68 
MOBY DICK; OR 
tuns upon tuns of leviathan gore. How now in the contemplative 
evening of his days, the pious Bildad reconciled these things in the 
reminiscence, I do not know ; but it did not seem to concern him much, 
and very probably he had long since come to the sage and sensible con- 
clusion that a man’s religion is one thing, and this practical world 
quite another. This world pays dividends. Rising from a little 
cabin-boy in short clothes of the drabbest drab, to a harpooneer in a 
broad shad-bellied waistcoat; from that becoming boatheader, chief 
mate, and captain, and finally a ship owner; Bildad, as I hinted be- 
fore, had concluded his adventurous career by wholly retiring from 
active life at the goodly age of sixty, and dedicating his remaining 
days to the quiet receiving of his well-earned income. 
How Bildad, I am sorry to say, had the reputation of being an incor- 
rigible old hunks, and in his sea-going days, a bitter, hard taskmaster. 
They told me in Hantucket, though it certainly seems a curious story, 
that when he sailed the old Categut whaleman, his crew upon arriving 
home, were mostly all carried ashore to the hospital, sore exhausted 
and worn out. For a pious man, especially for a Quaker, he was 
certainly rather hard-hearted, to say the least. He never used to 
swear, though, at his men, they said; but somehow he got an inor- 
dinate quantity of cruel, unmitigated hard work out of them. When 
Bildad was a chief-mate, to have his drab-coloured eye intently looking 
at you, made you feel completely nervous, till you could clutch some- 
thing — a hammer or a marling-spike, and go to work like mad, at some- 
thing or other, never mind what. Indolence and idleness perished 
from before him. His own person was the exact embodiment of his 
utilitarian character. On his long, gaunt body, he carried no spare 
flesh, no superfluous beard, his chin having a soft, economical nap 
to it, like the worn nap of his broad-brimmed hat. 
Such, then, was the person that I saw seated on the transom when 
I followed Captain Peleg down into the cabin. The space between the 
decks was small; and there, bolt-upright, sat old Bildad, who always 
sat so, and never leaned, and this to save his coat tails. His broad- 
brim was placed beside him ; his legs were stiffly crossed ; his drab ves- 
ture was buttoned up to his chin; and spectacles on nose, he seemed 
absorbed in reading from a ponderous volume. 
“Bildad,” cried Captain Peleg, “at it again, Bildad, eh? Ye have 
