Eagerly we took to the boats and made for our first fish, setting
alongside of him in less than half an hour from our first glimpse
of his bushy breath. As the irons sank into his blubber, he
raised himself a little, and exposed a back like a big ship
bottom up. Verily, the skipper's words were justified, for we
had seen nothing bigger of the whale-kind that voyage. His
manner puzzled us not a little. He had not a kick in him.
Complacently, as though only anxious to oblige, he laid quietly
while we cleared for action, nor did he show any signs of
resentment or pain while he was being lanced with all the vigour
we possessed. He just took all our assaults with perfect
quietude and exemplary patience, so that we could hardly help
regarding him with great suspicion, suspecting some deep scheme
of deviltry hidden by this abnormally sheep-like demeanour. But
nothing happened. In the same peaceful way he died, without the
slightest struggle sufficient to raise even an eddy on the almost
smooth sea.
Leaving the mate by the carcass, we returned on board, the
skipper hailing us immediately on our arrival to know what was
the matter with him. We, of course, did not know, neither did
the question trouble us.
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