The captain walked up and down looking straight before him, the helmsman steered, looking upwards at the sails, the old gent on the skylight looked down on his daughter--and Mr.
Powell confessed to me that he didn't know where to look, feeling as though he had blundered in where he had no business--which was absurd.

At last he fastened his eyes on the compass card, took refuge, in spirit, inside the binnacle.

He felt chilled more than he should have been by the chilly dusk falling on the muddy green sea of the soundings from a smoothly clouded sky.

A fitful wind swept the cheerless waste, and the ship, hauled up so close as to check her way, seemed to progress by languid fits and starts against the short seas which swept along her sides with a snarling sound.
Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest evening aspect of the sea he had ever seen.

He was glad when the other occupants of the poop left it at the sound of the bell.