"All right!" answered Captain Wyer. "Come, Grafton, light into my boat here. Jump in, my boys, all of you. Look out for the whale, Mr. Swain," to his own mate, "and if you get a chance, pitch in. Be a little careful, though, and you too, Mr. Russell, don't go harem-scarem! Where _is_ the whale, Upton?" "Somewhere under us," returned the old man, as coolly as if he had said he was two miles off. "There he is!" he continued, as the whale broke water within a ship's length of the Fortitude's waist-boat, and Russell's boatsteerer jumped up and down in the excitement of the moment. [Illustration: FIGHT WITH AN UGLY WHALE. Page 150.] A few strokes sent the boat alongside of him, going on "quartering," but both Russell and his boatsteerer were a little too eager, or "harem-scarem" as his captain termed it. A blow from the monster's immense "fan" swept the two oars from the port side of his boat, ripping out the peak-cleets and splitting his gunwale, while his bowman was considerably hurt by one of the oars striking him in the head. His boat was still tight, however, and the injured man was transferred to Captain Wyer's boat, and I took his place to "bow on" if a chance offered. "Never mind, Mr. Russell, try him again!" said our captain. "Here's spare oars, if you want, pick 'em up, all round here. Hold on a bit, though; let Swain have a try, he's got the chance now." The mate of the Fortitude was one of those long-limbed, powerful men, who seemed to have been built expressly to "straighten ten fathom of lance-wrap and do execution." He was wary too, in his approach, and waited for what he thought was a "good time in." He hurled his iron when four fathoms distant, and put it well in, calling, "Stern, stern hard!" As he drew back his lance for a long dart, it seemed to me impossible that he could reach him, as he poised it in his hands, still backing with his oars. When he judged himself at a safe distance, it sped for its mark with a momentum that was positively fearful. He drew it back; a quiver was perceptible in the sides of the vast body of the monster who had fought so valiantly for his life; and thirty-six voices greeted the thick clots of blood now faintly gushing from his spout-hole, with glad shouts of victory. "He's throwing up the sponge," said Mr. Swain, quietly. "A child can take care of him now."