Ned, ashen to his lips, leaned forward above the shattered rail and watched through his glasses the approach of the Whitehead. It was running but a short distance under the surface, and once or twice he thought he could detect a shimmering flash as it shot through a wave. The bursting bubbles marking its way were clearly apparent. It could only be a few minutes now. Fascinated, like one in a trance, the boy kept his eyes glued on it. Below him, on the decks, he could hear the shouts and screams and prayers as the thoroughly demoralized crew rushed about, leaping over the dead and the wounded, and then stopping short, baffled at the impossibility of escape. The torpedo was now so close that a few seconds would decide all. Without realizing it, Ned gripped the rail and braced himself with his feet. Silently he waited for the terrific impact of the explosion he knew must come when the deadly point of the gun-cotton “war-head” plowed into the steel plates of the _Barrill_. But death was not destined for them at that moment. With a flash of bright steel, a whirr of her tiny propellers and a white streak of foam, the awful menace swept by, missing her prey by a hand’s breadth. Ned felt sick and weak as he realized that the Whitehead had dashed close by and gone onward. Its mission of death had proved futile. “Back to your posts, every one of you!” Captain Gomez’s sharp voice cut the tense silence on the decks. “You put them out of business this time!” yelled Stanley, “or they’ll let loose another of those, and blow us all to a dago heaven.” “Can’t two play at that game, captain?” asked Ned, as the fire broke out afresh. “Why can’t we try a torpedo at them?” “A good idea, my boy! Give the orders.” Ned hailed Stanley in an interval of the fire and gave the necessary command. The torpedo was rigged in a stern tube, and the _Barrill_ swung to deliver it. It was dangerous work. At any moment one of the enemy’s shots might have struck the “war-head” of the implement and blown them all to eternity. But by the same good fortune that had so far protected those on the bridge, Stanley and Herc managed to get the torpedo in the tube and the compressed-air connections made. Ned snatched up a megaphone as the _Barrill’s_ blunt counter swung till it was aimed at the leaden side of the converted yacht. “Now, then, boys!” he cried at length. Stanley took careful aim and released the catch. There was a sharp hiss, as of outrushing steam, a splash, accompanied by a bright flash of whirring metal. The Whitehead was speeding on her errand of annihilation. CHAPTER XXI. VICTOR AND VANQUISHED. “Bo-o-om!”