The Cruise of the Dry Dock | Page 2

there, you
slowpoke water-rat! Rotton London bus service threw me six minutes
late!" he concluded.

The American's explosive energy quickly made him a focus of interest.
"What are you trying to do?" smiled the Englishman, "jump out of a
Cook's tour into a floating dock?"
The American turned on the joker and saw 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