Moby Dick

by Herman Melville

strained, till the welcome cry was heard—’Stand up, Tashtego!—give it to him!’ The harpoon was hurled. ‘Stern all!’ The oarsmen backed water; the same moment something went hot and hissing along every one of their wrists. It was the magical line. An instant before, Stubb had swiftly caught two additional turns with it round the loggerhead, whence, by reason of its increased rapid circlings, a hempen blue smoke now jetted up and mingled with the steady fumes from his pipe. As the line passed round and round the loggerhead; so also, just before reaching that point, it blisteringly passed through and through both of Stubb’s hands, from which the hand-cloths, or squares of quilted canvas sometimes worn at these times, had accidentally dropped. It was like holding an enemy’s sharp two-edged sword by the blade, and that enemy all the time striving to wrest it out of your clutch. ‘Wet the line! wet the line!’ cried Stubb to the tub oarsman (him seated by the tub) who, snatching off his hat, dashed the sea-water into it.1 More turns were taken, so that the line began holding its place. The boat now flew through the boiling water like a shark all fins. Stubb and Tashtego here changed places—stem for stern—a staggering business truly in that rocking commotion. From the vibrating line extending the entire length of the upper part of the boat, and from its now being more