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And just so I now did with Queequeg.

But when a man's religion become really frantic; when it is a positive torment to him; and, in fine, makes this earth of ours an uncomfortable inn to lodge in; then I think it high time to take that individual aside and argue the point with him.

Now, as I before hinted, I have no objection to any person's religion, be it what it may, so long as that person does not kill or insult any other person, because that other person don't believe it also.

I give this fan fiction a solid four to a low five. Not totally unrealistic, but also nothing I’d have cared to read in the first place. Keep at it though; with some more fleshing out, and a little more creativity, I think you’ll be able to hone in on a ripping story.

But as soon as the first glimpse of sun entered the window, up he got, with stiff and grating joints, but with a cheerful look; limped towards me where I lay; pressed his forehead again against mine; and said his Ramadan was over.

But somehow I dropped off at last, and knew nothing more till break of day; when, looking over the bedside, there squatted Queequeg, as if he had been screwed down to the floor.

Think of it; sleeping all night in the same room with a wide-awake pagan on his hams in this dreary, unaccountable Ramadan!

I had blown out the candle; and the mere thought of Queequeg -- not four feet off -- sitting there in that uneasy position, stark alone in the cold and dark; this made me feel really wretched.

For some time, do all I would, I could not get into the faintest doze.

But previous to turning in, I took my heavy bearskin jacket, and threw it over him, as it promised to be a very cold night; and he had nothing but his ordinary round jacket on.

Despairing of him, therefore, I determined to go to bed and to sleep; and no doubt, before a great while, he would follow me.

But not a word did he reply.

"For heaven's sake, Queequeg, get up and shake yourself; get up and have some supper. You'll starve; you'll kill yourself, Queequeg."

I began to grow vexed with him; it seemed so downright senseless and insane to be sitting there all day and half the night on his hams in a cold room, holding a piece of wood on his head.

But no; there he was just where I had left him; he had not stirred an inch,

After sitting a long time listening to the long stories of some sailors who had just come from a plum-pudding voyage, as they called it (that is, a short whaling-voyage in a schooner or brig, confined to the north of the line, in the Atlantic Ocean only); after listening to these plum-puddingers...

I went down to supper.

It can't last forever, and his Ramadan only comes once a year; and I don't believe it's very punctual then.

It must be so; yes, it's part of his creed, I suppose; well, then, let him rest; he'll get up sooner or later, no doubt.

I wonder, thought I, if this can possibly be a part of his Ramadan; do they fast on their hams that way in his native island.