“Exactly so,” replied Ben. “Why, d’ye see? I sarved most of my early life in the whaling line. I was three voyages to the north; but taking the black whale counts for nothing; you must go south arter the sparmacitty if you wish to see sport.”
“I never was in that line,” replied my father; “but I’ve heard fellows spin the devil’s own yarns about it.”
“And so they may, and tell the truth, that’s sartain, shipmate. You see, the sparmacitty don’t take the harpoon quite so quietly as the black whale does; he fights hard to the last, and sometimes is very free with his jaws. The very large ones are the most easy to kill; so we always look out for them when we can, as they give less trouble, and more oil: the most dangerous are the half-grown, which we call ‘forty-barrel bulls,’ as that’s about what oil we get out of them.”
“Well,” said my father, “I’m blessed if ever I knew whales were called bulls before this night.”
“Yes, that’s our term,” replied Ben; “and now to my story. We were down off the coast of Japan; when, about one hour after daybreak, the man looking out at the masthead gave the usual word when he sees a whale blowing—‘There she spouts.’ And this he repeats every time the fish rises. We had a clean hold at the time, for we had but just come to our fishing-ground, and we were mighty eager. The boats were down in a jiffy, and away we pulled. We were within a quarter of a mile of the whale, when, to our disappointment, he peaked his flukes—”
“What’s that, messmate?” inquired my father.
“Why, you see, it’s the right term after all, for the tail of sparmacitty is like the flukes of an anchor; and, of course, now you understand me.”
“Yes, you mean to say he went down, I suppose.”
“Of course; for how could he go down head-foremost, without peaking his tail in the air?”
“One lives and larns as long as one lives,” observed my father. “Heave ahead again, old boy.”