They asked him, then, whether to
live or die was a matter of his own sovereign will and pleasure.
He answered, certainly. In a word, it was Queequeg's conceit,
that if a man made up his mind to live, mere sickness could not kill him:
nothing but a whale, or a gale, or some violent, ungovernable,
unintelligent destroyer of that sort.
Now, there is this noteworthy difference between savage and civilized;
that while a sick, civilized man may be six months convalescing,
generally speaking, a sick savage is almost half-well again
in a day. So, in good time my Queequeg gained strength;
and at length after sitting on the windlass for a few indolent days
(but eating with a vigorous appetite) he suddenly leaped to his feet,
threw out his arms and legs, gave himself a good stretching, yawned a
little bit, and then springing into the head of his hoisted boat,
and poising a harpoon, pronounced himself fit for a fight.
With a wild whimsiness, he now used his coffin for a sea-chest;
and emptying into it his canvas bag of clothes, set them in order there.
Many spare hours he spent, in carving the lid with all manner of grotesque
figures and drawings; and it seemed that hereby he was striving,
in his rude way, to copy parts of the twisted tattooing on his body.
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