“You can’t prove it,” roared the stranger.
“We’ll see if I can’t,” retorted the captain.
The bow of our boat touched the stranger’s on the port side, near the stern. Each man brandished his lance, and it looked like a battle, which might result perhaps in a tragedy, when a voice rang out:
“Jessup, put up your lance. I’ll handle this matter.”
In our excitement we were not aware that a boat had been approaching, and now, as we heard the sharp command and turned to look at the craft, we rightly inferred that it belonged to the vessel bearing down on us from the windward.
Our captain fixed his gaze on the stranger; the expression of anger left his face; his lips just parted; his eyes sparkled. Then he muttered, “I can hardly believe it.” But he did seem to believe it, for he called out, “Is that you, Gates? I thought you was in New Bedford.”
“Well, Gamans, I knew you wasn’t there, but I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you was in the Arctic this season.”
“I was last year, but where did you come from, Gates?”
“I’m master of the Oriole, the old ship you and I were boat-steerers in some years ago. And there she is, bearing down on us. But what’s this row about?”
“Your mate is laying claim to my whale. We struck him a while ago and the lines parted. Then we followed him up with all speed and when we got here we found that your mate’s boat had put irons in him, and the whale didn’t turn over until after we arrived.”