The Cruise of the Dry Dock

by T. S. Stribling

"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 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.