Triplett feebly wrenched out the nail and we managed to pull the hatch far enough back to squeeze through. Enlivened by the fresh air the others crawled slowly after, except poor William Henry Thomas who still lay inert. "He's all right," said Whinney. "The gin bottle broke and dripped into his mouth. He'll come to presently." He added in an undertone, "The wages of gin..." Whinney was always quoting. Minus our factotum we stood and silently surveyed what once had been the Kawa. The leathern features of Captain Triplett twisted into a grin. "Bald's a badger!" he murmured. Everything had gone by the board. Mast, jigger, bow-sprit and running gear. Not a trace of block or tackle rested on the surrounding sea. We were clean-shaven. Of the chart, which had hung in a frame near the binnacle, not a line remained. All our navigating instruments, quadrant, sextant, and hydrant, with which we had amused ourselves making foolish observations during that morning of the glorious Fourth, our chronometer and speedometer,--all had absolutely disappeared. "And there we are!" said Swank. Triplett coughed apologetically and pulled his forelock. "If you don't mind, sir, night'll be comin' on soon and I think we'd better make sail." "Make sail?" I murmured blankly. "How?" "The bedding, sir," said Triplett. "Of course!" I cried. "All hands abaft to make sail." How we knotted our sheets and blankets together to fashion a rough main-sail would be a tedious recital, for it was slow work. Our combined efforts made, I should say, about eight knots an hour but half of them pulled out at the least provocation. We persevered, however, and finally completed our task. Nor were we an instant too soon, for just as we had succeeded in getting the oars to stand upright and were anxiously watching our well-worn army blankets belly out with the steady trade wind, the sun, which for the last hour had hung above the horizon, suddenly fell into the sea and night was upon us. "There's that," said Whinney quietly. Thus we slid through the velvet night with the Double Cross hanging low, sou'west by south. It must have been about an hour before dawn that a shiver of expectancy thrilled us unanimously. "Did you hear that, sir?" said Captain Triplett in a low tone. "No ... what was it?" "A sea-robin ... we must be near land ... there it is again." I heard it that time ... the faint, sweet note of the male sea-robin. Shortly afterward we heard the mewing of a sea-puss, evidently chasing the robin. "Sure enough, sir," said Triplett. "It'll be land." Somehow we felt sure of it. In calm elation and tired expectancy we strained our eyes through the slow crescendo of the day's birth. Suddenly, the sun leaped over the horizon and the long crimson rays flashed forward to where, dead ahead, we could see a faint swelling on the skyline. "Land-ho!" we cried in voices of strangled joy.