queequeg and i had just left the pequod, and were sauntering away from the water, for the moment each occupied with his own thoughts, when the above words were put to us by a stranger, who, pausing before us, levelled his massive forefinger at the vessel in question. he was but shabbily apparelled in faded jacket and patched trowsers; a rag of a black handkerchief investing his neck. a confluent small-pox had in all directions flowed over his face, and left it like the complicated ribbed bed of a torrent, when the rushing waters have been dried up.