CHAPTER VII
It was past eight bells when the boats came aboard—eight bells being, in this case, noon—and all hands had dinner. I hurried through my work of helping the steward, and ran on deck. There was no sign of Mr. Baker or of anything else on that limitless sea. The whale had run to leeward, contrary to the custom of whales, which usually run to windward when they can. The ship was rolling along in her leisurely way, almost before the wind, and making a pleasant and soothing noise under her forefoot and on either side as she rolled. Ordinarily I should have enjoyed her leisurely progress, and should have found some place which was out of sight from aft, perhaps on the heel of the bowsprit, on the principle that out of sight was out of mind. There I should have squatted, and gazed out ahead and fallen to dreaming, probably, until recalled to myself by a shout of 'Tim! Where's that boy?' But I was getting anxious about Mr. Baker's boat, and I could not understand the indifferent attitude of everybody on board. Nobody seemed to care whether he was ever found or not, although I could not see, when I came to think it over, what more could be done than was being done. The ship was going as fast as she could—nearly as fast. They could have got a little more sail on her. And the mastheads were manned.
I went up forward, and stood between the knight-heads for a while, but I was ashamed to ask anybody, and I gave it up, and went below to work on my journal.
