On the 29th of December, at nine a.m., the "Susquehanna," heading N.E., resumed her course to the bay of San Francisco.
It was ten in the morning; the corvette was under half steam, as if regretting to leave the spot where the catastrophe had taken place, when a sailor, perched on the maintop 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 Forgetting on the one hand that his right arm had been replaced by an iron hook, and on the other that a simple gutta-percha cap covered his brain-box, he had given himself a formidable blow.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 towards him, picked him up, restored him to life. And what were his first words?
"Ah! trebly brutes! quadruply idiots! quintuply boobies that we are!"