"Wa'al," the old whaler said, his jaw setting firmly, "I don't want anybody to think I'm backin' down, just because I'm in a boat again. But I tell you straight, I don't like it. Gloomy," he continued, "an' the rest of you, stand by your oars. That's a gray whale an' I'm goin' after him."
"How do you know it's a California whale, Hank?" asked the boy, as they waited for the creature to reappear.
"By the spout," was the prompt reply. "It's
not as high an' thin as a finback's, it's not large enough for the low, bushy spout of a humpback, an' it goes straight up instead of at a forward angle so it can't be a sperm. Must be a gray whale, can't be anythin' else."
For a few minutes the men rested on their oars, and Colin grew restless.
"Why doesn't he come up again?" he said impatiently. "First thing we know he'll be out of sight!"
The old whaler smiled again at the lad's eagerness.
"While the gray is the fastest swimmer of all the whales," he said, "you needn't be afraid that we'll lose sight of him. Most whales swim very slow, not much faster than a man can walk."
"There he is," called another of the sailors, pointing to a spout three or four hundred yards away.
"All right, boys," Hank said, "he's makin' towards the shore."