"The gale seems to be subsiding. The motion of the ship has not been
so violent for the last half hour, I think," said Ishmael, as they
arose from the table.

"No; if it had been, we could not have played chess, even on this
boxed board," was the reply.

"I hope we shall have fine weather now. What do you say, captain?"

"I say as I said before. I am a passenger, and the weather is
nothing to me. But if you expect we are going to have fine weather
because the wind has lulled--humph!"

"We shall not, then?"

"We shall have a twister, that is what we shall have--and before
many hours. And I shouldn't wonder if we had a storm of snow and
sleet to cap off with. Good-night, sir!" And with this consoling
prophecy the old man withdrew.

Ishmael went to his berth and slept soundly until morning. When he
awoke he found the ship rolling, pitching, tossing, leaping,
falling, and fairly writhing and twisting like a living creature in
mortal agony.

He fell out of his berth, pitched into his clothes, slopped his face
and hands, raked his hair, and tumbled on deck. In other words, by
sleight of hand and foot, he made a sea-toilet and went up.

What a night!