nd both Dick and Murray were enjoying
temporary rank as commanders of torpedo-boats during the winter
manoeuvres of 1891-92, when suddenly, without any warning, Fate turned
her face away from one of the chums and plunged him from the pinnacle of
light-hearted happiness to the depths of misery and despair.

One evening, while a portion of the defending fleet was lying in
Portland Roads waiting to be joined by the other division, news was
brought in by one of the scouting destroyers that the attacking fleet
had been seen at the entrance to the Channel, steering a course which
undoubtedly had Portland as its objective. If that naval base was to be
"saved", it was urgently necessary to send eastward in haste to
Portsmouth, to bring up the other half of the defending squadron;
otherwise the attackers would have things all their own way, and the
south-west coast of England would lie at the mercy of the "enemy."

The destroyer _Spitfire_, which had just brought the news, would
naturally have been selected to carry the message under ordinary
circumstances--one of the rules of the game being that the telegraph
might not be used by either side; but unfortunately, while still a
considerable distance from Portland, she had commenced to run short of
coal, being obliged to steam at half-speed for a number of hours, and
finally arrived in the harbour on the sweepings of her bunkers. Hence
there was greater need for haste than ever; and, as it would have taken
longer to re-bunker the _Spitfire_ than for T.B. 42, Murray's ship, to
raise steam, the young commander was sent for in hot haste by his
admiral, hurriedly given his instructions, and told to raise steam and
make for Portsmouth with the news in "something less than a pig's
whisper."

Delighted at receiving this important commission, Murray Frobisher had
hurried back to his little ship, helped the astonished stokers with his
own hands to raise steam, and at midnight on a dark, blustering night,
with half a gale blowing from the south-east, the sea running steeply,
and a heavy driving rain lashing right in their faces, he and his little
crew cleared from Portland Roads, dashed across Weymouth Bay at a
reckless speed--considering the height of the sea--and doubled Saint
Alban's Head.

Murray found that the storm in the bay was a mere trifle compared with
that which he was now facing; so, for safety's sake, and to avoid being
blown ashore, he was compelled to stand off the coas