{"id":"01KFNR86Z26X7JG9XZN8BCA2KQ","cid":"bafkreic4tvgwxlo3m3fq5cylrglsla4rxo4gv6gyla3cy6agaf7six4vv4","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":3845,"extracted_at":"2026-01-23T15:41:01.915Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 0","source_file":"01KFNR0Z394A878Y5AQ63MQEM2","start_line":3779,"text":"CHAPTER 17. The Ramadan.\r\n\r\nAs Queequeg’s Ramadan, or Fasting and Humiliation, was to continue all\r\nday, I did not choose to disturb him till towards night-fall; for I\r\ncherish the greatest respect towards everybody’s religious obligations,\r\nnever mind how comical, and could not find it in my heart to undervalue\r\neven a congregation of ants worshipping a toad-stool; or those other\r\ncreatures in certain parts of our earth, who with a degree of\r\nfootmanism quite unprecedented in other planets, bow down before the\r\ntorso of a deceased landed proprietor merely on account of the\r\ninordinate possessions yet owned and rented in his name.\r\n\r\nI say, we good Presbyterian Christians should be charitable in these\r\nthings, and not fancy ourselves so vastly superior to other mortals,\r\npagans and what not, because of their half-crazy conceits on these\r\nsubjects. There was Queequeg, now, certainly entertaining the most\r\nabsurd notions about Yojo and his Ramadan;—but what of that? Queequeg\r\nthought he knew what he was about, I suppose; he seemed to be content;\r\nand there let him rest. All our arguing with him would not avail; let\r\nhim be, I say: and Heaven have mercy on us all—Presbyterians and Pagans\r\nalike—for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and\r\nsadly need mending.\r\n\r\nTowards evening, when I felt assured that all his performances and\r\nrituals must be over, I went up to his room and knocked at the door;\r\nbut no answer. I tried to open it, but it was fastened inside.\r\n“Queequeg,” said I softly through the key-hole:—all silent. “I say,\r\nQueequeg! why don’t you speak? It’s I—Ishmael.” But all remained still\r\nas before. I began to grow alarmed. I had allowed him such abundant\r\ntime; I thought he might have had an apoplectic fit. I looked through\r\nthe key-hole; but the door opening into an odd corner of the room, the\r\nkey-hole prospect was but a crooked and sinister one. I could only see\r\npart of the foot-board of the bed and a line of the wall, but nothing\r\nmore. I was surprised to behold resting against the wall the wooden\r\nshaft of Queequeg’s harpoon, which the landlady the evening previous\r\nhad taken from him, before our mounting to the chamber. That’s strange,\r\nthought I; but at any rate, since the harpoon stands yonder, and he\r\nseldom or never goes abroad without it, therefore he must be inside\r\nhere, and no possible mistake.\r\n\r\n“Queequeg!—Queequeg!”—all still. Something must have happened.\r\nApoplexy! I tried to burst open the door; but it stubbornly resisted.\r\nRunning down stairs, I quickly stated my suspicions to the first person\r\nI met—the chamber-maid. “La! la!” she cried, “I thought something must\r\nbe the matter. I went to make the bed after breakfast, and the door was\r\nlocked; and not a mouse to be heard; and it’s been just so silent ever\r\nsince. But I thought, may be, you had both gone off and locked your\r\nbaggage in for safe keeping. La! la, ma’am!—Mistress! murder! Mrs.\r\nHussey! apoplexy!”—and with these cries, she ran towards the kitchen, I\r\nfollowing.\r\n\r\nMrs. Hussey soon appeared, with a mustard-pot in one hand and a\r\nvinegar-cruet in the other, having just broken away from the occupation\r\nof attending to the castors, and scolding her little black boy\r\nmeantime.\r\n\r\n“Wood-house!” cried I, “which way to it? Run for God’s sake, and fetch\r\nsomething to pry open the door—the axe!—the axe! he’s had a stroke;\r\ndepend upon it!”—and so saying I was unmethodically rushing up stairs\r\nagain empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey interposed the mustard-pot and\r\nvinegar-cruet, and the entire castor of her countenance.\r\n\r\n“What’s the matter with you, young man?”\r\n\r\n“Get the axe! For God’s sake, run for the doctor, some one, while I pry\r\nit open!”\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 0"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KFNR84CCNZVF019TFY36V5P5","peer_label":"17","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KFNR84CCNZVF019TFY36V5P5","peer_label":"17","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"partOf"},{"peer":"01KFNR81RMVAX2BBMMBW51V97D","peer_label":"Moby Dick; Or, The Whale","peer_type":"novel","predicate":"partOf"},{"peer":"01KFNR0H0Q791Y1SMZWEQ09FGV","peer_label":"Moby Dick","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KFNR86WSJFK9N46D443TZGES","peer_label":"Chunk 1","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-23T15:41:02.591Z","ts":"2026-01-23T15:41:15.045Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}