"What pace now, eh?" inquired the commodore.

"Nineteen and a quarter, sir."

"Press on more."

The engineer obeyed. The steam-gauge showed ten atmospheres pressure. But the narwhal had also "fired-up," for it was now going at "nineteen and a quarter," also.

What a chase it was! I cannot describe my feelings. Ned Land was at his post—harpoon in hand. Many a time the animal permitted us to approach.

"We are gaining, we are gaining," cried the Canadian.

But at the moment he was prepared to strike, the cetacean went ahead with a speed of scarcely less than thirty miles an hour. And even at our greatest speed, it cruised round the frigate. A cry of fury then escaped from all.

At mid-day we were not more advanced towards the attainment of our object than we had been at eight o'clock.

Commodore Farragut then decided to employ more direct measures.

"Well," he said, "that animal can go faster than the Abraham Lincoln. We will see if he can distance a conical bullet. Gunner, get the forward gun ready for action."

The bow-gun was immediately loaded, pointed, and fired. The ball passed over the cetacean, now half a mile distant.

"Take better aim next time, you lubbers, and there's $5 to the man who puts a shot into the infernal beast."

An old gunner with a grey beard came forward, with a determined air and resolute eye. He pointed the gun