Ned Land went to his post. The fires were increased, the screw revolved forty-three times a minute, and the steam poured out of the valves. We heaved the log, and calculated that the _Abraham Lincoln_ was going at the rate of 18½ miles an hour. But the accursed animal swam too at the rate of 18½ miles an hour. For a whole hour, the frigate kept up this pace, without gaining six feet. It was humiliating for one of the swiftest sailers in the American navy. A stubborn anger seized the crew; the sailors abused the monster, who, as before, disdained to answer them; the captain no longer contented himself with twisting his beard—he gnawed it. The engineer was again called. “You have turned full steam in?” “Yes, sir,” replied the engineer. The speed of the _Abraham Lincoln_ increased. Its masts trembled down to their stepping holes, and the clouds of smoke could hardly find way out of the narrow funnels. They heaved the log a second time. “Well?” asked the captain of the man at the wheel. “Nineteen miles and three-tenths, sir.” “Clap on more steam.” The engineer obeyed. The manometer showed ten degrees. But the cetacean grew warm itself, no doubt; for without straining itself, it made 19-3/10 miles. What a pursuit! No, I cannot describe the emotion that vibrated through me. Ned Land kept his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal let us gain upon it.—“We shall catch it! we shall catch it!” cried the Canadian. But just as he was going to strike, the cetacean stole away with a rapidity that could not be estimated at less than thirty miles an hour, and even during our maximum of speed, it bullied the frigate, going round and round it. A cry of fury broke from everyone! At noon we were no further advanced than at eight o’clock in the morning. The captain then decided to take more direct means. “Ah!” said he, “that animal goes quicker than the _Abraham Lincoln_. Very well! we will see whether it will escape these conical bullets. Send your men to the forecastle, sir.” The forecastle gun was immediately loaded and slewed round. But the shot passed some feet above the cetacean, which was half a mile off. “Another, more to the right,” cried the commander, “and five dollars to whoever will hit that infernal beast.” An old gunner with a grey beard—that I can see now—with steady eye and grave face, went up to the gun and took a long aim. A loud report was heard, with which were mingled the cheers of the crew. [Illustration] An old grey-bearded gunner . . . . The bullet did its work; it hit the animal, but not fatally, and sliding off the rounded surface, was lost in two miles depth of sea. The chase began again, and the captain, leaning towards me, said— “I will pursue that beast till my frigate bursts up.” “Yes,” answered I; “and you will be quite right to do it.”