Soon Starbuck returned with a letter in his hand.  It was sorely
tumbled, damp, and covered with a dull, spotted, green mould, in con-
sequence of being kept in a dark locker of the cabin.  Of such a
letter, Death himself might well have been the post-boy.

"Can'st not read it?" cried Ahab.  "Give it me, man.  Aye, aye, it's
but a dim scrawl;--what's this?"  As he was studying it out, Starbuck
took a long cutting-spade pole, and with his knife slightly split the
end, to insert the letter there, and in that way, hand it to the
boat, without its coming any closer to the ship.

Meantime, Ahab holding the letter, muttered, "Mr. Har--yes, Mr.
Harry--(a woman's pinny hand,--the man's wife, I'll wager)--Aye--Mr.
Harry Macey, Ship Jeroboam;--why it's Macey, and he's dead!"

"Poor fellow! poor fellow! and from his wife," sighed Mayhew; "but
let me have it."

"Nay, keep it thyself," cried Gabriel to Ahab; "thou art soon going
that way."