THE WHITE WHALE 401 
the old witch in Copenhagen. Now, in what sign will the sun then he ? 
The horseshoe sign ; for there it is, right opposite the gold. And what’s 
the horseshoe sign? The lion is the horseshoe sign — the roaring and 
devouring lion. Ship, old ship! my head shakes to think of thee.” 
“There’s another rendering now; hut still one text. All sorts of 
men in one kind of world, you see. Dodge again! here comes Quee- 
queg — all tattooing — looks like the signs of the Zodiac himself. What 
says the Cannibal? As I live he’s comparing notes; looking at his 
thigh bone; thinks the sun is in the thigh, or in the calf, or in the 
bowels, I suppose, as the old women talk Surgeon’s Astronomy in the 
back country. And by Jove, he’s found something there in the vicin- 
ity of his thigh — I guess it’s Sagittarius, or the Archer. No: he 
don’t know what to make of the doubloon ; he takes it for an old button 
off some king’s trousers. But, aside again! here comes that ghost- 
devil, Fedallah; tail coiled out of sight as usual, oakum in the toes 
of his pumps as usual. What does he say, with that look of his ? Ah, 
only makes a sign to the sign and bows himself ; there is a sun on the 
coin — fire worshipper, depend upon it. Ho ! more and more. This 
way comes Pip — poor boy! would he had died, or I; he’s half hor- 
rible to me. He too has been watching all of these interpreters — my- 
self included — and look now, he comes to read, with that unearthly 
idiot face. Stand away again and hear him. Hark !” 
“I look, you look, he looks ; we look, ye look, they look.” 
“Upon my soul, he’s been studying Murray’s Grammar ! Improving 
his mind, poor fellow ! But what’s that he says now — hist !” 
“I look, you look, he looks ; we look, ye look, they look.” 
“Why, he’s getting it by heart — hist ! again.” 
“I look, you look, he looks ; we look, ye look, they look.” 
“Well, that’s funny.” 
“And I, you and he ; and we, ye, and they, are all bats ; and I’m a 
crow, especially when I stand a’ top of this pine tree here. Caw! 
caw ! caw ! caw ! caw ! caw ! Ain’t I a crow ? And where’s the scare- 
crow ? There he stands ; two hones stuck into a pair of old trousers, 
and two more poked into the sleeves of an old jacket.” 
“Wonder if he means me ? — complimentary ! : — poor lad ! — I could go 
