In some unaccountable manner a whale had become cast up by the breakers.
He was caught in some brushwood and a fallen tree, but was doing his best to get back into his native element.
The savages considered the whale a great find, and were doing all in their power to make him their prisoner and kill him.
Scores of arrows had been shot into the huge, blubbery body, and the beach was dyed crimson with the blood of the marine monster.
Yet he thrashed around lively, and one native who went too near was knocked senseless by a blow from the whale's tail.
The fighting with arrows went on for a quarter of an hour longer, and in the meantime a long rope, made of vines and as tough as rawhide, was passed around the monster and made fast to a tree back of the beach.
The whale fought to the last, but gradually its struggles grew less and less, and finally ceased altogether.
Then arose a loud shouting, and rushing in, the savages began to dig at the body with their long knives and their war hatchets.
Some of the blubber they ate raw, much to the disgust of the prisoners, who found themselves forced to look on.
"They are worse than Esquimaux," muttered Dave. "Ugh! it makes me sick at the stomach."