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 
