“Great spark plugs!” he cried; “a whale!”
“A bull cachalot!” exclaimed Dick from below, staring through the periscope.
“Vat iss dot, Dick?”
The voice of Carl Pretzel, none too steady, floated up to Bob from the periscope room. Carl was not on duty, and had probably come up to find out what was going on.
“Why,” went on Dick excitedly, “a cachalot is one of the hardest fighters in the whole whale family. We probably ran into that old blubber head while he was taking his morning nap, and he’s got his mad up. By the Old Harry! See him spout! We’re going to have trouble with him, Bob! His head’s like India rubber, and he could poke it through the plates of the Grampus and never hurt himself.”
Bob had got his head out of the hatch just in time to snatch a glance at the flukes of a big whale disappearing in the sea.
He signaled half speed ahead by the engine-room jingler. The elevation of the periscope ball gave Dick a much more extensive view of the surface than it did Bob from the top of the conning tower. The whale had come to the top again, and, while Bob was able to see the geyserlike column of water the creature threw up, Dick could take in the cachalot’s immense proportions.
“He’s lumpy all over,” announced Dick, “and every lump is an old harpoon mark. He’s a veteran, mates, and he’s coming right at us. He’ll stave in the plates, Bob! Dodge him!”
“Tell Speake and Clackett to put a Whitehead in the port torpedo tube!” called Bob.
Dick immediately repeated the order, and Carl clattered below to help.