The sighting of this little topsail schooner made him avaricious. He had sunk eleven: why not make the number a round dozen? So, at 8.45 p.m., he altered course towards the _Prize_, and ordering on deck to see the fun all his men who could be spared, he opened fire with both guns. Lieutenant Sanders therefore brought _Prize_ into the wind, and sent his panic party to row about. This party consisted of six men in charge of Skipper Brewer, of the Trawler Reserve, who had been intentionally visible on deck, and now launched their small boat. In the meantime, at the sounding of the alarm, Lieutenant Sanders and Skipper Meade (also of the Trawler Reserve) had concealed themselves inside the steel companion-cover amidships, and the rest of the crew were hiding under the protection of the bulwarks or crawling to their respective stations. _Prize’s_ two guns were placed one forward, concealed by a collapsible deckhouse, and one aft, on an ingenious disappearing mounting under the hatchway covers of the after hold, and she carried also a couple of Lewis guns. Lieutenant W. D. Beaton, R.N.R., who was second in command of the ship, was in charge of the gunnery forward, and lay at the foot of the foremast with his ear to a voice-pipe which led back to where Lieutenant Sanders was conning the ship. The contest could not fail to be interesting, for it resolved itself into a duel between one ‘star-turn’ artist and another. Neither was a novice, both were resourceful, plucky men, and the incident is one of the most picturesque engagements of all the Q-ship warfare. Taking it for granted that this little trader out in the Atlantic was what she appeared to be, von Spiegel closed. _Prize’s_ head had now fallen off to the eastward, so the submarine followed her round, still punishing her with his shells, to make sure the abandon-ship evolution had been genuine. Two of these shells hit _Prize_ on her waterline—you will remember she was built of iron and steel—penetrating and bursting inside the hull. One of them put the auxiliary motor out of action and wounded the motor mechanic: the other destroyed the wireless room and wounded the operator. That was serious enough, but cabins and mess-room were wrecked, the mainmast shot through in a couple of places, and the ship now leaking. Such was the training, such was the discipline of these men under their gallant New Zealand captain, that, in spite of this nerve-wracking experience, they still continued to remain on deck, immobile, unseen, until Lieutenant Sanders should give the longed-for word. They could see nothing, they could not ease the mental strain by watching the enemy’s manœuvres or inferring from what direction the next shot—perhaps the last—would come. This knowledge was shared only by Lieutenant Sanders and Skipper Meade as they peeped through the slits of their lair. Several times Sanders crept from this place on hands and knees along the deck, encouraging his men and impressing on