, and the bridge quaked under the trembling of
the boilers.

The Abraham Lincoln, propelled by her wonderful screw, went straight at
the animal. The latter allowed it to come within half a cable's
length; then, as if disdaining to dive, it took a little turn, and
stopped a short distance off.

This pursuit lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour, without the
frigate gaining two yards on the cetacean. It was quite evident that
at that rate we should never come up with it.

"Well, Mr. Land," asked the captain, "do you advise me to put the boats
out to sea?"

"No, sir," replied Ned Land; "because we shall not take that beast
easily."

"What shall we do then?"

"Put on more steam if you can, sir. With your leave, I mean to post
myself under the bowsprit, and, if we get within harpooning distance, I
shall throw my harpoon."

"Go, Ned," said the captain. "Engineer, put on more pressure."

Ned Land went to his post. The fires were increased, the screw
revolved forty-three times a minute, and the steam poured out of the
valves. We heaved the log, and calculated that the Abraham Lincoln was
going at the rate of 18 1/2 miles an hour.

But the accursed animal swam at the same speed.

For a whole hour the frigate kept up this pace, without gaining six
feet. It was humiliating for one of the swiftest sailers in the
American navy. A stubborn anger seized the crew; the sailors abused
the monster, who, as before, disdained to answer them; the captain no
longer contented himself with twisting his beard--he gnawed it.

The engineer was called again.

"You have turned full steam on?"

"Yes, sir," replied the engineer.

The speed of the Abraham Lincoln increased. Its masts trembled down to
their stepping holes, and the clouds of smoke could hardly find way out
of the narrow funnels.

They heaved the log a second time.

"Well?" asked the captain of the man at the wheel.

"Nineteen miles and three-tenths, sir."

"Clap on more steam."

The engineer obeyed. The manometer showed ten degrees. But the
cetacean grew warm itself, no doubt; for without straining itself, it
made 19 3/10 miles.

What a pursuit! No, I cannot describe the emotion that vibrated
through me. Ned Land kept his post, harpoon in hand. Several times
the animal let us gain upon it.--"We shall catch it! we shall catch
it!" cried the Canadian. But just as he was going to strike, the
cetacean stole away with a rapidity that could not be e