"Art thou not the leg-maker? Look, did not this stump come from thy shop?" "I believe it did, sir; does the ferrule stand, sir?" "Well enough. But art thou not also the undertaker?" "Aye, sir; I patched up this thing here as a coffin for Queequeg; but they've set me now to turning it into something else." "Then tell me, art thou not an arrant, heathenish old scamp to be one day making legs, and the next day coffins to clap them in, and yet again life-buoys out of those same coffins? Thou art as unprincipled as the gods, and as much a jack-of-all-trades." "But I do not mean anything by it, sir. I do as I do."
Where do murderers go, man! Who's to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the airs smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid greenness; as last year's scythes flung down, and left in the half-cut swarths—Starbuck!