Well, well, my dear comrade and twin-brother, thought I, as I drew in and then slacked off the rope to every swell of the sea⁠—what matters it, after all? Are you not the precious image of each and all of us men in this whaling world? That unsounded ocean you gasp in, is Life; those sharks, your foes; those spades, your friends; and what between sharks and spades you are in a sad pickle and peril, poor lad.

But courage! there is good cheer in store for you, Queequeg. For now, as with blue lips and bloodshot eyes the exhausted savage at last climbs up the chains and stands all dripping and involuntarily trembling over the side; the steward advances, and with a benevolent, consolatory glance hands him⁠—what? Some hot Cognac? No! hands him, ye gods! hands him a cup of tepid ginger and water!