better still she had on board Ned Land, the prince of harpooners.

Ned Land was a Canadian, with an uncommon quickness of hand, and who knew
no equal in his dangerous occupation. Skill, coolness, audacity, and cunning
he possessed in a superior degree, and it must be a cunning whale to escape
the stroke of his harpoon.

Ned Land was about forty years of age; he was a tall man
(more than six feet high), strongly built, grave and taciturn,
occasionally violent, and very passionate when contradicted.
His person attracted attention, but above all the boldness
of his look, which gave a singular expression to his face.

Who calls himself Canadian calls himself French; and, little communicative
as Ned Land was, I must admit that he took a certain liking for me.
My nationality drew him to me, no doubt. It was an opportunity for him
to talk, and for me to hear, that old language of Rabelais, which is still
in use in some Canadian provinces. The harpooner's family was originally
from Quebec, and was already a tribe of hardy fishermen when this town
belonged to France.

Little by little, Ned Land acquired a taste for chatting, and I
loved to hear the recital of his adventures in the polar seas.
He related his fishing, and his combats, with natural poetry
of expression; his recital took the form of an epic poem,
and I seemed to be listening to a Canadian Homer singing the Iliad
of the regions of the North.

I am portraying this hardy companion as I really knew him.
We are old friends now, united in that unchangeable friendship