(During the ensuing scene, the carpenter continues sneezing at times).

Well, manmaker!

Just in time, sir.  If the captain pleases, I will now mark the length. 
Let me measure, sir.

Measured for a leg! good.  Well, it’s not the first time.  About it!  There; keep thy finger on it.  This is a cogent vice thou hast here, carpenter; let me feel its grip once.  So, so; it does pinch some.

Oh, sir, it will break bones—­beware, beware!

No fear; I like a good grip; I like to feel something in this slippery world that can hold, man.  What’s Prometheus about there?—­ the blacksmith, I mean—­what’s he about?

He must be forging the buckle-screw, sir, now.

Right.  It’s a partnership; he supplies the muscle part. 
He makes a fierce red flame there!

Aye, sir; he must have the white heat for this kind of fine work.

Um-m.  So he must.  I do deem it now a most meaning thing, that that old Greek, Prometheus, who made men, they say, should have been a blacksmith, and animated them with fire; for what’s made in fire must properly belong to fire; and so hell’s probable.  How the soot flies!  This must be the remainder the Greek made the Africans of.  Carpenter, when he’s through with that buckle, tell him to forge a pair of steel shoulder-blades; there’s a pedlar aboard with a crushing pack.

Sir?

Hold; while Prometheus is about it, I’ll order a complete man after a desirable pattern.  Imprimis, fifty feet high in his socks; then, chest modelled after the Thames Tunnel then, legs with roots to ’em, to stay in one place; then, arms three feet through the wrist; no heart at all, brass forehead, and about a quarter of an acre of fine brains; and let me see—­shall I order eyes to see outwards?  No, but put a sky-light on top of his head to illuminate inwards.  There, take the order, and away.

Now, what’s he speaking about, and who’s he speaking to,
I should like to know?  Shall I keep standing here? (aside.)

’Tis but indifferent architecture to make a blind dome; here’s one.  No, no, no; I must have a lantern.

Ho, ho!  That’s it, hey?  Here are two, sir; one will serve my turn.

What art thou thrusting that thief-catcher into my face for, man? 
Thrusted light is worse than presented pistols.

I thought, sir, that you spoke to carpenter.

Carpenter? why that’s—­but no;—­a very tidy, and, I may say, an extremely gentlemanlike sort of business thou art in here, carpenter;—­or would’st thou rather work in clay?

Sir?—­Clay? clay, sir?  That’s mud; we leave clay to ditchers, sir.

The fellow’s impious!  What art thou sneezing about?

Bone is rather dusty, sir.

Take the hint, then; and when thou art dead, never bury thyself under living people’s noses.

Sir?—­oh! ah!—­I guess so; so;—­yes, yes—­oh dear!