And we pulled as if our lives depended on it, bending to the oars with every ounce of our strength, making the long sweeps bend in the water. We began to forge ahead, very slowly, inch by inch. We saw it--it cheered us to stronger effort. Our rivals saw it--it discouraged them. Under the heart-breaking strain they began to tire. They slipped back little by little. They spurted again. It was no use. We increased our advantage. Open daylight began to broaden between the stern of our boat and the bow of theirs. They were beaten in a fair trial of strength, oarsmanship, and endurance. "Ha, my boys," chuckled Gabriel. "We win. Good-by to dat mate. Now we catch dat whale." We shot along at undiminished speed, pulling exultantly. What the whale was doing or how close we were to it, we at the oars could not see. "Stand by, Louis," said Gabriel presently. "Aye, aye, sir," responded Louis. A few more strokes and a great black bulk loomed close alongside. "Give it to him, Louis," cried Gabriel. And as the boat glanced against that island of living ebony, Louis's harpoon sank deep into the soft, buttery mass. We heard the tiny concussion of the cap of the tonite gun, and a fraction of a second later the bomb exploded with a muffled roar in the whale's vitals. "Stern, stern!" shouted Gabriel. "Stern for your lives!" We backed water as hard as we could. The great back went flashing down, the mighty tail rose up directly over us, shutting out the sky. It curled over away from us and smote the sea with deafening thunder. As quick as lightning it rose into the air again, curled high above us with tragic menace, and came crashing down, this time toward us. But we had backed just out of harm's way. Death and that terrible tail missed us by about three feet. The mate's boat came rushing up. It was too late. The whale--our whale--had sounded. "Your boat can beat us, eh?" Gabriel called tauntingly to Mr. Winchester. "Not much. I know we break blackskin first. I know we win dat race." Our line began to dance and sing, leaping up from its neatly laid coils in the tub in dizzy spirals and humming out over the bow. "Ha, boys," sang out Kaiuli, our Kanaka bow oarsman. "Now for fine ride behind Arctic race horse--eh?" With a whale harnessed to our boat and a sea as smooth as any turnpike for our highway, we settled ourselves for the ride. The friction of the line set the boat going. It gathered momentum. In a little while we were tearing along through that sea of oil, our bow deep in the smother as the whale pulled down upon it, and flashing walls of white spray flaring out on either side. The other boats pulled for the point at which it seemed most probable the whale would come up. When it rose to the surface, the mate's boat was nearest.