Difficulties, which, could I have foreseen then, would have appeared insurmountable, attended the interview hereinafter recorded. First of all, His Majesty King Cachalot the MMCC was not in the best of humours—which was hardly to be wondered at, since, with all the ability we could muster, five boats’ crews of us from the spouter Finback had been harassing him since daylight, eager to add his fourteen-ton overcoat to our greasy cargo. It was a blazing day on the Line, Pacific side, with hardly a ripple on the water, so that what advantage there was weighed on our side. Yet so wary and skilful had his Majesty proved, that one by one the boats had retired hurt from the field, while the object of their attentions was as fresh as paint, and, as he afterwards expressed it, “going very strong.” Nevertheless the scrum had been warm in a double sense, and his Majesty bore many palpable evidences of our efforts all over his huge black body.

Being in command of the only surviving boat, sole representative of our available force, and with a reputation yet to win, I must confess to a little lack of care, a nervous desire to distinguish myself; but I still think it was hard to have my boat knocked into a litter of barrel staves by the unanticipated somersault of my expected prize just as I reckoned upon delivering a coup de lance in final settlement of our little account.

After the surprise of our meeting had somewhat subsided, I found myself reclining in a richly carved and upholstered chair in my genial host’s splendidly furnished reception room, puffing with appreciative enjoyment at one of his unapproachable Rothschilds—’beg pardon I’m sure—I mean that I found myself clinging with no uncertain clutch to a capsized line-tub, into which I succeeded in getting after a series of involuntary evolutions, after having managed to swallow the majority of a barrel of salt water. While settling myself in my ark like a faded Moses, our late antagonist drew near and watched me closely. As soon as I appeared to be compos mentis, he thus addressed me:

“What you settin’ there fur a-gappin’ at me ’sif y’didn’t know who I wuz.”

“I humbly beg your Majesty’s pardon; I meant no offence, I assure you. But I perceive you are an American citizen.”

“Perseev’ nothin’, y’abbrevyated galoot,” growled he. “Hain’t enny persepshun ’baout ye, ’r y’ewd see I’m waitin’ ter be interviewed, same’s all th’ other sellebritiz.”

Now, although I do believe that the journalist is nascitur, non fit, my nascent journalism if existent was decidedly latent, and at present I was indubitably unfit for anything but a rescue or two. But here was a unique chance of becoming famous, and though modest and retiring to the last degree, I rose to the occasion. A few fragmentary recollections marshalled themselves, and I asked insinuatingly:

“How old is your Majesty?”

“One thousan’ four hunderd seasons,” he replied promptly.

As soon as I recovered my breath, I answered politely, “Indeed! Your Majesty wears well. I should hardly have thought it. Are your Majesty’s parents living?”

“How’d I know,” he grumbled, peeping fiercely at me out of the corner of his starboard eye. “Don’t go much on parients ermong our peepul. Next please!”

“Where did your venerability do us the honour to be born, if the question be allowable?” I queried timidly.

“Here,” he roared, with a resounding crash of his enormous tail on the surface; “where’d ye think I’d be born but at sea?”

Deficient in locality evidently, I thought, being a bit of a phrenologist myself, though it would have required a theodolite to survey the bumps upon his capacious cranium. But as he showed signs of irritability, I added quickly, “Are you married, your Majesty, or how?”

“Well; I should cackle,” he said—“married, hay! Why one of your (an awful reverberation suggested a powerful adjective) slush-tubs hez jest broke up one uv the purtiest little harems I ever collected, twelve ravishin’ beauties sech ez any monark’d be proud of. Well thar, hurry up; I’m jest reminded ov an ole schoolmate uv mine ’s got mose ’s good erwun. He’s usin’ roun’ the Bonins ’baout now, ’n’ I mus’ git over thar ’n’ b’reave him. Royal rights, y’know,” and his Majesty shed a ponderous wink.

“What does your Majesty do for a living?” I ventured to inquire.

“Eat!” he roared. “Harpoons en bomb-guns, what dz ennybody du fr a livin’? I never heerd sech a barnacle-headed grampus ’n all my fishin’.” With that he lifted up his tremendous caput out of water and exposed his Blackwall tunnel of a mouth, as who should remark, “Not much room for other occupation in a whale’s life when a gulf like this needs attention.”

I suppose I looked a bit preoccupied, for he hastily added, “But I never eat sech insecks ez you be.”

“What, never?” I ventured to murmur.

“No, never,” he replied; “at least, that is,”—but seeing his hesitation, I said I fancied I’d heard a story about a passenger by the name of Jonah down on the Syrian coast a while back. “Oh, well y’know,” he muttered apologetically, “’f course accidents will happen, ’s the shark said to his brother when he took him in, but I don’t reckon thar wuz anythin’ to mek a noise erbout. ’Tany-rate the can’date left considerable sudden. Yew needn’t be ’fraid ennyhow.”

But I was unprepared with any more questions at the moment, the outlook, or inlook rather, being so disconcerting. So I said, “Would your Majesty object to outlining a few of your wonderful experiences for the benefit of landsmen generally. Any information you may choose to give will be regarded as strictly confidential, of course.”

“Oh, sartinly,” he replied with an alarming area of smile. “Mos’ ov ’em hev ben with your dod-gasted tribe. Why yew’re tarnally prowlin’ erbout tryin’ ter get ter wind’ard ov peac’ble fokes I kaint surmise. Still, up till now I’ve ben equal ter holdin’ me own,—keepin’ me eend up, ez yew may say. To-day f’rinstance, hey?” I winced under the sarcasm. “But I mind onst daown on the Noo Seelan’ coas’ towin’ five boat-load ov Mowries frum the Solander ’way down eenamost ter the Cambells. They wuz a plucky crowd, f’r they helt on ter me through a blizzard ov hail an’ snow lasting twyst az long as I kin stay soundin’. When it gin over they wuz all fruz stiffer’n a lance-pole. My, but gettin’ cleer ov em wuz a pull. I hed to soun’ at top-gait ’sif I wuz boun’ f’r two thousan’ fathoms, ’n’ suthin’ hed ter give. I wuz pretty fat in those days, so their all-fired irons drew. They galled me like sixty, but I was free.

“Then a left-handed-on-both-feet crowd eout ov a French right-whaler tackled me offn the Cape. Mighty big mistake they struck—thought I wuz pore ole say-nothin’-ter-nobody Mr. Cetus, they did. ’N’, when I milled roun’ ’n’ cum f’r ’em eend on ’ith er twenty foot smile on me hed! airthqueeks ’n’ volcanose! y’ sh’d jest er seen ’em flew. Didn’ wait to say howdy, jest cut line ’n’ vamoosed like ’sif ole Jemmy Smallback wuz after ’em. I wuz thet mad, I’d liketer hev busted up their ole hooker ’n’ all, but thet thar Essex affair gin me sech er swell’d hed I ’lowed it warn’t bad reck’nin’ ter let her go et that.

“Say, djever see er big squid, big’s me?” he queried sharply.

“Yes, your Majesty, I did once. Only once. B-b-b-ay of B-b-bengal,” for I was almost moribund.

“Ah, you hev seen suthin’ then. F’r yew insecks wut live on top don’t offen git a chance ter see them critters ’less we bring ’em up f’r the sun ter see haow gaul-darned ugly they air. Wall, one like yew say yew seen tangled erp my fav’rit’ wife off Futuna one afternoon. Me an’ my harem wuz feedin’ at ’bout a thousan’ fathom, an’ Polly jest sidled up ter ole Jellybelly ’n’ got hole ov a mouthful ov him. He, bein’ kinder s’prised, gripped her all over ter onst; ’n’, stranger,” he added impressively, “I’ll be weather-bound ef he didn’t frap her hole head up so’s she couldn’t bite er breathe. We’d ben down ’bout long ernough too, but I sailed right in ’n’ bit his great carkiss in half az well az I c’d see f’r his ink-cloud. Hows’ever I wuz too late, f’r he’d locked his tangle ov arms roun’ an’ roun’ her hed, ’n’ though his body wuz all chawed erp they couldn’ come adrift. So she drowned, ’n we all hed ter make tracks upstairs quicker ’n winkin’ er we sh’d a ben drowned tu. As ’twuz we wuz fair beat out when we arrove up top.

“Did I ever have enny fights with me own people? Well I—but there, how’d yew know, poor thing. Millyuns ov ’em. Look at me,” and he swept proudly past exhibiting his grooved and ribbed flanks bearing indelible traces of many a furious battle, some of the foot-wide scars being twenty feet long.

“Enny more informashun I c’n supply yew with at short notice? bekuz this session’ll hev ter adjurn siny die in about tew minnits. I’m gittin’ mos’ amazin’ peckish.”

Happy thought, “What do you live on mostly, your Majesty?”

“Squid. Fust ’n las’ ’n’ between meals gen’ly. They aint nothin’ better tew eat in the hull worl’ ’z far’s I know. We dew ’casionally git a bellyful ov fish ov sorts by layin’ quiet when the shoals air swarmin’. They run down a feller’s gullet in hunderds ’n never know whar they’re goin. But they’re cussid indigestible——”

I was alone. There was nothing in sight, but my interviewee was gone. So stiff and sore was I that I could hardly turn my head to see if help was coming. There was no help in sight that I could discover, but presently a boat came along from the ship and picked me up—none too soon. Gloomily we returned on board to moralise mournfully over our ill-luck and the perfidy of sperm whales generally.