The next day, the 24th, in spite of the fatigue of the previous day, the operation was renewed. The corvette advanced some minutes to westward, and the apparatus, provided with air, bore the same explorers to the depths of the ocean. The whole day passed in fruitless research; the bed of the sea was a desert. The 25th brought no other result, nor the 26th. It was disheartening. They thought of those unfortunates shut up in the projectile for twenty-six days. Perhaps at that moment they were experiencing the first approach of suffocation; that is, if they had escaped the dangers of their fall. The air was spent, and doubtless with the air all their _morale_. “The air, possibly,” answered J. T. Maston resolutely, “but their _morale_ never!” On the 28th, after two more days of search, all hope was gone. This projectile was but an atom in the immensity of the ocean. They must give up all idea of finding it. But J. T. Maston would not hear of going away. He would not abandon the place without at least discovering the tomb of his friends. But Commander Blomsberry could no longer persist, and in spite of the exclamations of the worthy secretary, was obliged to give the order to sail. On the 29th of December, at nine A.M., the Susquehanna, heading northeast, resumed her course to the bay of San Francisco. It was ten in the morning; the corvette was under half-steam, as it was regretting to leave the spot where the catastrophe had taken place, when a sailor, perched on the main-top-gallant crosstrees, watching the sea, cried suddenly: “A buoy on the lee bow!” The officers looked in the direction indicated, and by the help of their glasses saw that the object signalled had the appearance of one of those buoys which are used to mark the passages of bays or rivers. But, singularly to say, a flag floating on the wind surmounted its cone, which emerged five or six feet out of water. This buoy shone under the rays of the sun as if it had been made of plates of silver. Commander Blomsberry, J. T. Maston, and the delegates of the Gun Club were mounted on the bridge, examining this object straying at random on the waves. All looked with feverish anxiety, but in silence. None dared give expression to the thoughts which came to the minds of all. The corvette approached to within two cables’ lengths of the object. A shudder ran through the whole crew. That flag was the American flag! At this moment a perfect howling was heard; it was the brave J. T. Maston who had just fallen all in a heap. Forgetting on the one hand that his right arm had been replaced by an iron hook, and on the other that a simple gutta-percha cap covered his brain-box, he had given himself a formidable blow. They hurried toward him, picked him up, restored him to life. And what were his first words? “Ah! trebly brutes! quadruply idiots! quintuply boobies that we are!” “What is it?” exclaimed everyone around him. “What is it?” “Come, speak!”