The cockatoo stepped upon Daughtry’s inviting index finger, swiftly ascended his shirt sleeve, and, on his shoulder, claws sunk into the flimsy shirt fabric till they hurt the flesh beneath, leaned head to ear and uttered in gratitude and relief, and in self-identification:  “Cocky.  Cocky.”

“You son of a gun,” Daughtry crooned.

“Glory be!” Cooky replied, in tones so like Daughtry’s as to startle him.

“You son of a gun,” Daughtry repeated, cuddling his cheek and ear against the cockatoo’s feathered and crested head.  “And some folks thinks it’s only folks that count in this world.”

Still the whale delayed, and, with the ocean washing their toes on the level deck, Daughtry ordered the boat lowered away.  Ah Moy was eager in his haste to leap into the bow.  Nor was Daughtry’s judgment correct that the little Chinaman’s haste was due to fear of the sinking ship.  What Ah Moy sought was the place in the boat remotest from Kwaque and the steward.

Shoving clear, they roughly stored the supplies and dunnage out of the way of the thwarts and took their places, Ah Moy pulling bow-oar, next in order Big John and Kwaque, with Daughtry (Cocky still perched on his shoulder) at stroke.  On top of the dunnage, in the sternsheets, Michael gazed wistfully at the Mary Turner and continued to snarl crustily at Scraps who idiotically wanted to start a romp.  The Ancient Mariner stood up at the steering sweep and gave the order, when all was ready, for the first dip of the oars.

A growl and a bristle from Michael warned them that the whale was not only coming but was close upon them.  But it was not charging.  Instead, it circled slowly about the schooner as if examining its antagonist.

“I’ll bet it’s head’s sore from all that banging, an’ it’s beginnin’ to feel it,” Daughtry grinned, chiefly for the purpose of keeping his comrades unafraid.

Barely had they rowed a dozen strokes, when an exclamation from Big John led them to follow his gaze to the schooners forecastle-head, where the forecastle cat flashed across in pursuit of a big rat.  Other rats they saw, evidently driven out of their lairs by the rising water.

“We just can’t leave that cat behind,” Daughtry soliloquized in suggestive tones.

“Certainly not,” the Ancient Mariner responded swinging his weight on the steering-sweep and heading the boat back.

Twice the whale gently rolled them in the course of its leisurely circling, ere they bent to their oars again and pulled away.  Of them the whale seemed to take no notice.  It was from the huge thing, the schooner, that death had been wreaked upon her calf; and it was upon the schooner that she vented the wrath of her grief.

Even as they pulled away, the whale turned and headed across the ocean.  At a half-mile distance she curved about and charged back.

“With all that water in her, the schooner’ll have a real kick-back in her when she’s hit,” Daughtry said.  “Lordy me, rest on your oars an’ watch.”