CROSS COUNTRY WHALING 129 



surface, the glistening back, half as broad as a 

 city street and as black as asphalt, came spin- 

 ning up out of the sea and went spinning down 

 again. 



Our crippled captain in his fur clothes and 

 on crutches limped excitedly about the quarter- 

 deck glaring at $300,000 worth of whales spout- 

 ing under his nose. But with so much ice about 

 and such a heavy sea running he was afraid to 

 lower. 



If the whales saw the brig they gave no sign. 

 They passed all around the vessel, the spray of 

 their fountains blowing on deck. One headed 

 straight for the ship. The mate seized a shoulder 

 bomb-gun and ran to the bow. The whale rose, 

 blew a fountain up against the jib-boom, and 

 dived directly beneath the brig's forefoot. As 



its back curled down, the mate, with one knee 

 resting on the starboard knighthead, took aim 

 and fired. He surely hit the whale — there was 

 little chance to miss. But the bomb evidently 

 did not strike a vital spot, for the leviathan 

 passed under the ship, came up on the other 

 side and went on about its business. 



