"Those sailors we saw, Queequeg, where can they have gone to?" said I, looking dubiously at the sleeper. But it seemed that, when on the wharf, Queequeg had not at all noticed what I now alluded to; hence I would have thought myself to have been optically deceived in that matter, were it not for Elijah's otherwise inexplicable question. But I beat the thing down; and again marking the sleeper, jocularly hinted to Queequeg that perhaps we had best sit up with the body; telling him to establish himself accordingly. He put his hand upon the sleeper's rear, as though feeling if it was soft enough; and then, without more ado, sat quietly down there.
"Gracious! Queequeg, don't sit there," said I.
"Oh; perry dood seat," said Queequeg, "my country way; won't hurt him face."
"Face!" said I, "call that his face? very benevolent countenance then; but how hard he breathes, he's heaving himself; get off, Queequeg, you are heavy, it's grinding the face of the poor. Get off, Queequeg! Look, he'll twitch you off soon. I wonder he don't wake."
Queequeg removed himself to just beyond the head of the sleeper, and lighted his tomahawk pipe. I sat at the feet. We kept the pipe passing over the sleeper, from one to the other. Meanwhile, upon questioning him in his broken fashion, Queequeg gave me to understand that, in his land, owing to the absence of settees and sofas of all sorts, the king, chiefs, and great people generally, were in the custom of fattening some of the lower orders for ottomans; and to furnish a house comfortably in that respect, you had only to buy up eight or ten lazy fellows, and lay them around in the piers and alcoves. Besides, it was very convenient on an excursion; much better than those garden-chairs which are convertible into walking sticks; upon occasion, a chief calling his attendant, and desiring him to make a settee of himself under a spreading tree, perhaps in some damp marshy place.
While narrating these things, every time Queequeg received the tomahawk from me, he flourished the hatchet-side of it over the sleeper's head.
"What's that for, Queequeg?"
"Perry easy, kill-e; oh! perry easy!
He was going on with some wild reminiscences about his tomahawk-pipe which, it seemed, had in its two uses both brained his foes and soothed his soul, when we were directly attracted to the sleeping rigger. The strong vapor now completely filling the contracted hole, it began to tell upon him. He breathed with a sort of muffledness; then seemed troubled in the nose; then revolved over once or twice; then sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Holloa!" he breathed at last, "who be ye smokers?"
"Shipped men," answered I, "when does she sail?"
"Aye, aye, ye are going in her, be ye? She sails to-day. The Captain came aboard last night."
"What Captain?- Ahab?"
"Who but him indeed?"
I was going to ask him some further questions concerning Ahab, when we heard a noise on deck.
"Holloa! Starbuck's astir," said the rigger. "He's a lively chief mate that; good man, and a pious; but all alive now, I must turn to." And so saying he went on deck, and we followed.
It was now clear sunrise. Soon the crew came on board in twos and threes; the riggers bestirred themselves; the mates were actively engaged; and several of the shore people were busy in bringing various last things on board. Meanwhile Captain Ahab remained invisibly enshrined within his cabin.
Still no sign of Ahab. It's as if he's in hiding so as not to scare any of the newly hired crew members off. Certainly, Ishmael already is having second thoughts about the Pequod and its mysterious captain. Yet, he doesn't voice these concerns, which originate from no other source than his intuition that something isn't quite right about the upcoming voyage. Too much secrecy. Too much mystery. Ishamel's gut is trying to warn him: BEWARE, MASTER. BEWARE.
Over the years, I have learned to trust my intuition. It has never been wrong. Well, almost never. Every time my instinct tells me to buy a lottery ticket, I simply end up a couple dollars poorer. However, for big things, my gut instinct has proven very reliable.
For example, the Monday before my father died, I got a text message from my sister. The message said, "Call me ASAP regarding Dad. Need your input." As soon as I read that message, I had this feeling that things were not going to go well. In fact, I told my wife that I didn't think Dad was going to pull through. That night, he was admitted to the ICU with double pneumonia. Four days later, he died in the hospital.
I have other examples that I could cite. When I was a senior in high school, I interviewed for a full-ride scholarship at a university. When I left the interview, I knew that I was going to receive that scholarship. Two days before Christmas that year, I received a letter confirming that fact. The night my sister passed away, I knew I would be receiving a phone call before morning, telling me that she was "actively" dying. The phone rang about five a.m.
I'm not saying that I'm psychic. Far from it. If I were psychic, I would have won the lottery years ago and retired to Italy. Or at least Phoenix. No, what I'm saying is that it's always a smart thing to trust your instincts. They are rarely wrong.
This morning, my wife called me at about 7:30. She couldn't get her car started. We had been having issues for several days. I told her that I didn't think it was anything serious. I still don't. Why? Because when I think about it, I don't get the huge knot in my stomach which usually foreshadows some costly car repair. Therefore, I predict that the mechanic will find some very small, fixable problem with my wife's Subaru. Mark my words.
That's the extent of my wisdom for today. If your gut is telling you to avoid a friend's birthday party, avoid it. If you don't, you'll probably get drunk at the party and pee in the punch bowl. If your gut is telling you to have that mole on your leg checked out by your doctor, do it. It will probably save your life.
Right now, Saint Marty's gut is telling him to have some special hot chocolate when he gets home. Saint Marty is great at following directions.
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