Ere forgetfulness altogether came over me,I had noticed that the seamen at the main and mizzen-mast-heads were already drowsy.So that at last all three of us lifelessly swung from the spars,and for every swing that we made there was a nod from below from the slumbering helmsman.The waves, too, nodded their indolent crests; and across the wide trance of the sea,east nodded to west, and the sun over all.
Suddenly bubbles seemed bursting beneath my closed eyes; like vices my hands grasped the shrouds;some invisible, gracious agency preserved me; with a shock I came back to life. And lo!close under our lee, not forty fathoms off,a gigantic Sperm Whale lay rolling in the water like the capsized hull of a frigate, his broad,glossy back, of an Ethiopian hue, glistening in the sun’s rays like a mirror.But lazily undulating in the trough of the sea,and ever and anon tranquilly spouting his vapory jet,the whale looked like a portly burgher smoking his pipe of a warm afternoon. But that pipe,poor whale, was thy last. As if struck by some enchanter’s wand,the sleepy ship and every sleeper in it all at once started into wakefulness;and more than a score of voices from all parts of the vessel,simultaneously with the three notes from aloft, shouted forth the accustomed cry,as the great fish slowly and regularly spouted the sparkling brine into the air.
“Clear away the boats!Luff!” cried Ahab. And obeying his own order,he dashed the helm down before the helmsman could handle the spokes.
The sudden exclamations of the crew must have alarmed the whale; and ere the boats were down,majestically turning, he swam away to the leeward, but with such a steady tranquillity,and making so few ripples as he swam, that thinking after all he might not as yet be alarmed,Ahab gave orders that not an oar should be used, and no man must speak but in whispers.So seated like Ontario Indians on the gunwales of the boats, we swiftly but silently paddled along;the calm not admitting of the noiseless sails being set. Presently, as we thus glided in chase,the monster perpendicularly flitted his tail forty feet into the air,and then sank out of sight like a tower swallowed up.
“There go flukes!” was the cry, an announcement immediately followed by Stubb’s producing his match and igniting his pipe,for now a respite was granted. After the full interval of his sounding had elapsed,the whale rose again, and being now in advance of the smoker’s boat,and much nearer to it than to any of the others, Stubb counted upon the honor of the capture.It was obvious, now, that the whale had at length become aware of his pursuers.All silence of cautiousness was therefore no longer of use. Paddles were dropped,and oars came loudly into play. And still puffing at his pipe,Stubb cheered on his crew to the assault.
Yes, a mighty change had come over the fish. All alive to his jeopardy, he was going “head out”;that part obliquely projecting from the mad yeast which he brewed.*
*It will be seen in some other place of what a very light substance the entire interior of the sperm whale’s enormous head consists.Though apparently the most massive, it is by far the most buoyant part about him.So that with ease he elevates it in the air, and invariably does so when going at his utmost speed.Besides, such is the breadth of the upper part of the front of his head,and such the tapering cut-water formation of the lower part, that by obliquely elevating his head,he thereby may be said to transform himself from a bluff-bowed sluggish galliot into a sharppointed New York pilot-boat.
“Start her, start her, my men!Don’t hurry yourselves; take plenty of time—but start her; start her like thunder-claps, that’s all,” cried Stubb, spluttering out the smoke as he spoke. “Start her, now;give ’em the long and strong stroke, Tashtego. Start her, Tash, my boy—start her, all;but keep cool, keep cool—cucumbers is the word—easy,easy—only start her like grim death and grinning devils,and raise the buried dead perpendicular out of their graves, boys—that’s all. Start her!”
“Woo-hoo!Wa-hee!” screamed the Gay-Header in reply, raising some old war-whoop to the skies;as every oarsman in the strained boat involuntarily bounced forward with the one tremendous leading stroke which the eager Indian gave.
But his wild screams were answered by others quite as wild. “Kee-hee!Kee-hee!” yelled Daggoo, straining forwards and backwards on his seat, like a pacing tiger in his cage.
“Ka-la!Koo-loo!” howled Queequeg, as if smacking his lips over a mouthful of Grenadier’s steak.And thus with oars and yells the keels cut the sea. Meanwhile,Stubb retaining his place in the van, still encouraged his men to the onset,all the while puffing the smoke from his mouth. Like desperadoes they tugged and they strained,till the welcome cry was heard—“Stand up, Tashtego!—give it to him!” The harpoon was hurled. “Stern all!” The oarsmen backed water; the same moment something went hot and hissing along every one of their wrists.It was the magical line. An instant before,Stubb had swiftly caught two additional turns with it round the loggerhead, whence,by reason of its increased rapid circlings,a hempen blue smoke now jetted up and mingled with the steady fumes from his pipe.As the line passed round and round the loggerhead; so also, just before reaching that point,it blisteringly passed through and through both of Stubb’s hands, from which the hand-cloths,or squares of quilted canvas sometimes worn at these times, had accidentally dropped.It was like holding an enemy’s sharp two-edged sword by the blade,and that enemy all the time striving to wrest it out of your clutch.
“Wet the line!wet the line!” cried Stubb to the tub oarsman (him seated by the tub) who, snatching off his hat,dashed sea-water into it.* More turns were taken, so that the line began holding its place.The boat now flew through the boiling water like a shark all fins.Stubb and Tashtego here changed places—stem for stern—a staggering business truly in that rocking commotion.
*Partly to show the indispensableness of this act, it may here be stated, that,in the old Dutch fishery, a mop was used to dash the running line with water; in many other ships,a wooden piggin, or bailer, is set apart for that purpose. Your hat, however, is the most convenient.
From the vibrating line extending the entire length of the upper part of the boat,and from its now being more tight than a harpstring,you would have thought the craft had two keels—one cleaving the water,the other the air—as the boat churned on through both opposing elements at once.A continual cascade played at the bows; a ceaseless whirling eddy in her wake; and,at the slightest motion from within, even but of a little finger, the vibrating,cracking craft canted over her spasmodic gunwale into the sea. Thus they rushed;each man with might and main clinging to his seat, to prevent being tossed to the foam;and the tall form of Tashtego at the steering oar crouching almost double,in order to bring down his centre of gravity.Whole Atlantics and Pacifics seemed passed as they shot on their way,till at length the whale somewhat slackened his flight.
“Haul in—haul in!” cried Stubb to the bowsman!and, facing round towards the whale, all hands began pulling the boat up to him,while yet the boat was being towed on. Soon ranging up by his flank, Stubb,firmly planting his knee in the clumsy cleat, darted dart after dart into the flying fish;at the word of command, the boat alternately sterning out of the way of the whale’s horrible wallow, and then ranging up for another fling.
The red tide now poured from all sides of the monster like brooks down a hill.His tormented body rolled not in brine but in blood,which bubbled and seethed for furlongs behind in their wake.The slanting sun playing upon this crimson pond in the sea,sent back its reflection into every face, so that they all glowed to each other like red men.And all the while, jet after jet of white smoke was agonizingly shot from the spiracle of the whale,and vehement puff after puff from the mouth of the excited headsman; as at every dart,hauling in upon his crooked lance (by the line attached to it),Stubb straightened it again and again, by a few rapid blows against the gunwale,then again and again sent it into the whale.
“Pull up—pull up!” he now cried to the bowsman, as the waning whale relaxed in his wrath. “Pull up!—close to!” and the boat ranged along the fish’s flank. When reaching far over the bow,Stubb slowly churned his long sharp lance into the fish, and kept it there,carefully churning and churning, as if cautiously seeking to feel after some gold watch that the whale might have swallowed,and which he was fearful of breaking ere he could hook it out.But that gold watch he sought was the innermost life of the fish. And now it is struck; for,starting from his trance into that unspeakable thing called his “flurry,” the monster horribly wallowed in his blood, overwrapped himself in impenetrable, mad,boiling spray, so that the imperilled craft, instantly dropping astern,had much ado blindly to struggle out from that phrensied twilight into the clear air of the day.
And now abating in his flurry, the whale once more rolled out into view; surging from side to side;spasmodically dilating and contracting his spout-hole, with sharp, cracking, agonized respirations.At last, gush after gush of clotted red gore, as if it had been the purple lees of red wine,shot into the frighted air; and falling back again,ran dripping down his motionless flanks into the sea. His heart had burst!
“He’s dead, Mr. Stubb,” said Daggoo.
“Yes; both pipes smoked out!” and withdrawing his own from his mouth, Stubb scattered the dead ashes over the water; and,for a moment, stood thoughtfully eyeing the vast corpse he had made.
CHAPTER 62. The Dart.
A word concerning an incident in the last chapter.
According to the invariable usage of the fishery, the whale-boat pushes off from the ship,with the headsman or whale-killer as temporary steersman,and the harpooneer or whale-fastener pulling the foremost oar, the one known as the harpooneer-oar.Now it needs a strong, nervous arm to strike the first iron into the fish; for often,in what is called a long dart, the heavy implement has to be flung to the distance of twenty or thirty feet.But however prolonged and exhausting the chase,the harpooneer is expected to pull his oar meanwhile to the uttermost; indeed,he is expected to set an example of superhuman activity to the rest, not only by incredible rowing,but by repeated loud and intrepid exclamations;and what it is to keep shouting at the top of one’s compass,while all the other muscles are strained and half started—what that is none know but those who have tried it.For one, I cannot bawl very heartily and work very recklessly at one and the same time.In this straining, bawling state, then, with his back to the fish,all at once the exhausted harpooneer hears the exciting cry—“Stand up, and give it to him!” He now has to drop and secure his oar, turn round on his centre half way,seize his harpoon from the crotch, and with what little strength may remain,he essays to pitch it somehow into the whale. No wonder,taking the whole fleet of whalemen in a body, that out of fifty fair chances for a dart,not five are successful; no wonder that so many hapless harpooneers are madly cursed and disrated;no wonder that some of them actually burst their blood-vessels in the boat;no wonder that some sperm whalemen are absent four years with four barrels;no wonder that to many ship owners, whaling is but a losing concern;for it is the harpooneer that makes the voyage,and if you take the breath out of his body how can you expect to find it there when most wanted!
Again, if the dart be successful, then at the second critical instant, that is,when the whale starts to run, the boatheader and harpooneer likewise start to running fore and aft,to the imminent jeopardy of themselves and every one else. It is then they change places;and the headsman, the chief officer of the little craft,takes his proper station in the bows of the boat.
Now, I care not who maintains the contrary, but all this is both foolish and unnecessary.The headsman should stay in the bows from first to last;he should both dart the harpoon and the lance, and no rowing whatever should be expected of him,except under circumstances obvious to any fisherman.I know that this would sometimes involve a slight loss of speed in the chase;but long experience in various whalemen of more than one nation has convinced me that in the vast majority of failures in the fishery,it has not by any means been so much the speed of the whale as the before described exhaustion of the harpooneer that has caused them.
To insure the greatest efficiency in the dart,the harpooneers of this world must start to their feet from out of idleness, and not from out of toil.
CHAPTER 63. The Crotch.
Out of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs. So, in productive subjects, grow the chapters.
The crotch alluded to on a previous page deserves independent mention.It is a notched stick of a peculiar form, some two feet in length,which is perpendicularly inserted into the starboard gunwale near the bow,for the purpose of furnishing a rest for the wooden extremity of the harpoon, whose other naked,barbed end slopingly projects from the prow. Thereby the weapon is instantly at hand to its hurler,who snatches it up as readily from its rest as a backwoodsman swings his rifle from the wall.It is customary to have two harpoons reposing in the crotch,respectively called the first and second irons.
But these two harpoons, each by its own cord, are both connected with the line;the object being this: to dart them both, if possible,one instantly after the other into the same whale; so that if, in the coming drag,one should draw out, the other may still retain a hold. It is a doubling of the chances.But it very often happens that owing to the instantaneous, violent,convulsive running of the whale upon receiving the first iron,it becomes impossible for the harpooneer, however lightning-like in his movements,to pitch the second iron into him. Nevertheless,as the second iron is already connected with the line, and the line is running,hence that weapon must, at all events, be anticipatingly tossed out of the boat,somehow and somewhere; else the most terrible jeopardy would involve all hands.Tumbled into the water, it accordingly is in such cases;the spare coils of box line (mentioned in a preceding chapter) making this feat, in most instances,prudently practicable. But this critical act is not always unattended with the saddest and most fatal casualties.
Furthermore: you must know that when the second iron is thrown overboard,it thenceforth becomes a dangling, sharp-edged terror,skittishly curvetting about both boat and whale, entangling the lines, or cutting them,and making a prodigious sensation in all directions. Nor, in general,is it possible to secure it again until the whale is fairly captured and a corpse.
Consider, now, how it must be in the case of four boats all engaging one unusually strong, active,and knowing whale; when owing to these qualities in him,as well as to the thousand concurring accidents of such an audacious enterprise,eight or ten loose second irons may be simultaneously dangling about him. For, of course,each boat is supplied with several harpoons to bend on to the line should the first one be ineffectually darted without recovery.All these particulars are faithfully narrated here,as they will not fail to elucidate several most important, however intricate passages, in scenes hereafter to be painted.
CHAPTER 64. Stubb’s Supper.
Stubb’s whale had been killed some distance from the ship. It was a calm; so,forming a tandem of three boats, we commenced the slow business of towing the trophy to the Pequod.And now, as we eighteen men with our thirty-six arms,and one hundred and eighty thumbs and fingers, slowly toiled hour after hour upon that inert,sluggish corpse in the sea; and it seemed hardly to budge at all, except at long intervals;good evidence was hereby furnished of the enormousness of the mass we moved. For,upon the great canal of Hang-Ho, or whatever they call it, in China,four or five laborers on the foot-path will draw a bulky freighted junk at the rate of a mile an hour;but this grand argosy we towed heavily forged along, as if laden with pig-lead in bulk.
Darkness came on; but three lights up and down in the Pequod’s main-rigging dimly guided our way;till drawing nearer we saw Ahab dropping one of several more lanterns over the bulwarks.Vacantly eyeing the heaving whale for a moment,he issued the usual orders for securing it for the night, and then handing his lantern to a seaman,went his way into the cabin, and did not come forward again until morning.
Though, in overseeing the pursuit of this whale, Captain Ahab had evinced his customary activity,to call it so; yet now that the creature was dead, some vague dissatisfaction, or impatience,or despair, seemed working in him; as if the sight of that dead body reminded him that Moby Dick was yet to be slain;and though a thousand other whales were brought to his ship,all that would not one jot advance his grand, monomaniac object.Very soon you would have thought from the sound on the Pequod’s decks,that all hands were preparing to cast anchor in the deep;for heavy chains are being dragged along the deck, and thrust rattling out of the port-holes.But by those clanking links, the vast corpse itself, not the ship, is to be moored.Tied by the head to the stern, and by the tail to the bows,the whale now lies with its black hull close to the vessel’s and seen through the darkness of the night,which obscured the spars and rigging aloft, the two—ship and whale,seemed yoked together like colossal bullocks,whereof one reclines while the other remains standing.*
*A little item may as well be related here.The strongest and most reliable hold which the ship has upon the whale when moored alongside,is by the flukes or tail; and as from its greater density that part is relatively heavier than any other (excepting the side-fins),its flexibility even in death, causes it to sink low beneath the surface;so that with the hand you cannot get at it from the boat, in order to put the chain round it.But this difficulty is ingeniously overcome: a small,strong line is prepared with a wooden float at its outer end, and a weight in its middle,while the other end is secured to the ship.By adroit management the wooden float is made to rise on the other side of the mass,so that now having girdled the whale, the chain is readily made to follow suit;and being slipped along the body, is at last locked fast round the smallest part of the tail,at the point of junction with its broad flukes or lobes.
If moody Ahab was now all quiescence, at least so far as could be known on deck, Stubb,his second mate, flushed with conquest, betrayed an unusual but still good-natured excitement.Such an unwonted bustle was he in that the staid Starbuck, his official superior,quietly resigned to him for the time the sole management of affairs. One small,helping cause of all this liveliness in Stubb, was soon made strangely manifest.Stubb was a high liver; he was somewhat intemperately fond of the whale as a flavorish thing to his palate.
“A steak, a steak, ere I sleep!You, Daggoo!overboard you go, and cut me one from his small!”
Here be it known, that though these wild fishermen do not, as a general thing,and according to the great military maxim,make the enemy defray the current expenses of the war (at least before realizing the proceeds of the voyage),yet now and then you find some of these Nantucketers who have a genuine relish for that particular part of the Sperm Whale designated by Stubb;comprising the tapering extremity of the body.
About midnight that steak was cut and cooked; and lighted by two lanterns of sperm oil,Stubb stoutly stood up to his spermaceti supper at the capstan-head,as if that capstan were a sideboard. Nor was Stubb the only banqueter on whale’s flesh that night.Mingling their mumblings with his own mastications, thousands on thousands of sharks,swarming round the dead leviathan, smackingly feasted on its fatness.The few sleepers below in their bunks were often startled by the sharp slapping of their tails against the hull,within a few inches of the sleepers’ hearts.Peering over the side you could just see them (as before you heard them) wallowing in the sullen,black waters, and turning over on their backs as they scooped out huge globular pieces of the whale of the bigness of a human head.This particular feat of the shark seems all but miraculous.How at such an apparently unassailable surface,they contrive to gouge out such symmetrical mouthfuls,remains a part of the universal problem of all things. The mark they thus leave on the whale,may best be likened to the hollow made by a carpenter in countersinking for a screw.
Though amid all the smoking horror and diabolism of a sea-fight,sharks will be seen longingly gazing up to the ship’s decks,like hungry dogs round a table where red meat is being carved,ready to bolt down every killed man that is tossed to them; and though,while the valiant butchers over the deck-table are thus cannibally carving each other’s live meat with carving-knives all gilded and tasselled,the sharks, also, with their jewel-hilted mouths,are quarrelsomely carving away under the table at the dead meat; and though,were you to turn the whole affair upside down, it would still be pretty much the same thing,that is to say, a shocking sharkish business enough for all parties;and though sharks also are the invariable outriders of all slave ships crossing the Atlantic,systematically trotting alongside, to be handy in case a parcel is to be carried anywhere,or a dead slave to be decently buried; and though one or two other like instances might be set down,touching the set terms, places, and occasions, when sharks do most socially congregate,and most hilariously feast; yet is there no conceivable time or occasion when you will find them in such countless numbers,and in gayer or more jovial spirits, than around a dead sperm whale,moored by night to a whaleship at sea. If you have never seen that sight,then suspend your decision about the propriety of devil-worship,and the expediency of conciliating the devil.
But, as yet, Stubb heeded not the mumblings of the banquet that was going on so nigh him,no more than the sharks heeded the smacking of his own epicurean lips.
“Cook, cook!—where’s that old Fleece?” he cried at length, widening his legs still further,as if to form a more secure base for his supper; and,at the same time darting his fork into the dish, as if stabbing with his lance; “cook, you cook!—sail this way, cook!”
The old black, not in any very high glee at having been previously roused from his warm hammock at a most unseasonable hour,came shambling along from his galley, for, like many old blacks,there was something the matter with his knee-pans,which he did not keep well scoured like his other pans; this old Fleece, as they called him,came shuffling and limping along, assisting his step with his tongs, which, after a clumsy fashion,were made of straightened iron hoops; this old Ebony floundered along,and in obedience to the word of command,came to a dead stop on the opposite side of Stubb’s sideboard; when,with both hands folded before him, and resting on his two-legged cane,he bowed his arched back still further over, at the same time sideways inclining his head, so as to bring his best ear into play.
“Cook,” said Stubb, rapidly lifting a rather reddish morsel to his mouth,“don’t you think this steak is rather overdone?You’ve been beating this steak too much, cook; it’s too tender. Don’t I always say that to be good, a whale-steak must be tough?There are those sharks now over the side, don’t you see they prefer it tough and rare?What a shindy they are kicking up!Cook, go and talk to ’em; tell ’em they are welcome to help themselves civilly, and in moderation,but they must keep quiet. Blast me, if I can hear my own voice. Away, cook, and deliver my message.Here, take this lantern,” snatching one from his sideboard; “now then, go and preach to ’em!”
Sullenly taking the offered lantern, old Fleece limped across the deck to the bulwarks; and then,with one hand dropping his light low over the sea, so as to get a good view of his congregation,with the other hand he solemnly flourished his tongs,and leaning far over the side in a mumbling voice began addressing the sharks, while Stubb,softly crawling behind, overheard all that was said.
“Fellow-critters: I’se ordered here to say dat you must stop dat dam noise dare. You hear?Stop dat dam smackin’ ob de lip!Massa Stubb say dat you can fill your dam bellies up to de hatchings, but by Gor!you must stop dat dam racket!”
“Cook,” here interposed Stubb, accompanying the word with a sudden slap on the shoulder,—“Cook!why, damn your eyes, you mustn’t swear that way when you’re preaching. That’s no way to convert sinners, cook!”
“Who dat?Den preach to him yourself,” sullenly turning to go.
“No, cook; go on, go on.”
“Well, den, Belubed fellow-critters:”—
“Right!” exclaimed Stubb, approvingly, “coax ’em to it; try that,” and Fleece continued.
“Do you is all sharks, and by natur wery woracious, yet I zay to you, fellow-critters,dat dat woraciousness—’top dat dam slappin’ ob de tail!How you tink to hear, spose you keep up such a dam slappin’ and bitin’ dare?”
“Cook,” cried Stubb, collaring him, “I won’t have that swearing. Talk to ’em gentlemanly.”
Once more the sermon proceeded.
“Your woraciousness, fellow-critters, I don’t blame ye so much for; dat is natur,and can’t be helped; but to gobern dat wicked natur, dat is de pint. You is sharks, sartin;but if you gobern de shark in you, why den you be angel;for all angel is not’ing more dan de shark well goberned. Now, look here, bred’ren,just try wonst to be cibil, a helping yourselbs from dat whale.Don’t be tearin’ de blubber out your neighbour’s mout, I say.Is not one shark dood right as toder to dat whale?And, by Gor, none on you has de right to dat whale; dat whale belong to some one else.I know some o’ you has berry brig mout, brigger dan oders;but den de brig mouts sometimes has de small bellies;so dat de brigness of de mout is not to swaller wid,but to bit off de blubber for de small fry ob sharks,dat can’t get into de scrouge to help demselves.”
“Well done, old Fleece!” cried Stubb, “that’s Christianity; go on.”
“No use goin’ on; de dam willains will keep a scougin’ and slappin’ each oder, Massa Stubb;dey don’t hear one word; no use a-preachin’ to such dam g’uttons as you call ’em,till dare bellies is full, and dare bellies is bottomless; and when dey do get ’em full,dey wont hear you den; for den dey sink in de sea, go fast to sleep on de coral,and can’t hear not’ing at all, no more, for eber and eber.”
“Upon my soul, I am about of the same opinion; so give the benediction, Fleece, and I’ll away to my supper.”
Upon this, Fleece, holding both hands over the fishy mob, raised his shrill voice, and cried—
“Cussed fellow-critters!Kick up de damndest row as ever you can; fill your dam’ bellies ’till dey bust—and den die.”
“Now, cook,” said Stubb, resuming his supper at the capstan; “stand just where you stood before,there, over against me, and pay particular attention.”
“All dention,” said Fleece, again stooping over upon his tongs in the desired position.
“Well,” said Stubb, helping himself freely meanwhile;“I shall now go back to the subject of this steak. In the first place, how old are you, cook?”
“What dat do wid de ’teak,” said the old black, testily.
“Silence!How old are you, cook?”
“’Bout ninety, dey say,” he gloomily muttered.
“And you have lived in this world hard upon one hundred years, cook,and don’t know yet how to cook a whale-steak?” rapidly bolting another mouthful at the last word,so that morsel seemed a continuation of the question. “Where were you born, cook?”
“’Hind de hatchway, in ferry-boat, goin’ ober de Roanoke.”
“Born in a ferry-boat!That’s queer, too. But I want to know what country you were born in, cook!”
“Didn’t I say de Roanoke country?” he cried sharply.
“No, you didn’t, cook; but I’ll tell you what I’m coming to, cook.You must go home and be born over again; you don’t know how to cook a whale-steak yet.”
“Bress my soul, if I cook noder one,” he growled, angrily, turning round to depart.
“Come back, cook;—here, hand me those tongs;—now take that bit of steak there,and tell me if you think that steak cooked as it should be?Take it, I say”—holding the tongs towards him—“take it, and taste it.”
Faintly smacking his withered lips over it for a moment, the old negro muttered,“Best cooked ’teak I eber taste; joosy, berry joosy.”
“Cook,” said Stubb, squaring himself once more; “do you belong to the church?”
“Passed one once in Cape-Down,” said the old man sullenly.
“And you have once in your life passed a holy church in Cape-Town,where you doubtless overheard a holy parson addressing his hearers as his beloved fellow-creatures, have you, cook!And yet you come here, and tell me such a dreadful lie as you did just now, eh?” said Stubb. “Where do you expect to go to, cook?”
“Go to bed berry soon,” he mumbled, half-turning as he spoke.
“Avast!heave to!I mean when you die, cook. It’s an awful question. Now what’s your answer?”