A great, long, gray shape moved swiftly through the waters of the Thames. Smoke, pouring from three different points in the middle of this great shape, ascended, straight in the air some distance, then, caught by the wind, drifted westward.
It was growing dark. Several hours before, this ocean greyhound—one of Great Britain's monster sea-fighters—had up-anchored and left her dock—where she had been undergoing slight repairs—heading eastward down the river.
Men lined the rails of the monster ship. These were her crew—or some of her crew, to be exact—for the others were engaged in duties that prevented them from waving to the crowds that thronged the shore—as did the men on deck.
Sharp orders carried across the water to the ears of those on shore. The officers were issuing commands. Men left the rail and disappeared from the view of the spectators as they hurried to perform their duties. Came several sharp blasts of the vessel's siren; a moment later her speed increased and as she slid easily through the waters of the river, a cheer went up from both shores.

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