Just in time, sir.
If the captain pleases, I will now mark the length.
Let me measure, sir.
Measured for a leg! good.
Well, it's not the first time.
About it!
There; keep thy finger on it.
This is a cogent vice thou hast here, carpenter; let me feel its grip once.
So, so; it does pinch some.
Oh, sir, it will break bones—beware, beware!
No fear; I like a good grip; I like to feel something in this slippery world that can hold, man.
What's Prometheus about there?—the blacksmith, I mean—what's he about?
He must be forging the buckle-screw, sir, now.
Right.
It's a partnership; he supplies the muscle part.
He makes a fierce red flame there!
Aye, sir; he must have the white heat for this kind of fine work.
Um-m. So he must.
I do deem it now a most meaning thing, that that old Greek, Prometheus, who made men, they say, should have been a blacksmith, and animated them with fire; for what's made in fire must properly belong to fire; and so hell's probable.
How the soot flies!
This must be the remainder the Greek made the Africans of.
Carpenter, when he's through with that buckle, tell him to forge a pair of steel shoulder-blades; there's a pedlar aboard with a crushing pack.
Sir?
Hold; while Prometheus is about it, I'll order a complete man after a desirable pattern.
Imprimis, fifty feet high in his socks; then, chest modelled after the Thames Tunnel; then, legs with roots to 'em, to stay in one place; then, arms three feet through the wrist; no heart at all, brass forehead, and about a quarter of an acre of fine brains; and let me see—shall I order eyes to see outwards?
No, but put a sky-light on top of his head to illuminate inwards.
There, take the order, and away.
Now, what's he speaking about, and who's he speaking to, I should like to know? Shall I keep standing here? (ASIDE).
'Tis but indifferent architecture to make a blind dome; here's one.
No, no, no; I must have a lantern.
Ho, ho! That's it, hey?
Here are two, sir; one will serve my turn.
What art thou thrusting that thief-catcher into my face for, man?
Thrusted light is worse than presented pistols.
I thought, sir, that you spoke to carpenter.
Carpenter? why that's—but no;—a very tidy, and, I may say, an extremely gentlemanlike sort of business thou art in here, carpenter;—or would'st thou rather work in clay?
Sir?—Clay? clay, sir?
That's mud; we leave clay to ditchers, sir.
The fellow's impious!
What art thou sneezing about?
Bone is rather dusty, sir.
Take the hint, then; and when thou art dead, never bury thyself under living people's noses.
Sir?—oh! ah!—I guess so;—yes—dear!
Look ye, carpenter, I dare say thou callest thyself a right good workmanlike workman, eh?
Well, then, will it speak thoroughly well for thy work, if, when I come to mount this leg thou makest, I shall nevertheless feel another leg in the same identical place with it; that is, carpenter, my old lost leg; the flesh and blood one, I mean.
Canst thou not drive that old Adam away?
Truly, sir, I begin to understand somewhat now.
Yes, I have heard something curious on that score, sir; how that a dismasted man never entirely loses the feeling of his old spar, but it will be still pricking him at times.
May I humbly ask if it be really so, sir?
It is, man.