The Last Expiring Spout

The whole upper part of his form, with much of it that is ordinarily submerged, was plainly revealed. His eyes, or rather the places where his eyes had been, were beheld as strange, mist grown masses gather in the knot holes of the noblest oaks when prostrate. Low down on the flank, a nice spot, cried flask. Just let me prick him there once a vast cried starbuck. But humane starbuck was too late. At the instant of the dart, an olcerous jet shot from this cruel wound, and goaded by it into more than sufferable anguish. The whale, now spouting thick blood, with swift fury, blindly darted