"They'll pass it around among the fleet by wireless!" shouted Caradoc in
Madden's ear.
"Do you know that ship, Smith?" called Madden excitedly.
"The _Panther_--held a commission on her once."
"Is it possible?" Madden peered at her through his glasses with renewed
scrutiny.
They were so close now that the American could pick out the crew of
range finders working in the fighting tops; he could glimpse the huge
guns in the forward turrets as they flashed and roared amid shrouds of
smokeless powder haze. Madden realized he was seeing what every landsman
dreams of seeing: a naval battle. For some inscrutable reason, Caradoc
had headed the _Vulcan_ clear around and now faced the enemy, like
a rat terrier amid a battle of mastiffs.
Madden turned aft as the tug swung around to follow the fortunes of the
_Panther_. He could see German shells exploding now and then on her
decks; sometimes they would strike the sea and send up typhoons of water
and weed. As he gazed a small-calibre gun was struck, and there was
nothing but a ragged smoking hole where the port had been. An instant
later, the mizzen top was shrouded in an emerald flame, and when the
smoke cleared, only a jagged stump of iron thrust skyward. The crew of
range finders had been wiped out in an instant.
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