Going Aboard

           Itwasnearlysixo’clock,butonlygreyimperfectmistydawn,whenwedrewnighthewharf.

           "Therearesomesailorsrunningaheadthere,ifIseeright,"saidItoQueequeg,"itcan’tbeshadow;she’soffbysunrise,Iguess;comeon!"

           "Avast!"criedavoice,whoseowneratthesametimecomingclosebehindus,laidahanduponbothourshoulders,andtheninsinuatinghimselfbetweenus,stoodstoopingforwardalittle,intheuncertaintwilight,strangelypeeringfromQueequegtome.ItwasElijah.

           "Goingaboard?"

           "Handsoff,willyou,"saidI.

           "Lookeehere,"saidQueequeg,shakinghimself,"go‘way!"

           "Aintgoingaboard,then?"

           "Yes,weare,"saidI,"butwhatbusinessisthatofyours?Doyouknow,Mr.Elijah,thatIconsideryoualittleimpertinent?"

           "No,no,no;Iwasn’tawareofthat,"saidElijah,slowlyandwonderinglylookingfrommetoQueequeg,withthemostunaccountableglances.

           "Elijah,"saidI,"youwillobligemyfriendandmebywithdrawing.WearegoingtotheIndianandPacificOceans,andwouldprefernottobedetained."

           "Yebe,beye?Comingbackaforebreakfast?"

           "He’scracked,Queequeg,"saidI,"comeon."

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