LIFE ON A SOUTH SEA WHALER. 827 



weed, that mysterious fucus that makes the ocean look like some vast 

 kayfield, and keeps the sea from rising, no matter how high the wind. 

 It fell a dead calm, and the harpooners amused themselves by dredging 

 up great masses of the weed, and turning out the many strange crea- 

 tures abiding therein. 



We were all gathered about the fo'lk'sle scuttle one evening, 

 a few days after the gale referred to above, and the question of 

 whale-fishing came up for discussion. Until that time, strange as 

 it may seem, no word of this, the central idea of all our minds, had 

 been mooted. Every man seemed to shun the subject, although we 

 were in daily expectation of being called upon to take an active part in 

 whale-fighting. Once the ice was broken, nearly all had something 

 to say about it, and very nearly as many addle-headed opinions were 

 ventilated as at a Colney Hatch debating society. For we none of us 

 knew anything about it. It was Saturday evening, and while at 

 home people were looking forward to a day's respite from work and 

 care, I felt that the coming day, though never taken much notice of 

 on board, was big with the probabilities of strife such as I at least 

 had at present no idea of — so firmly was I possessed by the prevailing 

 feeling. 



The night was very quiet. A gentle breeze was blowing, and the 

 sky was of the usual " trade " character — that is, a dome of dark blue 

 fringed at the horizon with peaceful cumulus clouds, almost motion- 

 less. I turned in at 4 a. m. from the middle watch and, as usual, 

 slept like a babe. Suddenly I started wide awake, a long, mournful 

 sound sending a thrill to my very heart. As I listened breathlessly, 

 other sounds of the same character but in different tones joined in, 

 human voices monotonously intoning in long-drawn-out expirations 

 the single word " bl-o-o-o-ow." Then came a hurricane of noise over- 

 head, and adjurations in no gentle language to the sleepers to " tumble 

 up lively there, no skulking, sperm whales." At last, then, fulfill- 

 ing all the presentiments of yesterday, the long-dreaded moment had 

 arrived. Happily, there was no time for hesitation; in less than two 

 minutes we were all on deck, and hurrying to our respective boats. 

 The skipper was in the main crow's-nest with his binoculars. Pres- 

 ently he shouted : " Naow then, Mr. Count, lower away soon's y'like. 

 Small pod o' cows, an' one 'r two bulls layin' off to west'ard of 'em." 

 Down went the boats into the water quietly enough; we all scrambled 

 in and shoved off. A stroke or two of the oars were given to get 

 clear of the ship and one another, then oars were shipped and up went 

 the sails. As I took my allotted place at the main-sheet, and the beau- 

 tiful craft started off like some big bird, Mr. Count leaned forward, 

 saying impressively- to me: " Y'r a smart youngster, an' I've kinder 

 took t'yer; but don't ye look ahead an' get gallied, 'r I'll knock ye 



