The edge of the wall reached the carcass, and there was a curious effect of bombardment with small white rubber balls—I should have thought at once of tennis balls if I had then ever seen a tennis ball—the balls bounding high from the elastic surface of the carcass. I knew it then for hail. The wall was past the whale, and completely hid it from sight, less than a hundred feet off, and the wind struck us like a blow from a chunk of ice. Then the hail struck us, hail mixed with rain. We hardly knew what to do to protect our heads. It was like being pelted with rocks—rocks which there was no escaping. They were everywhere. I instinctively put up my hands over my head, and had to take them down again, for the bones of my hands were being bruised, and I was really afraid they might be broken. None of us had a stiff hat, but all wore soft hats or caps or were bareheaded. I did not mind the wind—I was not conscious of it—and I did not see what the others did; but I found myself crawling in the bottom of the boat, partly under a thwart, and pulling out a corner of the sail to protect my head. When I had time to think of anything but the safety of my own head, I saw that the others had done the same thing. I looked out from my protecting canvas, and saw the water absolutely filled with those miniature geysers. The hail had beaten down the sea, in spite of the furious wind, until the surface was almost as smooth as a pond, with the rollers running under it as if the water were covered with silk. After a while—perhaps half an hour, perhaps a quarter—the hail stopped, and left only the rain and the wind, and the rapidly growing seas. We were sitting in a deep slush of water and hailstones, and the hailstones weighed heavily on my legs. They were beautiful, round, white stones, many as large as robins’ eggs, but most of {186} them the size of marbles. The boat was deep with them, and rolled sluggishly. We had to get them out at once, which we did with a couple of buckets, our hats and our hands, shoveling them over the side.