hing but a tremendously
intricate machine.

[Sidenote: Life on board.]

In one of the compartments the phonograph, the eternal, ubiquitous
phonograph of the navy, was bawling its raucous rags and mechano-nasal
songs, and in the pauses between records, one could just hear the low
hum of the distant dynamos. A little group in blue dungarees held a
conversation in a corner; a petty officer, blue cap tilted back on his
head, was at work on a letter; the cook, whose genial art was
customarily under an interdict while the vessel was running submerged,
was reading an ancient paper from his own home town.

[Sidenote: News of a German submarine.]

Captain Bill sat in a retired nook, if a submarine can possibly be said
to have a retired nook, with a chart spread open on his knees. The night
before, he had picked up a wireless message saying that a German had
been seen at sundown in a certain spot on the edge of his patrol. So
Captain Bill had planned to run submerged to the spot in question, and
then pop up suddenly in the hope of potting the Hun. Some fifteen
minutes before sundown, therefore, the _Z-3_ arrived at the place where
the Fritz had been observed.

"I wish I knew just where the bird was," said an intent voice; "I'd drop
a can right on his neck."

[Sidenote: The sentiments of the captain of a destroyer.]

These sentiments were not those of anybody aboard the _Z-3_. An American
destroyer had also come to the spot looking for the German, and the
gentle thought recorded above was that of her captain. It was just
sundown; a level train of splendor burned on the ruffled waters to the
west; a light, cheerful breeze was blowing. The destroyer, ready for
anything, was hurrying along at a smart clip.

"This is the place all right, all right," said the navigator of the
destroyer. "Come to think of it, that chap's been reported from here
twice."

Keen eyes swept the shining uneasy plain.

[Sidenote: How a submarine crew takes orders.]

Meanwhile, some seventy feet below, the _Z-3_ manoeuvred, killing
time. The phonograph had been hushed, and every man was ready at his
post. The prospect of a go with the enemy had brought with it a keen
thrill of anticipation. Now, a submarine crew is a well-trained machine.
There are no shouted orders. If a submarine captain wants to send his
boat under quickly, he simply touches the button of a Klaxon; the horn
gives a demoniac yell throughout the ship, and each man does what he
o