“Men are pretty smart whalemen,” continued our man, “when they can pick out a whale that’s got a lump of gold in him.” “You don’t mean to say——” The man stopped. “Yes, I do mean to say that we’ve got stowed away a lump of ambergris that’s worth more than half your catch of over three years. Suppose we change the names of the vessels and call our ship the _Magic?_” The announcement, coupled with the laugh which followed, was too much for the visitors, and the conversation turned to other subjects—the common things which pertain to a sailor’s life, such as the food, the weather and relations with the officers. When the crews of different vessels meet, boasting is inevitable. Kreelman said afterward that he never saw, at a gam, men so completely squelched as were the sailors from the _Magic_. We hove to that night, as the captain said, and at dawn the crow’s nests were manned by lookouts who were instructed to seek sharply for the _Magic_, although whales were not to be ignored. Soon a mastheader announced the top-hamper of a distant vessel, and, before long, the two ships were in a position to gam. The _Magic_ dropped a boat and her captain headed it. When it came alongside he leaped to the deck and shook hands with our captain. The two men, who were old friends, conversed earnestly and there was something interesting and delightful in their meeting by chance, many thousand miles from home, on a great ocean, which constitutes a pretty large part of the entire globe. The captain of the _Magic_ wanted the last news from home, and our captain gave him what little information there was. Then Captain Gamans remarked, “Now let me tell you the latest news of this vessel. We’ve got on board a lump of ambergris that weighs three hundred pounds, and it’s well formed, too.” “What good luck! I never saw a piece of ambergris in my life.” How often one man’s good fortune is another man’s discouragement! The visiting captain didn’t feel like remaining any longer. He took our letters, exchanged courtesies, and departed. I watched the two boats as they put back to and reached their ship, and then, as the breach between the two vessels widened, I was conscious of the recurrence of the feeling I had experienced when the _Seabird_ dropped from her moorings in New Bedford harbor. The _Magic_ diminished until it was only a speck. Then I thought, “In a few months she will drop anchor in the home port, and a large number of the officers and crew will be once more with family or friends. Long months must elapse before our return, and then there are the uncertainties of our calling—disasters or a broken voyage. Oh! for my father’s kindly greeting, my mother’s smile, and the little room which I abandoned for the sea.” CHAPTER IX HONOLULU AND OFF TO THE ARCTIC