The sky black as night; the sea lashed into a foam as white as snow;
the waves running mountain high from south to north; the wind
blowing a hurricane from east to west; the ship subjected to this
cross action, pitching onward in semicircular jerks, deadly
sickening to see and feel.

"I suppose this is what you call a 'twister,'" said Ishmael, reeling
towards the old captain, who was already on deck.

"Yes; just as I told you! You see that gale blew from the south for
about forty-eight hours and got the sea up running north. And then,
before the sea had time to subside, the wind chopped round and now
blows from due east. And the ship is rolled from side to side by the
waves and tossed from stem to stern by the wind. And between the two
actions she is regularly twisted, and that is the reason why the
sailors call this sort of thing a 'twister.' And this is not the
worst of it. This east wind will be sure to blow up a snowstorm. We
shall have it on the Banks."

"This has gone beyond a gale. I should call this a hurricane," said
Ishmael.

"Hurricane? hurricane? Bless you, sir, no, sir! capful of wind!
capful of wind!" said the old man doggedly.

Nevertheless Ishmael noticed that the ship's captain looked anxious
and gave his orders in short, peremptory tones.

The predicted snowstorm did not come on during that short winter's