The Spouter-Inn

Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide, low, straggling entry with old-fashioned wainscots, reminding one of the bulwarks of some condemned old craft. On one side hung a very large oilpainting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the unequal crosslights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbors, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint of much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and especially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the entry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.

Entering the gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide, low, sprawling entryway. Its old-fashioned wood paneling brought to mind the sides of some condemned old ship. On one side hung a very large oil painting, blackened by smoke and damaged in every way. In the uneven light falling across it, you could only begin to understand its subject through careful study. You had to visit it repeatedly and methodically, and ask the neighbors about it. Its masses of darkness and shadow were so baffling that you almost thought an ambitious young artist had tried to paint chaos under a spell, back in the days of the New England witches. But after much earnest looking and repeated thought, you finally concluded that this idea, however wild, might not be entirely unjustified. Opening the little window toward the back of the entryway helped you reach that conclusion.

But what most puzzled and confounded you was a long, limber, portentous, black mass of something hovering in the centre of the picture over three blue, dim, perpendicular lines floating in a nameless yeast. A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive a nervous man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to it, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what that marvellous painting meant. Ever and anon a bright, but, alas, deceptive idea would dart you through.—It’s the Black Sea in a midnight gale.—It’s the unnatural combat of the four primal elements.—It’s a blasted heath.—It’s a Hyperborean winter scene.—It’s the breaking-up of the icebound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies yielded to that one portentous something in the picture’s midst. That once found out, and all the rest were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint resemblance to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?

But what puzzled and confused you most was a long, flexible, ominous black mass of something. It hovered in the center of the picture, above three dim, vertical blue lines floating in a nameless froth. It was a boggy, soggy, squishy picture, enough to drive a nervous man to distraction. Yet it had a vague, half-realized, unimaginable grandeur that held you spellbound. You found yourself swearing to discover what that marvelous painting meant. Now and then, a bright idea would flash through your mind, but, alas, it would prove false. It’s the Black Sea in a midnight storm. It’s the unnatural battle of the four primal elements. It’s a blasted heath. It’s a Hyperborean winter scene. It’s the breakup of the icebound stream of Time. But at last, all these ideas gave way to that one ominous something in the middle of the picture. Once that was identified, everything else would be clear. But wait, doesn’t it look a little like a gigantic fish? Even the great leviathan himself?

In fact, the artist’s design seemed this: a final theory of my own, partly based upon the aggregated opinions of many aged persons with whom I conversed upon the subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner in a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale, purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of impaling himself upon the three mast-heads.

In fact, I finally formed my own theory of what the artist meant to show. It was based partly on the combined opinions of many elderly people I had spoken with about the picture. It shows a ship rounding Cape Horn in a great hurricane. The ship is half sunk and rolling in the waves, with only its three stripped masts visible. An enraged whale intends to leap clean over the ship, but instead is impaling itself on the three mastheads.

The opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a heathenish array of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with glittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots of human hair; and one was sickle-shaped, with a vast handle sweeping round like the segment made in the new-mown grass by a long-armed mower. You shuddered as you gazed, and wondered what monstrous cannibal and savage could ever have gone a death-harvesting with such a hacking, horrifying implement. Mixed with these were rusty old whaling lances and harpoons all broken and deformed. Some were storied weapons. With this once long lance, now wildly elbowed, fifty years ago did Nathan Swain kill fifteen whales between a sunrise and a sunset. And that harpoon—so like a corkscrew now—was flung in Javan seas, and run away with by a whale, years afterwards slain off the Cape of Blanco. The original iron entered nigh the tail, and, like a restless needle sojourning in the body of a man, travelled full forty feet, and at last was found imbedded in the hump.

The opposite wall of the entrance was covered with a heathenish array of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with glittering teeth that looked like ivory saws. Others were decorated with tufts of human hair. One was shaped like a sickle, with a huge handle that curved like the arc a long-armed mower cuts through grass. You shuddered as you looked, wondering what monstrous cannibal and savage could have gone harvesting death with such a horrifying hacking tool. Mixed in with these weapons were rusty old whaling lances and harpoons, all broken and bent out of shape. Some had stories behind them. Fifty years ago, Nathan Swain killed fifteen whales between sunrise and sunset with one lance. It had once been long, but now it was bent sharply like an elbow. A harpoon, now shaped much like a corkscrew, had been thrown in the Javan seas. A whale carried it away and was killed years later off the Cape of Blanco. The harpoon’s iron point had entered near the whale’s tail. Like a restless needle moving through a person’s body, it traveled a full forty feet. At last, it was found embedded in the whale’s hump.

Crossing this dusky entry, and on through yon low-arched way—cut through what in old times must have been a great central chimney with fireplaces all round—you enter the public room. A still duskier place is this, with such low ponderous beams above, and such old wrinkled planks beneath, that you would almost fancy you trod some old craft’s cockpits, especially of such a howling night, when this corner-anchored old ark rocked so furiously. On one side stood a long, low, shelf-like table covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities gathered from this wide world’s remotest nooks. Projecting from the further angle of the room stands a dark-looking den—the bar—a rude attempt at a right whale’s head. Be that how it may, there stands the vast arched bone of the whale’s jaw, so wide, a coach might almost drive beneath it. Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death.

Cross the dim entry and pass through the low archway, and you enter the public room. The archway was cut through what must once have been a great central chimney, with fireplaces all around it. The public room is even darker. Its overhead beams are so low and heavy, and its floorboards so old and wrinkled, that you might almost imagine yourself in an old ship’s cockpit. That is especially true on a howling night, when this old ark, anchored at the corner, rocks so furiously. Along one side stood a long, low table, like a shelf, covered with cracked glass cases. The cases held dusty curiosities gathered from the remotest corners of the wide world. From the far corner of the room projects a dark-looking den, the bar, crudely shaped like a right whale’s head. However crude the likeness, the whale’s huge jawbone stands there in an arch. It is so wide that a coach could almost drive beneath it. Inside are shabby shelves lined with old decanters, bottles, and flasks. Within those jaws of swift destruction bustles a little, shriveled old man, like another cursed Jonah. Indeed, they called him Jonah. For the sailors’ money, he sells them delirium and death at a high price.

Abominable are the tumblers into which he pours his poison. Though true cylinders without—within, the villanous green goggling glasses deceitfully tapered downwards to a cheating bottom. Parallel meridians rudely pecked into the glass, surround these footpads’ goblets. Fill to this mark, and your charge is but a penny; to this a penny more; and so on to the full glass—the Cape Horn measure, which you may gulp down for a shilling.

The tumblers he pours his poison into are disgusting. Though cylindrical on the outside, the wicked, bulging green glasses taper inward to a deceptive bottom. Parallel lines are crudely etched around these robbers’ goblets. Fill a glass to this mark, and the charge is only a penny. Fill it to this mark, and the charge is another penny. The price keeps rising up to a full glass, the Cape Horn measure, which you may gulp down for a shilling.

Upon entering the place I found a number of young seamen gathered about a table, examining by a dim light divers specimens of skrimshander. I sought the landlord, and telling him I desired to be accommodated with a room, received for answer that his house was full—not a bed unoccupied. “But avast,” he added, tapping his forehead, “you haint no objections to sharing a harpooneer’s blanket, have ye? I s’pose you are goin’ a-whalin’, so you’d better get used to that sort of thing.”

When I entered, I found several young sailors gathered around a table. By the dim light, they were examining various pieces of skrimshander. I found the landlord and told him I wanted a room. He said his house was full, with every bed occupied. “But wait,” he added, tapping his forehead, “you don’t mind sharing a harpooner’s blanket, do you? I suppose you’re going whaling, so you’d better get used to that sort of thing.”

I told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed; that if I should ever do so, it would depend upon who the harpooneer might be, and that if he (the landlord) really had no other place for me, and the harpooneer was not decidedly objectionable, why rather than wander further about a strange town on so bitter a night, I would put up with the half of any decent man’s blanket.

I told the landlord I had never liked sharing a bed. If I ever did share one, it would depend on who the harpooneer was. But if the landlord really had nowhere else for me, and the harpooneer was not downright objectionable, I would put up with sharing any decent man’s blanket. That was better than wandering farther around a strange town on such a bitter night.

“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?—you want supper? Supper’ll be ready directly.”

“I thought so. All right, have a seat. Supper? Do you want supper? It’ll be ready soon.”

I sat down on an old wooden settle, carved all over like a bench on the Battery. At one end a ruminating tar was still further adorning it with his jack-knife, stooping over and diligently working away at the space between his legs. He was trying his hand at a ship under full sail, but he didn’t make much headway, I thought.

I sat down on an old wooden bench, carved all over like a bench on the Battery. At one end, a thoughtful sailor was adding more carvings with his pocketknife. He bent over, working diligently on the space between his legs. He was trying to carve a ship under full sail, but I thought he wasn't making much progress.

At last some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in an adjoining room. It was cold as Iceland—no fire at all—the landlord said he couldn’t afford it. Nothing but two dismal tallow candles, each in a winding sheet. We were fain to button up our monkey jackets, and hold to our lips cups of scalding tea with our half frozen fingers. But the fare was of the most substantial kind—not only meat and potatoes, but dumplings; good heavens! dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a green box coat, addressed himself to these dumplings in a most direful manner.

At last, some four or five of us were called to eat in the next room. It was as cold as Iceland. There was no fire at all because the landlord said he couldn’t afford one. The only light came from two gloomy tallow candles, each wrapped in a shroud. We had to button up our short jackets and hold cups of scalding tea to our lips with half-frozen fingers. But the food was very hearty. There was meat and potatoes, and even dumplings. Good heavens! Dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a green overcoat set about eating the dumplings with a terrifying appetite.

“My boy,” said the landlord, “you’ll have the nightmare to a dead sartainty.”

“My boy,” said the landlord, “you’ll have a nightmare for sure.”

“Landlord,” I whispered, “that aint the harpooneer is it?”

“Landlord,” I whispered, “that isn't the harpooner, is it?”

“Oh, no,” said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny, “the harpooneer is a dark complexioned chap. He never eats dumplings, he don’t—he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes ’em rare.”

“Oh, no,” he said, with a sort of devilish humor. “The harpooner is a dark-skinned fellow. He never eats dumplings. He eats nothing but steaks, and he likes them rare.”

“The devil he does,” says I. “Where is that harpooneer? Is he here?”

“The hell he does,” I said. “Where is that harpooner? Is he here?”

“He’ll be here afore long,” was the answer.

“He’ll be here before long,” came the answer.

I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this “dark complexioned” harpooneer. At any rate, I made up my mind that if it so turned out that we should sleep together, he must undress and get into bed before I did.

I couldn’t help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this “dark complexioned” harpooner. In any case, I made up my mind. If we ended up sharing a bed, he would have to undress and get into bed before I did.

Supper over, the company went back to the bar-room, when, knowing not what else to do with myself, I resolved to spend the rest of the evening as a looker on.

After supper, everyone went back to the barroom. I didn't know what else to do, so I decided to spend the rest of the evening watching.

Presently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting up, the landlord cried, “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed her reported in the offing this morning; a three years’ voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”

Soon a loud commotion was heard outside. The landlord jumped up and cried, “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I saw a report this morning that she was offshore. She’s been on a three-year voyage and has returned full. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”

A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung open, and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough. Enveloped in their shaggy watch coats, and with their heads muffled in woollen comforters, all bedarned and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles, they seemed an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just landed from their boat, and this was the first house they entered. No wonder, then, that they made a straight wake for the whale’s mouth—the bar—when the wrinkled little old Jonah, there officiating, soon poured them out brimmers all round. One complained of a bad cold in his head, upon which Jonah mixed him a pitch-like potion of gin and molasses, which he swore was a sovereign cure for all colds and catarrhs whatsoever, never mind of how long standing, or whether caught off the coast of Labrador, or on the weather side of an ice-island.

Heavy sea boots tramped in the entryway. The door flew open, and in rolled a truly wild group of sailors. They wore shaggy watch coats and wrapped their heads in woolen scarves, all patched and ragged. Their beards were stiff with icicles. They looked like a pack of bears bursting in from Labrador. They had just landed from their boat, and this was the first house they entered. No wonder, then, that they headed straight for the whale’s mouth, the bar. The wrinkled little old Jonah was tending bar there, and he soon poured each of them a brimming drink. One sailor complained of a bad head cold, so Jonah mixed him a pitch-like drink of gin and molasses. Jonah swore it was a sure cure for all colds and catarrhs, no matter how long they had lasted. It worked whether the cold had been caught off the coast of Labrador or on the windy side of an ice island.

The liquor soon mounted into their heads, as it generally does even with the arrantest topers newly landed from sea, and they began capering about most obstreperously.

The liquor soon went to their heads, as it usually does even to the heaviest drinkers newly ashore from sea. They began dancing about wildly and noisily.

I observed, however, that one of them held somewhat aloof, and though he seemed desirous not to spoil the hilarity of his shipmates by his own sober face, yet upon the whole he refrained from making as much noise as the rest. This man interested me at once; and since the sea-gods had ordained that he should soon become my shipmate (though but a sleeping-partner one, so far as this narrative is concerned), I will here venture upon a little description of him. He stood full six feet in height, with noble shoulders, and a chest like a coffer-dam. I have seldom seen such brawn in a man. His face was deeply brown and burnt, making his white teeth dazzling by the contrast; while in the deep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem to give him much joy. His voice at once announced that he was a Southerner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must be one of those tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian Ridge in Virginia. When the revelry of his companions had mounted to its height, this man slipped away unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he became my comrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was missed by his shipmates, and being, it seems, for some reason a huge favourite with them, they raised a cry of “Bulkington! Bulkington! where’s Bulkington?” and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.

I noticed, however, that one of them kept somewhat apart. He seemed not to want his sober face to spoil his shipmates’ fun. Still, he made less noise than the others. He interested me at once. The sea-gods had ordained that he would soon become my shipmate. As far as this story is concerned, though, he would be only a sleeping partner. So I will offer a brief description of him. He stood a full six feet tall, with noble shoulders and a chest like a coffer-dam. I have seldom seen such muscle on a man. His face was deeply browned and sunburned, making his white teeth dazzling by contrast. In the deep shadows of his eyes were traces of memories that seemed to give him little joy. His voice told me at once that he was a Southerner. From his fine stature, I thought he must be one of those tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian Ridge in Virginia. When his companions’ revelry reached its height, he slipped away unnoticed. I did not see him again until he became my comrade at sea. Within a few minutes, however, his shipmates noticed that he was gone. For some reason, it seemed, he was a great favorite among them. They cried, “Bulkington! Bulkington! where’s Bulkington?” and darted out of the house after him.

It was now about nine o’clock, and the room seeming almost supernaturally quiet after these orgies, I began to congratulate myself upon a little plan that had occurred to me just previous to the entrance of the seamen.

It was now about nine o’clock. After all that revelry, the room seemed almost eerily quiet. I began to feel pleased with a little plan I had thought of just before the sailors came in.

No man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact, you would a good deal rather not sleep with your own brother. I don’t know how it is, but people like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a strange town, and that stranger a harpooneer, then your objections indefinitely multiply. Nor was there any earthly reason why I as a sailor should sleep two in a bed, more than anybody else; for sailors no more sleep two in a bed at sea, than bachelor Kings do ashore. To be sure they all sleep together in one apartment, but you have your own hammock, and cover yourself with your own blanket, and sleep in your own skin.

No man prefers to share a bed. In fact, you would much rather not share one with your own brother. I don’t know why, but people like privacy when they sleep. And your objections multiply endlessly when you have to sleep with a stranger. Especially in an unfamiliar inn, in an unfamiliar town, and when the stranger is a harpooner. There was no reason on earth why I, as a sailor, should share a bed any more than anyone else. Sailors at sea no more share beds than unmarried kings do on land. Of course, sailors all sleep together in one room. But you have your own hammock, cover yourself with your own blanket, and sleep in your own skin.

The more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I abominated the thought of sleeping with him. It was fair to presume that being a harpooneer, his linen or woollen, as the case might be, would not be of the tidiest, certainly none of the finest. I began to twitch all over. Besides, it was getting late, and my decent harpooneer ought to be home and going bedwards. Suppose now, he should tumble in upon me at midnight—how could I tell from what vile hole he had been coming?

The more I thought about this harpooner, the more I hated the idea of sleeping with him. As a harpooner, he probably wore linen or wool that was not very clean, and certainly not very fine. I began to twitch all over. Besides, it was getting late, and my respectable harpooner ought to be home and getting ready for bed. Suppose he stumbled in at midnight. How could I know what filthy place he had come from?

“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooneer.—I shan’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench here.”

“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooner. I won’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench here.”

“Just as you please; I’m sorry I can’t spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress, and it’s a plaguy rough board here”—feeling of the knots and notches. “But wait a bit, Skrimshander; I’ve got a carpenter’s plane there in the bar—wait, I say, and I’ll make ye snug enough.” So saying he procured the plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting the bench, vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the while grinning like an ape. The shavings flew right and left; till at last the plane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot. The landlord was near spraining his wrist, and I told him for heaven’s sake to quit—the bed was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all the planing in the world could make eider down of a pine plank. So gathering up the shavings with another grin, and throwing them into the great stove in the middle of the room, he went about his business, and left me in a brown study.

“Just as you please. I’m sorry I can’t spare you a tablecloth for a mattress. And this board is terribly rough,” he said, feeling the knots and notches. “But wait a bit, Skrimshander. I’ve got a carpenter’s plane there in the bar. Wait, I say, and I’ll make you comfortable enough.” He fetched the plane and first dusted the bench with his old silk handkerchief. Then he set to work planing my bed vigorously, grinning like an ape all the while. Shavings flew right and left, until the plane’s blade struck an indestructible knot. The landlord nearly sprained his wrist, and I begged him to stop, for heaven’s sake. The bed was soft enough for me, and I couldn’t see how all the planing in the world could turn a pine plank into eiderdown. So he gathered up the shavings with another grin and threw them into the great stove in the middle of the room. Then he went about his business, leaving me lost in thought.

I now took the measure of the bench, and found that it was a foot too short; but that could be mended with a chair. But it was a foot too narrow, and the other bench in the room was about four inches higher than the planed one—so there was no yoking them. I then placed the first bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall, leaving a little interval between, for my back to settle down in. But I soon found that there came such a draught of cold air over me from under the sill of the window, that this plan would never do at all, especially as another current from the rickety door met the one from the window, and both together formed a series of small whirlwinds in the immediate vicinity of the spot where I had thought to spend the night.

I measured the bench and found it was a foot too short, but a chair could fix that. It was also a foot too narrow. The other bench in the room was about four inches higher than the smooth one, so I couldn't put them together. I placed the first bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall. I left a small gap between the bench and the wall, so my back could settle into it. But I soon found that cold air was blowing over me from under the windowsill. This plan would never do, especially because another draft came through the rickety door and met the one from the window. Together, they formed a series of small whirlwinds right around the spot where I had planned to spend the night.

The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop, couldn’t I steal a march on him—bolt his door inside, and jump into his bed, not to be wakened by the most violent knockings? It seemed no bad idea; but upon second thoughts I dismissed it. For who could tell but what the next morning, so soon as I popped out of the room, the harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!

The devil take that harpooner, I thought. But wait, couldn’t I get ahead of him? I could bolt his door from the inside and jump into his bed. Then I could refuse to wake up, no matter how violently he knocked. It seemed like a good idea, but on second thought, I dismissed it. Who could say the harpooner wouldn’t be waiting in the entry the next morning, ready to knock me down as soon as I stepped out of the room!

Still, looking round me again, and seeing no possible chance of spending a sufferable night unless in some other person’s bed, I began to think that after all I might be cherishing unwarrantable prejudices against this unknown harpooneer. Thinks I, I’ll wait awhile; he must be dropping in before long. I’ll have a good look at him then, and perhaps we may become jolly good bedfellows after all—there’s no telling.

Still, I looked around again and saw no chance of spending a tolerable night unless I shared someone else’s bed. So I began to think I might be unfairly prejudiced against this unknown harpooner. I thought, I’ll wait a while. He must be coming in soon. Then I’ll get a good look at him. Perhaps we may turn out to be perfectly happy sharing a bed after all. There’s no telling.

But though the other boarders kept coming in by ones, twos, and threes, and going to bed, yet no sign of my harpooneer.

But though the other boarders kept coming in one, two, or three at a time and going to bed, there was still no sign of my harpooner.

“Landlord!” said I, “what sort of a chap is he—does he always keep such late hours?” It was now hard upon twelve o’clock.

“Landlord!” I said, “what kind of man is he? Does he always stay out this late?” It was nearly midnight.

The landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle, and seemed to be mightily tickled at something beyond my comprehension. “No,” he answered, “generally he’s an early bird—airley to bed and airley to rise—yes, he’s the bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”

The landlord gave another dry chuckle. He seemed very amused by something I couldn’t understand. “No,” he answered, “usually he’s an early bird, early to bed and early to rise. Yes, he’s the bird that catches the worm. But tonight he went out selling things, you see. I don’t know what on earth is keeping him so late, unless perhaps he can’t sell his head.”

“Can’t sell his head?—What sort of a bamboozingly story is this you are telling me?” getting into a towering rage. “Do you pretend to say, landlord, that this harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around this town?”

“Can’t sell his head? What kind of ridiculous story are you telling me?” He was getting furious. “Landlord, are you really saying this harpooner is out selling his head around town on this blessed Saturday night? Or rather, Sunday morning?”

“That’s precisely it,” said the landlord, “and I told him he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.”

“That’s exactly right,” said the landlord. “I told him he couldn’t sell it here because the market is already oversupplied.”

“With what?” shouted I.

“With what?” I shouted.

“With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”

“With heads, of course. Aren’t there too many heads in the world?”

“I tell you what it is, landlord,” said I quite calmly, “you’d better stop spinning that yarn to me—I’m not green.”

“Let me tell you, landlord,” I said calmly, “you’d better stop telling me that story. I’m not naive.”

“May be not,” taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick, “but I rayther guess you’ll be done brown if that ere harpooneer hears you a slanderin’ his head.”

“Maybe not.” He took out a stick and whittled a toothpick. “But I reckon you’ll be in trouble if that harpooner hears you insulting his head.”

“I’ll break it for him,” said I, now flying into a passion again at this unaccountable farrago of the landlord’s.

“I’ll break it for him,” I said, growing angry again at the landlord’s inexplicable jumble of nonsense.

“It’s broke a’ready,” said he.

“It’s already broken,” he said.

“Broke,” said I—“broke, do you mean?”

“Broke,” I said. “Broke, do you mean?”

“Sartain, and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”

“Sure, and I guess that’s exactly why he can’t sell it.”

“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a snow-storm—“landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, whom I have not yet seen, you persist in telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories tending to beget in me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow—a sort of connexion, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to unsay that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no idea of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly, would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”

“Landlord,” I said, walking up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a snowstorm, “stop whittling. You and I need to understand each other, and right away. I come to your house looking for a bed, and you tell me you can only give me half a bed. The other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. I have not yet seen this harpooneer, but you keep telling me the most baffling and infuriating stories about him. They make me uneasy about the man you intend me to share a bed with. Sharing a bed, landlord, is an extremely intimate and confidential arrangement. “I demand that you speak plainly and tell me who and what this harpooneer is. Tell me whether I will be entirely safe spending the night with him. First, please take back that story about him selling his head. If it is true, I take it as good evidence that the harpooneer is stark mad. And I have no intention of sleeping with a madman. You, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, would make yourself liable to criminal prosecution by knowingly trying to persuade me to do so.”

“Wall,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath, “that’s a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of ’balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches. He wanted to, last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for all the airth like a string of inions.”

“Well,” said the landlord, taking a long breath, “that’s a pretty long sermon for a fellow who swears a little now and then. But don’t worry, don’t worry. The harpooneer I told you about has just arrived from the South Seas. There he bought a lot of embalmed New Zealand heads. Great curiosities, you know. He’s sold all but one, and he’s trying to sell that one tonight. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and he can’t go selling human heads in the streets while people are going to church. He wanted to do that last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was going out the door. He had four heads strung on a string, looking for all the world like a string of onions.”

This account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable mystery, and showed that the landlord, after all, had had no idea of fooling me—but at the same time what could I think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a Saturday night clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal business as selling the heads of dead idolators?

This explanation cleared up the mystery, which had seemed impossible to explain. It showed that the landlord had not been trying to fool me after all. But what was I to think of a harpooner who stayed out all Saturday night and into the holy Sabbath, selling the heads of dead idolaters? What a cannibal business!

“Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man.”

“You can be sure, landlord, that harpooner is a dangerous man.”

“He pays reg’lar,” was the rejoinder. “But come, it’s getting dreadful late, you had better be turning flukes—it’s a nice bed; Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There’s plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why, afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm. Arter that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday—you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere—come along then; do come; won’t ye come?”

“He pays regularly,” he replied. “But come on, it’s getting awfully late. You’d better turn in. It’s a nice bed. Sal and I slept in that bed the night we got married. There’s plenty of room for two to kick around in it. It’s a mighty big bed. Why, before we gave it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny at the foot of it. But one night I was dreaming and sprawling around, and somehow Sam got thrown onto the floor. He nearly broke his arm. After that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along, I’ll get you a light in a jiffy.” With that, he lit a candle and held it out toward me, offering to lead the way. But I stood there, unsure. Then he looked at a clock in the corner and exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be, it’s Sunday! You won’t see that harpooner tonight. He’s settled down somewhere. Come along then. Do come. Won’t you come?”

I considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs we went, and I was ushered into a small room, cold as a clam, and furnished, sure enough, with a prodigious bed, almost big enough indeed for any four harpooneers to sleep abreast.

I thought about it for a moment, and then we went upstairs. I was shown into a small room, cold as a clam. Sure enough, it had an enormous bed, almost big enough for four harpooners to sleep side by side.

“There,” said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table; “there, make yourself comfortable now, and good night to ye.” I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.

“There,” said the landlord, placing the candle on a rickety old sea chest. It served as both a washstand and a center table. “There, make yourself comfortable now, and good night to you.” I turned away from the bed, but he had disappeared.

Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed. Though none of the most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well. I then glanced round the room; and besides the bedstead and centre table, could see no other furniture belonging to the place, but a rude shelf, the four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a whale. Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a hammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a large seaman’s bag, containing the harpooneer’s wardrobe, no doubt in lieu of a land trunk. Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone fish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon standing at the head of the bed.

I folded back the bedspread and bent over the bed. Though it was not very elegant, it held up reasonably well under inspection. I then looked around the room. Besides the bedstead and the table in the center, I saw no other furnishings belonging to the room. There was only a rough shelf, the four walls, and a papered fireboard showing a man striking a whale. Among the things that did not properly belong to the room was a hammock, tied up and thrown on the floor in one corner. There was also a large sailor’s bag containing the harpooneer’s clothes, no doubt used in place of a land trunk. A bundle of strange bone fishhooks lay on the shelf over the fireplace, and a tall harpoon stood at the head of the bed.

But what is this on the chest? I took it up, and held it close to the light, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every way possible to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it. I can compare it to nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an Indian moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as you see the same in South American ponchos. But could it be possible that any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat, and parade the streets of any Christian town in that sort of guise? I put it on, to try it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy and thick, and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day. I went up in it to a bit of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life. I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink in the neck.

But what was this on the chest? I picked it up and held it close to the light. I felt it, smelled it, and tried every possible way to figure out what it was. I can only compare it to a large doormat. Its edges were decorated with little tinkling tags, rather like the dyed porcupine quills around a Native American moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of the mat, like those in South American ponchos. But could any sober harpooneer really put on a doormat and parade through the streets of a Christian town dressed like that? I put it on to try it. It weighed me down like a hamper, for it was unusually shaggy and thick. I thought it was a little damp too, as though the mysterious harpooneer had worn it on a rainy day. I went up to a piece of mirror fixed to the wall, still wearing the mat. I had never seen such a sight in my life. I tore the mat off so quickly that I gave myself a kink in the neck.

I sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this head-peddling harpooneer, and his door mat. After thinking some time on the bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket, and then stood in the middle of the room thinking. I then took off my coat, and thought a little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now, half undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about the harpooneer’s not coming home at all that night, it being so very late, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots, and then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself to the care of heaven.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and began thinking about the head-selling harpooner and his doormat. After thinking there for a while, I got up and took off my short jacket. Then I stood in the middle of the room, thinking. I took off my coat and thought a little more in my shirtsleeves. But I was beginning to feel very cold, half undressed as I was. I also remembered the landlord saying that the harpooner might not come home at all that night because it was so late. So I wasted no more time. I jumped out of my pants and boots, blew out the light, and tumbled into bed, commending myself to heaven’s care.

Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn-cobs or broken crockery, there is no telling, but I rolled about a good deal, and could not sleep for a long time. At last I slid off into a light doze, and had pretty nearly made a good offing towards the land of Nod, when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.

There was no telling whether the mattress was stuffed with corncobs or broken dishes, but I tossed and turned. I could not sleep for a long time. At last I drifted into a light doze and was almost well on my way to the land of Nod. Then I heard a heavy footstep in the hallway and saw a glimmer of light coming under the door.

Lord save me, thinks I, that must be the harpooneer, the infernal head-peddler. But I lay perfectly still, and resolved not to say a word till spoken to. Holding a light in one hand, and that identical New Zealand head in the other, the stranger entered the room, and without looking towards the bed, placed his candle a good way off from me on the floor in one corner, and then began working away at the knotted cords of the large bag I before spoke of as being in the room. I was all eagerness to see his face, but he kept it averted for some time while employed in unlacing the bag’s mouth. This accomplished, however, he turned round—when, good heavens! what a sight! Such a face! It was of a dark, purplish, yellow colour, here and there stuck over with large blackish looking squares. Yes, it’s just as I thought, he’s a terrible bedfellow; he’s been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here he is, just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his face so towards the light, that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this; but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story of a white man—a whaleman too—who, falling among the cannibals, had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot sun’s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at all. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag, he commenced fumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk, and a seal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in the middle of the room, he then took the New Zealand head—a ghastly thing enough—and crammed it down into the bag. He now took off his hat—a new beaver hat—when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head—none to speak of at least—nothing but a small scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish head now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had not the stranger stood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of it quicker than ever I bolted a dinner.

Lord save me, I thought. That must be the harpooneer, the damned head seller. But I lay perfectly still and decided not to say a word until he spoke to me. The stranger entered the room with a candle in one hand and that very same New Zealand head in the other. Without looking toward the bed, he set his candle on the floor in a corner, far from me. Then he began working at the knotted cords of the large bag I mentioned earlier. I was eager to see his face, but he kept it turned away while he untied the bag. When he finished, though, he turned around. Good heavens, what a sight! What a face! It was a dark, purplish yellow, with large blackish squares here and there. Yes, I thought, just as I suspected, he’s a terrible bedfellow. He’s been in a fight, been badly cut, and has just come from the surgeon. But then he turned his face toward the light. I could plainly see that the black squares on his cheeks couldn’t be bandages at all. They were some kind of marks. At first I didn’t know what to make of them, but soon I began to suspect the truth. I remembered a story about a white man, a whaler too, who had fallen among cannibals and been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer must have had a similar adventure on his distant voyages. And what of it, after all, I thought! It’s only his outside. A man can be honest in any kind of skin. But what was I to make of his strange complexion, apart from the tattooed squares? Of course, it might be nothing more than a deep tropical tan. But I’d never heard of hot sun turning a white man purplish yellow. Still, I had never been to the South Seas. Perhaps the sun there had these extraordinary effects on the skin. All these thoughts flashed through my mind, but the harpooneer never noticed me. After some difficulty, he opened his bag and began rummaging through it. Soon he pulled out a kind of tomahawk and a sealskin wallet with the hair still on it. He placed them on the old chest in the middle of the room. Then he took the New Zealand head, a ghastly thing, and stuffed it into the bag. He now took off his hat, a new beaver hat, and I nearly cried out in surprise again. He had no hair on his head, at least none to speak of, except for a small knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald, purplish head now looked exactly like a mildewed skull. If the stranger hadn’t been standing between me and the door, I’d have bolted out faster than I’d ever bolted a meal.

Even as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but it was the second floor back. I am no coward, but what to make of this head-peddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension. Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and confounded about the stranger, I confess I was now as much afraid of him as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at the dead of night. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game enough just then to address him, and demand a satisfactory answer concerning what seemed inexplicable in him.

Even so, I considered slipping out the window, but the room was on the second floor at the back. I am no coward, but I could not make sense of this purple rascal who peddled heads. Ignorance is the parent of fear, and the stranger had left me completely baffled and confused. I confess I was now as afraid of him as if the devil himself had broken into my room in the middle of the night. In fact, I was so afraid that I did not dare speak to him just then. I could not bring myself to demand a satisfactory explanation for what seemed so puzzling about him.

Meanwhile, he continued the business of undressing, and at last showed his chest and arms. As I live, these covered parts of him were checkered with the same squares as his face; his back, too, was all over the same dark squares; he seemed to have been in a Thirty Years’ War, and just escaped from it with a sticking-plaster shirt. Still more, his very legs were marked, as if a parcel of dark green frogs were running up the trunks of young palms. It was now quite plain that he must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman in the South Seas, and so landed in this Christian country. I quaked to think of it. A peddler of heads too—perhaps the heads of his own brothers. He might take a fancy to mine—heavens! look at that tomahawk!

Meanwhile, he went on undressing, and finally bared his chest and arms. I swear, those parts were covered in the same squares as his face. His back, too, was covered with the same dark squares. He looked as if he had fought in the Thirty Years’ War and escaped wearing a shirt of bandages. Even his legs were marked. They looked as if a group of dark green frogs were running up the trunks of young palm trees. It was now quite clear that he must be some dreadful savage. He must have joined a whaling ship in the South Seas and landed in this Christian country. I trembled at the thought. And he was a seller of heads, too, perhaps the heads of his own brothers. He might take a liking to mine. Heavens, look at that tomahawk!

But there was no time for shuddering, for now the savage went about something that completely fascinated my attention, and convinced me that he must indeed be a heathen. Going to his heavy grego, or wrapall, or dreadnaught, which he had previously hung on a chair, he fumbled in the pockets, and produced at length a curious little deformed image with a hunch on its back, and exactly the colour of a three days’ old Congo baby. Remembering the embalmed head, at first I almost thought that this black manikin was a real baby preserved in some similar manner. But seeing that it was not at all limber, and that it glistened a good deal like polished ebony, I concluded that it must be nothing but a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be. For now the savage goes up to the empty fire-place, and removing the papered fire-board, sets up this little hunch-backed image, like a tenpin, between the andirons. The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty, so that I thought this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.

But there was no time to shudder. The savage now began doing something that completely fascinated me and convinced me he must indeed be a heathen. He went to his heavy grego, or wrapall, or dreadnaught, which he had hung on a chair. He searched its pockets and finally pulled out a strange little misshapen figure with a hump on its back. It was exactly the color of a three-day-old Congo baby. Remembering the embalmed head, I almost thought the little black figure was a real baby preserved in a similar way. But it was not flexible at all, and it shone much like polished ebony. So I decided it must be nothing but a wooden idol, and indeed it was. The savage went to the empty fireplace and removed the papered fire-board. He set the little hunchbacked figure upright between the andirons, like a bowling pin. The sides of the chimney and all the bricks inside were very sooty. So I thought the fireplace made a very fitting little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.

I now screwed my eyes hard towards the half hidden image, feeling but ill at ease meantime—to see what was next to follow. First he takes about a double handful of shavings out of his grego pocket, and places them carefully before the idol; then laying a bit of ship biscuit on top and applying the flame from the lamp, he kindled the shavings into a sacrificial blaze. Presently, after many hasty snatches into the fire, and still hastier withdrawals of his fingers (whereby he seemed to be scorching them badly), he at last succeeded in drawing out the biscuit; then blowing off the heat and ashes a little, he made a polite offer of it to the little negro. But the little devil did not seem to fancy such dry sort of fare at all; he never moved his lips. All these strange antics were accompanied by still stranger guttural noises from the devotee, who seemed to be praying in a sing-song or else singing some pagan psalmody or other, during which his face twitched about in the most unnatural manner. At last extinguishing the fire, he took the idol up very unceremoniously, and bagged it again in his grego pocket as carelessly as if he were a sportsman bagging a dead woodcock.

I strained my eyes toward the half hidden image, feeling uneasy as I waited to see what would happen next. First he takes about two handfuls of shavings from his grego pocket and carefully places them before the idol. Then he puts a piece of ship biscuit on top and lights the shavings with the lamp, making a sacrificial fire. After many quick grabs into the fire, and even quicker withdrawals of his fingers, he finally manages to pull out the biscuit. He seems to be burning his fingers badly in the process. Then he blows off some of the heat and ashes and politely offers the biscuit to the little black figure. But the little devil does not seem to care for such dry food at all. He never moves his lips. All these strange antics are accompanied by even stranger guttural noises from the worshipper. He seems to be praying in a singsong voice or perhaps singing some kind of pagan hymn. All the while, his face twitches in a most unnatural way. At last he puts out the fire and picks up the idol without any ceremony. He stuffs it back into his grego pocket as carelessly as if he were a hunter bagging a dead woodcock.

All these queer proceedings increased my uncomfortableness, and seeing him now exhibiting strong symptoms of concluding his business operations, and jumping into bed with me, I thought it was high time, now or never, before the light was put out, to break the spell in which I had so long been bound.

All these strange actions made me even more uncomfortable. Now he seemed about to finish his business and jump into bed with me. So I thought it was high time to break the spell that had held me for so long. It was now or never, before the light went out.

But the interval I spent in deliberating what to say, was a fatal one. Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he examined the head of it for an instant, and then holding it to the light, with his mouth at the handle, he puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I sang out, I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.

But the time I spent deciding what to say proved fatal. He picked up his tomahawk from the table and examined its head for a moment. Then he held it up to the light, put his mouth to the handle, and puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment, the light went out, and this wild cannibal leaped into bed with me, his tomahawk between his teeth. I cried out. I could not help it now. He gave a sudden grunt of surprise and began feeling me.

Stammering out something, I knew not what, I rolled away from him against the wall, and then conjured him, whoever or whatever he might be, to keep quiet, and let me get up and light the lamp again. But his guttural responses satisfied me at once that he but ill comprehended my meaning.

Stammering something I couldn’t make out myself, I rolled away from him and against the wall. Then I begged him, whoever or whatever he might be, to keep quiet and let me get up and relight the lamp. But his guttural replies immediately told me that he barely understood what I meant.

“Who-e debel you?”—he at last said—“you no speak-e, dam-me, I kill-e.” And so saying the lighted tomahawk began flourishing about me in the dark.

“Who the devil are you?” he finally said. “If you don't speak, damn me, I'll kill you.” As he spoke, he waved the lit tomahawk around me in the dark.

“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” shouted I. “Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! save me!”

“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” I shouted. “Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! Save me!”

“Speak-e! tell-ee me who-ee be, or dam-me, I kill-e!” again growled the cannibal, while his horrid flourishings of the tomahawk scattered the hot tobacco ashes about me till I thought my linen would get on fire. But thank heaven, at that moment the landlord came into the room light in hand, and leaping from the bed I ran up to him.

“Speak! Tell me who you are, or damn me, I’ll kill you!” the cannibal growled again. He waved his tomahawk around so horribly that hot tobacco ashes scattered over me. I thought my linen would catch fire. But thank heaven, just then the landlord came into the room carrying a light. I leaped from the bed and ran up to him.

“Don’t be afraid now,” said he, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, grinning again. “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair on your head.”

“Stop your grinning,” shouted I, “and why didn’t you tell me that that infernal harpooneer was a cannibal?”

“Stop grinning!” I shouted. “And why didn’t you tell me that damned harpooner was a cannibal?”

“I thought ye know’d it;—didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads around town?—but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here—you sabbee me, I sabbee—you this man sleepe you—you sabbee?”

“I thought you knew. Didn’t I tell you he was selling heads around town? But turn over and go back to sleep. Queequeg, look here. You understand me, I understand you. This man sleeps with you. Do you understand?”

“Me sabbee plenty”—grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed.

“I understand plenty,” grunted Queequeg, sitting up in bed and puffing on his pipe.

“You gettee in,” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself—the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

“Get in,” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk and throwing the bedclothes aside. He did this not just politely, but with real kindness and generosity. I stood looking at him for a moment. Despite all his tattoos, he was, on the whole, a clean, handsome-looking cannibal. What have I been making all this fuss about? I thought. The man is a human being, just as I am. He has just as much reason to fear me as I have to fear him. Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him. But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”

“Landlord,” I said, “tell him to put away his tomahawk, or pipe, or whatever you call it. Tell him to stop smoking, and I’ll go to bed with him. But I don’t like having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I’m not insured.”

This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely motioned me to get into bed—rolling over to one side as much as to say—“I won’t touch a leg of ye.”

When Queequeg was told this, he immediately agreed and again politely motioned for me to get into bed. He rolled over to one side, as if to say, “I won’t touch your leg.”

“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”

“Good night, landlord,” I said. “You may go.”

I turned in, and never slept better in my life.

I went to bed and slept better than I ever had in my life.