untasted cup. Then standing as if incredulous for a while, he calmly walked towards the astonished steward slowly saying, “Ginger? ginger? and will you have the goodness to tell me, Mr. Dough-Boy, where lies the virtue of ginger? Ginger! Is ginger the sort of fuel you use, Dough-boy, to kindle a fire in this shivering cannibal?

Ginger! — what the devil is ginger? Sea-coal? firewood? — lucifer matches? — tinder? — gunpowder? — what the devil is ginger, I say, that you offer this cup to our poor Queequeg here.”

“There is some sneaking Temperance Society movement about this business,” he suddenly added, now approaching Starbuck, who had just come from forward. “Will you look at that kannakin, sir: smell of it, if you please.” Then watching the mate’s