483 
THE WHITE WHALE 
“Thank ye, man. Thy coffin lies handy to the vault.” 
“Sir ? The hatchway ? oh ! So it does, sir, so it does.” 
Art not thou the leg-maker ? Look, did not this stump come from 
thy shop ?” 
“I believe it did, sir ; does the ferrule stand, sir ?” 
“Well enough. But art thou not also the undertaker?” 
“Aye, sir; I patched up this thing here as a coffin for Queequeg; 
but they’ve set me now to turning it into something else.” 
“Then tell me ; art thou not an arrant, all-grasping, inter-meddling, 
monopolising, heathenish old scamp, to be one day making legs, and 
the next day coffins to clap them in, and yet again lifebuoys out of 
those same coffins ? Thou art as unprincipled as the gods, and as much 
of a J ack-of-all-trades.” 
“But I do not mean anything, sir. I do as I do.” 
“The gods again. Hark ye, dost thou not ever sing working about 
a coffin? The Titans, they say, hummed snatches when chipping out 
the craters for volcanoes ; and the gravedigger in the play sings, spade 
in hand. Dost thou never ?” 
“Sing, sir? Do I sing? Oh, I’m indifferent enough, sir, for that; 
but the reason why the gravedigger made music must have been be- 
cause there was none in his spade, sir. But the caulking mallet is 
full of it. Hark to it.” 
“Aye, and that’s because the lid there’s a sounding-board; and what 
in all things makes the sounding-board is this — there’s naught beneath. 
And yet, a coffin with a body in it rings pretty much the same, Car- 
penter. Hast thou ever helped carry a bier, and heard the coffin knock 
against the churchyard gate going in?” 
“Faith, sir, I’ve ” 
“Faith ? What’s that ?” 
“Why, faith, sir, it’s only a sort of exclamation-like — that’s all, 
sir.” 
“Um, um ; go on.” 
“I was about to say, sir, that ” 
“Art thou a silkworm ? Dost thou spin thy own shroud out of thy- 
self? Look at thy bosom! Dispatch! and get these traps out of 
sight.” 
