the day before did not start to drag the
Scarboro toward the school. The baleeners and the _Denticete_ (toothed
whales) do not mix in company, and are, indeed, seldom found in the same
seas. The baleeners are usually found toward the Arctic or Antarctic
regions, while the sperms and their ilk hold to the warm seas.

Captain Rogers might have run down to the school of cachelots and gunned
for one of the beasts; but then the others would have been frightened
away. The bark lay to upon a perfectly calm sea, and at a distance of
about two miles from the school, and four boats were manned and shot
away from the ship. The whales seemed to be asleep, or lying sunning
themselves, upon the surface of the sea.

I was in Ben Gibson's boat, of which old Tom was steersman. He would
handle the iron too, for as I have said, Ben was just as green in the
actual practice of whalemanship as I was myself. We raced with the other
boats for the nearest prize, which proved to be a husky bull, longer
than the baleener we had killed.

I was bow oar, and I found that I could hold my own with the rest of the
crew. Our stroke set a slapping pace and we bent to the work as though
we were racing for the sport of it. Each crew desired to be first and
have the credit of fleshing the iron in this monster. The water being so
calm it proved to be a very pretty struggle. And all done so silently!
The whale is sharp-eared and on a mill-pond sea like this, sounds carry
far. We came up from behind the mammoth, and we were ahead of the other
boats.

The captain, in the nearest boat, signaled us with his hand to strike
on, while his boat rushed past for another of the sleeping monsters. Old
Tom and the young second mate changed places swiftly and the old
harpooner stood up poising the heavy iron and looking to see that the
coils of the rope were free. With a nod Mr. Gibson ordered the oars
brought inboard and he pulled in the long steering oar himself. The
whaleboat shot close up to the whale's side. The body loomed beside us
like the rolling hull of an unballasted ship.

With my face over my shoulder I watched old Tom poise the iron. When he
swung it back the muscles of his shoulder and upper arm flexed like a
pugilist's! He was a fit subject for a statue at that instant. Then he
flung body and weapon forward, the latter left his hand smoothly, and
the sabre-sharp point sunk deep in the yielding blubber.

"Back all!" gasped Ben Gibson, scarcely above hi