Well, well, my dear comrade and twin-brother, thought I, as I
drew in and then slacked off the rope to every swell of the sea--
what matters it, after all? Are you not the precious
image of each and all of us men in this whaling world?
That unsounded ocean you gasp in, is Life; those sharks, your foes;
those spades, your friends; and what between sharks and spades
you are in a sad pickle and peril, poor lad.
But courage! there is good cheer in store for you, Queequeg. For now,
as with blue lips and blood-shot eyes the exhausted savage at last
climbs up the chains and stands all dripping and involuntarily
trembling over the side; the steward advances, and with a benevolent,
consolatory glance hands him--what? Some hot Cognac? No! hands him,
ye gods! hands him a cup of tepid ginger and water!
"Ginger? Do I smell ginger?" suspiciously asked Stubb, coming near.
"Yes, this must be ginger," peering into the as yet untasted cup.
Then standing as if incredulous for a while, he calmly walked towards
the astonished steward slowly saying, "Ginger? ginger? and will you have
the goodness to tell me, Mr. Dough-Boy, where lies the virtue of ginger?
Ginger! is ginger the sort of fuel you use, Dough-boy, to kindle a fire
in this shivering cannibal? Ginger!--what the devil is ginger?--
sea-coal? firewood?--lucifer matches?--tinder?--gunpowder?--what the devil
is ginger, I say, that you offer this cup to our poor Queequeg here.
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