Bill Marvel's stories were told over and over again, till the beginning and end dovetailed into each other, and were united for aye.

Ned Ballad's songs were sung till the echoes lurked in the very tops, and nested in the bunts of the sails.

My poor patience was clean gone.
But, at last after some time sailing due westward we quitted the Line in high disgust; having seen there, no sign of a whale.
But whither now?
To the broiling coast of Papua?
That region of sun- strokes, typhoons, and bitter pulls after whales unattainable.

Far worse.

We were going, it seemed, to illustrate the Whistonian theory concerning the damned and the comets;--hurried from equinoctial heats to arctic frosts.