"Landlord," I whispered, "that aint the harpooneer is it?"

"Oh, no," said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny, "the harpooneer
is a dark complexioned chap. He never eats dumplings, he don't--
he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes 'em rare."

"The devil he does," says I. "Where is that harpooneer?
Is he here?"

"He'll be here afore long," was the answer.

I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this
"dark complexioned" harpooneer. At any rate, I made up my
mind that if it so turned out that we should sleep together,
he must undress and get into bed before I did.

Supper over, the company went back to the bar-room, when,
knowing not what else to do with myself, I resolved to spend
the rest of the evening as a looker on.

Presently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting up,
the landlord cried, "That's the Grampus's crew. I seed her reported
in the offing this morning; a three years' voyage, and a full ship.
Hurrah, boys; now we'll have the latest news from the Feegees."

A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung open,
and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough. Enveloped in their shaggy
watch coats, and with their heads muffled in woollen comforters,
all bedarned and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles,
they seemed an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just