"Landlord, for God's sake, Peter Coffin!" shouted
I. "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.
"Don't be afraid now," said he, grinning again, "Queequeg here wouldn't
harm a hair of your head."
"Stop your grinning," shouted I, "and why didn't you tell me
that that infernal harpooneer 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?"
"Me sabbee plenty"--grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe
and sitting up in bed.
"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.
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