It was daylight; the roar of the agitated sea struck on my ear; the waves were dashing over the stern of the ship and rolling over the roof of the cabin; the winds were howling without; the ship was plunging and pitching, rising in the misty air and sinking into the depths among the waves: it was blowing a regular gale. I got up and was making my way toward the cabin door, when the captain entered. “Good-morning,” said I. “How are things now?” “O,” he replied, in a tone of vexation, “about as bad as they can be, this side of the bottom. We have an easterly gale to contend with, and the ship is still before the wind. I wanted to run as long as I could, in order to get out of this cursed Gulf Stream. Now, I am half afraid to heave the ship to, lest it should strain her. Every thing goes wrong. This is the most unlucky voyage of my life. I have followed the sea for twenty years; I have been in innumerable gales; I have had ships burnt under me; I have been shipwrecked on coasts; I have run upon icebergs, and been attacked by pirates; but never had such continued ill-luck. I hoped the other gale would have been enough for one trip. We got out of that by barely a hair’s-breadth; and now, in our crippled condition, before we have time to get out of the Gulf Stream, we have a black, blustering easterly gale rushing upon us. If it lasts as long as the other, we must either go to the bottom or be driven upon the coast. Nothing can save us.” “Too bad,” said I, taking advantage of a momentary lull, to attempt to walk across the cabin. But just then the ship gave a fearful lurch, and I was dashed violently back upon a sofa, striking, upon the back of it, that leader in the elbow commonly styled the “crazy-bone,” and temporarily, paralyzing my arm. “Are you hurt?” asked the captain. “Only my arm,” I replied, grasping the back of the sofa with my other hand to keep from rolling off. “Only my arm. It, I am inclined to believe, is broken.” “I hope not.” My arm was so paralyzed that I could not move it for a quarter of a minute; when, as it began to recover from the benumbing effects of the shock, it tingled in a way that was agonizing. It was not broken, however, but badly bruised. “I think,” said the captain, “you must be the _Jonah_ of this ship. It is said when ships are unfortunate, that they have a Jonah on board. Hadn’t we better throw you overboard?” “If you will insure me a safe voyage to land in a whale’s stomach,” I replied, “you may do so. If it will take me to New York in three days and three nights, I think I will reach land much sooner than this leaky old ship.” “I don’t know,” he rejoined. “We may reach the nearest point of land much sooner.” “Where is that,” I asked. “The _bottom_.” The gale did not grow so fierce that day as our north-western gale had done; but still it was a bigger gale than any man need wish for.