He commenced dressing at top by donning his beaver hat, a very tall one, by the by, and then⁠—still minus his trousers⁠—he hunted up his boots. What under the heavens he did it for, I cannot tell, but his next movement was to crush himself⁠—boots in hand, and hat on⁠—under the bed; when, from sundry violent gaspings and strainings, I inferred he was hard at work booting himself; though by no law of propriety that I ever heard of, is any man required to be private when putting on his boots. But Queequeg, do you see, was a creature in the transition stage⁠—neither caterpillar nor butterfly. He was just enough civilized to show off his outlandishness in the strangest possible manners. His education was not yet completed. He was an undergraduate. If he had not been a small degree civilized, he very probably would not have troubled himself with boots at all; but then, if he had not been still a savage, he never would have dreamt of getting under the bed to put them on. At last, he emerged with his hat very much dented and crushed down over his eyes, and began creaking and limping about the room, as if, not being much accustomed to boots, his pair of damp, wrinkled cowhide ones⁠—probably not made to order either⁠—rather pinched and tormented him at the first go off of a bitter cold morning.