Medbury took him by the shoulder, and he barely turned his head. His face was as emotionless as his figure; only his eyes showed life.
"You'll—" Medbury lowered his head as he began to shout, for a sheet of spray sprang at his face like a cat, blinding him and making him gasp. Then he felt the deck slipping into a bottomless abyss, and, opening his eyes, saw the jibboom disappear, then the bowsprit, while over the bow rolled a great green wave, shot with white, and irradiated with phosphorescence. Almost to the waist it buried them, while they stood for what seemed an interminable time, clasping the capstan, with the dragging water roaring about them. The strange fancy flashed across Medbury's mind that it was like being on the nose of a gigantic mole frantically burrowing underground. Then the bow rose again, shook itself free, and Medbury and the sailor, unlocking their grip on the capstan, looked at each other.
"You'll have to get out of this," shouted Medbury, finishing what he had begun to say. The man nodded.
"That was the first bad one, sir," he yelled back. "I don't know's I mind bein' drownded, but I don't want to be speared to death." He looked aloft, where the lighter spars and sails seemed like a falling arch above him. "I've been expectin' to get that royal-yard through my back for the last hour. Couldn't hear it if it did tumble—in all this noise."
"Well, you'll have to get out of this," Medbury repeated mechanically. "Go up to the top of the center-house. You'll be safe there."
They made their way down, the man going up to his station, and Medbury aft.
"She's burrowing a good deal," he shouted in the captain's ear—"like an old mole."
The captain nodded.
"Good reason," he replied.
"What did you say?"