bellowing like an asthmatic fog horn. “We'll never git nobody,” he wheezed. “Nobody seems to stay around this section of th' dock, sor.”
Madden raised a lusty shout; the great structure was slowly increasing her speed.
“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!”
