It was already late when the little Moss finally dropped anchor, and Queequeg and I went ashore. There was no time left to do any business that night. All we needed was dinner and a place to sleep.
The landlord of the Spouter-Inn had sent us to his cousin, Hosea Hussey, who ran a place called the Try Pots. He claimed it was one of the best-kept inns in Nantucket and said Cousin Hosea was especially famous for his chowder.
In fact, he made it sound as though we would be fools to stay anywhere else.
Unfortunately, his directions were almost impossible to follow.
He had told us to keep a yellow warehouse on our right until we came to a white church on our left. Then we were supposed to keep the church on our left until we reached a corner where we turned three points to the right. After that, we were simply supposed to ask the first person we met where the Try Pots was.
Queequeg and I were especially confused because we disagreed about the very first landmark.
Queequeg insisted that the yellow warehouse should be on our left. I was sure Peter Coffin had told me it should be on our right.
So we wandered around in the darkness, stopping from time to time to wake up some unfortunate local and ask for directions. Eventually, however, we saw something that could not possibly be mistaken.
Two huge black wooden pots were hanging from the crossbars of an old ship’s mast that had been planted in front of a doorway.
The ends of the crossbars had been cut off on one side, leaving the mast looking remarkably like a gallows.
Maybe I was simply too sensitive after everything that had happened to me, but I couldn’t help staring at it uneasily.
There were two remaining arms sticking out above us.
Two of them.
One for Queequeg, and one for me.
This can’t be a good sign, I thought.
My first innkeeper in my first whaling port had been named Coffin. Then I had seen tombstones staring at me in the whalemen’s chapel. And now there was a gallows waiting outside our hotel, along with two enormous black pots.
Were those pots supposed to be some kind of warning about hell?
My gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a freckled woman with yellow hair and a yellow dress. She was standing in the doorway beneath a dim red lamp that looked like a badly injured eye.
She was angrily arguing with a man wearing a purple wool shirt.
“Get out of here!” she snapped at him. “Or I’ll come over there and comb you!”
“Come on, Queequeg,” I said. “We’re in the right place. That’s Mrs. Hussey.”
And she was.
Hosea Hussey himself was away, but his wife seemed perfectly capable of running the entire place without him.
We explained that we wanted dinner and a bed for the night.
Mrs. Hussey stopped arguing for the moment, led us into a small room, and seated us at a table where the remains of someone else’s meal were still sitting.
Then she turned to us.
“Clam or cod?”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.
“Sorry, ma’am. What did you say about cod?”
“Clam or cod?” she repeated.
“A clam for supper?” I asked politely. “You mean a cold clam? Is that what you’re offering us, Mrs. Hussey? Because that sounds like a pretty cold and clammy welcome on a winter night.”
She wasn’t interested in my joke.
She was already eager to get back to the man in the purple shirt, who was waiting in the hallway for another round of scolding.
Apparently she had heard only the word “clam.”
She rushed toward the kitchen and shouted, “Clam for two!”
Then she disappeared.
I looked at Queequeg.
“Do you think one clam is going to be enough for both of us?”
Fortunately, a wonderful smell soon drifted out of the kitchen and made our situation look much better.
When the steaming chowder arrived, I finally understood what Mrs. Hussey had meant.
It was made from small, tender clams, hardly bigger than hazelnuts, mixed with crushed ship’s biscuit and little pieces of salted pork. Butter made it rich, and plenty of pepper and salt gave it a strong, delicious flavor.
After our cold trip, we were starving.
Queequeg was especially happy because clams were among his favorite foods.
And the chowder was so good that we quickly finished every bit of it.
Afterward, I remembered Mrs. Hussey’s strange question.
I decided to test something.
I walked over to the kitchen door and loudly said, “Cod.”
Then I went back to my seat.
A few minutes later, another wonderful smell came drifting out.
This time it smelled completely different.
Before long, a large bowl of steaming cod chowder was placed in front of us.
So that was how things worked at the Try Pots.
We went right back to eating.
As I stirred my spoon through the bowl, I began wondering whether eating so much chowder could affect the brain.
After all, wasn’t there some old saying about people becoming “chowder-headed”?
I looked over at Queequeg.
“Hey, Queequeg, is that a live eel in your bowl? Where’s your harpoon?”
The Try Pots was probably the fishiest place on earth, and it certainly deserved its name.
Chowder was served for breakfast.
Chowder was served for dinner.
And chowder was served again for supper.
After a few days, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find fish bones poking through my clothes.
The ground outside the inn was covered with clam shells.
Mrs. Hussey wore a shiny necklace made from codfish bones.
Hosea Hussey kept his account books covered in fine sharkskin.
Even the milk tasted faintly of fish, although I couldn’t understand why.
Then one morning I took a walk along the beach and saw the answer.
Hosea’s spotted cow was eating scraps of fish left behind by the fishermen.
Even worse, the poor animal was walking through the sand with its feet stuck inside the severed heads of codfish.
It looked as if the cow were wearing four enormous, sloppy shoes.
After dinner, Mrs. Hussey gave us a lamp and showed us the quickest way to our room.
Queequeg was about to follow me upstairs when she suddenly reached out and stopped him.
“Give me your harpoon.”
Queequeg looked at her in surprise.
She shook her head firmly.
“No harpoons in my rooms.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Every proper whaleman sleeps with his harpoon. Why should he leave it downstairs?”
“Because it’s dangerous,” she replied.
She explained that years earlier, a young whaleman named Stiggs had returned from a terrible voyage. He had been away for four and a half years and had brought back only three barrels of oil.
Then one night he was found dead in the back room on the first floor.
His own harpoon had gone straight into his side.
“Ever since that happened,” Mrs. Hussey said, “I don’t let my boarders take weapons like that into their rooms at night.”
She turned to Queequeg.
“So, Mr. Queequeg, now that I know your name, I’ll keep this iron downstairs for you until morning.”
She took his harpoon.
Then, as if the gruesome story had never happened, she smiled and asked,
“But what about breakfast? Clam or cod, boys?”
“Both,” I answered.
Then I thought for a moment.
“And throw in a couple of smoked herrings, just for a little variety.”