Freaks & Geeks


But huma­ne Star­buck was too late. At the instant of the dart an ulce­rous 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 at the craft, bespat­te­ring them and their glo­ry­ing crews all over with show­ers of gore, cap­si­zing Flask’s boat and mar­ring the bows. It was his death stro­ke. For, by this time, so spent was he by loss of blood, that he hel­pless­ly rol­led away from the wreck he had made; lay pan­ting on his side, impot­ent­ly flap­ped with his stum­ped fin, then over and over slow­ly revol­ved like a waning world; tur­ned up the white secrets of his bel­ly; lay like a log, and died. It was most piteous, that last expi­ring spout. As when by unse­en hands the water is gra­dual­ly drawn off from some migh­ty foun­tain, and with half-stif­led melan­cho­ly gurg­lings the spray-column lowers and lowers to the ground—so the last long dying spout of the wha­le.



  • Van says:
    Oct 17 at 10:06

    Cool shoes!

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