“Don’t forget, lads,” roared the captain in farewell, “that whales ain’t fools because they are big. Look out for ’em.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” came back the answer clear and strong.
“Good luck,” yelled the captain, and the boys waved their hands in reply.
But no sooner had they pulled away than he got the other boat ready to launch in case it should be needed and a couple of life preservers were gotten ready, with a line attached, for no one knew better than the old sailor the dangerous undertaking on which the boys had launched.
Meanwhile they were making good time over the slow, lazy swell towards the whales that could be seen floating easily along two miles distant. Jo was pulling the stroke oars, and Jeems was pulling the other pair directly behind him. Jo was a fair oarsman and Jeems was capable of keeping up with him.
They discovered that there was an excitement and interest in rowing on the ocean that was not present in the same form of exercise on a lake or river, for there was a vitality, breadth and power about the sea that was lacking in the others. I tell you, they felt rather small and puny as they pulled the boat steadily over the swells that played gently with their craft, as though the old ocean was in a lazy playful mood, just like a tiger when it rolls sinuously upon its back fondling some object.
Jim was in the bow of the boat, ready to use the harpoon when the time should come. Once or twice he stood up in the bow and plunged it down into the blue bosom of a rounded wave with all his force, the water slashing white from the track of the tearing weapon.
“Better save your strength,” warned Juarez, who was at the steering oar.
“Just getting warmed up, lad,” said Jim.
“Think you can fetch him, Jim?” inquired Jo anxiously.