Before we had time to speak, another whale rose on the opposite side of the boat, and then another on our starboard bow.

We had got into the middle of a shoal of whales, which commenced leaping and spouting all round us, little aware of the dangerous enemy that was so near.
In a few minutes more up comes the big one again that we had first seen.

He seemed very active and wild.

After blowing on the surface once or twice, about a quarter of a mile off, he peaked his flukes, and pitched down head foremost.
"Now then, lads, he's down for a long dive," said the captain; "spring your oars like men, we'll get that fish for certain, if you'll only pull." The captain was mistaken; the whale had only gone down deep in order to come up and breach, or spring out of the water, for the next minute he came up not a hundred yards from us, and leaped his whole length into the air.
A shout of surprise broke from the men, and no wonder, for this was the largest fish I ever saw or heard of, and he came up so clear of the water that we could see him from head to tail as he turned over in the air, exposing his white belly to view, and came down on his great side with a crash like thunder, that might have been heard six miles off.

A splendid mass of pure white spray burst from the spot where he fell, and in another moment he was gone.
"I do believe it's _New Zealand Tom_," cried Bill Blunt, referring to an old bull whale that had become famous among the men who frequented these seas for its immense size and fierceness, and for the great trouble it had given them, smashing some of their boats, and carrying away many of their harpoons.
"I don't know whether it's New Zealand Tom or not," said the captain, "but it's pretty clear that he's an old sperm bull.