Among the Samoyeds, at Chabanova, on the Siberian coast, the white-whale fisheries amount to fifteen hundred or two thousand pood of train-oil a year.  On the coasts of Nova Zembla and Spitzbergen they are captured by enormous nets made of very stout material; and the Tromsoe vessels alone have taken in a single season over two thousand one hundred and sixty-seven white whales, valued at about thirty thousand dollars.  Magdalen a Bay is a favorite place for them, and often three hundred are taken at a single haul in the powerful nets.  Here and in most of the northern localities the entire body is utilized,—­the carcass being used in the manufacture of guano.  So perfectly are the bodies preserved by the cold of these northern regions that if they cannot be removed at the time of capture they are secured in the ensuing season.

As the boat reached mid-stream, where the wind was blowing against the current, great rollers were met with, that tossed the light craft about like a ball.  But this was evidently the play-ground of the Beluga, and dead ahead the white forms were seen darting about in the inky water with startling distinctness, while faint puffs were occasionally borne down on the wind.

Gradually we neared them, and suddenly a white dome appeared on the weather bow.  Then came the command and ensuing scene chronicled at the commencement of this paper.

We were perfectly familiar with whaling-terms, and as the game was struck we construed Captain Sam’s impressive “git aft” to mean “starn all,” and even in that moment of stumbling and drenching felt a sense of disappointment in the suppression of a time-honored term.  To omit “There she blows!” was enough; but to substitute “git aft” for “starn all” was a libel on the chroniclers of the “Whaler’s Own Book.”

There was little time, however, for regrets.  Our combined weight had raised the bow a trifle, yet not enough to prevent the sea from coming in; and, as the skipper, who was laboring with the steering-oar, said, the small whaler was “hoopin’ along, takin’ everything as it came, and askin’ no questions.”  Now by the slight slacking of the line we were high on a wave, the crest of which was dashed in our faces in the mad race; now down in a hollow, taking the next sea bodily and plunging through it, causing the oars and harpoons to rattle as if they were the very bones of the boat shaking in fear and terror.

In a short time she was a third full of water, and the amateur whalers were invited to man the pumps—­namely, two tin basins—­and bale the St. Lawrence out as fast as it came in.  The maddened animal soon carried us beyond the area of heavy seas, and preparations were made for taking in the slack.  The boat was still rushing along at an eight-knot rate; and, as the whale showed no signs of weakening, it was Captain Sam’s opinion that nothing short of the lance would stop him.

“Jest lay holt of the line, will ye?” sung out Captain Sol, passing the slack aft, and four pairs of arms hauled the boat nearer the game, that was far ahead.  At first this only spurred the creature to further endeavors; but the steady pull soon told, and, after an amount of labor that can only be compared to sawing a cord of wood with a dull implement, the white head of the Beluga came in sight.