The schooner was run into the wind, and while the hands were
clearing away the stern boat, Queequeg, stripped to the waist,
darted from the side with a long living arc of a leap.
For three minutes or more he was seen swimming like a dog,
throwing his long arms straight out before him, and by turns
revealing his brawny shoulders through the freezing foam.
I looked at the grand and glorious fellow, but saw no one to be saved.
The greenhorn had gone down. Shooting himself perpendicularly
from the water, Queequeg, now took an instant's glance around him,
and seeming to see just how matters were, dived down and disappeared.
A few minutes more, and he rose again, one arm still
striking out, and with the other dragging a lifeless form.
The boat soon picked them up. The poor bumpkin was restored.
All hands voted Queequeg a noble trump; the captain begged his pardon.
From that hour I clove to Queequeg like a barnacle; yea, till poor
Queequeg took his last long dive.

Was there ever such unconsciousness? He did not seem to think that he at
all deserved a medal from the Humane and Magnanimous Societies. He only
asked for water--fresh water--something to wipe the brine off;
that done, he put on dry clothes, lighted his pipe, and leaning against
the bulwarks, and mildly eyeing those around him, seemed to be saying
to himself--"It's a mutual, joint-stock world, in all meridians.
We cannibals must help these Christians."



CHAPTER 14

Nantucket