"What's the course to the Marquesas?
Right now?
And how far away, sir ?" "Nor'-nor'-east-quarter-east!" came the faint reply.

"Will fetch Nuka- Hiva! About two hundred miles! Haul on the south-east trade with a good full and you'll make it!" "Thank you, sir," was the steward's acknowledgment, ere he ran aft, disrupted the binnacle, and carried the steering compass back to the boat.
Almost, from the whale's delay in renewing her charging, did they think she had given over.

And while they waited and watched her rolling on the sea an eighth of a mile away, the _Mary Turner_ steadily sank.
"We might almost chance it," Daughtry was debating aloud to Big John, when a new voice entered the discussion.
"Cocky!--Cocky!" came plaintive tones from below out of the steerage companion.
"Devil be damned!" was the next, uttered in irritation and anger.

"Devil be damned! Devil be damned!" "Of course not," was Daughtry's judgment, as he dashed across the deck, crawled through the confusion of the main-topmast and its many stays that blocked the way, and found the tiny, white morsel of life perched on a bunk-edge, ruffling its feathers, erecting and flattening its rosy crest, and cursing in honest human speech the waywardness of the world and of ships and humans upon the sea.
The cockatoo stepped upon Daughtry's inviting index finger, swiftly ascended his shirt sleeve, and, on his shoulder, claws sunk into the flimsy shirt fabric till they hurt the flesh beneath, leaned head to ear and uttered in gratitude and relief, and in self-identification: "Cocky.
Cocky." "You son of a gun," Daughtry crooned.
"Glory be!" Cooky replied, in tones so like Daughtry's as to startle him.
"You son of a gun," Daughtry repeated, cuddling his cheek and ear against the cockatoo's feathered and crested head.

"And some folks thinks it's only folks that count in this world." Still the whale delayed, and, with the ocean washing their toes on the level deck, Daughtry ordered the boat lowered away.