Off again in persistent chase. Meantime the sun had declined; evening was drawing on, with gray clouds mounting in the west, and a breeze rising inshore. The sea was spread with shadow, and all the ripples grew to little waves, which, hissing as they broke, obscured the swish of water at our bows. The opportunity was better, and the whales, it may be, had acquired the inevitable contempt that familiarity breeds. The Viking crept nearer. Each time, a little nearer; and, by and by, when she had come within range—within range for the first time that day—and was running at half speed, with the grayish-black backs most temptingly exposed, the captain dropped the muzzle of the gun, took swift sight, and—swung the gun around with impatient force! The whale was gone on the long dive before a vital spot had been exposed.
There was no impatience of action aboard the Viking: the harpoon might even then have been fast in the whale's back, but the captain had coolly withheld his stroke until the opportunity should be precisely what he sought. And this display of patience after a fruitless chase of fifteen hours! Billy Topsail gasped his disappointment. But the captain laughed.
"I get him yet," he said. "Soon, now," after a look at sea and darkening sky.
CHAPTER XX
The Mate of the Fin-Back Whale Rises for the Last Time, With a Blood-Red Sunset Beyond, and Billy Topsail Says, "Too bad!"
HALF a mile ahead the whales rose. The Viking crept near without giving alarm, and waited for them to dive and rise again. The warning swish and hon-g-k sounded next from off the port bow. There was a shout from the crew. The school lay close in, headed away; they were splashing and blissfully hon-g-king—and the Viking not fifty yards distant. She was upon them from behind before they had well drawn breath. Steam was shut off. The captain's eye was at the butt of the gun, and his hand was on the trigger. The boat crept nearer—so near that Billy Topsail could have leaped from the bow to the back of the young whale; and she was fast losing way.
But it was not the young whale that the captain wanted. He held his fire. Down went the young one. Down went the bull whale. But had he arched his back? The old female wallowed a moment longer and dived with arched back. She barely escaped the Viking's bows and might have been mortally harpooned with ease. But it was not the female that the captain wanted. It was the big male. There was not a whale in sight. Still the captain kept his eye at the butt of the gun and his hand on the trigger.
A moment later—the steamer was slipping along very slowly—the water ahead was disturbed. The back of the bull whale appeared. A stream of water shot into the air and broke like a fountain. The Viking kept pace—gained; momentarily creeping nearer, until the range was but ten yards. Then the whale, as though taking alarm, arched his back; and——