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The Spirit-Spout

           Fewornowordswerespoken;andthesilentship,asifmannedbypaintedsailorsinwax,dayafterdaytoreonthroughalltheswiftmadnessandgladnessofthedemoniacwaves.Bynightthesamemutenessofhumanitybeforetheshrieksoftheoceanprevailed;stillinsilencethemenswunginthebowlines;stillwordlessAhabstooduptotheblast.Evenwhenweariednatureseemeddemandingreposehewouldnotseekthatresposeinhishammock.NevercouldStarbuckforgettheoldman’saspect,whenonenightgoingdownintothecabintomarkhowthebarometerstood,hesawhimwithclosedeyessittingstraightinhisfloor-screwedchair;therainandhalf-meltedsleetofthestormfromwhichhehadsometimebeforeemerged,stillslowlydrippingfromtheunremovedhatandcoat.Onthetablebesidehimlayunrolledoneofthosechartsoftidesandcurrentswhichhavepreviouslybeenspokenof.Hislanternswungfromhistightlyclenchedhand.Thoughthebodywaserect,theheadwasthrownbacksothattheclosedeveswerepointedtowardstheneedleofthetell-talethatswungfromabeamintheceiling.

           Terribleoldman!thoughtStarbuckwithashudder,sleepinginthisgale,stillthousteadfastlyeyestthypurpose.

           

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