“Don’t be afraid, my butter-boxes,” cried Stubb, casting a passing glance upon them as he shot by; “ye’ll be picked up presently⁠—all right⁠—I saw some sharks astern⁠— St. Bernard’s dogs, you know⁠—relieve distressed travellers. Hurrah! this is the way to sail now. Every keel a sunbeam! Hurrah!⁠—Here we go like three tin kettles at the tail of a mad cougar! This puts me in mind of fastening to an elephant in a tilbury on a plain⁠—makes the wheel-spokes fly, boys, when you fasten to him that way; and there’s danger of being pitched out too, when you strike a hill. Hurrah! this is the way a fellow feels when he’s going to Davy Jones⁠—all a rush down an endless inclined plane! Hurrah! this whale carries the everlasting mail!”