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Bildad
said
no
more
,
but
buttoning
up
his
coat
,
stalked
on
deck
,
where
we
followed
him
.
There
he
stood
,
very
quietly
overlooking
some
sailmakers
who
were
mending
a
top-sail
in
the
waist
.
Now
and
then
he
stooped
to
pick
up
a
patch
,
or
save
an
end
of
tarred
twine
,
which
otherwise
might
have
been
wasted
.
Shipmates
,
have
ye
shipped
in
that
ship
?
"
Queequeg
and
I
had
just
left
the
Pequod
,
and
were
sauntering
from
the
water
,
for
the
moment
each
occupied
with
his
own
thoughts
,
when
the
above
words
were
put
to
us
by
a
stranger
,
who
,
pausing
before
us
,
levelled
his
massive
forefinger
at
the
vessel
in
question
.
He
was
but
shabbily
apparelled
in
faded
jacket
and
patched
trowsers
;
a
rag
of
a
black
handkerchief
investing
his
neck
.
A
confluent
smallpox
had
in
all
directions
flowed
over
his
face
,
and
left
it
like
the
complicated
ribbed
bed
of
a
torrent
,
when
the
rushing
waters
have
been
dried
up
.
"
Have
ye
shipped
in
her
?
"
he
repeated
.
"
You
mean
the
ship
Pequod
,
I
suppose
,
"
said
I
,
trying
to
gain
a
little
more
time
for
an
uninterrupted
look
at
him
.
"
Aye
,
the
Pequod
--
that
ship
there
,
"
he
said
,
drawing
back
his
whole
arm
and
then
rapidly
shoving
it
straight
out
from
him
-
,
with
the
fixed
bayonet
of
his
pointed
finger
darted
full
at
the
object
.
"
Yes
,
"
said
I
,
"
we
have
just
signed
the
articles
.
"
"
Anything
down
there
about
your
souls
?
"
"
About
what
?
"
"
Oh
,
perhaps
you
hav
'n'
t
got
any
,
"
he
said
quickly
.
"
No
matter
though
,
I
know
many
chaps
that
hav
'n'
t
got
any
--
good
luck
to
'
em
;
and
they
are
all
the
better
off
for
it
.
A
soul
's
a
sort
of
a
fifth
wheel
to
a
wagon
.
"
