A sixteen foot torpedo lay in a steel frame on a runway, just ready to slide forward into the big expulsion tube that was the salient feature of the forward compartment. Caradoc walked quickly to the nose of the terrific missile. He looked at his friend and said in a strange voice: “Madden, I'm going to wipe this German ship-trap off the map!”
A sort of spasm clutched the American's diaphragm. “You don't mean——” he managed to gasp.
“Yes, this is for——” He swung up his crowbar.
Madden on the other side the gasoline-scented chamber had a sensation as if someone had jabbed keen needles into his throat, breast, stomach.
“Caradoc! Don't! Don't!” he screamed and leaped toward the desperate man.
It was all done at once.
“For England!” completed Caradoc Smith, and fetched down a furious doubled-handed blow on the primer of the big steel chamber packed with guncotton.
The crowbar landed with a crash!
