THE OCEAN MAMMALS 359 



big fish rises for the last time right under the bow, and the 

 harpooner makes his shot. The small, fast steamers, with 

 the harpoon gun mounted on a swivel on the fore poop 

 deck, are still handled by Norwegians trained to the work. 

 In rough and fine weather one sees them darting here and 

 there and everywhere. The first puzzle to the visitor is 

 as to how these tiny craft ever managed to steam across 

 the great Atlantic. Two at least have been lost, one on 

 a reef ; one disappeared on the passage. They steam about 

 fifteen knots per hour, which is far faster than any whale 

 swims, unless he is badly frightened. As the monster, 

 which is as large as the steamer, blows alongside, and 

 one holds one's breath involuntarily, the harpooner quite 

 silently indicates with one hand to the helmsman which 

 way to put the helm, keeping his other hand on the gun- 

 stock. Then there is a commotion right ahead, a sensation 

 as if the vessel were running to destruction on a huge rock, 

 a bang, and then, nothing but the whirr of the line 

 as it flies out through the pulleys. It is indeed a trying 

 time. Either there is $1500 on the end of the line or, 

 perhaps, another tedious and fruitless search for days or 

 weeks. No wonder that on one occasion when I witnessed 

 what scarcely ever happens, a real old expert harpooner 

 make a clean miss, his language burst as if from a safety- 

 valve, and was "frequent and painful and free." By a 

 careful and merciful arrangement, when the harpoon goes 

 home, the start of the whale pulls a trigger which is one of 

 the flukes of the barbed iron. This fires an explosive charge 

 in the fish, and will more often than not kill him immediately. 

 If, however, the harpoon strikes him in the tail, or again, 

 if it goes through a thin portion and does not explode, there 



