-boat that
has been in a law-suit (and the mud) for years. Here is a coal-barge,
wedged open and sunk by her owner to steal the insurance money. Wrecks
spread all about us, and above them rise the masts and cranes of
pontoons and pumping-craft, that seem, in the shadows and desolation,
like things of evil omen guarding their prey.

Night is coming on. Lights show in the great city across the river.
Ferry-boats pass. Lines of barges pass. Whistles sound. The waves
splash, splash against the wrecks, touching them gently, one would say.
But nobody else cares. Nobody comes near. Nobody looks. The divers go
home. The wrecking-crews eat and turn in to sleep. A rat squeals
somewhere. These helpless, crippled hulks are alone in the night, and
they grind, grind against decaying stumps. They are wrecks, they are
dead, they are buried--and yet they can move a little in the mud!

III

AN AFTERNOON OF STORY-TELLING ON THE STEAM-PUMP "DUNDERBERG"

WHEN there is difficult diving to be done in the East River, or in any
river where the tide runs strong, you will see the wrecking-boats swing
idly at anchor for hours waiting for slack water, the only time when
divers dare go down. And often there is half a day's waiting for half an
hour's work, and often a week goes by on a two hours' job, say, in full
midstream, where not even the most venturesome beginner will stay down
more than twenty minutes at the turn, lest he be swept away, ponderous
suit and all, by the rush of the river. It's start your patch and leave
it to be ripped open by the beating sea; it's get your chain fast nine
weary times, and have it nine times torn away over night by some
foolish, bumping tug-boat; in fact, it's worry and aggravation until the
thing is over.

Also, this is the time of times, if you can get aboard, to make
acquaintance with the wreckers, to pick up lore of the diving-suit and
tales of the divers.

It was bad weather when we, on the sturdy old _Dunderberg_, were busy at
a wreck off the Brooklyn shore, not far from Grand Street ferry (I had
as much to do with lifting this wreck as the pewter spoons stuck around
the little cabin). It wasn't much of a wreck anyhow--only a
grain-boat--but it had my gratitude for stubbornly refusing to come up.
And so we had hours to spend down in the cabin aforesaid, which could
barely hold cook-stove and dining-table, but managed to be parlor and
bedroom besides; also laundry on occasions. The _Dunderberg