He had also seen a painting of her when she was in her prime. That painting was an object of value to his uncle, Captain John Crosthwaite, R.N., for he had hoisted his pennant on the _Hammerer_ when she was the pride of the then Channel Fleet. With her black hull, white upper works, and buff-coloured masts and funnels, she looked a totally different vessel from the grey monster that was on the point of being sent to the scrap-heap. For twenty years she had existed without having fired a shot in anger; now on the eve of her career she was to be given a chance--a very faint chance, Dick thought--of doing her part against the enemies of King and country. That same evening Sub-lieutenant Crosthwaite bade his mother and sisters good-bye, and, accompanied by the Colonel and Dick's two young brothers, drove to the station. "Au revoir, Dick!" exclaimed his brother George, with all the dignity of a public-school boy of fourteen. "And don't forget to bring us home some war trophies," added twelve-year-old Peter. Dick laughingly assented, then grasped his father's hand. "Good-bye, Dad," he said. "Good-bye, my lad; and don't forget to do your level best and keep our end up. It's no use mincing matters: we've a tough, uphill job. Good-bye, my lad; and may God bless you!" Conscious that several pairs of eyes were upon them, father and son drew themselves up and saluted. Dick entered the train and was whirled away, while Colonel Crosthwaite returned home for a brief twelve hours before he, too, would be on his way to his regiment--a promising unit of Kitchener's Army. At half-past eight on the following morning Dick passed through the main gate of Portsmouth Dockyard. Seamen and dockyard "maties" were everywhere, working with the utmost activity--for here at least there was no slacking. Wagon-loads of stores came bounding along over the hard granite setts, drawn by stalwart bluejackets in working kit; no longer, as in the old piping times of peace, did the dockyard workmen amble quietly with their work. Everything was done at the double. It was a sign of the times, when the stress and strain of naval warfare requires promptness and activity. Under the ruined buildings that formerly were surmounted by the semaphore tower--ruins that suggested the scene of a German raid--the Sub made his way to the South Railway Jetty, alongside of which was moored H.M.S. _Hammerer_, almost ready to proceed to sea. In her new garb of neutral-grey the old ship looked smart and business-like. In each of her two barbettes a pair of re-lined 12-inch guns grinned menacingly. Her brasswork no longer glittered in the sunlight: it had been daubed over with the same hue of neutral paint. The only dashes of colour about her were the blue-and-gold uniforms of the officers, for she showed no flag. It was yet too soon for the time-honoured custom of hoisting the white ensign with full naval honours.