The captain had just started telling me how the game was played, when the W.T.[A] room called him on the voice-pipe to say that one of the ships of the convoy had just been torpedoed and was about to sink, and shortly afterwards a radio was received from the C.-in-C. ordering the flotilla to proceed to hunt the submarine responsible for the trouble. Then the officer commanding the division leader flashed his orders by "visual" to the several units of the flotilla, and presently these were spreading fan-wise to sweep southward toward where, sixty to a hundred miles away, numerous drifters would be dropping mile after mile of light nets across the straits leading out to the open Mediterranean. Northeastward, where the rising sun was beginning to prick into vivid whiteness the tents of the great hospital areas, several sea-planes were circling upwards; and southeastward, above the dry brown hills of the Cassandra peninsula, the silver bag of an air-ship floated across the sky like a soaring tumble bug. The hounds of the sea and air had begun to stalk their quarry. [Footnote A: Wireless Telegraph] "It's a biggish sort of a place to hunt over," said the captain, as the _Spark_ stood away on a course that formed the outside left rib of the flotilla's "fan," and took her in to skirt the rocky coast of Cassandra; "and there's so many in the hunt that the chances are all in favour of some other fellow getting the brush instead of you. And unless we have the luck to do some of the flushing ourselves, I won't promise you that the whole show won't prove no end of a bore; and even if we do scare him up--well, there are a good many more exciting things than dropping 'ash-cans' on a frightened Fritzie. It won't be a circumstance, for instance, to that rough house we ran into at the 'White Tower' last night when that boxful of French 'blue-devils' wouldn't stop singing 'Madelon' when the couchee-couchee dancer's turn began, and her friend, the Russian colonel in the next box, started to dissolve the Entente by----" The captain broke off suddenly and set the alarm bell going as a lynx-eyed lookout cut in with "Connin' tower o' submreen three points on port bow," and, with much banging of boots on steel decks and ladders, the ship had gone to "Action Stations" before a leisurely mounting recognition rocket revealed the fact that the "enemy" was a friend, doubtless a "co-huntress."