“Best get behind ’ere, sir,” he said. Then the absurdity of it struck them simultaneously, and they both laughed. * * * * * The insignificant duties of the Onlooker took him at a later phase in the action to the lower conning-tower. Situated far below the water-line and behind all the available armour, it is deemed the safest place in the ship, and is the salubrious resort of various seconds-in-command, waiting to step into the shoes of defunct superiors as occasion arose. They were not a cheerful company, since their rôle was _pro tem._ necessarily passive. Further, their knowledge of what was going on was limited to scraps of information that filtered down a voice-pipe from the upper conning-tower, through a variety of mediums all busily employed on other matters. The assistant constructor (sometime darling of International Rugby crowds), stood with his ear to the voice-pipe and wailed for news as a Neapolitan beggar beseeches alms. Suddenly he paused, and his face brightened. “Disabled Zeppelin floating on the surface ahead,” he announced. There was a general brightening of the countenances around. Followed a long pause. Then: “Wash-out! Not a Zeppelin. Bows of a battle cruiser sticking out of the water.” “Good egg,” said someone. “Another Hun done in.” It didn’t seem to occur to anyone that it might not have been a Hun. As a matter of fact it was the _Invincible_, or all that was left of her. * * * * * Outside the lower conning-tower a little group of messengers, electric light and fire and wreckage parties stood and discoursed. They were displaying an unwonted interest in the merits and demerits of swimming belts. “Got yours on, Nobby?” inquired one boy-messenger of another. “Yus,” was the reply in tense grave tones. “An’ if we sinks I’m goin’ to save Admiral Jellicoe an’ get the Victoria Cross.” This pious flight of fancy apparently rather took his friend’s breath away, for there was a moment’s silence. “You can ’elp,” he added generously. They were “Raggies” apparently.... * * * * *