Chapter I

The mat sail flapped against the mast and then hung loose while the chuckle of bow and outrigger died away. Harman, turning his face to the east, all gone watery with the dawn, leant forward and gave his sleeping companion a prod with the steering paddle.

Cruising in a South Sea island canoe tries the temper as well as the judgment, and two days of this business had considerably shortened the temper of Billy Harman.

For two days and two nights, fed on bananas and island truck, and led by the pointing of an indifferent compass, they had pursued the west, chased by the light of gorgeous dawns, broiled by midday suns, raising nothing but endless horizons and consuming sunsets.

“Wind’s gone!” cried Harman. “Flat calm and looks like stayin’ put.”

Davis roused, supported himself with a hand on the outrigger gratings, and blinked at the dawn; then he yawned, then he began to get command of speech.

“Whach you want digging me in the ribs like that for?” said Davis. “You and your flat calms! Where’s the hurry? Are you afraid it’ll run away? Blest if you aren’t the——”

“No use quarrellin’,” cut in the other; “fightin’s a mug’s game, and words won’t bring no wind. Pass us a drinkin’ nut.”

Davis passed the nut, and then, while the other refreshed himself, leant with his elbow on the grating and his eyes fixed lazily on the east.

Morning bank there was none, nor colour, nothing but a great crystal window showing infinite distance and taking suddenly a reflection of fire and a sill of gold: gold that moved and ran north and south and then leapt boiling across the swell as the sun burst up, hitting Harman in the back and Davis in the face and turning the lingering moon to a grey cinder above the azure of the west and the morning sea.

Away to the south, across the sunlit swell, a ship showed becalmed and painting the water with the reflection of her canvas, and, wonder of wonders, a mile from her and more to the north stood another ship, also held in the grip of the calm, and seeming the duplicate of the first in rig, tonnage, and design.

They were whalers, two of the last of the old whaling fleet, cruising maybe in company or brought together by chance.

Harman was the first to sight them; then Davis turned, and, leaning comfortably on the outrigger gratings, looked.

“Whalemen,” said Harman. “Look at ’em, stump topmasts, tryin’-out works and all! Look at ’em—damned pair of slush tubs!”

Davis said nothing; he spat into the water and continued to look while Harman went on.

“There you are, grumblin’ last night there were no ships about, and them things only waitin’ to show themselves, castin’ the canoe in the teeth o’ Providence, sayin’ you wanted planks under your feet to walk on. Planks, b’gosh! If one of them sight us we’ll be planked! I’ve been there and I know.”

“Oh, they won’t bother about us,” said Davis.

“Oh, won’t they?” said Harman. “Shows what you know of whalemen. If them chaps sighted the twelve ’postles driftin’ in a canoe, let alone us, they’d yank ’em on board and set ’em to work. Hands is what they’re always cravin’ for, and our only chance is they’ll take us for Kanakas, goin’ by the cut of the canoe.”

“Oh, they won’t bother about us,” said Davis; “and if they do, you ain’t a bad imitation of a Kanaka; but it’s cursed luck all the same. Planks, yes, I want the feel of a plank under my foot, and the feel that there isn’t only ten days’ grub and water between us and perdition—curse them!”

“Now you’ve done it!” cried Harman. “Look! They’re comin’!”

Sure enough, as though the last words of Davis had struck life into the far-off vessels, the decks of both ships suddenly boiled with ant-like figures, boats were dropped, and in a flash were making across the sea, two fleets of four boats each, and rowing as if in a race.

But they were not making for the canoe. Due north they headed over the glassy swell, while Davis, standing erect and holding on to the mast, watched with shaded eyes.

“Whales,” said he. “Whales they’re after, not us. Look at them!”

“I can’t see no whales,” said Harman.

“No, but they can,” said Davis. “Look! They’re heading west now, they’re on to them.”

A clap of thunder came over the sea and foam spurted amidst the distant boats. Then two of the boats detached themselves from the rest, skimming through the water without sail or oar, the flash of the foam at their bows clear to be seen.

“They’ve got their fish,” cried Harman. “Look, he’s going round to the north’ard, and here’s the breeze!”

Up from the south-east it was coming, spreading in great waves like fields of barley. The whale-ships had caught it and were trimming their yards in pursuit of the boats, and now, the mat sail of the canoe filling out and cracking against the mast, Harman seized the steering paddle and headed her due north.

“Where are you steering for?” shouted Davis.

“North,” replied the other. “You don’t want to be runnin’ into them ships, do you?”

Davis crawled aft, seized the paddle, and pushed the other forward.

“Cuss the ships!” said he. “They’ve got their own business to attend to, and I’m not going to put her off her course, not for Jim Satan! You don’t mind the ships—they’re busy.”

He was right.

A Swenfoyn gun had put a speedy end to the whale, and as the canoe drew along not half a mile away from the nearest ship it was being hauled alongside her and the tackles were out. But the remainder of the fleet of boats not busy in this work seemed engaged in some affair of their own which was not whale fishing; they were all surging together, oars were being tossed in the air and the far-away sound of shouting came across the water.

“Fightin’!” said Harman, “that’s what they’re at. They’re both claimin’ the fish. I know their monkey tricks. Look at them!”

But Davis was not listening to him, his quick eye had caught something floating ahead; altering the course a point he called to Harman to let go the sheet, then, leaning over, he grabbed the floating mass in both hands, yelling to the other to balance the canoe.

“Get out on the gratings and hold her down,” cried Davis, “our fortune’s made. Fish! No, you fool, it’s ambergris, what comes from whales’ innards, and is worth hundreds of pounds. Lord send they don’t see us!”

“Mind!” yelled Harman.

The gunnel lipped the water despite his weight and the outrigger rose a foot as Davis strove, then with a mighty effort he brought it tumbling on board, the water pouring off it, and there it lay between his feet a huge, knobby, putty-coloured mass, with octopus sucker-prongs sticking in it like tiger claws, and a two-fathom strip of pale green seaweed twined about it as if for ornament. Harman, without a word, crawled back across the outrigger grating and trimmed the sail while Davis, without a word, resumed the steering paddle.

He did not mind about altering his course now; he put her dead before the wind while Harman, half kneeling on the stub of the forward outrigger pole, and with his hand on a stay, reported progress.

“No, they ain’t seen us,” said Harman; “they’re all crowdin’ back on the ships and the fightin’s over. There’s never no good in fightin’, as I said to you this mornin’—not unless you get the other chap’s back to you and belt him on the head sudden. Now if those ballyhoos had quit arguin’ who’d harpooned first and kept their eyes skinned they’d a’ got ambergris instead of sore heads. How much ’s that stuff worth, do you reckon, Bud?”

“Mean to say you don’t know and you been on a whale-ship?”

“Never heard tell of the stuff before nor sighted it,” replied the other. “Whalemen don’t take stock of nothing but blubber—where does it come from, d’ye think?”

“Out of the whale,” said Davis, “and it’s worth twenty dollars an ounce.”

Harman laughed. When Bud had worked upon him sufficiently to make him see the truth he first took a look to make sure the whale-ships were showing only their topsails above the horizon, then he sat down to calculate the amount of their fortune.