O’Neil protested: “Excuse me, sir. You and Mr. Monroe are young and need lots of sleep. I couldn’t sleep if I tried. Stump here sometimes stays awake for days at a time. It’s all a matter of habit, this sleeping is. Now, please, you gentlemen go and turn in, and I’ll call you if anything happens that you ought to know of.” Phil was really too sleepy to protest vigorously, so he and Sydney curled down on mattresses, brought up from Scott’s cabin, and were soon sound asleep. When Phil woke the sun was high up and the “Talofa” was under sail. The steam launch raced along several hundred yards away. The breeze was light and the water smooth. “There’s smoke out there on the horizon,” O’Neil said as he came aft, looking as fresh as if he had slept the whole night through. “There ain’t any steamer expected, is there, sir?” Phil shook his head. “Not for another week, anyway,” he replied excitedly. Then he gazed toward the land. “We’re twenty miles from shore, at least,” he added. “The wind’s offshore, but the trade wind will be stronger out here when it starts up, and we can then make Ukula in one leg,” O’Neil replied. Phil considered for several minutes. Was the smoke a Herzovinian war-ship or was it the “Sacramento”? If it was the latter it would be of great service to the admiral on board to know the conditions in Kapua before he was sighted by the watchful sailors on Mission Hill. If it turned out to be the other war-ship no harm could be done by taking a look at it. “Bear up, O’Neil, and run down and investigate,” Phil said quietly. “Hail the launch and tell her to proceed toward Ukula, but keep outside until we catch up, and watch us for signals.” With the wind free the fast schooner fairly skimmed over the water, racing toward the curl of smoke barely distinguishable. “Smoke down here means something,” O’Neil said as he returned with Stump after seeing that all the running gear was properly belayed and the sails trimmed. Then he added cheerfully, “We’ll be eating breakfast at the expense of our absent friend Captain Scott in a few minutes. Stump knows where he keeps his eatables, and we’ve got a seaman with us who can make as good coffee as you can buy in a first-class ‘Frisco’ hotel.” It seemed ages to the anxious Americans before the small speck of a hull appeared beneath the curl of misty smoke. “She’s painted white,” O’Neil exclaimed as he handed the binoculars to Phil. The midshipmen each took a look, then shook their heads. She was too far away. “Imagination, O’Neil,” Sydney suggested. “Another fifteen minutes and we’ll know for sure,” Sydney said nervously. “I hope it’s the ‘Sacramento.’” The steam launch had disappeared, swallowed up against the background of the high mountains of the island.