This was done, and in a moment our boat was cleaving the blue water like an arrow, while the white foam curled from her bows.

I thought every moment we should be dragged under; but whenever this seemed likely to happen, the line was let run a bit, and the strain eased.

At last the fish grew tired of dragging us, the line ceased to run out, and Tom hauled in the slack, which another man coiled away in its tub.

Presently the fish rose to the surface, a short distance off our weather bow.
"Give way, boys! spring your oars," cried the captain; "another touch or two with the lance, and that fish is ours." The boat shot ahead, and we were about to dart a second harpoon into the whale's side, when it took to "sounding",--which means, that it went straight down, head foremost, into the depths of the sea.

At that moment Tom Lokins uttered a cry of mingled anger and disappointment.
We all turned round and saw our shipmate standing with the slack line in his hand, and such an expression on his weather-beaten face, that I could scarce help laughing.