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It will be remembered that this singular incident was made, more than once, the subject of conversation held in the stern of the Pilgrim between Mrs. Weldon, Captain Hull, and the young novice. The latter, more particularly, experienced an instinctive mistrust with regard to Negoro, whose conduct, meanwhile, merited no reproach.

In the prow they talked of it also, but they did not draw from it the same conclusions. There, among the ship’s crew, Dingo passed merely for a dog that knew how to read, and perhaps even write, better than more than one sailor on board. As for talking, if he did not do it, it was probably for good reasons that he kept silent.

“But, one of these fine days,” says the steersman, Bolton, “one fine day that dog will come and ask us how we are heading; if the wind is to the west-north-west-half-north, and we will have to answer him! There are animals that speak! Well, why should not a dog do as much if he took it into his head? It is more difficult to talk with a beak than with a mouth!”

“No doubt,” replied the boatswain, Howik. “Only it has never been known.”

It would have astonished these brave men to tell them that, on the contrary, it had been known, and that a certain Danish servant possessed a dog which pronounced distinctly twenty words. But whether this animal comprehended what he said was a mystery. Very evidently this dog, whose glottis was organized in a manner to enable him to emit regular sounds, attached no more sense to his words than do the paroquets, parrots, jackdaws, and magpies to theirs. A phrase with animals is nothing more than a kind of song or spoken cry, borrowed from a strange language of which they do not know the meaning.

However that might be, Dingo had become the hero of the deck, of which fact he took no proud advantage. Several times Captain Hull repeated the experiment. The wooden cubes of the alphabet were placed before Dingo, and invariably, without an error, without hesitation, the two letters, S and V, were chosen from among all by the singular animal, while the others never attracted his attention.

As for Cousin Benedict, this experiment was often renewed before him, without seeming to interest him.

“Meanwhile,” he condescended to say one day, “we must not believe that the dogs alone have the privilege of being intelligent in this manner. Other animals equal them, simply in following their instinct. Look at the rats, who abandon the ship destined to founder at sea; the beavers, who know how to foresee the rising of the waters, and build their dams higher in consequence; those horses of Nicomedes, of Scanderberg, and of Oppien, whose grief was such that they died when their masters did; those asses, so remarkable for their memory, and many other beasts which have done honor to the animal kingdom. Have we not seen birds, marvelously erect, that correctly write words dictated by their professors; cockatoos that count, as well as a reckoner in the Longitude Office, the number of persons present in a parlor? Has there not existed a parrot, worth a hundred gold crowns, that recited the Apostle’s Creed to the cardinal, his master, without missing a word? Finally, the legitimate pride of an entomologist should be raised to the highest point, when he sees simple insects give proofs of a superior intelligence, and affirm eloquently the axiom: In minimis maximus Deus, those ants which, represent the inspectors of public works in the largest cities, those aquatic argyronetes which manufacture diving-bells, without having ever learned the mechanism; those fleas which draw carriages like veritable coachmen, which go through the exercise as well as riflemen, which fire off cannon better than the commissioned artillerymen of West Point? No! this Dingo does not merit so many eulogies, and if he is so strong on the alphabet, it is, without doubt, because he belongs to a species of mastiff, not yet classified in zoological science, the canis alphabeticus of New Zealand.”

In spite of these discourses and others of the envious entomologist, Dingo lost nothing in the public estimation, and continued to be treated as a phenomenon in the conversations of the forecastle.

All this time, it is probable that Negoro did not share the enthusiasm of the ship in regard to the animal. Perhaps he found it too intelligent. However, the dog always showed the same animosity against the head cook, and, doubtless, would have brought upon itself some misfortune, if it had not been, for one thing, “a dog to defend itself,” and for another, protected by the sympathy of the whole crew.

So Negoro avoided coming into Dingo’s presence more than ever. But Dick Sand had observed that since the incident of the two letters, the reciprocal antipathy between the man and the dog was increased. That was truly inexplicable.

On February 10th, the wind from the northeast, which, till then, had always succeeded those long and overwhelming calms, during which the Pilgrim was stationary, began to abate perceptibly. Captain Hull then could hope that a change in the direction of the atmospheric currents was going to take place. Perhaps the schooner would finally sail with the wind. It was still only nineteen days since her departure from the port of Auckland. The delay was not yet of much account, and, with a favorable wind, the Pilgrim, well rigged, would easily make up for lost time. But several days must still elapse before the breezes would blow right from the west.

This part of the Pacific was always deserted. No vessel showed itself in these parts. It was a latitude truly forsaken by navigators. The whalers of the southern seas were not yet prepared to go beyond the tropic. On the Pilgrim, which peculiar circumstances had obliged to leave the fishing grounds before the end of the season, they must not expect to cross any ship bound for the same destination.

As to the trans-pacific packet-boats, it has been already said that they did not follow so high a parallel in their passages between Australia and the American continent.

However, even if the sea is deserted, one must not give up observing it to the extreme limits of the horizon. Monotonous as it may appear to heedless minds, it is none the less infinitely varied for him who knows how to comprehend it. Its slightest changes charm the imagination of one who feels the poetry of the ocean. A marine herb which floats up and down on the waves, a branch of sargasso whose light track zebras, the surface of the waters, and end of a board, whose history he would wish to guess, he would need nothing more. Facing this infinite, the mind is no longer stopped by anything. Imagination runs riot. Each of those molecules of water, that evaporation is continually changing from the sea to the sky, contains perhaps the secret of some catastrophe. So, those are to be envied, whose inner consciousness knows how to interrogate the mysteries of the ocean, those spirits who rise from its moving surface to the heights of heaven.

Besides, life always manifests itself above as well as below the seas. The Pilgrim’s passengers could see flights of birds excited in the pursuit of the smallest fishes, birds which, before winter, fly from the cold climate of the poles. And more than once, Dick Sand, a scholar of Mrs. Weldon’s in that branch as in others, gave proofs of marvelous skill with the gun and pistol, in bringing down some of those rapid-winged creatures.

There were white petrels here; there, other petrels, whose wings were embroidered with brown. Sometimes, also, companies of damiers passed, or some of those penquins whose gait on land is so heavy and so ridiculous. However, as Captain Hull remarked, these penquins, using their stumps like true fins, can challenge the most rapid fishes in swimming, to such an extent even, that sailors have often confounded them with bonitoes.

Higher, gigantic albatrosses beat the air with great strokes, displaying an extent of ten feet between the extremities of their wings, and then came to light on the surface of the waters, which they searched with their beaks to get their food.

All these scenes made a varied spectacle, that only souls closed to the charms of nature would have found monotonous.

That day Mrs. Weldon was walking aft on the Pilgrim, when a rather curious phenomenon attracted her attention. The waters of the sea had become reddish quite suddenly. One might have believed that they had just been stained with blood; and this inexplicable tinge extended as far as the eye could reach.

Dick Sand was then with little Jack near Mrs. Weldon.

“Dick,” she said to the young novice, “Do you see that singular color of the waters of the Pacific? Is it due to the presence of a marine herb?”

“No, Mrs. Weldon,” replied Dick Sand, “that tinge is produced by myriads of little crustaceans, which generally serve to nourish the great mammifers. Fishermen call that, not without reason, ‘whales’ food.’”

“Crustaceans!” said Mrs. Weldon. “But they are so small that we might almost call them sea insects. Perhaps Cousin Benedict would be very much enchanted to make a collection of them.” Then calling: “Cousin Benedict!” cried she.

Cousin Benedict appeared out of the companion-way almost at the same time as Captain Hull.

“Cousin Benedict,” said Mrs. Weldon, “see that immense reddish field which extends as far as we can see.”

“Hold!” said Captain Hull. “That is whales’ food. Mr. Benedict, a fine occasion to study this curious species of crustacea.”

“Phew!” from the entomologist.

“How—phew!” cried the captain. “But you have no right to profess such indifference. These crustaceans form one of the six classes of the articulates, if I am not mistaken, and as such——”

“Phew!” said Cousin Benedict again, shaking his lead.

“For instance——I find you passably disdainful for an entomologist!”

“Entomologist, it may be,” replied Cousin Benedict, “but more particularly hexapodist, Captain Hull, please remember.”

“At all events,” replied Captain Hull, “if these crustaceans do not interest you, it can’t be helped; but it would be otherwise if you possessed a whale’s stomach. Then what a regale! Do you see, Mrs. Weldon, when we whalers, during the fishing season, arrive in sight of a shoal of these crustaceans, we have only time to prepare our harpoons and our lines. We are certain that the game is not distant.”

“Is it possible that such little beasts can feed such large ones?” cried Jack.

“Ah! my boy,” replied Captain Hull, “little grains of vermicelli, of flour, of fecula powder, do they not make very good porridge? Yes; and nature has willed that it should be so. When a whale floats in the midst of these red waters, its soup is served; it has only to open its immense mouth. Myriads of crustaceans enter it. The numerous plates of those whalebones with which the animal’s palate is furnished serve to strain like fishermen’s nets; nothing can get out of them again, and the mass of crustaceans is ingulfed in the whale’s vast stomach, as the soup of your dinner in yours.”

“You think right, Jack,” observed Dick Sand, “that Madam Whale does not lose time in picking these crustaceans one by one, as you pick shrimps.”

“I may add,” said Captain Hull, “that it is just when the enormous gourmand is occupied in this way, that it is easiest to approach it without exciting its suspicion. That is the favorable moment to harpoon it with some success.”

At that instant, and as if to corroborate Captain Hull, a sailor’s voice was heard from the front of the ship:

“A whale to larboard!”

Captain Hull strode up.

“A whale!” cried he.

And his fisherman’s instinct urging him, he hastened to the Pilgrim’s forecastle.

Mrs. Weldon, Jack, Dick Sand, Cousin Benedict himself, followed him at once.

In fact, four miles to windward a certain bubbling indicated that a huge marine mammifer was moving in the midst of the red waters. Whalers could not be mistaken in it. But the distance was still too considerable to make it possible to recognize the species to which this mammifer belonged. These species, in fact, are quite distinct.

Was it one of those “right” whales, which the fishermen of the Northern Ocean seek most particularly? Those cetaceans, which lack the dorsal fin, but whose skin covers a thick stratum of lard, may attain a length of eighty feet, though the average does not exceed sixty, and then a single one of those monsters furnishes as much as a hundred barrels of oil.

Was it, on the contrary, a “humpback,” belonging to the species of baloenopters, a designation whose termination should at least gain it the entomologist’s esteem? These possess dorsal fins, white in color, and as long as half the body, which resemble a pair of wings—something like a flying whale.

Had they not in view, more likely, a “finback” mammifer, as well known by the name “jubarte,” which is provided with a dorsal fin, and whose length may equal that of the “right” whale?

Captain Hull and his crew could not yet decide, but they regarded the animal with more desire than admiration.

If it is true that a clockmaker cannot find himself in a room in the presence of a clock without experiencing the irresistible wish to wind it up, how much more must the whaler, before a whale, be seized with the imperative desire to take possession of it? The hunters of large game, they say, are more eager than the hunters of small game. Then, the larger the animal, the more it excites covetousness. Then, how should hunters of elephants and fishers of whalers feel? And then there was that disappointment, felt by all the Pilgrim’s crew, of returning with an incomplete cargo.

Meanwhile, Captain Hull tried to distinguish the animal which had been signaled in the offing. It was not very visible from that distance. Nevertheless, the trained eye of a whaler could not be deceived in certain details easier to discern at a distance.

In fact, the water-spout, that is, that column of vapor and water which the whale throws back by its rents, would attract Captain Hull’s attention, and fix it on the species to which this cetacean belonged.

“That is not a ‘right’ whale,” cried he. “Its water-spout would be at once higher and of a smaller volume. On the other hand, if the noise made by that spout in escaping could be compared to the distant noise of a cannon, I should be led to believe that that whale belongs to the species of ‘humpbacks;’ but there is nothing of the kind, and, on listening, we are assured that this noise is of quite a different nature. What is your opinion on this subject, Dick?” asked Captain Hull, turning toward the novice.

“I am ready to believe, captain,” replied Dick Sand, “that we have to do with a jubarte. See how his rents throw that column of liquid violently into the air. Does it not seem to you also—which would confirm my idea—that that spout contains more water than condensed vapor? And, if I am not mistaken, it is a special peculiarity of the jubarte.”

“In fact, Dick,” replied Captain Hull, “there is no longer any doubt possible! It is a jubarte which floats on the surface of these red waters.”

“That’s fine,” cried little Jack.

“Yes, my boy! and when we think that the great beast is there, in process of breakfasting, and little suspecting that the whalers are watching it.”

“I would dare to affirm that it is a jubarte of great size,” observed Dick Sand.

“Truly,” replied Captain Hull, who was gradually becoming more excited. “I think it is at least seventy feet long!”

“Good!” added the boatswain. “Half a dozen whales of that size would suffice to fill a ship as large as ours!”

“Yes, that would be sufficient,” replied Captain Hull, who mounted on the bowsprit to see better.

“And with this one,” added the boatswain, “we should take on board in a few hours the half of the two hundred barrels of oil which we lack.”

“Yes!—truly—yes!” murmured Captain Hull.

“That is true,” continued Dick Sand; “but it is sometimes a hard matter to attack those enormous jubartes!”

“Very hard, very hard!” returned Captain Hull. “Those baloenopters have formidable tails, which must not be approached without distrust. The strongest pirogue would not resist a well-given blow. But, then, the profit is worth the trouble!”

“Bah!” said one of the sailors, “a fine jubarte is all the same a fine capture!”

“And profitable!” replied another.

“It would be a pity not to salute this one on the way!”

It was evident that these brave sailors were growing excited in looking at the whale. It was a whole cargo of barrels of oil that was floating within reach of their hands. To hear them, without doubt there was nothing more to be done, except to stow those barrels in the Pilgrim’s hold to complete her lading. Some of the sailors, mounted on the ratlines of the fore-shrouds, uttered longing cries. Captain Hull, who no longer spoke, was in a dilemma. There was something there, like an irresistible magnet, which attracted the Pilgrim and all her crew.

“Mama, mama!” then cried little Jack, “I should like to have the whale, to see how it is made.”

“Ah! you wish to have this whale, my boy? Ah! why not, my friends?” replied Captain Hull, finally yielding to his secret desire. “Our additional fishermen are lacking, it is true, but we alone——”

“Yes! yes!” cried the sailors, with a single voice.

“This will not be the first time that I have followed the trade of harpooner,” added Captain Hull, “and you will see if I still know how to throw the harpoon!”

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” responded the crew.