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What are you talking about , then ? Not one ship in a hundred carries rods , and Ahab , — aye , man , and all of us , — were in no more danger then , in my poor opinion , than all the crews in ten thousand ships now sailing the seas . Why , you King - Post , you , I suppose you would have every man in the world go about with a small lightning - rod running up the corner of his hat , like a militia officer’s skewered feather , and trailing behind like his sash . Why don’t ye be sensible , Flask ? it’s easy to be sensible ; why don’t ye , then ? any man with half an eye can be sensible . ” “ I don’t know that , Stubb . You sometimes find it rather hard . ” “ Yes , when a fellow’s soaked through , it’s hard to be sensible , that’s a fact . And I am about drenched with this spray . Never mind ; catch the turn there , and pass it . Seems to me we are lashing down these anchors now as if they were never going to be used again . Tying these two anchors here , Flask , seems like tying a man’s hands behind him . And what big generous hands they are , to be sure . These are your iron fists , hey ? What a hold they have , too ! I wonder , Flask , whether the world is anchored anywhere ; if she is , she swings with an uncommon long cable , though . There , hammer that knot down , and we’ve done . So ; next to touching land , lighting on deck is the most satisfactory . I say , just wring out my jacket skirts , will ye ? Thank ye . They laugh at long - togs so , Flask ; but seems to me , a long tailed coat ought always to be worn in all storms afloat . The tails tapering down that way , serve to carry off the water , d’ye see . Same with cocked hats ; the cocks form gable - end eave - troughs , Flask . No more monkey - jackets and tarpaulins for me ; I must mount a swallow - tail , and drive down a beaver ; so . Halloa ! whew ! there goes my tarpaulin overboard ; Lord , Lord , that the winds that come from heaven should be so unmannerly ! This is a nasty night , lad . ” CHAPTER 122 . Midnight Aloft . — Thunder and Lightning . The main - top - sail yard . — Tashtego passing new lashings around it . “ Um , um , um . Stop that thunder ! Plenty too much thunder up here . What’s the use of thunder ? Um , um , um . We don’t want thunder ; we want rum ; give us a glass of rum . Um , um , um ! ”
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