88 
THE WHITE WHALE 
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 hut 
shabbily apparelled in faded jacket and patched trousers; a rag of a 
black handkerchief investing his neck. A confluent small-pox 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 hack 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 haven’t got any,” he said quickly. “Ho matter 
though, I know many chaps that haven’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.” 
“What are you jabbering about, shipmate?” said I. 
“He’s got enough, though, to make up for all deficiencies of that 
sort in other chaps,” abruptly said the stranger, placing a nervous em- 
phasis upon the word he. 
“Queequeg,” said I, “let’s go; this fellow has broken loose from 
somewhere ; he’s talking about something and somebody we don’t know.” 
“Stop!” cried the stranger. “Ye said true — ye haven’t seen Old 
Thunder yet, have ye ?” 
“Who’s Old Thunder ?” said I, again riveted with the insane earnest- 
ness of his manner. 
“Captain Ahab.” 
“What! the captain of our ship, the Pequod V’ 
“Aye, among some of us old sailor chaps, he goes by that name. 
Ye haven’t seen him yet, have ye ?” 
“Ho, we haven’t. He’s sick they say, but is getting better, and will 
be all right again before long.” 
“All right again before long !” laughed the stranger, with a solemnly 
