The fleet put in to Arosa Bay, and, in less than twelve hours, sailed thence without regret. On the day following their departure an event occurred which, for the time being, changed the lives of every member of the _King Arthur’s_ company. Late in the forenoon watch a wireless signal was received and immediately submitted to the Rear-Admiral. This much of its contents became public: that the Admiralty had ordered the Cruiser Squadron, which at the time was making common speed with the battleships, to proceed independently to Gibraltar at sixteen knots. This speed, unusual and uneconomical enough to suggest that there was serious reason for it, combined with the tension already created in men’s minds by the happenings at Agadir, gave wonderful import to the news, which spread with almost magical rapidity from the bridge to the officers’ messes, from the fo’c’s’le to the boiler-room depths. Speculation as to the meaning of the order was anxious and eager. Rumours of war had in times past been so frequent as to colour all prophecies with scepticism, but hope remained--hope that now at length the consummation was at hand. The Rear-Admiral unbent so far as to jest with the officer of the watch. The Yeoman of Signals overheard him, and repeated his words on the lower bridge. The lower bridge handed on the tale to the boatswain’s mate, who, having embellished it, shared its marvel with the lower deck. In a quarter of an hour the Rear-Admiral’s good-humour had permeated the ship. A Paymaster celebrated it in the Wardroom Casemate by paying for a round of drinks. The Senior Engineer put on clean overalls and went smiling below. The stokers grumbled no more, but fired their boilers and slammed their furnace-doors with vigorous enthusiasm. They were not going to Gibraltar now to carry out gun-practice in Catalan Bay, gun-practice in Tetuan, gun-practice in Catalan again. “Sixteen knots!” remarked a Chief Stoker, with emphasis that made explanation unnecessary. “Sixteen knots!” said one of the carpenter’s crew. “Looks as if we shan’t need them targets wi’ the little red sails.” Even in the Gunroom, comradeship displaced boredom. The Chaplain relaxed discipline during School. Baring came in to drink a glass of sherry and to share Wardroom opinion with Winton-Black. Midshipmen, senior, intermediate, and junior, looked towards the future from a common standpoint. The Clerk saw his ledger shrouded in the mists of the past. His action-station, he said a dozen times, was with the Dumaresq. “You won’t see much of the show from the Dumaresq,” said Banford-Smith, and the Clerk replied humbly, but with complete happiness: “No, but it’s better than the Ship’s Office.” There was, too, a wonderful moment in which Krame seemed to forget that John was a Wart whose duty it was to tidy up the Gunroom, to polish the stove-pipes, and to do scuttle-drill when the sea ran high and ventilation became necessary.