A pattering of bare feet from the direction of the bridge, and a signal-boy appeared, breathless. ‘Red light showing from the Flagship, sir,’ he reported. Instantly the Lieutenant’s manner changed. The regrets of yesterday had vanished. No need for quiet now. ‘Quartermaster!’ he shouted. ‘Hands to aircraft stations! Stand by funk-holes!’ ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ came the cheery answer, followed by the sound of a bugle and the shrill twittering of the pipes. ‘’Aaaaands to--aircraft--stations!’ roared the boatswains’ mates along the sleeping mess-decks. ‘Re--mai--ai--ai--nder stand byyy yer--funk-’oles! The great ship turned over in her sleep, rubbed her eyes, shook herself, and was awake. The sound of sharp orders and scurrying feet told that men were tumbling up from the mess-decks in all states, dress and undress. Up on the lower bridge Meeks was calling the Captain, who came out wearing a bridge-coat and sea-boots over his pyjamas, while a messenger was doing the same service for the First Lieutenant. The guns’ crews manned the anti-aircraft guns; the fire-party fell in. Hoses were rigged and buckets and sand collected, while those who had no special duty to perform stood by their funk-holes in accordance with orders. The duty coxswain was shepherding the boats’ crews into their boats, the officers appeared and took their stations, and with much swearing, shouting, and bad language the nine submarines pushed off from their parent ship, to scatter and seek separate billets where they would not provide such an easy mark to an aerial intruder. The last boat was away with her full complement, and the _Parentis’s_ crew was at stations. Ten minutes ago the ship had been peacefully sleeping and the officer of the watch ruminating over a wasted career. A messenger climbed to the bridge and approached the Captain. ‘From the First Lieutenant, sir,’ he said, saluting; ‘all boats away, sir, and ship’s company at aircraft stations.’ ‘Thank you,’ replied the Captain absently, scanning the heavens with his night-glass. A pause--silence and expectancy, but the silence of a multitude holding its breath or of five hundred matlows trying to keep from cheering. ‘Lord,’ said the gun-layer of the six-pounder anti-aircraft, ‘where the ’ell is she anyhow? Any of you blokes see ’er?’ ‘There she is, Bill,’ cried the loader, pointing with a grimy forefinger. ‘Between them clouds, right a’ead there.’ ‘That ain’t haircraft,’ sneered a voice, ‘that’s a ruddy lump o’ smoke. That’s wot that is.’ ‘Silence in the battery,’ snapped a voice out of the darkness. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be anything serious,’ remarked the Captain to the Gunnery Lieutenant. ‘They’ve probably been reported down the coast, but I doubt if they’ll approach us in here.’ ‘Shouldn’t think so, sir. Hardly worth while with so much high explosive knocking about.’