Look at him;
he stands upright in the tossed bow of the flying boat;
wrapt in fleecy foam, the towing whale is forty feet ahead.
Handling the long lance lightly, glancing twice or thrice along
its length to see if it be exactly straight, Stubb whistlingly
gathers up the coil of the warp in one hand, so as to secure
its free end in his grasp, leaving the rest unobstructed.
Then holding the lance full before his waistband's middle,
he levels it at the whale; when, covering him with it,
he steadily depresses the butt-end in his hand, thereby elevating
the point till the weapon stands fairly balanced upon his palm,
fifteen feet in the air. He minds you somewhat of a juggler,
balancing a long staff on his chin. Next moment with a rapid,
nameless impulse, in a superb lofty arch the bright steel spans
the foaming distance, and quivers in the life spot of the whale.
Instead of sparkling water, he now spouts red blood.
"That drove the spigot out of him!" cried Stubb. "'Tis July's
immortal Fourth; all fountains must run wine today!
Would now, it were old Orleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or unspeakable
old Monongahela! Then, Tashtego, lad, I'd have ye hold a canakin
to the jet, and we'd drink round it! Yea, verily, hearts alive,
we'd brew choice punch in the spread of his spout-hole there,
and from that live punch-bowl quaff the living stuff.
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