“It’s my whale, you know,” continued Rory, when everybody had had a good peep at him, “because I saw him first.”
“Very well,” said McBain, “we are not going to dispute the proprietorship. We wish you luck with your whale; he won’t want to come on board, I dare say, and he won’t cost much to keep out there, at any rate.”
All that day Rory’s whale kept up with the ship; they could see his dark head and back, as he rose and sank on the waves; he was seldom three-quarters of a mile off, and very often much nearer.
Next day at breakfast, “How is your whale, Rory?” said Ralph.
“Oh!” said Rory, “he is in fine form this morning; I’m not sure he isn’t going to give us the slip; he is right away on the weather bow.”
“Give us the slip!” said McBain; “no, that she won’t, unless she alters her course. Steward, tell Mr Stevenson I want him.”
Stevenson was the mate, and a fine stalwart sailor he was, with dark hair and whiskers and a face as red as a brick.
“Do you think,” said McBain, “you can take another knot or two out of her without carrying anything away?”
“I think we can, sir.”
“Very well, Mr Stevenson, shake a few reefs out.”