THE STRANDED WHALE 243 



ing along under light sail in a choppy sea with 

 nothing but water to be seen in any direction. 

 The great ice cap was somewhere out of sight 

 over the world's northern rim. Not a floe, a 

 berg, or the smallest white chunk of ice floated 

 anywhere in the purple sphere of sea ringed by 

 the wide horizon. Being a green hand, I said to 

 myself, " Good-bye, Mr. Whale, we certainly 

 have seen the last we'll ever see of you." 



Let me make the situation perfectly clear. 

 Our whale was drifting somewhere about the 

 Arctic Ocean embedded in an ice floe scarcely 

 to be distinguished from a thousand other floes 

 except by a cask upon its margin which at a 

 distance of a few miles would hardly be visible 

 through strong marine glasses. The floe, re- 

 member, was not a stationary object whose lon- 

 gitude and latitude could be reckoned certainly, 

 but was being tossed about by the sea and driven 

 by the winds and ocean currents. The brig, on 

 the other hand, had been sailing on the wind 

 without a set course. It had been tacking and 

 wearing from time to time. It, too, had felt the 

 compulsion of the waves and currents. So 



