The Cruise of the Dry Dock | Page 3

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 been impossible to throw a baseball from one end
to the other. The black sides rose above them like an iron canyon.
Ranging down these precipices were innumerable huge iron stanchions
for the shoring of ocean liners. Toward the forward end of the dock was
a two hundred ton pile of coal, for the use of the tug, but it was dwarfed
to the size of a kitchen supply by the black expanse around it. On the
other side there were erected a few temporary wooden houses to serve
as kitchen, dining room, and quarters for the crew on the voyage. There
were a group of men loitering about these cabins.
The newcomers still stared at their gigantic surroundings when the
interested Frenchman said politely:
"It ees large, beeg, yes?"
"Where's the boss?" inquired Leonard. "We've got jobs aboard this
craft."
"He is making out the papers now, I think, and ees in a bad temper,
too."
With this discouraging information, the two young men started for the
officers' cabin. As they entered the place they met a crew of typical
London longshoresmen coming out. Inside, a stocky purple-cheeked
cockney stood at a little desk and glowered at them with small red eyes.
"'Ow's this?" he growled sharply, and in some surprise. "You are not in
th' crew Hi picked hup."
"No, we applied at the office--"
"Hoffice, hoffice," snarled the man. "W'ot do they know about men,

settin' hup there with their legs cocked hup? W'ot is it ye want
anyway?"
Leonard silently offered a paper he had received from the British
Towing and Shipping Company. The mate wrinkled his half inch of
knobbly brow as he read the paper in a low undertone, after the manner
of illiterate men.
"And by the way, my man," began Caradoc in stiff condescension, "we
would like one of those cabins to ourselves."
The mate flung up a club-like head and threw back his blocky
shoulders. "_My man!_" he gasped. "Ye call me my man, ye little
cigarette-suckin' silk-hatted Johnny--orderin' private cabins! W'ot ye
think this is--a floatin' 'otel?"
Madden bit his lip to keep from smiling at the odd play of anger and
surprise on Smith's long expressive face.
"No harm meant, Mr. ----" began the American soothingly.
"Malone--Mate Malone!" stormed the angry officer by way of
introduction.
"You understand how friends prefer to bunk together instead of with
strangers. We thought we would ask you about it."
This soothed the irascible fellow somewhat. Still glowering, he
spraddled out of the cabin with the boys after him, and presently
indicated one of the small temporary cabins with a jerk of his thumb.
As to whether his intentions were kindly or cruel, Madden could not
determine, but their lodgment was a low kennel-like place, the smallest
in the row. Nevertheless it was very clean and smelled of new lumber.
It held four bunks, two on a side. The boys dropped their luggage
inside with the pleasure of travelers reaching their destination.
"Got no fire arms nor whiskey?" growled the mate, looking through the
door at his new men.

Both answered in the negative.
"All right; step lively now. We want to raise that waterline 'igh enough
to work in the waves before we reach th' Channel."
The lads shut the door after them, then started under Malone's direction
for whatever work he had.
They found the whole crew swinging along the hundred foot front of
the dock, broadening the brilliant red waterline with all possible
dispatch. The reason for attacking the front first was obvious. In case of
rough weather, the way of the dock would pile the waves higher ahead
than anywhere else. Leonard and his new friend lowered themselves on
a swinging platform over the twelve-foot pontoon and joined in the
work.
Tug and dock were now passing through the congested traffic of the
lower Thames and the enormous English shipping spread in a
panorama before them. Here were barges, smacks, scows, sailing
vessels; big liners plowing through the press with hoarse whistles; rusty
English tramps, that carried the Union Jack to the uttermost ends of the
earth. Even a few dreadnoughts lay castled on the broadening waters.
On both sides of the river, dull warehouses and factories stretched out
rusty wharves, like myriad fingers, to receive the tonnage that