“Ease away, quick there! You'll have the mast out of her next—steady! Hold your spade—what's that?”
Wilbur had nerved himself against the dreadful stench he expected would issue from the putrid monster, but he was surprised to note a pungent, sweet, and spicy odor that all at once made thick the air about him. It was an aromatic smell, stronger than that of the salt ocean, stronger even than the reek of oil and blubber from the schooner's waist—sweet as incense, penetrating as attar, delicious as a summer breeze.
“It smells pretty good, whatever it is,” he answered. Moran came up to where he stood, and looked at the slit he had made in the whale's carcass. Out of it was bulging some kind of dull white matter marbled with gray. It was a hard lump of irregular shape and about as big as a hogshead.
Moran glanced over to the junk, some forty feet distant. The beach-combers were hoisting the lug-sail. Hoang was at the steering oar.
“Get that stuff aboard,” she commanded quietly.
“That!” exclaimed Wilbur, pointing to the lump.
Moran's blue eyes were beginning to gleam.
“Yes, and do it before the Chinamen see you.”
“But—but I don't understand.”
Moran stepped to the quarterdeck, unslung the hammock in which Wilbur slept, and tossed it to him.