The smooth sea was dark and clear as could be, but where churned by the
propeller it turned to the color of turquoise.

"I really believe," said "Bill," as he joined the group, "that we could
use it to turn our whites blue."

It was a delight and marvel to us all; we would have liked nothing
better than to have spent hours gazing at these wonderful colors.

As we stood absorbed in the sight before us, we were interrupted by the
short, sharp ringing of the ship's bell--a dozen or more strokes given
in quick succession followed, after a short pause, by two more strokes.

Some one shouted "Fire, boys!" and all hands rushed for their
stations--some to the hose-reel, some below to the gun deck to close the
ports, and some to the berth deck to receive the hose when it came down.
We did not know whether it was drill or actual fire, but the skipper's
talk of the night before gave us unusual energy, and the preparations
were made in record time. The canvas hose was pulled along the deck with
a swish, the nozzle grasped by the waiting hands below and carried with
a run away aft on the berth deck. The fire was supposed to be raging at
this point, as was indicated by the two last strokes of the alarm
signal.

While the hose was being led out, sturdy arms tugged at the port
lanyards and pulled them to. Others battened down the hatches, to keep
the draught from adding fury to the flames.

All this was done in less time than it takes to tell it, and the men
stood at their posts, perspiring and panting from the quick work.