The air was full of flying spume
that whipped in through the stern of the dock. Malone had planked up
this open gateway to a height of thirty feet, which made it forty-two
feet above the salt water line, but the spray already leaped this
barrier and pelted throughout the dark heavy iron canyon.
The dock was made in three huge sections, in order that it might be
self-docking when fouled. Now in the darkness, the groaning of these
joints smote the blustering gale in a sort of vast distress. The many
iron stanchions for the shoring of vessels began thrumming a devil's
tattoo against the high iron walls, like a myriad giant fingers.
In the corners of the bow pontoon, Madden could see the signal lights
heaving and dropping with the motion of the vast fabric. Now and then he
caught a glimmer of the tug's light, and its erratic motions told how
the staunch little vessel fared.
There was a faint radiance around the shut door of the mess hall, and
Madden walked toward it rather unsteadily, with the spumy brine dashing
into his face.
A signal lantern was attached to one of the shoring stanchions near the
mess hall, and as Madden moved into its dull glow, another bundled form
entered from the other side. The figure stopped and saluted.
"If you please, sor," he bawled in Madden's ear, "th' nixt watch is
sick.
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