“He would have shot me once,” he murmured, “yes, there’s the very musket that he pointed at me;⁠—that one with the studded stock; let me touch it⁠—lift it. Strange, that I, who have handled so many deadly lances, strange, that I should shake so now. Loaded? I must see. Aye, aye; and powder in the pan;⁠—that’s not good. Best spill it?⁠—wait. I’ll cure myself of this. I’ll hold the musket boldly while I think.⁠—I come to report a fair wind to him. But how fair? Fair for death and doom⁠— that’s fair for Moby Dick. It’s a fair wind that’s only fair for that accursed fish.⁠—The very tube he pointed at me!⁠—the very one; this