All this hardly took longer than it takes to tell it. Meanwhile Mr. Brown’s boat had pulled hard for the second whale, a longer pull than Mr. Baker’s. They had got almost within darting distance when Macy struck his whale, and every man in Mr. Brown’s boat heard the thundering crash of the flukes on the water. Wright, the boatsteerer, was already taking in his oar when Mr. Brown gave him the word, for he knew what to expect. It is not strange that I was in the dark as to the reasons for their actions, but very naturally I thought it all right, although it did not seem possible to dart the heavy harpoon that distance. Of course I could not hear what Mr. Brown said, but Peter told me later, and explained the actions of the whales according to his own notions—which may be right enough. At all events, they are the notions generally held by whalemen. Wright took in his oar hurriedly—too hurriedly—scrambled to his place in the bow, and grabbed a harpoon; but the whale had been losing no time either, and the boat had gained but a few feet on him when he started. He was going under without throwing his flukes into the air, and he gathered speed very quickly. Wright threw the harpoon with all the force left in him after his hard pull, but it was a good twenty-five foot dart to the whale, which was going as fast as the boat, and Wright had not the strength. The harpoon fell short and nicked the whale’s flukes on an up stroke, serving only to increase his speed instantly, and he disappeared. I looked around, and could see no whales. There was Mr. Baker’s boat well on its way to the Azores, with white water some distance ahead of it, marking the action of their whale’s flukes as he ran. All the others had vanished, and the boats lay still on the surface of the {61} sea in attitudes of dejection, the men seeming to be looking longingly after the fleeing whales. In a few minutes I heard a cry from the masthead, and saw what the men were looking for. There, miles away, was a lone spout, and then another, and a third; and they seemed hurried. The whales had been swimming under water. We should not get near those whales again, and the boats pulled slowly to the ship. What had happened, according to Peter, was this: Whales have some mysterious way of communicating with each other, although there may be miles of water between them. Peter did not undertake to say what the means of communication was. It may have been the blow of the flukes on the water when the whale was struck with the harpoon, although whales lobtail frequently without causing alarm in their companions. Whatever the means, old whalemen maintain that, when a whale is struck, it communicates that fact, in some way, to the others; and they become “gallied”—frightened—and make off at once. I had seen them do so, and how could I doubt it? Of course Peter did not tell me about it at that time. He and his boat, and all the men in it, were out of sight.