Then the
submarine came up within three cables (ten to the nautical mile of 2000
yards); whereupon the captain blew his whistle, just as Drake did long
ago, the Navy's White Ensign fluttered up to the masthead, the
hen-coops and deck-houses fell flat, and a hurricane of shells and
Maxim bullets knocked the "sub" out in three minutes' firing.
But, as the war went on, still better Q dodges had to be invented. One
day an old Q tramp, loaded chock-a-block with light-weight lumber,
quietly let herself be torpedoed, just giving the wheel a knowing touch
to take the torpedo well abaft the engine-room, where it would do least
harm. The "panic-party" then left the ship quite crewless so far as
anybody outside of her could see. But the "sub" was taking no risks
that day. She circled the Q, almost grazing her, but keeping fifteen
feet under. The Q captain, only ten yards off, was sorely tempted to
fire. But shells striking water play queer tricks. So he held his
fire; though the quarterdeck was awash instead of nearly twenty feet
clear, and the ship's lucky black cat, blown overboard by the
explosion, swam straight on to it out of the sea.
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