Tashtego .

Quietly smoking. That’s a white man; he calls that fun: humph! I save my sweat.

Old Manx sailor .

I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what they are dancing over. I’ll dance over your grave, I will⁠—that’s the bitterest threat of your night-women, that beat headwinds round corners. O Christ! to think of the green navies and the green-skulled crews! Well, well; belike the whole world’s a ball, as you scholars have it; and so ’tis right to make one ballroom of it. Dance on, lads, you’re young; I was once.

3rd Nantucket sailor .

Spell oh!⁠—whew! this is worse than pulling after whales in a calm⁠—give us a whiff, Tash.