I said I was acquainted with her.
“Oh! Maybe that's your whale?”
“Ach, Liebchen!” says Kreps.
Kamelillo waded in, and looked at the harpoons, and shook his head, for he knew the laws and rights of the trade.
“No,” he says. “Thas your whale.”
“Been cast up, have ye?” says the steersman, looking around. “We struck that whale ten miles out. We comes up quiet, and I see that bamboo sticking in her, with that hen squatting on it. 'Queer!' says I. And just as Billy here was letting her have it, the hen gives a squawk and comes flopping aboard; and Billy lets her have it, and Dick here lets her have it, and she goes plumb down sudden. Then up she comes and starts, like she was going to see her Ma and knew her own mind, and up this channel she comes, and runs aground foolish. I never see a whale act so foolish. Thought she might be a friend of yours,” says he, “meaning no reflections.”
I said I was acquainted with her, and Kreps took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.
“She vass of de tenderness, das Zartlichkeit.” It made him sad to see Liebchen dead, that was full of sensibility, and Veronica come back with dignity, she being a conventional hen and scornful and cold by nature.
“Ach, Liebchen!” he says; and we went back to gather up his tin cans; and I says:
“Ewigweibliche's a good word, though a Dutch one;” then we came away on the whaler.