IN THE HARBOR
Now the fog was clearing and the mist was lifting, and the bright
sunshine was struggling to penetrate the billows of damp vapor and touch
with its glory the things of the world beneath. In the lower harbor
there still was a chorus of sirens and foghorns, as craft of almost
every description made way toward the metropolis or out toward the open
sea.
The Manatee, tramp steamer with rusty plates and rattling engines and
a lurch like that of a drunken man, wallowed her way in from the
turbulent ocean she had fought for three days, her skipper standing on
the bridge and inaudibly giving thanks that he was nearing the end of
the voyage without the necessity for abandoning his craft for an open
boat, or remaining to go down with the ship after the manner of skippers
of the old school.
Here and there showed a rift in the rolling fog, and those who braved
the weather and lined the damp rail could see other craft in passing.
A giant liner made her way past majestically, bound for Europe, or a
seagoing tug clugged by as if turning up her nose at the old, battered
Manatee.
Standing at the rail, and well forward, Sidney Prale strained his eyes
and looked ahead, watching where the fog lifted, an eager light in his
face, his lips curved in a smile, a general expression of anticipation
about him.
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