Moby-Dick; or, The Whale

King, Queequeg’s father. Grace being said,—for those people have their
grace as well as we—though Queequeg told me that unlike us, who at such
times look downwards to our platters, they, on the contrary, copying
the ducks, glance upwards to the great Giver of all feasts—Grace, I
say, being said, the High Priest opens the banquet by the immemorial
ceremony of the island; that is, dipping his consecrated and
consecrating fingers into the bowl before the blessed beverage
circulates. Seeing himself placed next the Priest, and noting the
ceremony, and thinking himself—being Captain of a ship—as having plain
precedence over a mere island King, especially in the King’s own
house—the Captain coolly proceeds to wash his hands in the punch
bowl;—taking it I suppose for a huge finger-glass. “Now,” said
Queequeg, “what you tink now,—Didn’t our people laugh?”

At last, passage paid, and luggage safe, we stood on board the
schooner. Hoisting sail, it glided down the Acushnet river. On one
side, New Bedford rose in terraces of streets, their ice-covered trees
all glittering in the clear, cold air. Huge hills and mountains of
casks on casks were piled upon her wharves, and side by side the