In the grey of morning the Hook loomed up above the sea, gloomy as a thunder-head charged with lightning.
After a while the batteries along the Narrows slipped into view. Farther on, camouflaged ships rode sullenly at anchor, as though ashamed of their frivolous and undignified appearance. A battleship was just leaving the Lower Bay, smoke pouring from every funnel. Destroyers and chasers rushed by them, headed seaward.
Then, high over the shore mists and dimly visible through rising vapours, came speeding a colossal phantom.
Vague as a shark’s long shadow sheering translucent depths, the huge dirigible swept eastward and slid into the Long Island fog.
And at that moment somebody walked plump into young Shotwell; and the soft, fragrant shock knocked the breath out of both.
She recovered hers first:
“I’m sorry!” she faltered. “It was stupid. I was 31 watching the balloon and not looking where I was going. I’m afraid I hurt you.”
He recovered his breath, saluted ceremoniously, readjusted his overseas cap to the proper angle.
Then he said, civilly enough: “It was my fault entirely. It was I who walked into you. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
They smiled, unembarrassed.