The Cruise of the Dry Dock | Page 2

a tall, well-set-up young fellow with extraordinarily broad shoulders, long brown face, stubby blond mustache, who looked down on him with amused gray eyes.
"In a way," grinned the man with the suit case. "I'm knocking about all over the map, trying to see if the world is really round. Got a job aboard that dock--going with her to Buenos Aires--Say, slow-boy, is that dory of yours anchored, or is it really coming this way?"
"Coomin' that way, sor!" wheezed the waterman from below.
"That's a coincidence," observed the stranger, twirling his pale mustache. "I had a berth on her, too." He indicated a huge English kit bag at his feet.
"Then you'd better get a move on if you're going!" snapped the American, instantly taking charge of the whole affair. "Shoot your grip here!" He stood ready to receive and deliver it to the boatman who had landed below.
"Had about decided not to go," frowned the Briton with an odd change of manner. "It looks--er--so nasty over there--still, if you can endure it I suppose I--" the final phrase was lost in the swing at his big kit bag.
The American followed the luggage hurriedly; the tall fellow lowered himself calmly and with a certain precision into the stern of the dory. The boatman set out toward the gliding mass of iron.
The blond youth surveyed their distance from the great dock and marked its deliberate but deceptive speed.
"I doubt whether we catch it after all," he remarked with slight interest in his voice.
"Then we'll take a train to Gravesend and get aboard boat there," planned the American promptly.
A smile glimmered on the long brown face for a moment. "That's very Yankee-like, I believe," he said complimentarily.
With the brisk friendliness of his nation, the Yankee drew a morocco case from his pocket. "Leonard Madden is my name," he said as he offered a bit of engraved card.
The Englishman started to reach inside his coat but paused. "I am Caradoc Smith," he replied gravely. Then, as an afterthought, he drew a small silver-mounted flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, poured it full of a liquor and offered it.
"To a pleasant acquaintance and a profitable journey, Mr. Madden," he began ceremoniously.
A slight flush reddened the white skin at Madden's collar, but did not show on his tanned face. It always embarrassed him to be forced to reject friendly overtures.
"Sorry," he shook his head; "don't use it. But the wish goes."
The Englishman looked his surprise. "Then, if you don't object--" he lifted pale brows.
"Certainly not; do as you like."
Smith tossed the capful down his throat. "You know, I've met several Americans," he commented more warmly, "and half of them don't use alcoholics. Strange thing--can't fancy why."
Madden went into no explanation. They were nearing the dock by this time and their boatman began a hoarse calling for some one on board to toss a line.
It was like shouting for a man in a city block. The basal pontoon rose twelve feet above their heads; beyond this towered the thick side walls spanned by the bridge. The waterline of the whole dock was painted a bright red, some four feet high, and above this rose an expanse of raw black iron, punctuated with long rows of shining rivet heads.
The boatman was rowing at top speed and bellowing like an asthmatic fog horn. "We'll never git nobody," he wheezed. "Nobody seems to stay around this section of th' dock, sor."
Madden raised a lusty shout; the great structure was slowly increasing her speed.
"Yell, Smith, yell!" he counseled between shouts. "We may not be able to get a train to Gravesend in time!"
"I'm not that eager to go," observed the Englishman with a shrug.
The dory was falling behind. Madden leaped up, ran to the oars and began pushing as the boatman pulled. Their united efforts just kept the blunt little dory in the hissing wake of the dock.
"Help! Line! Aboard dock! Lend a line!" the two of them roared discordantly.
"We're not going to make it!" cried Madden desperately. "Lend a hand here, Smith!"
At that moment a dark head with sharp black mustaches popped over the stern of the dock.
"Ah-ha! A race!" cried the man above in a French accent. "Come, Mike, zee the English sporting speerit! Voila! What a race--a dory and a dry dock!"
"Throw us a line!" shrieked Madden, "you blithering--think this is fun?"
"Ah, pardon, a thousand pardons! I hasten!"
He disappeared and a few seconds later a coil of rope came hurtling down. Madden caught it and his toil was over. A moment later another sailor, of distinct Irish physiognomy, dropped down a rope ladder to the boat. They paid the sweating boatman a double fare, climbed up and hoisted their bags with the line.
Only when on board did the lads appreciate the enormous size of the dock. It would have