“There you are, grumblin’ last night there were no ships about, and them things only waitin’ to show themselves, castin’ the canoe in the teeth o’ Providence, sayin’ you wanted planks under your feet to walk on. Planks, b’gosh! If one of them sight us we’ll be planked! I’ve been there and I know.”
“Oh, they won’t bother about us,” said Davis.
“Oh, won’t they?” said Harman. “Shows what you know of whalemen. If them chaps sighted the twelve ’postles driftin’ in a canoe, let alone us, they’d yank ’em on board and set ’em to work. Hands is what they’re always cravin’ for, and our only chance is they’ll take us for Kanakas, goin’ by the cut of the canoe.”
“Oh, they won’t bother about us,” said Davis; “and if they do, you ain’t a bad imitation of a Kanaka; but it’s cursed luck all the same. Planks, yes, I want the feel of a plank under my foot, and the feel that there isn’t only ten days’ grub and water between us and perdition—curse them!”
“Now you’ve done it!” cried Harman. “Look! They’re comin’!”
Sure enough, as though the last words of Davis had struck life into the far-off vessels, the decks of both ships suddenly boiled with ant-like figures, boats were dropped, and in a flash were making across the sea, two fleets of four boats each, and rowing as if in a race.
But they were not making for the canoe. Due north they headed over the glassy swell, while Davis, standing erect and holding on to the mast, watched with shaded eyes.
“Whales,” said he. “Whales they’re after, not us. Look at them!”
“I can’t see no whales,” said Harman.
“No, but they can,” said Davis. “Look! They’re heading west now, they’re on to them.”