“Cutting-in, like as not,” said Peter. “If she was trying-out you ’d see the smoke.”
We headed up toward the whale, and when we were near enough, Mr. Wallet and Mr. Brown lowered. The whale led them a leisurely chase directly toward the Battles, and we followed. Mr. Brown got fast, but Mr. Wallet did not. He sailed on after the whale, which was running away with Mr. Brown. The whale was going much faster than Mr. Wallet’s boat was, and it was a losing chase from the moment Mr. Brown struck. We wondered, and snickered, for it was so like Wallet. As Peter said, it was like a drunken man chasing his hat, always hoping it would stop, and always keeping after it with the one fixed idea. But Peter was wrong about the idea. If Mr. Wallet had a fixed idea it was not what Peter—and all of us who watched—thought it was, for he sailed straight up to the side of the Battles. Although we had got within three miles of her, I could not see clearly what was happening then, but Peter could. His eyes were better than mine, in spite of his age.
“Now, what do you make of that?” he cried. “They ’re holding her there, and the Battles’ crew ain’t making any sort of objection that I c’n see. It ’s a queer vessel and a queer crew and queer doings, and Cap’n Coffin ’s the queerest of the lot, if you believe what they say of him—which I don’t. There goes Mr. Wallet over the side, and that ’s queerer yet. Mebbe he thinks he can clear up the queerness, but I miss my guess if that ’s what he thinks. If it was the old man himself, now, or Mr. Baker, say, or Mr. Brown, I ’d say it would be cleared up, but ’tween you and me, I doubt Mr. Wallet can if he tries, and I doubt he tries.”
“What do you suppose, Peter,” I asked, “he means to—”
“I ain’t had time to s’pose anything, Tim,” said Peter. “There ’s George Hall, now, wanting to go aboard, and they won’t let him. Tell him to cast off and keep off. I c’n almost hear ’em say it. Quite a crowd of ’em along by the gangway, and all motioning him off. They were cutting-in, as I thought, and they ’ve let the carcass go adrift. You can see it, I guess, going astern, just awash. Now some of ’em take spades, and jab at the boathook, and they ’re getting sail on her.”
Peter’s bulletins stopped, and we just stood there, gazing in silence.
“That Wallet,” he said at last, “ ’s got more sense than I gave him credit for. You see, Tim, if it ’s desertion, which is more ’n likely, and if we ever get hold of him again, he ’ll say that he was kidnapped by that crew of pickpockets. It ’d be hard to prove ’t he was n’t, and it would n’t make much difference whether anybody believed it or not. If we don’t get him—and I should think that the old man ’d be glad to be rid of him—we ’ll never know the rights of it, or what ’ll be done about his lay in our take so far. I don’t know what course the—Aye, aye, sir.”
For Mr. Baker’s boat was called away, and Peter ran. Captain Nelson himself took the boat, and the men pulled hard for the Battles; but her mainsail was already up, and they got the foresail up and broke out a jib, and she stood off on the wind before the boat had gone half a mile. It was hopeless to chase her, and Captain Nelson came back. He was very sober and stern as he came over the side, and we watched the square topsails of the Battles gradually sinking to the eastward, while we got ready to receive Mr. Brown and his whale.
As soon as the cutting-in and trying-out was finished we made sail, and headed for Montevideo. It was within a couple of days of Christmas, and the men hoped for some liberty ashore. Captain Nelson was governed by other reasons in making for port; he wanted to send letters, as it turned out, chiefly on account of the mysterious behavior of the Battles, and the desertion of Wallet, I suppose, although I never knew definitely. He let it be known that any letters would be sent, and I wrote home, but by a piece of carelessness of my own, my letter did not go.
We did not get into Montevideo by Christmas, as we had been more than three hundred miles from the coast; and we had to be content with the usual ship’s fare on that day, with the addition of plum duff and a serving of rum. I did not take the rum, of course, but I took the duff, which tasted good enough, although it was nothing more than soggy dumpling, with molasses over it. I could not help thinking of my mother’s dumplings—food of a different species—and of the turkey and cranberry sauce, and the pumpkin and apple pies, and the apples and nuts and raisins to which my family were sitting down on that day. No doubt they were thinking of me.