The men stood facing the flag and grouped on each side of the deck. Their hands raised uniformly in salute to the flag as at the last notes of the bugle it slowly descended the staff. As it reached the deck, the band, stationed with their shining instruments on the starboard side of the ship, burst forth into the "Star-Spangled Banner." The eyes of every man on that deck shone as the emblem for which they were pledged to fight fluttered down and the band blared forth the inspiring strains of the national anthem. Their officers stood in a little group, bare-headed, the chaplain conspicuous among them in his plain braided garb. "First division, right about face!" The sharp command of the ensign in charge of that division broke the impressive silence. "March!" Division after division, the men melted away from the after deck and left the little group of officers standing chatting alone. In all their after years in the navy, the two Dreadnought Boys never forgot that ceremony. Its recollection remained with them long after the annoying incidents and trials of their first year of service had faded. There were three men in that crew, however, on whose hearts the solemn scene made no impression. These men were Carl Schultz, his friend Silas, and Ralph Kennell. In the breast of the latter dark feelings of hatred burned, and a keen sense of humiliation over his deposition from the forward turret rendered him oblivious to any better feelings. As the second division, in which all three were stationed, wheeled to return forward, their eyes met, and in them there flashed something that seemed more than a mere gleam of recognition. Was there actually more in the glance they exchanged than seemed to be the case? Was it a mutual sense that they were at the scene which was to be the theatre of their daring attempt? We shall see. As the Dreadnought Boys sat discussing the ceremony they had witnessed and earnestly talking over their plans and ambitions, they became aware that a hush had fallen over the fore deck and that a group of men were carrying something aft. With the other men, they pressed closer to see what the burden was, and were startled to hear a sudden groan. On the stretcher the men carried lay a bronze-faced jackie, his skin a deadly white under the brown. Drops of sweat--the moisture of agony--jetted his forehead as he was borne past on his way to the sick bay, where the surgeon and his assistants were already prepared to begin a battle for his life. "It's Bill Hudgins," ran the word among the jackies. "He was crushed badly when the cable caught him as we dropped anchor." Although the boys afterward had the pleasure of meeting Hudgins and congratulating him on his recovery, the incident taught them that even in times of peace there is peril to be faced on board a man-o'-war, and that it is the duty of Uncle Sam's fighters to meet it unflinchingly.