of supper.  Long before we expected her, back came the boat, bringing bountiful provision of yams, cold pork and fruit—­a regular banquet to men who were fasting since daylight.  A square meal, a comforting pipe, and the night’s vigil, which had looked so formidable, no longer troubled us, although, to tell the truth, we were heartily glad when the dawn began to tint the east with pale emerald and gold.  We set to work at once, getting the huge carcass to the surface without as much labour as I had anticipated.  Of course all hands came to the rescue.

But, alas for the fruit of our labours!  Those hungry monsters had collected in thousands, and, to judge from what we were able to see of the body, they had reduced its value alarmingly.  However, we commenced towing, and were getting along fairly well, when a long spur of reef to leeward of us, over which the sea was breaking frightfully, seemed to be stretching farther out to intercept us before we could get into smooth water.  The fact soon faced us that we were in the remorseless grip of a current that set right over that reef, and against its steady stream all our efforts were the merest triviality.  Still, we hung on, struggling desperately to keep what we had earned, until so close to the roaring, foaming line of broken water, that one wave breaking farther out than the rest very nearly swamped us all.  One blow of an axe, one twirl of the steer-oars, and with all the force we could muster we were pulling away from the very jaws of death, leaving our whale to the hungry crowds, who would make short work of him.  Downcast indeed, at our bad luck, we returned on board, disappointing the skipper very much with our report.  Like the true gentleman he was, though, recognizing that we had done our best, he did not add to the trouble by cursing us all for a set of useless trash, as his predecessor would have done; on the contrary, a few minutes after the receipt of the bad news his face was as bright as ever, his laugh as hearty as if there was no such thing as a misfortune in the world.

And now I must come to what has been on my mind so long—­a tragedy that, in spite of all that had gone before, and of what came after, is the most indelible of all the memories which cling round me of that eventful time.  Abner Cushing, the Vermonter had declared at different times that he should never see his native Green Mountain again.  Since the change in our commander, however, he had been another man—­always silent and reserved, but brighter, happier, and with a manner so improved as to make it hard to recognize him for the same awkward, ungainly slab of a fellow that had bungled everything he put his hand to.  Taking stock of him quietly during our day-long leisurely cruises in the boat, I often wondered whether his mind still kept its gloomy forebodings, and brooded over his tragical life-history.  I never dared to speak to him on the subject, for fear of arousing what I hoped was growing too faint for remembrance.  But at times I saw him in the moonlit evenings sitting on the rail alone, steadfastly gazing down into the star-besprent waters beneath him, as if coveting their unruffled peace.