IN THE MIDST OF PEACE.

As the sun was sinking that night in a blaze of red and gold behind the green-bowered coast of Cuba, the boys, leaning over the starboard rail with hundreds of other white-uniformed jackies, saw a sudden signal broken out on the after signal halliards of the flagship.

"Coming to an anchorage," exclaimed old Tom, as the string of gayly colored signal flags fluttered out. "There's Guantanamo yonder." He pointed to a huddle of red roofs set among tall palms.

"The signal's for flying moorings!" exclaimed Herc, who, as well as Ned, had received a thorough schooling in signaling at the training school.

"That's right," rejoined old Tom approvingly, "flying moorings it is."

And now all became activity throughout the fleet. Aboard the Manhattan, and, indeed, on every other ship of the squadron, the most active bustle prevailed.

Coming to "flying moorings" is one of the greatest tests of a captain's ability to handle his ship, and right well did every commander in that squadron of ten mighty fighting ships show that he was entitled to wear his uniform.

Master's mates flew about among the crew of the Manhattan, and a shrill sound of piping arose as the men assigned to the various posts connected with dropping the vessel's "mud hooks" hastened to their stations.

"Look close now! You are going to see something worth watching," said old Tom, as the crucial moment drew near.

On the flagship ahead the lads saw motion suddenly cease, following a mighty splash as her huge anchor shot downward twenty fathoms or more, and her engines ceased revolving for the first time in many days.

At the same instant the boys' hands instinctively flew to their caps in a prompt salute as Old Glory broke out on the rear-admiral's jackstaff and fluttered in the evening breeze, a sign that the ship was at anchor.

On the bridge of the Manhattan, Captain Dunham, his officers in full uniform at his side and an attentive midshipman at his elbow, was watching his flagship anxiously. As she swung to her anchor a sharp command was barked out:

"Slow down!"

The middy's hand shoved the engine-room telegraph indicator over, and instantly the strong vibration of the engines began to diminish. It felt strange, this sudden cessation of a sound and motion that the boys had come to regard almost as second nature.

"Let go the star-bo-ard an-chor!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" shouted a watchful boatswain's mate, springing forward.

Instantly a shrill screeching of whistles broke out, and with a mighty roar the great anchor of the Manhattan shot from the cat-heads and plunged into the water.

After it roared thirty fathoms of chain before the further screams of the pipes stopped the rapid "paying out" of the iron-linked cable. The Manhattan, her engines idle at last, came to an anchorage.

"Caught her to the eighth of an inch, sir!" remarked Lieutenant-Commander Scott to his chief.

Sailor-like pride wreathed the faces of every man on the bridge.

The Manhattan swung at anchor behind her flagship at precisely the same distance as she had steamed in column behind her all the long voyage from New York. It was a feat to be proud of, and called for a high degree of seamanship.

Behind the Manhattan the other vessels came to similar moorings, the Stars and Stripes fluttering out from the stern staff of each as the anchor touched the bottom. It was a sight to make the heart of a patriot beat proudly. Ten of the finest ships in the United States Navy swung at exact intervals in a perfect line. The flag of their country whipped out from the stern staff of each, as if in defiance of their country's foes.

Hardly had the anchor of the Iowa, the last ship in line, dropped before from the flagship another signal was broken out.

"Well done!" read Ned, studying the bright bits of bunting. "Congratulations to officers and men."

A great cheer went up from the fore deck of the Manhattan, and its echoes went winging down the line of grim fighting craft and was caught up by ship after ship.

At almost the same instant the sun dipped behind the coast hills, and the bugles began to sound the musical call of "Retreat."

It was the boys' first opportunity to see the impressive ceremony of "colors," as the lowering of the flag on a man-o'-war is termed. The ceremony is not gone through at sea, and the boys had been below when it had been carried out in New York on their first night on board.

Now they were to witness one of the most impressive ceremonies of the United States Navy.

Division after division of the crew was formed in line and marched aft, in rhythmic tread, to the stern deck, on which stood Captain Dunham and a group of his officers in full uniform, the last rays of the sun glinting on their gold braid.

The men stood facing the flag and grouped on each side of the deck. Their hands raised uniformly in salute to the flag as at the last notes of the bugle it slowly descended the staff.

As it reached the deck, the band, stationed with their shining instruments on the starboard side of the ship, burst forth into the "Star-Spangled Banner."

The eyes of every man on that deck shone as the emblem for which they were pledged to fight fluttered down and the band blared forth the inspiring strains of the national anthem. Their officers stood in a little group, bare-headed, the chaplain conspicuous among them in his plain braided garb.

"First division, right about face!"

The sharp command of the ensign in charge of that division broke the impressive silence.

"March!"

Division after division, the men melted away from the after deck and left the little group of officers standing chatting alone. In all their after years in the navy, the two Dreadnought Boys never forgot that ceremony. Its recollection remained with them long after the annoying incidents and trials of their first year of service had faded.

There were three men in that crew, however, on whose hearts the solemn scene made no impression. These men were Carl Schultz, his friend Silas, and Ralph Kennell.

In the breast of the latter dark feelings of hatred burned, and a keen sense of humiliation over his deposition from the forward turret rendered him oblivious to any better feelings. As the second division, in which all three were stationed, wheeled to return forward, their eyes met, and in them there flashed something that seemed more than a mere gleam of recognition.

Was there actually more in the glance they exchanged than seemed to be the case? Was it a mutual sense that they were at the scene which was to be the theatre of their daring attempt?

We shall see.

As the Dreadnought Boys sat discussing the ceremony they had witnessed and earnestly talking over their plans and ambitions, they became aware that a hush had fallen over the fore deck and that a group of men were carrying something aft.

With the other men, they pressed closer to see what the burden was, and were startled to hear a sudden groan.

On the stretcher the men carried lay a bronze-faced jackie, his skin a deadly white under the brown. Drops of sweat—the moisture of agony—jetted his forehead as he was borne past on his way to the sick bay, where the surgeon and his assistants were already prepared to begin a battle for his life.

"It's Bill Hudgins," ran the word among the jackies. "He was crushed badly when the cable caught him as we dropped anchor."

Although the boys afterward had the pleasure of meeting Hudgins and congratulating him on his recovery, the incident taught them that even in times of peace there is peril to be faced on board a man-o'-war, and that it is the duty of Uncle Sam's fighters to meet it unflinchingly.

After supper that night, while the men were still discussing poor Hudgins' mishap, the boatswain's mate—the same one who had received them on board—hastened up to Ned and Herc as they lay on the fore deck, gazing at the soft tropic stars, and announced:

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Hudgins was signalman of the target officer's wherry. You boys go out in his place to-morrow."