconsciousness--he slid down the stanchion to the deck, and faced a man in the darkness--a tall man who peered down at his face. "Hello, who are you, and where'd you come from?" he asked, rather kindly. "How'd you get aboard!" "I hardly know myself. I hardly know I'm alive. This is an airship, isn't it?" "Yes." "My name is Felton, torpedo officer of the battleship _Argyll_. There was an explosion in the forward turret, and I was on top. I went up with the roof." "Was that a turret top? I wondered what they were shooting at us." "It was. I was rifling it. Which side are you on in this mix?" "The side of the Lord."