The sheet tender, a Frisco dock rat, scooped a dipper overside, stumbled forward, and dashed sea water into the rapidly uncoiling hemp. He slipped as the boat swung over a wave, and the dipper flew from his hand, dropping into the larger of the two tubs.
There followed a leaping snarl of inch rope. A slender python seemed to reach and coil about Cushner in the bow, who flung up his arms and dropped the bomb gun. A noose fastened about his waist, and he was drawn forward and downward as the whale surged onward. Fighting with all his giant strength, he went over and then into the depth of the sea.
"Heavens!" shouted Marr. "Did you see that, Stirling?"
The Ice Pilot was over the edge of the crow's-nest and down the rigging within the space of five seconds. He struck the deck and dashed aft. "He's done for!" he shouted. "Get up steam and hurry. There's only one chance."
Marr stared at the Ice Pilot. "Who's giving orders here?" he asked, cuttingly. "Let the fool take care of himself. He picked out that sheet tender."
Stirling gulped, then clenched his fists and held them out under the skipper's chin. He drew them back inch by inch. His emotion was a compelling thing. He could crush the little skipper with one blow, but held himself in hand and turned, his eyes filled with the fire of battle.
"Follow me!" he shouted to two of the engineers who stood in the waist. "Help lower the dinghy. The whale's coming to windward. I can get it!"
The tiny boat was lowered in clumsy fashion. Stirling shoved off and sat down to the oars. Over his shoulder he saw the sneering figure of the little skipper standing by the taffrail, but only bent his back and dug the oars deeper into the sea. He brought the boat directly into the pathway of the onrushing whale which had risen and was showing a bent harpoon in its foam-coiled hump.
Dropping the oars, Stirling sprang to the bow of the boat and lifted a bomb gun from its position on the starboard side. He cocked this, and waited, peering into the sea. He straightened, took aim, and fired a tonite bomb full into the mass which was rushing in his direction.
The acrid smoke from the gun drifted to leeward, and the low report of the bomb's explosion shook the sea. Particles of flesh flew upward, the whale milled and rose, then splashed down, with its giant flukes beating the surface of the water in a death flurry. The small boat was drawn into the vortex and as both engineers called a warning, Stirling opened a pouch under a seat, drew out another bomb and cartridge, fitted them to the breech of the gun, then waited grimly, tensely. He no longer resembled the placid pilot who had come aboard the whaler at Frisco.