“... They are young,” says Mr. Rudyard Kipling, “on the destroyers,—the chattering black decks are no place for the middle aged—they have learned how to handle 200 feet of shod death that cover a mile in two minutes, turn in their own length, and leap to racing speed almost before a man knows he has signalled the engine room. In these craft they risk the extreme perils of the sea and make experiments of a kind that would not read well in print. It would take much to astonish them when, at the completion of their command, they are shifted say to a racing cruiser. They have been within spitting distance of collision and bumping distance of the bottom; they have tested their craft in long-drawn channel jobs, not grudgingly or of necessity because they could not find harbour, but because they ‘wanted to know, don’t you know,’ and in the embroilment have been very literally thrown together with their men. This makes for hardiness, coolness of head, and, above all, resource.” There is yet another dream that is dreamed by the younger of our young naval lieutenants, and this relates to an engagement in which the diving torpedo-boat plays a part. Great Britain is at war with a rival Power; hostilities have barely commenced, and one of the enemy’s swiftest cruisers has been sent to gather information as to the probable movements of the British squadron. Her captain is noted for his daring and resource, and he has succeeded in obtaining news of a valuable character respecting the condition of our ships and their immediate destination. Accompanied by two first-class torpedo-boats, he has come, has seen, and is now making off to join his fleet and to relate his news to the Admiral. It is of the utmost importance that his message should not be delivered; the British fleet is not quite ready to strike, and it does not wish the enemy to know this. Onward steams the cruiser, the fastest vessel of her class in the world. It is broad daylight, and she can be seen by our own cruisers who, unhappily, are half a knot slower than she is. British destroyers have attempted to torpedo her as she steams quickly by, but her quick-firing guns and her attendant torpedo craft have so far foiled their purpose and the daylight is against them. There is only one chance—the submarine flotilla. It is lying off a port which the cruiser must soon pass on her way down channel, and a wireless message which the cruiser is powerless to intercept has been sent to the commander of the “mother ship,” a torpedo gunboat, to send out his tiny fleet and endeavour to torpedo the cruiser. The “catcher” has no chance herself against the enemy’s swift torpedo-boats, so she keeps in the background ready to render assistance to her “ducklings” should they happen to require it.