At last, disgusted apparently with the hopeless turn affairs had taken, the NARRAGANSETT’s boats drew off, and returned on board their ship.  Two of our boats had by this time accumulated a mountainous coil of line each, with which we returned to our own vessel, leaving the skipper to visit the present holder of the whale, the skipper of the John Hampden.

What arrangements they made, or how they settled the NARRAGANSETT’s claim between them, I never knew, but I dare say there was a costly law-suit about it in New Bedford years after.

This was not very encouraging for a start, nor did the next meek see us do any better.  Several times we saw other ships with whales alongside, but we got no show at all.  Now, I had hoped a great deal from our cruise on these grounds, because I had heard whispers of a visit to the icy Sea of Okhotsk, and the prospect was to me a horrible one.  I never did take any stock in Arctic work.  But if we made a good season on the Japan grounds, we should not go north, but gradually work down the Pacific again, on the other side, cruising as we went.

Day after day went by without any fresh capture or even sight of fish, until I began to believe that the stories I had heard of the wonderful fecundity of the Coast of Japan waters were fables without foundation, in fact.  Had I known what sort of fishing our next bout would be, I should not have been so eager to sight whales again.  If this be not a platitude of the worst kind, I don’t know the meaning of the word; but, after all, platitudes have their uses, especially when you want to state a fact baldly.

*

CHAPTER XV

WHICH COMES UNCOMFORTABLY NEAR BEING THE LAST

All unversed as I am in the finer shades of literary craftsmanship, there is great uncertainty in my mind whether it is good or bad “art” to anticipate your next chapter by foreshadowing its contents; but whether good or bad art, the remembrance of my miseries on the eventful occasion I wish to describe was so strong upon me as I wrote the last few lines of the previous chapter that I just had to let those few words leak out.

Through all the vicissitudes of this strange voyage I had hitherto felt pretty safe, and as the last thing a man anticipates (if his digestion is all right) is the possibility of coming to grief himself while fully prepared to see everybody else go under, so I had got to think that whoever got killed I was not to be—­a very pleasing sentiment, and one that carries a man far, enabling him to face dangers with a light heart which otherwise would make a nerveless animal of him.

In this optimistic mood, then, I gaily flung myself into my place in the mate’s boat one morning, as we were departing in chase of a magnificent cachalot that had been raised just after breakfast.  There were no other vessels in sight—­much to our satisfaction —­the wind was light, with a cloudless sky, and the whale was dead to leeward of us.  We sped along at a good rate towards our prospective victim, who was, in his leisurely enjoyment of life, calmly lolling on the surface, occasionally lifting his enormous tail out of water and letting it fall flat upon the surface with a boom audible for miles.