THE WHITE WHALE 325 
a deck load of frightened horses, careens* buries, rolls, and wallows 
on her way ; so did this old whale heave his aged bulk, and now and 
then partly turning over on his cumbrous rib-ends, expose the cause 
of his devious wake in the unnatural stump of his starboard fin. 
Whether he had lost that fin in battle, or had been born without it, 
it were hard to say. 
“Only wait a bit, old chap, and I’ll give ye a sling for that wounded 
arm,” cried cruel Flask, pointing to the whale-line near him. 
“Mind he don’t sling thee with it,” cried Starbuck. “Give way, 
or the German will have him.” 
With one intent all the combined rival boats were pointed for 
this one fish, because not only was he the largest, and therefore the 
most valuable whale, but he was nearest to them, and the other 
whales were going with such great velocity, moreover, as almost to defy 
pursuit for the time. At this juncture the Pequod’s keels had shot 
by the three German boats last lowered ; but from the great start he had 
had, Derick’s boat still led the chase, though every moment neared by 
his foreign rivals. The only thing they feared, was, that from being 
already so nigh- to his mark, he would be enabled to dart his iron 
before they could completely overtake and pass him. As for Derick, 
he seemed quite confident that this would be the case, and occasionally 
with a deriding gesture shook his lamp-feeder at the other boats. 
“The ungracious and ungrateful dog!” cried Starbuck; “he mocks 
and dares me with the very poor-box I filled for him not five minutes 
ago!” — then in his old intense whisper — “Give way, greyhounds! 
Dog to it !” 
“I tell ye what it is, men,” — cried Stubb to his crew — “it’s against 
my religion to get mad; but I’d like to eat that villainous Yarman — 
pull — won’t ye? Are ye going to let that rascal beat ye? Do ye 
love brandy? A hogshead of brandy, then, to the best man. Come, 
why don’t some of ye burst a blood-vessel? Who’s that been drop- 
ping an* anchor overboard — we don’t budge an inch — we’re becalmed. 
Halloa, here’s grass growing in the boat’s bottom — and by the Lord, 
the mast there’s budding. This won’t do, boys. Look at that Yar- 
man ! The short and long of it is, men, will ye spit fire or not ?” 
<‘Oh ! see the suds he makes !” pried Fl^sk, dancing up and down; — 
