136 A YEAR WITH^ A WHALER^ 



able it had reached the safety of the ice pack and 

 was lost. 



The boats came balck to the brig; slowly, 

 wounded, limping over the waves. The flying 

 spray had frozen white over the fur clothes of 

 the men, making them look like snow images. 

 They climbed aboard in silence. Mr. Landers 

 had a hang-dog, guilty look. The skipper was 

 a picture of gloom and smoldering fury. He 

 bent a black regard upon Mr. Landers as the 

 latter swung over the rail, but surprised us all 

 by saying not a word. 



When the next day dawned, we were out of 

 sight of ice, cruising in a quiet sea. A lookout 

 posted on the forecastle head saw far ahead a 

 cloud of gulls flapping about a dark object 

 floating on the surface. It was the dead whale. 



