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Such
a
queer
dream,
King-Post,
I
never
had.
You
know
the
old
man's
ivory
leg,
well
I
dreamed
he
kicked
me
with
it;
and
when
I
tried
to
kick
back,
upon
my
soul,
my
little
man,
I
kicked
my
leg
right
off!
And
then,
presto!
Ahab
seemed
a
pyramid,
and
I,
like
a
blazing
fool,
kept
kicking
at
it.
But
what
was
still
more
curious,
Flask—you
know
how
curious
all
dreams
are—through
all
this
rage
that
I
was
in,
I
somehow
seemed
to
be
thinking
to
myself,
that
after
all,
it
was
not
much
of
an
insult,
that
kick
from
Ahab.
'Why,'
thinks
I,
'what's
the
row?
It's
not
a
real
leg,
only
a
false
leg.'
And
there's
a
mighty
difference
between
a
living
thump
and
a
dead
thump.
That's
what
makes
a
blow
from
the
hand,
Flask,
fifty
times
more
savage
to
bear
than
a
blow
from
a
cane.
The
living
member—that
makes
the
living
insult,
my
little
man.
And
thinks
I
to
myself
all
the
while,
mind,
while
I
was
stubbing
my
silly
toes
against
that
cursed
pyramid—so
confoundedly
contradictory
was
it
all,
all
the
while,
I
say,
I
was
thinking
to
myself,
'what's
his
leg
now,
but ...