Моби Дик

Stubb’s Supper

           Ifyouhaveneverseenthatsight,thensuspendyourdecisionabouttheproprietyofdevil-worship,andtheexpediencyofconciliatingthedevil.

           But,asyet,Stubbheedednotthemumblingsofthebanquetthatwasgoingonsonighhim,nomorethanthesharksheededthesmackingofhisownepicureanlips.

           "Cook,cook!where’sthatoldFleece?"hecriedatlength,wideninghislegsstillfurther,asiftoformamoresecurebaseforhissupper;and,atthesametimedartinghisforkintothedish,asifstabbingwithhislance;"cook,youcook!sailthisway,cook!"

           Theoldblack,notinanyveryhighgleeathavingbeenpreviouslyrousedfromhiswarmhammockatamostunseasonablehour,cameshamblingalongfromhisgalley,for,likemanyoldblacks,therewassomethingthematterwithhisknee-pans,whichhedidnotkeepwellscouredlikehisotherpans;thisoldFleece,astheycalledhim,cameshufflingandlimpingalong,assistinghisstepwithhistongs,which,afteraclumsyfashion,weremadeofstraightenedironhoops;thisoldEbonyflounderedalong,andinobediencetothewordofcommand,cametoadeadstopontheoppositesideofStubb’ssideboard;when,withbothhandsfoldedbeforehim,andrestingonhistwo-leggedcane,hebowedhisarchedbackstillfurtherover,atthesametimesidewaysinclininghishead,soastobringhisbestearintoplay.

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