Dag Daughtry could not fail to overhear some of these conversations, which were altercations rather than councils.  The invariable ending, for Simon Nishikanta, would be what sailors name “the sea-grouch.”  For hours afterward the sulky Jew would speak to no one nor acknowledge speech from any one.  Vainly striving to paint, he would suddenly burst into violent rage, tear up his attempt, stamp it into the deck, then get out his large-calibred automatic rifle, perch himself on the forecastle-head, and try to shoot any stray porpoise, albacore, or dolphin.  It seemed to give him great relief to send a bullet home into the body of some surging, gorgeous-hued fish, arrest its glorious flashing motion for ever, and turn it on its side slowly to sink down into the death and depth of the sea.

On occasion, when a school of blackfish disported by, each one of them a whale of respectable size, Nishikanta would be beside himself in the ecstasy of inflicting pain.  Out of the school perhaps he would reach a score of the leviathans, his bullets biting into them like whip-lashes, so that each, like a colt surprised by the stock-whip, would leap in the air, or with a flirt of tail dive under the surface, and then charge madly across the ocean and away from sight in a foam-churn of speed.

The Ancient Mariner would shake his head sadly; and Daughtry, who likewise was hurt by the infliction of hurt on unoffending animals, would sympathize with him and fetch him unbidden another of the expensive three-for-a-dollar cigars so that his feelings might be soothed.  Grimshaw would curl his lip in a sneer and mutter:  “The cheap skate.  The skunk.  No man with half the backbone of a man would take it out of the harmless creatures.  He’s that kind that if he didn’t like you, or if you criticised his grammar or arithmetic, he’d kick your dog to get even . . . or poison it.  In the good old days up in Colusa we used to hang men like him just to keep the air we breathed clean and wholesome.”

But it was Captain Doane who protested outright.

“Look at here, Nishikanta,” he would say, his face white and his lips trembling with anger.  “That’s rough stuff, and all you can get back for it is rough stuff.  I know what I’m talking about.  You’ve got no right to risk our lives that way.  Wasn’t the pilot boat Annie Mine sunk by a whale right in the Golden Gate?  Didn’t I sail in as a youngster, second mate on the brig Berncastle, into Hakodate, pumping double watches to keep afloat just because a whale took a smash at us?  Didn’t the full-rigged ship, the whaler Essex, sink off the west coast of South America, twelve hundred miles from the nearest land for the small boats to cover, and all because of a big cow whale that butted her into kindling-wood?”

And Simon Nishikanta, in his grouch, disdaining to reply, would continue to pepper the last whale into flight beyond the circle of the sea their vision commanded.