By this time the rumour of the expected trooper was all through the little ship, and there was an air of subdued excitement on every face.

‘Where are we now?’ asked Ken of Williams.

‘Somewhere between Marmora Island and Rodosto.  Whatever comes out o’ the Bosphorus for the Dardanelles is bound to run past us, and then—­’ A wink said more than words.

The hours dragged by, and Roy began to growl again at the tediousness of life beneath the ocean wave.  Dinner time passed and still there was no sign of the trooper.

’Looks to me as if news had got abroad that we’re a waiting for ’em,’ growled Williams at last.  ‘Them chaps as got to land last night must ha’ wired to headquarters.’

The other coxswain who was at the periscope at the moment, looked up.

‘Then the wires must ha’ been down, Joe.  She’s a coming right now.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ exclaimed Williams, springing across.

‘Ay, you’re right, Bill.  There she is.  A big un, too!’

‘And, lumme,’ he added with a growl, ’a blighted torpedo boat a escorting of her!’

‘’Tis only one o’ them tin Turkish rattle-traps,’ said Bill with a pitying air.  ’The old man’ll slap a tin fish into her afore she knows what’s hit her.’

As he spoke, the engines were already quickening, and G2 had begun to glide away at the top speed of her powerful electrics.  The deep hum of the dynamos filled the long interior, and on every face was a look of eager expectancy.

As for Ken, his heart was throbbing like the dynamos themselves.  The feeling that his father, whom he had hardly hoped ever to see again, was within a mile or so, had plunged him into such a state of tense excitement that it was all he could do to control it.

He turned to speak to Williams, but the latter had gone forward, and was standing by the torpedo in the fore tube.

The other coxswain, too, had gone to his place, and Sub-Lieutenant Hotham had taken his seat at the forward periscope.

For four minutes, which seemed to Ken like four hours, the submarine drove onwards in silence.  Then came a sharp order from the commander, and she began to rise.

‘What’s she coming up for?’ asked Roy of Ken in a low voice.

’She’s got to, so as to fire her torpedo.  You can’t fire so long as you’re submerged.’

‘But if they see us, they’ll let loose with their guns.’

’They’ve only got the periscopes to shoot at.  Take more than Turkish gunners to hit them.’

‘Stand by!’ came the crisp order from Commander Strang.  ’Three points to port—­one more.  Don’t miss her, whatever you do, Williams.  She’s got the legs of us, and we shan’t get a second shot.’

‘That’s right.  Steady now.  Shut down!  Let go!’

Ken heard a sharp hiss as the compressed air drove the long gray Whitehead out of its tube, and sent it flashing away on its deadly errand.  Young Hotham sat still as a statue, his eyes glued to the periscope.  The rest of the crew seemed hardly to breathe.  As for Ken, his mouth was dry.  To him, more than to any one else aboard, the success or failure of the shot meant much.