Breakfast — Moby-Dick

Ishmael goes downstairs and speaks kindly to Peter Coffin, even though the landlord teased him about his bedmate. He is not angry. He thinks a good laugh is hard to find and worth having. A man who can make people laugh, he says, may have more to him than you guess.

The bar-room is full of whalemen who arrived overnight: mates, carpenters, coopers, blacksmiths, and harpooners. They wear sailor coats like bathrobes. Ishmael can tell how long each man has been ashore by the color of his sun tan. One looks freshly landed. Another is a little paler. A third is bleached from weeks on land. Queequeg's face shows more climates than anyone, striped like a mountain range.

Coffin shouts "Grub, ho!" and everyone goes to breakfast. Ishmael expects wild whaling stories. Instead the room falls quiet. These are men who fight whales at sea without fear, yet they sit shy and embarrassed, glancing at each other like awkward schoolboys. Even famous world travelers, Ishmael notes, can feel out of place in polite company.

Queequeg alone stays calm. He sits at the head of the table, cool as ice. He brought his harpoon to breakfast. He reaches over other people's heads and hooks rare beefsteaks toward himself, skipping coffee and rolls. Everyone sees the breach of manners, yet he does it with such steady nerve that it almost looks classy.

When breakfast ends, Queequeg goes to the public room, lights his tomahawk pipe, and sits with his hat on while he digests. Ishmael walks out for a stroll. The bravest person at the table was not the loudest. It was the one who ate like the room belonged to him.