“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 18½ miles an hour. But the accursed animal swam too at the rate of 18½ miles an hour. 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 again called. “You have turned full steam in?” “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.