Chapter Chapter 121 · Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.

_Stubb and Flask mounted on them, and passing additional lashings over

the anchors there hanging._

“No, Stubb; you may pound that knot there as much as you please, but

you will never pound into me what you were just now saying. And how

long ago is it since you said the very contrary? Didn’t you once say

that whatever ship Ahab sails in, that ship should pay something extra

on its insurance policy, just as though it were loaded with powder

barrels aft and boxes of lucifers forward? Stop, now; didn’t you say

so?”

“Well, suppose I did? What then? I’ve part changed my flesh since that

time, why not my mind? Besides, supposing we _are_ loaded with powder

barrels aft and lucifers forward; how the devil could the lucifers get

afire in this drenching spray here? Why, my little man, you have pretty

red hair, but you couldn’t get afire now. Shake yourself; you’re

Aquarius, or the water-bearer, Flask; might fill pitchers at your coat

collar. Don’t you see, then, that for these extra risks the Marine

Insurance companies have extra guarantees? Here are hydrants, Flask.

But hark, again, and I’ll answer ye the other thing. First take your

leg off from the crown of the anchor here, though, so I can pass the

rope; now listen. What’s the mighty difference between holding a mast’s

lightning-rod in the storm, and standing close by a mast that hasn’t

got any lightning-rod at all in a storm? Don’t you see, you

timber-head, that no harm can come to the holder of the rod, unless the

mast is first struck? What are you talking about, then? Not one ship in

a hundred carries rods, and Ahab,—aye, man, and all of us,—were in no

more danger then, in my poor opinion, than all the crews in ten

thousand ships now sailing the seas. Why, you King-Post, you, I suppose

you would have every man in the world go about with a small

lightning-rod running up the corner of his hat, like a militia

officer’s skewered feather, and trailing behind like his sash. Why

don’t ye be sensible, Flask? it’s easy to be sensible; why don’t ye,

then? any man with half an eye can be sensible.”

“I don’t know that, Stubb. You sometimes find it rather hard.”

“Yes, when a fellow’s soaked through, it’s hard to be sensible, that’s

a fact. And I am about drenched with this spray. Never mind; catch the

turn there, and pass it. Seems to me we are lashing down these anchors

now as if they were never going to be used again. Tying these two

anchors here, Flask, seems like tying a man’s hands behind him. And

what big generous hands they are, to be sure. These are your iron

fists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the

world is anchored anywhere; if she is, she swings with an uncommon long

cable, though. There, hammer that knot down, and we’ve done. So; next

to touching land, lighting on deck is the most satisfactory. I say,

just wring out my jacket skirts, will ye? Thank ye. They laugh at

long-togs so, Flask; but seems to me, a long tailed coat ought always

to be worn in all storms afloat. The tails tapering down that way,

serve to carry off the water, d’ye see. Same with cocked hats; the

cocks form gable-end eave-troughs, Flask. No more monkey-jackets and

tarpaulins for me; I must mount a swallow-tail, and drive down a

beaver; so. Halloa! whew! there goes my tarpaulin overboard; Lord,

Lord, that the winds that come from heaven should be so unmannerly!

This is a nasty night, lad.”