“Ginger? Do I smell ginger?” suspiciously asked Stubb, coming near. “Yes, this must be ginger,” peering into the as yet untasted cup. Then standing as if incredulous for a while, he calmly walked towards the astonished steward slowly saying, “Ginger? ginger? and will you have the goodness to tell me, Mr. Dough-Boy, where lies the virtue of ginger? Ginger! is ginger the sort of fuel you use, Dough-Boy, to kindle a fire in this shivering cannibal? Ginger!⁠—what the devil is ginger? Sea-coal? firewood?⁠—lucifer matches?⁠—tinder?⁠—gunpowder?⁠—what the devil is ginger, I say, that you offer this cup to our poor Queequeg here.”