The _Thetis_ and her consorts had vanished into the smoke-laden harbour. After them dashed the small motor craft detailed for the rescue of the crews of the block-ships. "It's like sending half a dozen wasps to tickle the tongue of a bad-tempered lion," remarked Branscombe. "Lucky bounders!" "Harry Tate's Navy is well up to-night," added Farnborough grimly. "I'd like to see some of those funny bounders who tried to pull our legs taking on this business. Guess they'd have the wind up. Hello, here's one of 'em!" Zigzagging through the smoke, dodging shells that landed exactly on the spot where she had been two or three seconds previously, came a M.-L., her decks packed with human beings. The destroyers pushed forward to screen her from the wrathful Huns. Listing badly and well down by the stern, the brave little craft had dared, and had come back, scarred with honourable wounds, from the gates of hell. Then came another, also bearing a heavy deck cargo of rescued men. As she passed within a hundred yards of M.-L. 4452, the latter gave her a rousing, cheer. A comparatively long interval elapsed. No more M.-L.'s came into view. A rocket, soaring aloft above the smoke, announced that the _Vindictive_ was recalling her storming- and demolition-parties. It was a way of announcing that all that could be done was done, and nothing else was left but to withdraw from the action. "There's our number!" exclaimed Farnborough, as a light blinked through the murk. It was a stretch of imagination on the part of the Lieutenant in command of M.-L. 4452. Whether he saw the signal, or only imagined that he did, made little difference. There was an opportunity of making a dash into the harbour, and Farnborough jumped at it. The engine-room telegraph-bell clanged loudly as the Lieutenant ordered "Full speed ahead both engines". M.-L. 4452, hitherto waltzing to and fro in a seemingly erratic manner, quivered under the pulsations of the powerful motors. Zigzagging, she leapt, forward towards the partly demolished lighthouse at the Mole-head. Standing just behind his superior officer, Branscombe began to taste the sensation of going into action. At first the experience was far from pleasant, especially when the beam of a powerful search-light swung round and steadied itself full upon the swiftly moving M.-L. "Our number's up," thought Branscombe, for he felt absolutely certain that a salvo of hostile shells would follow within a few seconds. Fritz would be sure to let fly with a veritable tornado of "hate" upon the brilliantly-lighted target. Unaccountably Branscombe's surmise was not realized. Beyond a few chance missiles that hurtled wide of the mark not a shot came from the Mole-head batteries. Out of the dazzling light into comparative darkness dashed the M.-L., rolling heavily in the confused swell at the harbour-mouth. "Hard-a-port!"