Suddenly the strain was broken.
“Water comin’ in fast below, sir,” was the word passed on deck.
Jackson walked aft as if in a dream. The mate left the gun, and the last fathom of the line flaked overboard unheeded. It brought up suddenly, taut as a bowstring, then snapped. The mate paid not the least attention to it, but went slowly aft.
“Shall we provision the boats, sir?” he asked, as he approached the captain.
Jackson stared at him. “D’ye know what it means?” asked the old whaleman huskily.
The mate nodded. Half an hour later, four boats full of men were heading northward for the Falkland Islands, and the only thing that remained upon the spot where the Erin had floated a short time before was the carcass of a mother whale with her baby alongside, while above them the birds hovered and screamed as if to mark the grave of the lost ship.
The next year a Scottish whaleman from the Falklands fell in with an old bull whale whose starboard side bore a tremendous wound, partly healed. He was so wary, however, that he was soon lost sight of, and the school that followed him gave no chance for a catch.
IN THE WAKE OF THE WEATHER-CLOTH
