"Vat iss dot, Tick?"
The voice of Carl Pretzel, none too steady, floated up to Matt from the periscope room. Carl was not on duty and had probably come up to find out what was going on.
"Why," went on Dick, excitedly, "a cachalot is one of the hardest fighters in the whole whale family. We probably ran into that old blubber-head while he was taking his morning nap, and he's got his mad up. By the figurehead of the Old Harry! See him spout! We're going to have trouble with him, Matt! His head's like India-rubber, and he could poke it through the plates of the Grampus and never hurt himself."
Matt had got his head out of the hatch just in time to snatch a glance at the flukes of a big whale disappearing in the sea.
He signaled half-speed ahead by the engine-room jingler. The elevation of the periscope ball gave Dick a much more extensive view of the surface than it did Matt from the top of the conning tower. The whale had come to the top again, and, while Matt was able to see the geyser-like column of water the creature threw up, Dick could take in the cachalot's immense proportions.
"He's lumpy all over," announced Dick, "and every lump is an old harpoon mark. He's a veteran, mates, and he's coming right at us. He'll stave in the plates, Matt! Dodge him!"
"Tell Speake and Clackett to put a Whitehead in the port torpedo-tube!" called Matt.
Dick immediately repeated the order, and Carl clattered below to help.
"They can't get the tube loaded, Matt," cried Dick, "before the cachalot will be on us."
"We'll have to meet his first charge," answered Matt calmly; "there can't be any dodging."