PIP. Jinglers, you say?—there goes another, dropped off; I pound it so.
CHINA SAILOR. Rattle thy teeth, then, and pound away; make a pagoda of thyself.
FRENCH SAILOR. Merry-mad! Hold up thy hoop, Pip, till I jump through it! Split jibs! tear yourselves!
TASHTEGO. (Quietly smoking.) That’s a white man; he calls that fun: humph! I save my sweat.
Chapter 40, Midnight, Forecastle · verse 8
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