About eleven in the morning, being on the surface of the ocean, the Nautilus fell in with a troop of whales—an encounter which did not astonish me, knowing that these creatures, hunted to death, had taken refuge in high latitudes. We were seated on the platform, with a quiet sea. The month of October in those latitudes gave us some lovely autumnal days. It was the Canadian—he could not be mistaken—who signalled a whale on the eastern horizon. Looking attentively, one might see its black back rise and fall with the waves five miles from the Nautilus. “Ah!” exclaimed Ned Land, “if I was on board a whaler, now such a meeting would give me pleasure. It is one of large size. See with what strength its blow-holes throw up columns of air an steam! Confound it, why am I bound to these steel plates?” “What, Ned,” said I, “you have not forgotten your old ideas of fishing?” “Can a whale-fisher ever forget his old trade, sir? Can he ever tire of the emotions caused by such a chase?” “You have never fished in these seas, Ned?” “Never, sir; in the northern only, and as much in Behring as in Davis Straits.” “Then the southern whale is still unknown to you. It is the Greenland whale you have hunted up to this time, and that would not risk passing through the warm waters of the equator. Whales are localised, according to their kinds, in certain seas which they never leave.