“He’s going to ram us again!” cried Mr. Damon.  “Bless my machine oil!  Why doesn’t the captain do something?”

At that moment the commander cried from the bridge: 

“Send a man below, Mr. Laster, to see if we are making any water.  Then tell half a dozen of the sailors to get out the rifles, and see if they can’t kill the beast.  He’ll put us in Davy Jones’s locker if he keeps this up!  Lively now, men!”

The first mate, Mr. Laster, called out the order.  A sailor went below to see if the ship was leaking much, and the captain rang for full speed ahead.  But the Soudalar was slow in getting under way again, and, even at top speed she was no match for the whale, which was again rushing toward the vessel.

“Quick with those rifles!” cried the captain.  “Fire a volley into the beast!”

“There’s no need!” suddenly called Mr. Damon, who had caught sight of Tom Swift, and the object which the lad carried.

“No need?” demanded the commander.  “Why, has the whale sunk, or made off?”

“No,” answered the eccentric man, “the whale is still coming on, but Tom Swift will fix him.  Get there, Tom, and let him have a good one!”

“What sort of a gun is that?” demanded the commander as the young inventor took his place at the rail, which was now almost deserted.

Tom did not answer.  Bracing himself against the rolling and heaving of the vessel, which was now under about half speed, Tom aimed his electric rifle at the oncoming leviathan.  He looked at the automatic gage, noted the distance and waiting a moment until the crest of a wave in front of the whale had subsided, he pressed the button.

If those watching him expected to hear a loud report, and see a flash of flame, they were disappointed.  There was absolutely no sound, but what happened to the whale was most surprising.

The great animal stopped short amid a swirl of foam, and the next instant it seemed to disintegrate.  It went all to pieces, just as had the dummy figure which Tom on one occasion fired at with his rifle and as had the big packing-cases.  The whale appeared to dissolve, as does a lump of sugar in a cup of hot tea, and, five seconds after Tom Swift had fired his electric gun, there was not a sign of the monster save a little blood on the calm sea.

“What—­what happened?” asked the captain in bewilderment.  “Is—­is that monster gone?”

“Completely gone!” cried Mr. Damon.  “Bless my powder horn, Tom, but I knew you could do it!”

“Is that a new kind of whale gun, firing an explosive bullet?” inquired the commander, as he came down off the bridge and shook hands with Tom.  “If it is, I’d like to buy one.  We may be rammed again by another whale.”

“This is my new, electric rifle,” explained the young inventor modestly, “and it fires wireless charges of electricity instead of bullets.  I’m sorry I can’t let you have it, as it’s the only one I have.  But I guess no more whales will ram us.  That one was evidently crazed by the attack of the killer, and doubtless took us for another of its enemies.”