MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Hands by the halyards! In top-gallant sails! Stand by to reef topsails!

ALL. The squall! The squall! Jump, my jollies! (They scatter.)

PIP (shrinking under the windlass). Jollies? Lord help such jollies! Crish, crash! There goes the jib-stay! Blang-whang! God! Duck lower, Pip, here comes the royal yard! It’s worse than being in the whirled woods, the last day of the year!

Who’d go climbing after chestnuts now? But there they go, all cursing, and here I don’t. Fine prospects to ’em; they’re on the road to heaven. Hold on hard! Jimmini, what a squall! But those chaps there are worse yet — they are your white squalls, they. White squalls? white whale, shirr! Shirr! Here have I heard all their chat just now, and the white whale —