"And so they may, and tell the truth, that's sartain, shipmate. You see,
the sparmacitty don't take the harpoon quite so quietly as the black
whale does; he fights hard to the last, and sometimes is very free with
his jaws. The very large ones are the most easy to kill; so we always
look out for them when we can, as they give less trouble, and more oil;
the most dangerous are the half-grown, which we call 'forty-barrel
bulls,' as that's about what oil we get out of them."

"Well," said my father, "I'm blessed if ever I knew whales were called
bulls before this night."

"Yes, that's our term," replied Ben; "and now to my story. We were down
off the coast of Japan; when, about one hour after daybreak, the man
looking out at the masthead gave the usual word when he sees a whale
blowing--'There she spouts.' And this he repeats every time the fish
rises. We had a clean hold at the time, for we had but just come to our
fishing-ground, and we were mighty eager. The boats were down in a
jiffy, and away we pulled. We were within a quarter of a mile of the
whale, when, to our disappointment, he peaked his flukes--"

"What's that, messmate?" inquired my father.

"Why, you see, it's the right term after all, for the tail of
sparmacitty is like the flukes of an anchor; and, of course, now you
understand me."

"Yes, you mean to say he went down, I suppose."

"Of course; for how could he go down headforemost, without peaking his