I was three voyages to the north; but taking
the black whale counts for nothing; you must go south arter the
sparmacitty if you wish to see sport."
"I never was in that line," replied my father; "but I've heard fellows
spin the devil's own yarns about it."
"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.
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