ded ferry-boats surge out from their slips and angle across the
tide--crab-wise--towards the New Jersey shore; laden ocean steamers hold
to the deeps of the fairway on their passage to the sea. Up stream and
down, back and across, sheering in to the piers and wharves, the harbour
traffic seems constantly to be scourged and hurried by the lash of an
unseen taskmaster. The swift outrunning current adds a movement to the
busy plying of the small craft--a hastening sweep to their progress,
that suggests a driving power below the yellow tide. The stir of it! The
thrash of screw and lapping of discoloured water, the shriek of
impatient whistle-blasts, the thunder of escaping steam!

As we approach from seaward, there is need for caution. The railway
tugmen--who live by claims for damages from ocean steamers--are alert
and determined that we shall not pass without a suitable parting of
their hawsers, damage to barges, strain to engines and towing
appliances. Off the Battery, they sidle to us in coy appeal, but we
carry bare steerageway. As the pilot says: "Thar ain't nothin' doin'!"
We disengage their ardent approach, and make a slow progress against the
tide to our loading-berth. There, we drop in towards the pier-head and
angle our bows alongside the guarding fenders. A flotilla of panting
tugboats takes up station on our inshore side and 'punches' into
us--head on--to shove our stern round against the full pressure of the
strong ebb tide. The little vessels seem absurdly small for their task.
They 'gittagoin',' as instructed by the pilot, and wake the dockside
echoes with the strain of their energy. White steam spurts from the
exhausts with every thrust of their power. The ferry-boats turning in to
their slips come through the run of a combined stern wash that sets them
on the boarding with a heavy impact. Power tells. Our stern wavers, then
we commence to bear up-stream in a perceptible measure. The Hudson
throws a curl of eddying water to bar our progress, but we pass
up--marking our progress by the water-side of the west shore. Anon, the
thunder of the tugs' pulsations eases, then stops: they back away, turn,
and speed off on a quest for other employment--while we move ahead, out
of the run of the tide, and make fast at the pier.

Our ship is keenly in demand. The dockers are there, ready with gear and
tackle to board and commence work. The wharf superintendent hails us
from the dockside before the warps are fast. He is