command of Lieutenant Bruce Ware. Captain Emery Rice commanded the
freighter, and the voyage across the Atlantic had proceeded without
incident until the port of destination, an English port, lay just
twenty-four hours away. In other words, the _Mongolia_ was in the war
zone. The sea was untroubled, and the gun crew gathered at their
stations and the lookouts on mast and deck were beginning to believe
that the trip would end as uneventfully as it had begun. No doubt there
was some disappointment in this thought; for, strange as it may seem,
our armed freighters were rather inclined to hunt out the submarines
than to dodge them. It has been the frequent testimony that our armed
guards are always spoiling for fight, not seeking to avoid It.

At all events, the freighter steamed through the light mists of the
April afternoon--it was the anniversary of the battle of Lexington--and
Captain Rice, who had been five days in his clothes, and Lieutenant Ware
of the navy and his nineteen men, serving the two 4-inch forward guns
and the 6-inch stern piece, casting their eyes over the vast stretch of
water when at 5.30 o'clock the gruff voice of the first mate, who had
been peering over the dodger rail of the bridge rumbled over the vessel.

"Submarine. Two points off the port bow."

There it was, sure enough, a periscope at least, practically dead ahead,
her position with relation to the _Mongolia_ being such that the vessel
offered a narrow target, a target hardly worth the wasting of a valuable
torpedo. No, the submarine was either waiting for a broadside expanse or
else was intent upon a gun-fight.

Lieutenant Ware and his seamen were ready. In compliance to a sharply
spoken order the three guns were turned upon the periscope. But quick as