The harpooner was still about, but him I avoided.

Once, when he landed on the boat-wharf, I hid in a shed so as to escape seeing him.

I was afraid he would propose some more drinking, maybe have a flask full of whisky in his pocket.
And yet--and here enters the necromancy of John Barleycorn--that afternoon's drunk on the Idler had been a purple passage flung into the monotony of my days.

It was memorable.

My mind dwelt on it continually.
I went over the details, over and over again.