The mate's smile faded out. His face grew anxious. Then it hardened into an expression of grim determination. He had sat motionless at the beginning. Now when he saw his vaunted superiority slipping through his fingers he began to "jockey"—throwing his body forward in violent lunges at every stroke of the sweeps, pushing with all his might on the stroke oar, and booming out, "Pull, my boys; pull away, my boys."
But old Gabriel was "jockeying," too, and encouraging us in the same fashion.
"We show dat mate," he kept repeating. "We show him. Steady together, my lads. Pull away!"
And we pulled as if our lives depended on it, bending to the oars with every ounce of our strength, making the long sweeps bend in the water. We began to forge ahead, very slowly, inch by inch. We saw it—it cheered us to stronger effort. Our rivals saw it—it discouraged them. Under the heart-breaking strain they began to tire. They slipped back little by little. They spurted again. It was no use. We increased our advantage. Open daylight began to broaden between the stern of our boat and the bow of theirs. They were beaten in a fair trial of strength, oarsmanship, and endurance.
"Ha, my boys," chuckled Gabriel. "We win. Good-by to dat mate. Now we catch dat whale."
We shot along at undiminished speed, pulling exultantly. What the whale was doing or how close we were to it, we at the oars could not see.
"Stand by, Louis," said Gabriel presently.
"Aye, aye, sir," responded Louis.
A few more strokes and a great black bulk loomed close alongside.
"Give it to him, Louis," cried Gabriel.