Except to a few whose minds to them are kingdoms, and others who can hardly be said to have any minds at all, the long monotony of unsuccessful seeking for whales is very wearying.  The ceaseless motion of the vessel rocking at the centre of a circular space of blue, with a perfectly symmetrical dome of azure enclosing her above, unflecked by a single cloud, becomes at last almost unbearable from its changeless sameness of environment.  Were it not for the trivial round and common task of everyday ship duty, some of the crew must become idiotic, or, in sheer rage at the want of interest in their lives, commit mutiny.

Such a weary time was ours for full four weeks after sighting Christmas Island.  The fine haul we had obtained just previous to that day seemed to have exhausted our luck for the time being, for never a spout did we see.  And it was with no ordinary delight that we hailed the advent of an immense school of black-fish, the first we had run across for a long time.  Determined to have a big catch, if possible, we lowered all five boats, as it was a beautifully calm day, and the ship might almost safely have been left to look after herself.  After what we had recently been accustomed to, the game seemed trifling to get up much excitement over; but still, for a good day’s sport, commend me to a few lively black-fish.

In less than ten minutes we were in the thick of the crowd, with harpoons flying right and left.  Such a scene of wild confusion and uproarious merriment ensued as I never saw before in my life.  The skipper, true to his traditions, got fast to four, all running different ways at once, and making the calm sea boil again with their frantic gyrations.  Each of the other boats got hold of three; but, the mate getting too near me, our fish got so inextricably tangled up that it was hopeless to try and distinguish between each other’s prizes.  However, when we got the lances to work among them, the hubbub calmed down greatly, and the big bodies one by one ceased their gambols, floating supine.

So far, all had been gay; but the unlucky second mate must needs go and do a thing that spoiled a day’s fun entirely.  The line runs through a deep groove in the boat’s stem, over a brass roller so fitted that when the line is running out it remains fixed, but when hauling in it revolves freely, assisting the work a great deal.  The second mate had three fish fast, like the rest of us—­the first one on the end of the main line, the other two on “short warps,” or pieces of whale-line some eight or ten fathoms long fastened to harpoons, with the other ends running on the main line by means of bowlines round it.  By some mistake or other he had allowed the two lines to be hauled together through the groove in his boat’s stem, and before the error was noticed two fish spurted off in opposite directions, ripping the boat in two halves lengthways, like a Dutchman splitting a salt herring.

Away went the fish with the whole of the line, nobody being able to get at it to cut; and, but for the presence of mind shown by the crew in striking out and away from the tangle, a most ghastly misfortune, involving the loss of several lives, must have occurred.  As it was, the loss was considerable, almost outweighing the gain on the day’s fishing, besides the inconvenience of having a boat useless on a whaling grounds.