THE WHITE WHALE 273 
bellies is bottomless; and when dey do get ’em full, dey won’t hear 
you den; for den dey sink in de sea, go fast to sleep on de coral, and 
can’t hear not’ing at all, no more, for eber and eber.” 
“Upon my soul, I am about of the same opinion; so give the bless- 
ing, Fleece, and I’ll away to my supper.” 
Upon this, Fleece, holding both hands over the fishy mob, raised his 
shrill voice, and cried — 
“Cussed fellow-critters! Kick up de damndest row as ever you 
can ; fill your dam bellies ’till they bust — and den die.” 
“How, cook,” said Stubb, resuming his supper at the capstan; “stand 
just where you stood before, there, over against me, and pay particular 
attention.” 
“All ’dention,” said Fleece, again stooping over upon his tongs in 
the desired position. 
“Well,” said Stubb, helping himself freely meanwhile ; “I shall now 
go back to the subject of this steak. In the first place, how old are you, 
cook ?” 
“What dat do wid de ’teak?” said the old black testily. 
“Silence! How old are you, cook?” 
“ ’Bout ninety, dey say,” he gloomily muttered. 
“And you have lived in this world hard upon one hundred years, 
cook, and don’t know yet how to cook a whale-steak?” rapidly bolting 
another mouthful at the last word, so that that morsel seemed a contin- 
uation of the question. “Where were you born, cook?” 
“ ’Hind de hatchway, in ferry-boat, goin’ ober de Roanoke.” 
“Born in a ferry-boat! That’s queer, too. But I want to know 
what country you were bora in, cook ?” 
“Didn’t I say de Roanoke country ?” he cried sharply. 
“Ho, you didn’t, cook; but I’ll tell you what I’m coming to, cook. 
You must go home and be born over again; you don’t know how to 
cook a whale-steak yet.” 
“Bress my soul, if I cook nodder one,” he growled angrily, turning 
round to depart. 
“Come back, cook ; — here, hand me those tongs ; — now take that bit 
of steak there, and tell me if you think that steak cooked as it should 
be ? Take it, I say” — holding the tongs towards him — “take it, and 
taste it.” 
