“Give way, my lads, give way!” shouted our headsman; “we gain on them; give way! A long, steady stroke! That’s the way to tell it!”
“Aye, aye!” cried Tabor, our boat-steerer. “What d’ye say, boys? Shall we lick ’em?”
“Pull! pull like vengeance!” echoed the crew; and we danced over the waves, scarcely seeming to touch them.
The chase was now truly soul-stirring. Sometimes the larboard, then the starboard, then the waist-boat took the lead. It was a severe trial of skill and muscle. After we had run two miles at this rate, the whales turned flukes, going dead to windward.
“Now for it, my lads!” cried our headsman. “We’ll have them the next rising. Now pile it on! a long, steady pull! That’s it! Don’t give out! Half an hour more, and they’re our whales!”
The other boats had veered off at either side of us, and continued the chase with renewed ardor. In about half an hour we lay on our oars to look around for the whales.
“There she blows! right ahead!” shouted Tabor, fairly dancing with delight.
“There she blows! There she blows!”
“Oh, Lord, boys, spring!” cried our headsman.
“Spring it is! What d’ye say, now, chummies? Shall we take those whales?”