n.

Some queer things this fellow told me. The following is one of his
stories. I give it for what it is worth; premising, however, that
from what I know of Bembo, and the foolhardy, dare-devil feats
sometimes performed in the sperm-whale fishery, I believe in its
substantial truth.

As may be believed, Bembo was a wild one after a fish; indeed, all New
Zealanders engaged in this business are; it seems to harmonize
sweetly with their blood-thirsty propensities. At sea, the best
English they speak is the South Seaman's slogan in lowering away, "A
dead whale, or a stove boat!" Game to the marrow, these fellows are
generally selected for harpooners; a post in which a nervous, timid
man would be rather out of his element.

In darting, the harpooner, of course, stands erect in the head of the
boat, one knee braced against a support. But Bembo disdained this;
and was always pulled up to his fish, balancing himself right on the
gunwale.

But to my story. One morning, at daybreak, they brought him up to a
large, long whale. He darted his harpoon, and missed; and the fish
sounded. After a while, the monster rose again, about a mile off, and
they made after him. But he was frightened, or "gallied," as they
call it; and noon came, and the boat was still chasing him. In
whaling, as long as the fish is in sight, and no matter what may have
been previously undergone, there is no giving up, except when night
comes; and nowadays, when whales are so hard to be got, frequently
not even then. At last, Bembo's whale was alongside for the second
time. He darted both harpoons; but, as sometimes happens to the best
men, by some unaccountable chance, once more missed. Though it is
well known that such failures will happen at times, they,
nevertheless, occasion the bitterest disappointment to a boat's crew,
generally expressed in curses both loud and deep. And no wonder. Let
any man pull with might and main for hours and hours together, under
a burning sun; and if it do not make him a little peevish, he is no
sailor.

The taunts of the seamen may have maddened the Mowree; however it was,
no sooner was he brought up again, than, harpoon in hand, he bounded
upon the whale's back, and for one dizzy second was seen there. The
next, all was foam and fury, and both were out of sight. The men
sheered off, flinging overboard the line as fast as they could; while
ahead, nothing was seen but a red whirlpool of blood and brine.

Presently, a dark