Meantime, Ahab holding the letter, muttered, “ Mr. Har⁠—yes, Mr. Harry⁠—(a woman’s pinny hand⁠—the man’s wife, I’ll wager)⁠—Aye⁠— Mr. Harry Macey, Ship Jeroboam ;⁠—why it’s Macey, and he’s dead!”

“Poor fellow! poor fellow! and from his wife,” sighed Mayhew; “but let me have it.”

“Nay, keep it thyself,” cried Gabriel to Ahab; “thou art soon going that way.”