Moby-Dick; or, The Whale

man, but I was frightened. Such a phiz! But, somehow, next moment I was
over the fright. ‘What am I about?’ says I at last. ‘And what business
is that of yours, I should like to know, Mr. Humpback? Do _you_ want a
kick?’ By the lord, Flask, I had no sooner said that, than he turned
round his stern to me, bent over, and dragging up a lot of seaweed he
had for a clout—what do you think, I saw?—why thunder alive, man, his
stern was stuck full of marlinspikes, with the points out. Says I, on
second thoughts, ‘I guess I won’t kick you, old fellow.’ ‘Wise Stubb,’
said he, ‘wise Stubb;’ and kept muttering it all the time, a sort of
eating of his own gums like a chimney hag. Seeing he wasn’t going to
stop saying over his ‘wise Stubb, wise Stubb,’ I thought I might as
well fall to kicking the pyramid again. But I had only just lifted my
foot for it, when he roared out, ‘Stop that kicking!’ ‘Halloa,’ says I,
‘what’s the matter now, old fellow?’ ‘Look ye here,’ says he; ‘let’s
argue the insult. Captain Ahab kicked ye, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’
says I—‘right _here_ it was.’ ‘Very good,’ says he—‘he used his ivory
leg, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’ says I. ‘Well then,’ says he, ‘wise