upon waking next morning about daylight, i found queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. you had almost thought i had been his wife. the counterpane was of patchwork, full of odd little parti-coloured squares and triangles; and this arm of his tattooed all over with an interminable cretan labyrinth of a figure, no two parts of which were of one precise shade—owing i suppose to his keeping his arm at sea unmethodically in sun and shade, his shirt sleeves irregularly rolled up at various times—this same arm of his, i say, looked for all the world like a strip of that same patchwork quilt. indeed, partly lying on it as the arm did when i first awoke, i could hardly tell it from the quilt, they so blended their hues together; and it was only by the sense of weight and pressure that i could tell that queequeg was hugging me.