“There's a lot of weight in this,” he muttered.
As soon as he attempted to open the door the wind caught it. Clinging to the handle, he was dragged out over the doorstep, and at once found himself engaged with the wind in a sort of personal scuffle whose object was the shutting of that door. At the last moment a tongue of air scurried in and licked out the flame of the lamp.
Ahead of the ship he perceived a great darkness lying upon a multitude of white flashes; on the starboard beam a few amazing stars drooped, dim and fitful, above an immense waste of broken seas, as if seen through a mad drift of smoke.
On the bridge a knot of men, indistinct and toiling, were making great efforts in the light of the wheelhouse windows that shone mistily on their heads and backs. Suddenly darkness closed upon one pane, then on another. The voices of the lost group reached him after the manner of men's voices in a gale, in shreds and fragments of forlorn shouting snatched past the ear. All at once Jukes appeared at his side, yelling, with his head down.
“Watch—put in—wheelhouse shutters—glass—afraid—blow in.”
Jukes heard his commander upbraiding.
“This—come—anything—warning—call me.”
He tried to explain, with the uproar pressing on his lips.
“Light air—remained—bridge—sudden—north-east—could turn—thought—you—sure—hear.”
They had gained the shelter of the weather-cloth, and could converse with raised voices, as people quarrel.