22 
MOBY DICK; OR 
room light in hand, and leaping from the bed I ran up to him. 
“Don’t be afraid now,” said he, grinning again. “Queequeg here 
wouldn’t harm a hair of jour head.” 
“Stop jour grinning,” shouted I, “and whj didn’t jou tell me that 
infernal harpooneer was a cannibal ?” 
“I thought je know’d it ; — didn’t I tell je, he was a peddlin’ heads 
around town ? — But turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look 
here — jou sabbee me, I sabbee jou — this man sleepe jou — jou sab- 
bee ?” 
“Me sabbee plenty” — granted Queequeg, puffing awaj at his pipe 
and sitting up in bed. 
“You gettee in,” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and 
throwing the clothes to one side. He reallj did this in not onlj a civil 
but a reallj kind and charitable waj. I stood looking at him a mo- 
ment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, cornel j look- 
ing cannibal. “What’s all this fuss I have been making about,” 
thought I to mjself — “the man’s a human being just as I am: he has 
just as much reason to fear me as I have to be afraid of him. Better 
sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.” 
“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, 
or whatever jou call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will 
turn in with him. But I don’t fancj having a man smoking in bed 
with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.” 
This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politelj 
motioned me to get into bed — rolling over to one side as much as to 
saj — “I won’t touch a leg of je.” 
“Good-night, landlord,” said I ; “jou maj go.” 
I turned in, and never slept better in mj life. 
CHAPTER IY 
THE COUNTERPANE 
Upon waking next morning about dajlight, I found Queequeg’s arm 
thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You 
had almost thought I had been his wife. The counterpane was of 
patchwork, full of odd little parti-coloured squares and triangles; and 
