“Boat!” he hailed in sharp Yankee accent, gesticulating at a public dory. “Here, put me aboard that dry dock, will you? Hustle! the thing's gathering way!”
“A little late,” observed a voice at the newcomer's elbow.
“Yes, I hung around London Tower trying to see the crown jewels, then I broke for St. Paul's for a glimpse of Nelson's Monument, then I ran down to Marshalsea, where Little Dorrit's father—make haste there, you slowpoke water-rat! Rotton London bus service threw me six minutes late!” he concluded.
The American's explosive energy quickly made him a focus of interest.
“What are you trying to do?” smiled the Englishman, “jump out of a Cook's tour into a floating dock?”
The American turned on the joker and saw a tall, well-set-up young fellow with extraordinarily broad shoulders, long brown face, stubby blond mustache, who looked down on him with amused gray eyes.
“In a way,” grinned the man with the suit case. “I'm knocking about all over the map,
