The four, mounting a stairway, found themselves on a great iron viaduct sloping downward toward the east.
“What dandy views!” cried Dave Brandon, whose languid mood seemed to drop suddenly away. “Magnificent! Eh, Bob?”
“Corking!” Bob’s voice was full of enthusiasm.
To the northwest rose a high bluff with houses on its summit, while near at hand the boys could see the famous Polo grounds. Some distance off, veiled in a scintillating haze, were other hills, with vague suggestions of buildings dotted here and there over their surface. Smoke from passing tugs on the Harlem River seemed to hover almost motionless in the air, sometimes pierced by bursts of steam which shone dazzlingly white in the sunlight.
But Jack Lyons was in no mood to appreciate the beauties of this scene; he wanted not only to be the first to arrive at their meeting place, but to show his interested visitors the “Gray Gull” without delay. So he immediately began walking along the viaduct at a rate which made them hustle.
“First time I’ve ever been in a walking match,” chuckled Tom. “How far is it?”
“We’ll soon be there,” answered Jack, cheerily. “Joe Preston will never win this race.”
In a few minutes they reached a bridge and began crossing the Harlem River.
“There’s the famous High Bridge, fellows,” exclaimed Jack, pointing to the north. “A dandy, eh? And the ‘Gray Gull’ is moored this side.”
“Good!” sighed Dave.