will end before they lose the ship for good.  But once fast, the whalemen try to pull close alongside the monster.  Then the mate takes the long, keen lance and plunges it deep into the great shuddering carcass, “churning” it up and down and seeking to pierce the heart or lungs.  This is the moment of danger; for, driven mad with pain, the great beast rolls and thrashes about convulsively.  If the boat clings fast to his side, it is in danger of being crushed or engulfed at any moment; if it retreats, he may recover himself and be off before the death-stroke can be delivered.  In later days the explosive bomb, discharged from a distance, has done away with this peril; but in the palmy days of the whale fishery the men would rush into the circle of sea lashed into foam by those mighty fins, get close to the whale, as the boxer gets under the guard of his foe, smite him with lance and razor-edged spade until his spouts ran red, and to his fury there should succeed the calm of approaching death.  Then the boats, pulled off.  The command was “Pipes all”; and, placidly smoking in the presence of that mighty death, the whalers awaited their ship.

Stories of “fighting whales” fill the chronicles of our old whaling ports.  There was the old bull sperm encountered by Captain Huntling off the River De La Plata, which is told us in a fascinating old book, “The Nimrod of the Sea.”  The first boat that made fast to this tough old warrior he speedily bit in two; and while her crew were swimming away from the wreck with all possible speed, the whale thrashed away at the pieces until all were reduced to small bits.  Two other boats meanwhile made fast to the furious animal.  Wheeling about in the foam, reddened with his blood, he crushed them as a tiger would crunch its prey.  All about him were men struggling in the water—­twelve of them, the crews of the two demolished boats.  Of the boats themselves nothing was left big enough to float a man.  The ship was miles away.  Three of the sailors climbed on the back of their enemy, clinging by the harpoons and ropes still fast to him, while the others swam away for dear life, thinking only of escaping that all-engulfing jaw or the blows of that murderous tail.  Now came another boat from the ship, picked up the swimmers, and cautiously rescued those perched on the whale’s back from their island of shuddering flesh.  The spirit of the monster was still undaunted.  Though six harpoons were sunk into his body and he was dragging 300 fathoms of line, he was still in fighting mood, crunching oars, kegs, and bits of boat for more enemies to demolish.  All hands made for the ship, where Captain Hunting, quite as dogged and determined as his adversary, was preparing to renew the combat.  Two spare boats were fitted for use, and again the whalemen started after their foe.  He, for his part, remained on the battle-ground, amid the debris of his hunters’ property, and awaited attack.  Nay, more; he churned the water with his mighty tail