“Aft here, ye sons of bachelors,” he cried, as the sailors lingered at the mainmast. “ Mr. Starbuck, drive ’em aft.”

“Strike the tent there!”⁠—was the next order. As I hinted before, this whalebone marquee was never pitched except in port; and on board the Pequod , for thirty years, the order to strike the tent was well known to be the next thing to heaving up the anchor.

“Man the capstan! Blood and thunder!⁠—jump!”⁠—was the next command, and the crew sprang for the handspikes.