The longshoreman
grunted, rolled over, and continued to snore obliviously.
An automobile honk-honked up Twenty-third Street, and then swung
around in a swift curve toward the dock. The investigating
kicker slunk away, down the street. The limousine drew up at the
entrance to the tender gangway. Accompanied by a portly servant,
a young man in a fur coat, stepped from the machine.
"Give them another call with your horn, Sam," he directed. "The
boat will be in for me, then."
This was done. A scraping noise came from the hanging stairway
of the dock, and a voice called up from the darkness: "Here we
are, sir!" Howard Van Cleft leaned over the edge and looked
down, somewhat nervously. A reassuring word came up from the
boat, rocking against the spiles.
"You was a bit late, sir. You said three, Mr. Van Cleft, and now
it's ten after. So the captain sent us in to wait for you.
Everything's shipshape, sir, steam up, and all the supplies
aboard. Climb right down the ladder, sir.
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