XXIX
AN INTERVIEW
Difficulties, which, could I have foreseen then, would have appeared insurmountable, attended the interview hereinafter recorded. First of all, His Majesty King Cachalot the MMCC was not in the best of humours—which was hardly to be wondered at, since, with all the ability we could muster, five boats’ crews of us from the spouter Finback had been harassing him since daylight, eager to add his fourteen-ton overcoat to our greasy cargo. It was a blazing day on the Line, Pacific side, with hardly a ripple on the water, so that what advantage there was weighed on our side. Yet so wary and skilful had his Majesty proved, that one by one the boats had retired hurt from the field, while the object of their attentions was as fresh as paint, and, as he afterwards expressed it, “going very strong.” Nevertheless the scrum had been warm in a double sense, and his Majesty bore many palpable evidences of our efforts all over his huge black body.
Being in command of the only surviving boat, sole representative of our available force, and with a reputation yet to win, I must confess to a little lack of care, a nervous desire to distinguish myself; but I still think it was hard to have my boat knocked into a litter of barrel staves by the unanticipated somersault of my expected prize just as I reckoned upon delivering a coup de lance in final settlement of our little account.
After the surprise of our meeting had somewhat subsided, I found myself reclining in a richly carved and upholstered chair in my genial host’s splendidly furnished reception room, puffing with appreciative enjoyment at one of his unapproachable Rothschilds—’beg pardon I’m sure—I mean that I found myself clinging with no uncertain clutch to a capsized line-tub, into which I succeeded in getting after a series of involuntary evolutions, after having managed to swallow the majority of a barrel of salt water. While settling myself in my ark like a faded Moses, our late antagonist drew near and watched me closely. As soon as I appeared to be compos mentis, he thus addressed me:
“What you settin’ there fur a-gappin’ at me ’sif y’didn’t know who I wuz.”
“I humbly beg your Majesty’s pardon; I meant no offence, I assure you. But I perceive you are an American citizen.”
“Perseev’ nothin’, y’abbrevyated galoot,” growled he. “Hain’t enny persepshun ’baout ye, ’r y’ewd see I’m waitin’ ter be interviewed, same’s all th’ other sellebritiz.”
Now, although I do believe that the journalist is nascitur, non fit, my nascent journalism if existent was decidedly latent, and at present I was indubitably unfit for anything but a rescue or two. But here was a unique chance of becoming famous, and though modest and retiring to the last degree, I rose to the occasion. A few fragmentary recollections marshalled themselves, and I asked insinuatingly:
“How old is your Majesty?”
“One thousan’ four hunderd seasons,” he replied promptly.