were not zigzagging. It
would only increase the risk of collision on a night like this. Another
thought occurred to Mr. Spokesly as he looked away from the glasses for
a moment. He felt that if he himself were in a submarine out there he
would be much more anxious to avoid a ship than to find her. The chances
of being run down were too many. He did not realize that the
_Tanganyika_, seen from sea level, was a solid black bulk, jangling and
booming her way through the sea and leaving an immense pathway of
phosphorescence behind her. He had no time to realize it. He had no time
to adjust himself to any philosophical possibilities before it came with
a crashing roar that left him, for an instant, unconscious. The deck and
the bulwark below him heaved up and burst into crooked screaming flames
as the beams and plates were torn asunder. He stood with his hands
gripping the top of the dodger, staring hard into the murk, and then he
comprehended. He flinched sideways as a horrible sound smote his ears, a
whine rising to a muffled shriek, as the loosened fall of the big boom
tore through the blocks, and the boom itself, a fifty-foot steel girder,
was coming down. As he reached the port-engine telegraph, tugging at it
mechanically, the great mass struck the wheel-house with a noise of
rending wood, breaking glass, and a faint cry that ceased at once.

Mr. Spokesly stood for perhaps three seconds holding the telegraph
handle, and he heard a second explosion, a hollow concussion amidships
that sent a great column of water into the air so that the _Tanganyika_
seemed to have shipped a heavy sea. He could scarcely appreciate the
importance of this. He turned with an effort towards the wheel-house and
captain's quarters. There was a sound of steam escaping somewhere down
below. The boom had crushed through the bridge rails and lay across his
path as he stepped over. And there was a dreadful silence up there. Men
were running and calling down below, but here was silence. The steering
gear was demolished, and behind that ... He felt sick. He took a step
down the ladder and looked again, and this time he fell forward on his
face. The ship had gone down by the stern.

"This won't do," he muttered, scrambling up. "Who's in command?" He blew
his whistle. "Hi! Tong Pee!" he called to the helmsman. Tong Pee,
crushed to a pulp under the binnacle, made no reply. He had never been a
communicative person, Tong Pee, and now he had no choice. The