announced Colonel Crosthwaite, holding up a telegram for his son's inspection.

"Marching orders, eh?" queried Sub-lieutenant Richard Crosthwaite with a breezy laugh. "Hope it's something good."

"Can't get out of the old routine, Dick. I suppose I ought to call it your appointment. It's to the Hammerer. Why, my boy, you don't look very happy about it: what's up?"

"Nothing much, pater," replied the Sub, as he strove to conceal the shade of disappointment that flitted over his features. "I must take whatever is given me without demur——"

"Of course," promptly interposed his parent. "That's duty all the world over."

"But at the same time I had hoped to get something, well—something not altogether approaching the scrap-iron stage."

"Yes, the Hammerer is a fairly old craft, I'll admit," said Colonel Crosthwaite. "I've just looked her up in Brassey's——"

"Launched in 1895, completed during the following year; of 14,900 tons; has a principal armament of four 12-inch guns, and a secondary battery of twelve 6-inch," added Dick, who had the details of most vessels of H.M. Navy and many foreign Powers at his fingers' ends. "She's a weatherly old craft, but it isn't likely she'll take part in an action with the German High Seas Fleet, when it does come out of the Kiel Canal. Things are fairly quiet in the North Sea, except for a few isolated destroyer actions, and, of course, the Blücher business. Aboard the Hammerer—one of the last line of defence—the chance of smelling powder will be a rotten one."

"In the opinion of those in authority, Dick, these ships are wanted, and officers and men must be found to man them. Everyone cannot be in the firing-line."

"I'm not grumbling exactly," explained Dick. "Only——"

"Grumbling just a little," added his father. "Well, my boy, you may get your chance yet. War was ever a strange thing for placing unknowns in the limelight, and this war in particular. Now buck up and get your kit together. It will mean an all-night railway journey, since you've to join your ship at Portsmouth at 9 a.m. to-morrow."

Dick Crosthwaite was on ten days' leave, after "paying off" the old Seasprite. The outbreak of war had been responsible for his fairly rapid promotion, and having put in seven months as a midshipman on board the light cruiser Seasprite—which had been engaged in patrol work in the North Sea—he found himself promoted to Acting Sub-lieutenant.

His work on the cruiser was, in spite of the dreary and bleak climatic conditions, interesting and not devoid of incident. He had not taken part in any action; his ship had escaped the attentions of hostile submarines and drifting mines. There was a spice of risk about the business that appealed to him—a possibility that before long the Seasprite would have a chance of using her guns in real earnest.

Then came orders for the light cruiser to proceed to Greenock and "pay off". Her ship's company were given leave, which after months of strenuous watch and ward they thoroughly deserved, and Sub-lieutenant Crosthwaite found himself once more in his home in a secluded part of Shropshire.

Although he fully appreciated the brief spell of leisure, his active mind was dwelling upon the prospects in store for him. With the certificates he had gained he considered, with all due respect for My Lords' discretion, that nothing short of an appointment on one of the super-Dreadnoughts or battle-cruisers would be a fitting reward for his zeal and activity. Hence it came as a decided set-back when he found himself appointed to the old Hammerer.

He knew the obsolescent battleship both by observation and repute. He had seen her lying in one of the basins of the dockyard extensions at Portsmouth, looking the picture of neglect in her garb of grey mottled with the stains of rusty iron.

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.

Having duly reported himself, Dick was informed that he was to be in charge of the gun-room—the cradle of budding Nelsons, for the Hammerer carried twelve midshipmen in addition to a clerk and two assistant clerks.

For the next three days the Sub had hardly a minute to call his own. It was a hasty, yet complete, commissioning, nothing being overlooked in the matter of detail; and during those three days the ship's company did a normal week's work. Meals had to be hurriedly snatched. Even the usual formal dinner had to be scrambled through, with grave danger to the digestions of the youthful officers. What with coaling, shipping ammunition and stores, and generally "shaking down", Dick was glad to tumble into his bunk and sleep the sleep of healthy exhaustion, until aroused by his servant announcing that it was time to begin another day's arduous duty.

At length the Hammerer was ready to sail to her unknown destination; for it was an understood thing that she was to proceed under sealed orders.

The Captain and most of the officers on duty were on the fore-bridge. Aft mustered the marine guard and the band, while the stanchion rails and gun-ports were