"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.

"Boys," said Captain Triplett, apologetically ... "we ain't got no
yard-arm, but the sun's up and there's land dead ahead, and I
reckon..."

He paused. Through the hatchway came William Henry Thomas bearing a
tray with four lily cups.

"Fair as a lily..." said Whinney (I knew he would).

Two minutes later we had fallen into heavy slumber while the Kawa
steered by the faithful Triplett, moved steadily toward our unknown
haven.