Peter looked up at me with a smile in his eyes, but said nothing, and then there came down to us from the masthead the familiar, quavering cry. Peter sighed, put down his model, and got up. It was a single spout—from a lone whale, so far as he could judge—miles off to the southeast. Peter turned back to me. “Speak of the devil,” he said. “Do you see, Tim? Just there, well beyond the whale? What do you make of it?” I was a long time in seeing anything, but at last I made out dimly the two slender topmasts with their yards, but no sails. “Cutting-in, like as not,” said Peter. “If she was trying-out you ’d see the smoke.” We headed up toward the whale, and when we were near enough, Mr. Wallet and Mr. Brown lowered. The whale led them a leisurely chase directly toward the Battles, and we followed. Mr. Brown got fast, but Mr. Wallet did not. He sailed on after the whale, which was running away with Mr. Brown. The whale was going much faster than Mr. Wallet’s boat was, and it was a losing chase from the moment Mr. Brown struck. We wondered, and snickered, for it was so like Wallet. As Peter said, it was like a drunken man chasing his hat, {169} always hoping it would stop, and always keeping after it with the one fixed idea. But Peter was wrong about the idea. If Mr. Wallet had a fixed idea it was not what Peter—and all of us who watched—thought it was, for he sailed straight up to the side of the Battles. Although we had got within three miles of her, I could not see clearly what was happening then, but Peter could. His eyes were better than mine, in spite of his age. “Now, what do you make of that?” he cried. “They ’re holding her there, and the Battles’ crew ain’t making any sort of objection that I c’n see. It ’s a queer vessel and a queer crew and queer doings, and Cap’n Coffin ’s the queerest of the lot, if you believe what they say of him—which I don’t. There goes Mr. Wallet over the side, and that ’s queerer yet. Mebbe he thinks he can clear up the queerness, but I miss my guess if that ’s what he thinks. If it was the old man himself, now, or Mr. Baker, say, or Mr. Brown, I ’d say it would be cleared up, but ’tween you and me, I doubt Mr. Wallet can if he tries, and I doubt he tries.” “What do you suppose, Peter,” I asked, “he means to—” “I ain’t had time to s’pose anything, Tim,” said Peter. “There ’s George Hall, now, wanting to go aboard, and they won’t let him. Tell him to cast off and keep off. I c’n almost hear ’em say it. Quite a crowd of ’em along by the gangway, and all motioning him off. They were cutting-in, as I thought, and they ’ve let the carcass go adrift. You can see it, I guess, going astern, just awash. Now some of ’em take spades, and jab at the boathook, and they ’re getting sail on her.” Peter’s bulletins stopped, and we just stood there, gazing in silence.