Towards evening, when I felt assured that all his performances and
rituals must be over, I went up to his room and knocked at the door;
but no answer. I tried to open it, but it was fastened inside.
"Queequeg," said I softly through the key-hole:--all silent.
"I say, Queequeg! why don't you speak? It's I--Ishmael." But all
remained still as before. I began to grow alarmed. I had allowed him
such abundant time; I thought he might have had an apoplectic fit.
I looked through the key-hole; but the door opening into an odd corner
of the room, the key-hole prospect was but a crooked and sinister one.
I could only see part of the foot-board of the bed and a line of the wall,
but nothing more. I was surprised to behold resting against the wall
the wooden shaft of Queequeg's harpoon, which the landlady the evening
previous had taken from him, before our mounting to the chamber.
That's strange, thought I; but at any rate, since the harpoon
stands yonder, and he seldom or never goes abroad without it,
therefore he must be inside here, and no possible mistake.
"Queequeg!--Queequeg!"--all still. Something must
have happened. Apoplexy! I tried to burst open the door;
but it stubbornly resisted.
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