For a long time the little man did all the talking—after the manner of a trusted manager of a thriving business making his report to his principal. He told of whales caught, of boats stove, of gear carried away—quite the usual routine—while Cushing listened with his impenetrable mask, through which it was impossible to see whether he was interested or not. It was like talking to a graven image. But still, as the tale went on, and it appeared that the little talker had been fairly successful, there was a slight relaxing of the rigid pose, which to the eye of the initiate spelt satisfaction. For all unknown to any one except the ruddy skipper talking to him, Cushing was really the owner of this unnamed ship—a vessel that he had stolen from an anchorage in the Pelew Islands, while all her crew were ashore on a furious debauch which had lasted for several weeks, and had ever since been running her in this mysterious fashion by the aid of the one man in the wide world in whom he could be said to repose any confidence. That story is, however, too long to be told here.
The recital was apparently finished, when suddenly, as if he had just remembered an important part of his report, the narrator resumed, his jolly red face assuming an air of gravity that was strangely out of harmony with it. “An’ cap’,” said he, “I’d eenamost fergot—I met up with the spotted whale of the Bonins las’ cruise. I——”
But there was a sudden change, an unearthly brightening into copper colour of Cushing’s face, as he sprang to his feet, and, with his long fingers working convulsively, gurgled out, “’R ye sure? Don’t ye mislead me, Silas, ’r ye’d be better dead every time. Naow yew jest gi’ me th’ hull hang o’ this thing ’fore y’ say ’nother word ’bout anythin’!”
There was no mask of indifference now. The man was transformed into a living embodiment of eager desire, and bold indeed would any have been that would have dared to thwart him. No such idea was in his hearer’s thoughts, at any rate, for no sooner had he done speaking than Silas leaned forward and said—
“Yes, cap’, I am sure, not thet it’s hardly wuth while sayin’ so, fur yew couldn’t imagine me bein’ mistook over a critter like thet. ’Twas this way. Ev’ since thet affair I’ve scurcely ever fergot yew’re orders—t’ look eout fer Spotty an’ let ye’ know fust chance whar he uz usin’ roun’, but at this perticler lowerin’ we jest had all eour soup ladled eout fer us an’ no mistake. Ther’d ben a matter o’ a dozen ships ov us in compny, ’n I wuz bizzy figgerin’ haow t’ git rid’r some ov ’em befo’ we struck whale. I noo they wuz abaout; the air wuz jest thick up with whale smell, ’n every one ov my boys wuz all alive. Wall, we hove to thet night ’s ushal till midnight, ’n then I sez t’ myself, sez I, ef I don’t up-stick ’n run south I’m a horse. Fur, ye see, ’twuz born in ’pon me thet whales wuz comin’ up from the line away, ’n a big school too. I doan’ know why, ov course not, but thar twuz—y’ know how ’tis yerself.
“Sure ’nough by dayspring they wa’nt a ship in sight of us, but at seven bells we raised whale, ’n b’ gosh I reckon they was mos’ a thousan’ of ’em spread all out to looard of us more like a school o’ porps than hunderd bar’l whales—which they wuz every last one ov ’em, cep them thet wuz bigger. They wa’nt much wind, ’n we lowered five boats ’n put f’r them whales all we knew. Tell y’ wut, cap’, I’ve seen some tall spoutin’, but that mornin’s work jest laid raight over all I ever heer tell ov, much less see. We all got fas’ on the jump, ’n then we cut loose agen. Reason why, we couldn’t move fur ’em. They jest crowded in on us, quite quiet; they wa’nt a bit er fight in one ov ’em, and we handled the lances on the nearest. That patch o’ sea wuz jest a saladero now I’m tellin’ ye. We never chipped a splinter ner used ten fathom o’ tow line, ’n be my recknin we killed twenty whales. Gradjully the crowd drawed off, leavin’ us with all that plunder lyin’ roun’ loose, an I wuz beginnin’ t’ wish I hadn’t run so fur away from the fleet. Fur I knew we couldn’ handle sech a haul’s thet—more’n haef ov em’d be rotten ’fore we c’d cut in ef we’d worked f’r a week on eend ’thout a minnit’s rest.
“While we wuz jest drawin’ breth like after th’ war, and the shipkeepers ’uz a workin’ her daown t’ us, my harponeer sings out ’sif he’d a ben snake bit, ‘Blow-w-s ’n breaches! Ee’r sh’ white waterrs. Madre di Gloria, Capena, lookee what come.’ ’N thar shore nuff he uz comin’; Spotty fur true. I know, cap. I never see him afore. All I knoo ’bout him uz wut ye told me, an’ I doan mine ownin’ up naow at I thought y’ mout ha ben a bit loony on thet subjec, but I tek it all back, ’n ’umbly axes yer pardin.
“Yaas, sir, he come; like all hell let loose. He jes flung himself along the top er th’ sea like a dolphin, ’n I reckin we all felt kiender par’litic. Soon’s I got me breath I sings out t’ cut adrif’, fur we’d all got tow-lines fast to flukes ready to pass abroad, and handle bomb-guns quick. Then when he come within range t’ let him have ’em full butt’n put f’r th’ ship. Don’t say I felt very brash ’baout it, but twuz the best I c’d think ov. He kem, oh yes, sir, he kem, ’n the sight of his charge brung a verse of th’ Bible (haint looked inside one f’r twenty years) into my mind. Goes suthin like this ‘The mountings skipped like rams, th’ little hills like young sheep.’ We done all we knoo, we twisted and tarned an’ pulled an’ starned; but you know, cap, better ’n any of us, thet the boat never was built thet c’d git out of th’ way ov a spalmacitty whale when he’d made up his mine fur mischief. ’N we wa’nt no excepshin. We weakened at las’, ’n took th’ water, whar we knoo he wouldn’t tech us, ’n b’ gosh he didn’ leave a plank o’ one o’ them thar boats whole. I doan know why he didn’ foller it up or go fur th’ ship. Ef he hed thar’d a ben an eend of the story, sure. But no, he just disappeared quiet ’s death, ’n we all gut picked up in time. Yes, ’n we managed to rig up our spare boat ’n git five of them whales cut in too, though I’m free t’ confess the last of ’em wuz middlin’ gamey by th’ time they got t’ th’ try pots. The rest jest floated erroun ’n stunk up th’ North Persific Ocean till twuz like a graveyard struck be ’n erthquake. But we got six hunderd barl out of th’ catch, anyway.”
While the recital was proceeding, Cushing’s face was a study. He listened without moving a muscle, but rage, hope, and joy chased one another over that usually expressionless mask like waves raised by sudden squalls over the calm surface of a sheltered lake. And when it was over he rose wearily, saying—
“All right, Jacob; when ye’re through put fur the old rondyvoos an’ discharge. I’ll be long ’bout March an’ range fur next cruise. So long. I’m off t’ th’ Bonins full pelt.”