Chapter 4 of the Harbor Then Sue began to take me in hand. From the subdued and weary girl that I had found when I came home, in the last few weeks she had blossomed out. The color had come into her cheeks, a new animation into her voice, a resolute brightness into her eyes. This thing has got to stop, Billy, she said determinedly. This house has been like a tomb for months. You and Dad are so gloomy and tired, your sights. He needs a change, and so do you. You're getting into a little rut and throwing away your chance to write. You need friends who are writers. You need a lot of fresh ideas to tone you up. There's plenty of money in writing, and I need a change myself. I can't stand this house any longer. After all, I've got my own life to live. I'm going to get a job before long. In the meantime, I'm going to see my friends, and what's more, I'm going to have them up here to the house, just as often as they'll come. Let's brighten things up a little. I looked at her with interest. Here was another sister of mine, risen out of her sorrow and eager to live, and talking of running our lives as well, of curing us both by large, firm doses of fresh ideas while she herself looked around for a job that would help her to live her own life. Look here, Sue, I argued vaguely. You don't want to take a job. I certainly do. But you can't. Dad won't hear to it. He'll have to when I've found it. No poor people, old man supporting me, thank you. Quite probably no man at all, ever. But you'd needn't worry. I won't take any old job that comes along, and I won't bother Dad till I've found just what I really want, something I can grow in. That's right. Take it easy, I said. Where have you been, I thought, as I watched her? It came over me as a distinct surprise that Sue had been in all sorts of places and had been making all sorts of friends, had been having ambitions and dreams of her own, all the time I had been having mine. Most older brothers, I suppose, at some time or another have felt this same bewilderment. Look here, sis, they wonder gravely. Where in thunder have you been? I took a keen interest in her now. In the evenings when I wasn't out working, we had long talks about our lives, which to my satisfaction became almost entirely talks about her life, her needs, her growth, her delight in herself, her intensity over plans for herself, her enthusiasm for all the new movements, reforms, and ideas that she had heard of God knows where and felt she must gather into herself to expand herself. It was wonderful. She was like that chap from Detroit that would be perfect all-round man, but Sue was so much less solemn about it, one minute in art and the next in social settlements, so little hampered by ever putting through what she planned. In short, a woman, I thought, sagely. I felt I knew a lot about women, although I had had no more intimate talks since that affair in Paris. I had felt that would last me for quite a while, but here was something perfectly safe. A sister, decent but far from dull, well-stocked with all the feminine points, and only too glad to be confidential. She wanted to study for the stage. Of course, that was the kind of thing that Dad and I would stop darn quick. Still, I could see Sue on the stage. She was not at all like me. I was middling small, with a square jaw, snubbed nose, and sandy hair. Sue was tall and easy moving, with an abundance of soft, brown hair worn low over large and irregular features. She had fascinating eyes.  They were always doing something or other, letting this out or keeping that back, practicing on me. Oh, yes, she'll marry soon enough, I thought. This talk of a job for life is a joke. Some nights I would listen to her for hours. It was so good to come back to life, to feel younger than my worries, to forget for a little while that stark, heavy certainty that poor old Dad would soon be a burden in spite of himself, and that with the family on my hands I'd have to spend the best years of my life slaving for a little hay. I took the same delight in her friends. Starting with her classmates in a Brooklyn high school, most of whom were working over in New York, Sue had followed in their trail, and at settlements in studios and in girl bachelor flats she had picked up an amazing assortment of friends. Radicals they called themselves. Nothing was too wild or new for these friends of Sue's to jump into, and what was more to tie themselves to by a regular job in some queer irregular office. Votes for women was just starting up, and one of this group, a stenographer in a suffragette office, had been in the first small parade. Another, a stout florid youth who wrote poems for magazines, had paraded bravely in her wake. Here were two girls who lived in a tenement, did their own cooking, and pushed east side investigations that they said would soon shake up the town. There were several rising muckrakers too, some of whom did free work on the side for socialist papers. There was one real socialist, a painter, who had a red membership card in his pocket to prove that he belonged to the party. Others were spreading music and art and dramatics through the tenements, new music, new art, and new dramatics. One young husband and his wife, intensely in love with one another, were working together night and day for easier divorces which would put an end to the old-fashioned home. These people seemed to me to be laughing at a different old thing every time, but when they weren't laughing they were scolling over some new attack upon life, and when they did that they were laughable, at least so they were to me. Not that I minded attacking things, I had done plenty of that myself in Paris, but how different we had been back there. We too had thrown old creeds to the winds, but with how much more finesse and art. And there had been a large remoteness about it. Each one had tossed his faraway country into the cosmopolitan pot, or talk had been on a worldwide scale. But this crude crowd, except for an occasional mental flights, kept all its attention, its laughs, and its jeers, its attacks and exposures centered on this one mammoth town, against which as a background they seemed the mirror's pygmies. Three little muckrickers loomed against Wall Street, one small scoffing suffragette against a hundred and eighty thousand solid, stolid, Brooklyn-wise. They had posed themselves so absurdly close to the world of things as they are. And they were in such a rush about their work. Over there in Paris, with all our smashing of idols, we had at least held fast to our one great goddess of art. We had slaved like dogs at the hard daily labor of honestly learning our various crafts. But here they stopped for nothing at all. The magazine writers were tearing off copy, the painters were simply slapping it down. One of them told me he painted the real stuff right out of life, dashed it off with one hand, so to speak, while he shook his fist at the town with the other. Everyone wanted to see something done, and done damn quick, about this, that, or the other. My artist eyes surveyed this group and twinkled with a muse's surprise, but I could sit by the hour and listen to their talk. I found it mighty refreshing, after those bills in the hardware shop that monotonous martyr feeling of mine and those worries down by the harbor. But I felt the harbor always there, slowly closing in on my father, who looked older day by day, slowly bringing things to a crisis. In the garden behind our house on warm September evenings when these pygmies gathered to chatter reforms, the harbor hooted at their little plans, as it had hooted at my own. One evening, I remember, when the talk had waxed hot and loud in favor of labor unions and strike, Sue left the group, and with a friend strolled to the lower end of the garden. There I saw them peer over the edge and listened to the drunken stokers singing in the bar rooms deep under all these flower beds and all this adventurous chatter of ours. I thought of the years I had spent with Sam, and Sue too seemed to me to be having a spree.  She called me our dreamer imported from France, but I was far from dreaming. Presently the harbor just opened one of its big eyes and sent up by a messenger a little grim reality. A Russian revolutionist had appeared among us with a letter to Sue from Joe Kramer. Joe, I found to my surprise, had seen quite a little of Sue over here while I had been in Paris, and from the various ships and hotels that had been his home of late, he had written her now and then. Through him Sue had joined a society known as the Friends of Russian Freedom, and Joe wrote now from Moscow urging her to stir up the crowd and lick this fellow in the shape to talk at big meetings and raise some cash. He has the real goods, Joe added. All he needs is the English language and a few points about making it yellow. If handle right, he'll be a scream. He was handle right, and he was a scream. Three months later he finished a tour that had netted over ten thousand dollars, now to buy guns and ship them to Russia, where in the awful poverty bequeathed to them by the war with Japan, a bitter people was still fighting hard to make an end of autocracy. I think I can help you, Puss, said Dad. I looked at him with interest. I knew he had been as tickled as I by these astonishing friends of hers. Revolutors, he called them. He was a great favorite with the girls. I once knew a man in a business way who dealt in guns, he explained to Sue. He shipped some to Bolivia from my dock. I'll have him up to meet your friend. So this messenger from the harbor, a keen lean man of business, gave one hour of his time to the problem in which the Russian dreamer had been absorbed for fifteen years, and the hour made the fifteen years look decidedly dreamy. Guns for Russia, eh? he said. How you get them into your country? Where's your frontier weakest? You don't know. Then I'll tell you. And the man of business did.  You hadn't thought. Well, my friend, you want Mausers. They happen to be cheap just now in Vienna. You should have looked into that before you traipse way over here. You can get them there for three twenty a piece. They dropped three cents last Tuesday. The dreamer dreamed hard and fast for a moment. Then he cried triumphantly. With ten thousand dollars I can buy over three thousand guns? The gunman's look was patient.  You want to have a thousand rounds which will come to a little over three times the actual cost of the guns themselves.  On second thought, he added, I advise you to give up the Mausers and go in for Springfields over here. Old ones. You can get them cheap. They're no good at over a mile, but for the first few months your fellas will be lucky if they hit a man at a hundred yards. And there's one good point about Springfields. They make a devil of a noise, and that's all you need for a starter. Noise enough to break into headlines all over the world as a brave little rebel army. If you can do that and the word goes around on the quiet that you're using American rifles, well, there's a kind of sentiment in our trade. You'll find us all behind you. We'll even lose money.  But wait, cried the Russian. There is a trouble. You're treaty with Russia. Have you not a treaty which makes it forbidden to sell to me guns? Again, that look of patience. Yes, General, we have a treaty, but we'll ship your guns as grand pianos to Naples, from there by slow boat to Brazil, and then up to the Baltic where they'll arrive with their pedigrees lost. Our agent will be there ahead. He'll have found a custom house man he can fix. He'll cable us where. And when those fifty pianos are landed, the set official will open the box mark twenty two. It'll take him over an hour to do it. The boards will be nailed so cussedly tight and he'll find a real piano inside.  Then they'll go on to wherever you want them and you'll revel it. And don't forget that what you need most is the live press agent you can find. I've got to go now. Think it over. And if you want to do business with me, come to my office tomorrow at ten. The man of business left us.  I watched the twinkle in dad's gray eyes and thought of the cool contempt in his friends. And from being amused I became rather sore. For after all, this little Russian cuss had risked his life for fifteen years and expected to lose it shortly. As a matter of fact, he was stood up against a wall and shot the following April. Why make him look so small? Was there nothing under the heavens that this infernal harbor didn't know all about and do business with so thoroughly that it could always smile? As I drudged on down there in the warehouse, my bitterness became an obsession. I even talked to Sue about it. Oh, Billy, you make me tired, she said. Here I've taken the trouble to bring to the house every magazine writer I know. And they're all ready to help you break in. But you won't write. You won't even try. How do you know I haven't tried? I retorted hotly. But I'm working all day as it is and four nights a week besides. And the other three nights, when I try to think of the kind of thing I could sell to the magazines, well, I simply can't do it. That's all. It's not my way of writing. Then your way is just plain morbid, she said. And it's about time you dropped it. She seemed to get a sudden idea. I know the person you ought to meet. Do you? What's his name, I inquired. Eleanor Dillon, she answered. I looked up at her with a start. Eleanor Dillon, is she still around? I hadn't thought of that girl in years. She is. And she's just what you need, said Sue, with that know-it-all smile of hers. Her head was now cocked a bit to one side. Your little friend of long ago, she added sympathetically. I eyed Sue for a moment. I did not care at all for her tone. What do I need her for, I asked. To talk to you of the harbor, of course. That's her a special line these days. The harbor, I demanded. That girl? Yes, the harbor. That girl. Sue seemed to be having quite a good time. My jaw set tight. What does she do down there, I asked. She worships her father. Don't you remember? An engineer. He's doing a big piece of work on the harbor, and Eleanor is wrapped up in his work. She's a beautiful case of how a fond parent can literally swallow up his child. There used to be nothing whatever that Eleanor Dillon wasn't going to do in life. Don't you remember when she was small, that little determined air she had in the way she went at every game? Well, she grew even more like that. From school she went to college and worked herself to a frazzle. Then she broke down and had to drop out, and now that she's strong again, she's changed. She used to go in for everything. Now she goes in for nothing at all, except her father and his work. She thinks we're all a lot of young fools. Oh, now Sue, I put in derisively. You people fools? How could she? You'll see, my sister sweetly replied, for she'll probably think you're another. She detests morbid people. They are not her kind. But if she'll give you a talking to, it may do you a lot of good. She did give me a talking to, and it did do me a lot of good, although when I came to think of it, I found she had barely talked at all. She wasn't the sort who liked to talk. She was just as quiet as before. When she arrived rather late one evening and Sue brought her out on the veranda into a group of those radical friends who were a committee for something or other, after the general greetings were over, she settled back in a corner with the air of one who likes just to listen to people, no matter whether they're fools or not. But as I watched her, I decided she did not consider these people fools. That quiet smile that came on her face showed a comfortable curiosity, and now and then a gleam of amusement, but no contempt whatever. She seemed a girl so well pleased with her life that she could be pleased with the world besides, and keep her eyes open for all there was in it, although she was still rather small and still demurely feminine, with the same grave sweetness in her eyes, that same enchanting freshness about everything she wore. She struck me at once as having changed, as having grown tremendously, as having somehow filled herself deep with a quiet, abundant fatality. Where have you been, I wonder. There came a loud blast from the harbor. At once I saw her turn in her chair and looked down to the point below, where a riverboat was just leaving her slip, sweeping silently out of the darkness into the moonlit water. My curiosity deepened. Where had she been, and what was she doing? What queer kind of girl was this? I took a seat beside her. Do you remember me, I asked.  Of course I do, she answered. Her low voice had a frankly intimate tone. I did the moment I saw you. Besides, Sue told me about you. She's been telling me quite a lot about you. Has she? What? That you know all about the harbor these days. Sue's wonderful, Eleanor murmured. She's so sure her friends know everything. Let's stick to the harbor. All right, let's. I know enough about it to like it.  I wonder which of us knows more. I do. How do you know you do? Because I've been here longer, I said. I've hated it for twenty odd years. She looked at me with interest. Her eyes were not at all like Sue's. Sue's eyes were always wrapped up in herself. Eleanor's in somebody else. They were as intimate as her voice. Don't you remember the evening when you took me down to the docks? She asked. I do. Very well, I said. And do you mean to tell me you didn't like the harbor then? I do. I hated the harbor then. I was scared to death that Sam and his gang would appear around the end of a car. Who was Sam? She asked me. He sounds like a very dreadful small boy. Soon she had me telling her of Sam and his gang and the harbor of thrills from the time of Old Vel and the Condor. I was a toy piano, I said, and the harbor was a giant who played on me till I rattled inside. We had a big spree together. Not a very healthy spree, was it, she said quietly, turning her gray blue eyes and mine. For some reason we suddenly smiled at each other.  The same nice twinkle in your eyes. Please go on. What did the harbor do to you next? I thought all at once of the August day when she had lain a girl of twelve in the fragrant meadow beside me, and as then so now the drunken woman's image rose for an instant in my mind. It wiped the thrills all out, I said abruptly. I told how the place grew harsh and bare, how I could always feel it there stripping everything naked like itself, and how finally when later in Paris I felt I had shaken it off for life, it had now suddenly jerked me back.  It's getting monotonous, I ended. While I talked she had been watching it, now a bustling ferry crossing, now a tug with a string of barges working up against the tide. How do you know it's so bad for you to be brought back from Paris, she asked me without looking around. Have you ever been in Paris? Yes, and I want to go again, but I don't believe it will ever feel as real to me as this place does.  I mean, you've got your roots here. Why don't you write about them for a while? What? Your roots.  All right, I ascend it gravely, I'll buy a hoe and start right in. That's it. Ho yourself all up, get as far down as you can remember.  Then take a hoe to Paris and find out why you loved it so, and why you hate the harbor. Be sure you get all the hate there is, it makes such interesting reading. Besides, it may be just what you need, it may take the hate all out of your system. Who'll print it, I demand it. Oh, some magazine, she said. Do you think this kind of thing would interest their readers? It would interest me. Thank you, I'll tell the editors that. You'll do no such thing, she said severely. You'll tell the magazine editors, please, that I'm only one of the thousands of girls who are getting sick and tired of the happy, cheery little tales they print for our special benefit. It's just about time they got over the habit of thinking of us as sweet young things and gave us some roots we can grow on. Another modern girl, I thought. Do you, too, want to vote? I asked her with a fine indulgent irony. Some day I do, she answered, and then she added with placid scorn when I've learned all the political wisdom that you have to teach me. And as if that were a good place to stop, she rose from her seat. The other seemed to have left us, she said. I think I'd better be going home. Wait a minute, please, I cried. When am I going to hear about you and your side of this dismal body of water? She looked back at me serenely. Wait till you've gotten yours all written down, she replied. You see, mine might only mix you up. Mine is so much pleasanter. Good night, she added softly. End of Chapter 5, Recording by Tom Weiss Chapter 6 of the Harbor This labor box recording is in the public domain, recording by Tom Weiss. The Harbor by Ernest Poole, Chapter 6. Until late that night and again the next day at my desk down in the warehouse, my thoughts kept drifting back to our talk. With a glow of surprise I found I remembered not only every word she had said, but the tones of her voice as she said it, the changing expressions on her face and in her smiling gray blue eyes. Her picture rose so vividly at times it was uncanny. What do you think of her? asked Sue. Mighty little, I replied. I did not care to discuss her with Sue, for I had not liked Sue's tone at all. But how little I'd learned about Eleanor's life. Where did she live? I didn't know. When I hinted at coming to see her, she had smilingly put me off. What was this pleasant harbor of hers?  Yes, I thought disgustedly. I was quite a smart young man. Here I had spent two years in Paris learning how to draw people out. What had she let me draw out of her? What hadn't I let her draw out of me? I wondered how much I had told that girl. For some reason in the next few days my thoughts drifted about with astonishing ease and made prodigious journeys. I roved far back to my childhood, and there the most tempting incidents rose, and solemn little thoughts and terrors, hopes and plans, some I was proud of, some Mighty ashamed of. Roots, roots up they came, as though they'd just been waiting, down there inside of me, for that girl and her hoeing. Presently just to get rid of them all, I began writing some of them down, and again I was surprised to find that I was in fine writing trim. The words seemed to come of themselves from my pen, and lined themselves up triumphantly into scenes of amazing vividness, at least so they looked to me. How good it felt to be at it again. Often, up in my room at night, I kept on working till nearly dawn. I was getting on famously now. And so now, as was his habit, Joe Kramer came crashing into my life, and as usual, put a stop to my work. Having just landed from Russia, he had breezed over to our house, had had a talk with Sue downstairs, and had then come up to my room to surprise me, just as I had a good firm grip on one of my most entrancing roots. Hello, Bill, he cried. What are you up to? Hello, JK. How are you? I knew that I ought to be genial, and for a few moments I did my best. I went through all the motions. I grabbed his hand. I smiled. I talked. I told him I was tickled to death. I even tried pounding him on the back. But it was quite useless. Kid, he said with that grin of his, you're up to something idealistic and don't want to be disturbed. But I'm here, and it can't be helped. So, out with it. What have you gone and done? And he jerked my story out of me. All right, he declared. This has got to stop. I knew it, I said. I had known it the minute he came into the room. You've got to throw up your ten-dollar job, quit working all night on stuff that won't sell, and come on a paper and make some real money. I can't do it, I snapped. You can, said JK. But I tell you, I tried. I went to a paper. You'll go to a dozen before I get through. JK, I won't do it. Kid, you will. And he kept at me night after night. He was working for a New York paper now as a special correspondent. He had a talk with his editor and got me a chance to go on as a cub and write about weddings, describing the costume of the bride. At least it was a starter, he said, and would lead to divorces later on, and from there I might be promoted to graph. He talked to Sue and my father about it, persuading them both to take his side. Day by day the pressure increased. I set my young jaw doggedly and kept on writing about my roots. Look here, said Joe one evening. Your sister tells me you're sore on the harbor. Then have a look at this. And he showed me a newspaper clipping headed, Padroni System, under the dumps. Well, what about it, I asked him. What about it? My God! Here's a chance to show up the harbor on one of its ugliest, rottenest ideas. A dump is up here that sticks out in the river.  You said that weddings are not in your line. All right, here's just the opposite.  I don't care for tearjerkers myself, he added, but even tearjerkers are better than art. All right, I muttered savagely. Let's go and get a tearjerker to write. If I must write of this modern harbor, at least it was some satisfaction to write about one of its ugliest sides. We went the next night. Joe had chosen a dump which jutted out from the Manhattan side of the river just about opposite our house. A huge, long, shadowy pile of city refuse of all kinds, we caught the Tsar breath of it as we drew near in the darkness. There was not a sound nor a light. We climbed down onto a greenish beam that ran along by the side underneath, about a foot from the water, and cautiously working our way outward for a hundred yards or more, we stopped abruptly and drew back. For just before us under the dump was a cave with walls of papers and rags. A lantern hung from overhead swung gently in the raw salt breeze, and by its light we could see a half dozen swarthy small boys. Five were intent on a game of dice, whispering fiercely while they played. Their boss lay asleep in a corner.  All at once around the end of the pier, a dark, tall shadow like a spook swept silently out before him. He sprang back and fervently crossed himself, then grinned and drew on his cigarette hard. For the shadow was only a scow with a derrick. The imp continued his watching.   I want to know where that kid with the cigarette was born and what he thinks of the harbor. Joe gave me one of his cheerful grins. You might get his views on the tariff, he said. Look here, JK, I implored him. Go home.  It's all right. I'm glad you brought me here. Darn good of you, and I'll get a story. Only for God's sake, leave me alone. Sure, said Joe, only don't try to talk to those little guineas. Their boss wouldn't let them say a word, and you'd lose your chance of watching them. Make it a kind of mystery story. At a mystery story, I made it. Where had he been a year ago, this imp who had fervently crossed himself? In Naples, Rome, or Venice, or poking his toes into the dust of a street in some dull little town in the hills? What great condor of today had picked him up and dropped him here. How did it look to him? What did he feel? I came back to the dump night after night, and writing blindly in the dark I tried to jot down what he saw. Gigantic shapes and shadows, some motionless, some rushing by with their dim spectral little lights, and overall the great arch of the bridge rearing over half the sky. The lantern in the cave behind threw a patch of light on the water below, and across that patch from under the pier where the water was slapping, slapping, there came an endless bobbing procession.  Things tossed out of people's lives. On and on they came, and I knew there were miles of black water like this all covered with tiny processions like this, moving slowly out with the ebb tied, out from the turbulent city toward the silent ocean. One night the watchman on the dump showed me a heavy paper bag with what would have been a baby inside. Where had it come from? He didn't know. Tossed out of some woman's life, in a day it would be far out on the ocean, bobbing, bobbing with the rest. Water from here to Naples, water from here to heathen lands, just here a patch of light from a lantern, that imp from Italy looking down, into something immense and dark and unknown. He was having a spree with the harbour as I had had when as small as he. I saw him watch the older boys and listened thrilled to their wonderful talk, as once I too had been thrilled by Sam. I watched him over a game of dice, quarreling, scowling, grabbing at pennies, slapped by someone, whimpering, then eagerly getting back to the game. It was craps I had played it with Sam and the gang. One night he dropped a cigarette, still light it into the rags, and was given a blow by his boss that knocked him into a corner. But presently he crawled cautiously forth and again with both hands hugging his knees he sat and watched the harbour.  I put my own childhood into this imp, into him my first feelings toward this place, and so I came again to my roots. How the memories rose up now, the fascinations and terrors that I too had felt before something immense and dark and unknown. Thank heaven JK had given me up and gone to Colorado, so I was left to work in peace. I called my sketch a patch of light and sent it to a magazine. It came back with a note explaining that while this was a fine little thing in its way, its way wasn't theirs.  In short, I told myself savagely, it was neither hay nor tears. Again it went forth, and again it came back. Then Sue gave it to one of her writer friends who said he knew just the place for it. No, you don't, I thought, drilly. Nobody knows in this whole damnable desolate land. But Sue's friend sold my story for twenty-two dollars and fifty cents, and he said that the editor wanted some more. It was curious from my window that night what a different harbor I saw below. Ugly still? Of course it was, but what a rich mind of ugliness for the pen of a rising young author like me. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Tom Weiss Chapter 7 of The Harbor This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss The Harbor by Ernest Poole Chapter 7 Now for something bigger. I would have a whack at the place by day. No mystery now, just ugliness. I would show it up in broad daylight, bringing out every detail in the glare. I would do this by comparing it to the harbor of long ago, and the snowy white sails of my father's youth. His youth was gone. A thick set and gray-headed old figure he bent over his desk by my side, putting up a fierce silent fight for his strength, and now, slowly getting enough of it back to keep him at his job as a clerk in what had been his warehouse. Only once, coming suddenly into the room, I found him settle deep down in his chair, heavy, inert, his cigar gone out, staring vacantly out of the window. The sails were gone, down there at his dock, where even in days that I could remember, the tall clippers had lain for weeks. I saw now a German whale-back. She had slipped in but three days before, and was already snorting to get away. She was black, and she wallowed deep, and she had an enormous bulging belly into which I descended one day, and explored its metallic compartments that echoed to the deafening din of some riveters at work on her sides. Though short and stout, she was nine thousand tons. Hidious she was practical, as practical as a factory. In her the romance of the sea was buried and choked in smoke and steam, in grime, dirt, noise, and a regular haste. One morning as her din increased and the black, sooty breath of her came drifting in through our window, my father rose abruptly and slammed the window down. The damn seahog, he muttered. Gone too were the American sailors. All races of men on the earth but ours seemed gathered around this hog of the sea. From barges filled with their cargo, this stuff was being heaved up on the dock by a lot of Irish bargemen, Italian dockers rolled it across to this German ship, and on deck a Jap under officer was bossing a Cooley crew.  They had strange nervous faces long and narrow with high cheekbones and no foreheads at all to speak of. Their black eyes gleamed. Back and forth they scurry to the sound of that guttural Japanese voice. The cheapest sea labor there is, growled dad. Good-bye to Yankee sailors. The old east with its riches was no longer here. For what were these Cooleys doing? Handling silks and splices? Oh no! They were hoisting and letting down into the hold an automobile from Dayton, Ohio bound for New South Wales. Gone were the figs and almonds, the indigo ivory tortoise shells. Into the brand new ledgers over which my father worked, he was entering such items as barbed wire, boilers, car wheels, and gas engines, baby carriages, kegs of paint. I reveled in the commonplace stuff, contrasting it vividly in my mind with the starlit ocean roads it would travel, the picturesque places it would help spoil. I filled in the scene with all its details, the more accurate glaring and real the better, the brand new towering skyline risen of late on Manhattan, the new steel bridge, an ugly one-ness, and all the modern steamcraft, tugs, river boats, sound steamers, each one of them panting and spewing of smoke. I sat there like a stenographer and took down the harbour's dictation, noting the raspy tones of its voice, recording eagerly all its smells, and all this and more that I gathered I focused on the sea-hog. And then toward the end of a winter's day we looked out of our window and saw her sail. She sailed in a nervous worrying haste to the grunts and shrieks of a lot of steam winches.  She didn't depart, who ever heard of a hog departing. She just went. There were no songs, no last goodbyes, except from a man in his shirt sleeves who called from the deck to a man on the pier. So long, Mac, see you next spring, and then went into the factory. When the work of the day was over I went down into the dock shed. My father's old place was at peace for a time, the desecration done with. She was empty, dark, and silent. In her long inward sloping walls the eight wide sliding doors were closed. Only through the dusty skylights here and there fell great masses of soft light. Big bunches of canvas hung from above, ropes dangled out of the shadows, and there were huge rhythmic creakings that made you feel the ocean still here, an old ocean under an old, old dock. The place grew creepy with its past. Faint, spicy odors I jotted down as I stood there in the dimnest, ghosts of long ago, low echoes of old chanties sung by Yankee sailors, romance, mystery. I broke off writing and drew back behind a crate. My father had entered the dock shed and was coming slowly up the dock. Presently I saw him stop and looked into the shadows around him. I saw a frown come on his face, I saw his features tighten, so he stood for some moments, then he turned and walked quickly out. A lump had risen in my throat, for I thought I knew what he had seen. The phantom ship became my title, a fine contrast to the seahog I thought. I asked dad endless questions at night about the old days not only here, but all up along the coast of New England, and hungrily I listened while he glorified the rich life and color of those seaport towns now gray, those wars now rotting and covered with moss. He glorified the spacious homes of the men who had ordered their captains to search the far east for the rugs in the curtains, the chairs and the tables, the dishes, the vase, the silks and the laces, the silver and gold and precious stones with which those audacious old houses were stored. He glorified the ships themselves. From the quarter-decks of our clippers, those marvels of cleanliness and speed, he told how those miraculous captains had issued their orders to Yankee sailors, brawny, deep-chested, keen-eyed, and strong-limbed. He told what perils they had faced far out on the Atlantic, the roaring forties those waters were called. Yes, my boy, in those days ships had men. And in my room I eagerly wrote it all down and added what I myself could remember. Here from my bedroom window I tried to see what I had seen as a boy, the immaculate white of the tall sails, the fresh blue and green of the dancing waves. Oh, I was romancing finally those nights, and there came no-blessed demoiselle to say to me gruffly, Coutre, il est tard. When the sketch was completed at last I gave it to my father to read, and then went out for a long walk. It was nearly midnight when I returned, but he was still reading. He cleared his throat. Son, he said very huskily, this is a strong piece of work. His eyes were moist as they moved rapidly down the page.  Who'll print it? he asked. I wish I knew, Dad. I mailed it that night to a magazine. In the next two weeks my father's suspense was even deeper than my own, though he tried hard to joke about it, calling me pendennis. One day in his office chair he wheeled with a nervous sharpness, and I could feel his eyes fixed on the envelope which the postman had just thrown on my desk. God help me, it was heavy and long. It had my manuscript inside. Dismally I searched for a letter. Still I could feel those anxious eyes. Hold on, I cried. They've taken it. All they want me to do is cut it down. Then do it, my radiant father snarled. It ought to be cut to half its length. That's the way with beginners, a mass of details. Some day, maybe, you'll learn to write. I smiled happily back. He came suddenly over and gripped my hand. My boy, I'm glad. I'm very glad. I'm— he cleared his throat and went back to his desk and tried to scowl over what he was doing. Dad? Huh. They say they'll give me a hundred dollars. Pretty good for one month's work. Huh. And they want me to do some more on the harbor. They say it's a new field. Never been touched. Then touch it, he said, gruffly. Leave me alone. I'm busy. But coming in late after lunch in that day, I found him reading the editor's letter. Boy, he said that evening, you ought to read Thackery for style, and Washington Irving, and see what a whippersnapper you are. Work, work. If your mother were only alive, she could help you. And just before bedtime, taking a bottle of beer with my pipe, I caught his disapproving eye. Worst thing you can put in your stomach, he growled. He said this regularly each night and added, Why can't you keep up your health for your work? His own health had improved astonishingly. It's the winter air that has done it, he said. End of Chapter 7 Recording by Tom Weiss Chapter 8 of the Harbor This labor box recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss The Harbor by Ernest Poole Chapter 8 My work, as my father saw it now, was to write strong, practical articles presenting the respective merits of free ships, ship subsidies, and discriminating tariffs to build up our mercantile marine. But I was growing tired these days of my father's ideas, his miracle, and his endless talk of the past. On walks along the waterfront he would treat it all like a graveyard. But while he pointed out the tombs, I felt the swift approach of spring. It was March, and in a crude way of its own, the harbor was expressing the season. In warm salty breezes the odor of fish and the smell of tar on the bottoms of boats being overhauled for the summer. Our Italian dockers sang at their work, and one day the dock was a bright-hewed mass of strawberries and early spring flowers landed by a boat from the south. Everywhere things seemed starting. Starting like myself. I had given up my warehouse job, and free at last from that tedious desk to which I once thought I was tied for years, with two sketches sold and ideas for others, so many others rising daily in my mind, I went about watching the life of the poor. Poor dad. He was old. Could I help being young? Without exactly meaning to, I drew away from my father to Sue. We felt ourselves vividly young in that house. We quarreled intensively over her friends, and were pleased with ourselves in the process. We had long talks about ourselves. Sue let me talk to her by the hour about my work and my ideas, while she sat and thought about her own. If you're planning to write up the harbor, she said sleepily late one night, you ought to cruise around it a bit in Eleanor Dillon's motorboat. I looked at her in astonishment. Does that girl run a motorboat? Her father's Sue yawned and gave me a curious smile. I'll see if I can arrange it, she said. And about a week later she told me, Eleanor's coming to take us out tonight. Some of Sue's friends came to supper that evening, and later we all went down to the dock. There was no moon, but the stars were out, and the night was still. The slip was dark and empty. Suddenly with a rush and a squirrel, a motorboat round at the end of the pier turned sharply in and came shooting toward us. A boiling of water she seemed to rear back, then drifted unconcernedly into the bottom of the ladder. In the small circle of light down there I saw Eleanor Dillon smiling up. She sat at her wheel, a trim figure in white, a white jersey, something red at her throat, and a soft white hat crushed a bit to one side. Beneath it the breeze played tricks with her hair. We scrambled down into the cockpit. It was a deep cozy little place, with the wide open doors of a cabin in front, in which I caught a glimpse of two bunks, a table, a tiny electric cooking stove, and a shaded reading light over the one small easy chair. There were impotent curtains of blue at the portholes. There was a shelf of books and another of blue and white cups and saucers and dishes. And what was that?  Buttons, commanded his mistress, come out here this minute and stop your noise. There's nothing for you to be peevish about, the water's like glass. When it's rough, she explained, he gets fearfully seasick. Come here now, pass the cigarettes. And this her buttons proceeded to do. Very grumpily. Then as a small, quiet hand pulled the lever, I felt a leap of power beneath me, the boat careened as she turned. Then, right it, there was a second pull on the lever, another surging leap of speed, and as we rushed out on the river now, up rose her bow higher and higher, a huge, white wave on either side. The spray dashed in our faces. Everyone began talking excitedly.   I tell you it's smooth and you won't be sick.  Slowly and with elaborate caution the monkey crept forward over the cabin. For a moment at the bow he paused, a ridiculous little dark-jacketed figure between the two white crests of our ways. Then with a spring he was up to his place on the top of the light, and there with gay gesticulations he greeted every vessel we passed. I had taken a seat by Eleanor's side. She was driving her boat with eyes straight ahead. Now and then she would close them, draw in a deep breath of the rough salt air, and smile contentedly to herself. After a time I heard her voice low and intimate as before. Finished up that hideous harbor of yours? No, I answered hungrily. I think I've just begun.  You'll be out of your rut in a moment, she said. What do you mean, my rut, I demanded.  Wait and see. From the little East River corner I'd lived in we sped far out on the upper bay, a rushing black speck on a dim expanse, with dark empty fields of water around us, long luminous paths stretching off to the shores, where the lights twinkled low for miles and miles, and there were sudden bursts of flame from distant blast furnace fires. Tell me what you've been writing about this hideous place, she said. Who said it was hideous at night? Of course, if you wrap it all up in the dark, so that you can see none of its seahogs, what's a seahog? A seahog is a wallowing boat with a long black heavy snout, and mustering all that was left of my hatred I plunged into my picture.  That's how it looks to me in the daytime. Are you sure it does, still? I am, I answered firmly, and I'm going to write it just as it looks. Then look back at you, she suggested. Behind us at the tip of Manhattan the tall buildings had all melded together in one tremendous mass, with only a pinpoint of light here and there, a place of shadowy turrets and walls like some medieval fortress. Out of it, in contrast to its dimness, rose a garish tower of lights that seemed to be keeping a vigilant watch over all the dark waters, the ships, and the docks, the harbor of big companies. My father works up in that tower, she said. He can see the whole harbor spread out below, but he keeps coming down to see it all close, and I've steered him up close to everything in it. You've no idea how much there is. She threw me a glance of pitying scorn. There are over seven hundred miles of waterfront in this small port, and I'm not going to have you trudging around and getting lost and tired and cross and working off your grudge in your writing. You can come with me some afternoon, and I'll do what I can to open your eyes. Please do it, I said quickly. She took me down to the seagate at the end of a warm still, foggy day. There, in the deepening twilight, we drifted without a sign of a world around us, till in from the ocean there came a deep billow, then another, and another.  Another seahog, murmured a voice. I said in the daytime, I replied. We went out on another afternoon to watch the fishermen fleets at their work, or scutting before a strong wind home with a great round radiant sun behind. She showed me fishers in the air, lonely fish-hawks one by one flying in the late afternoon back to their nests on the Atlantic Highlands. And far out on the lower bay she knew where to stir up whole armies of gulls, till there seemed to be thousands wheeling in the air with the bright sunshine on all wings. The sunshine, too, with the help of the breeze, stole glinting deep into her hair. She watched me out of half-closed eyes. Is this daylight enough, she demanded? This is simply absurd, I answered. You know very well that this harbor is ugly in places. Only in places? That's better, she said. In a great many places I rejoined. Please take me to Bayonne some day, at 2 p.m., I added. It seemed a good safe, unmisterious hour, and as we neared the place next day my hopes mounted high, for there was a leadened sky overhead and loathsome blotches and streaks of oil on the grey water around us, while ahead on the Jersey shore, from two chimneys that rose half-way to the clouds, poured two foul sluggish columns of smoke. Still New York Harbor, I believe, I inquired maliciously. But Eleanor was smiling. What's the joke, I demanded. The south-west wind, she softly replied. I could feel it coming, and she spoke. As I watched, I saw it take that sky and tear jagged rifts in it for the sun, and then as those two columns of smoke began twisting and writhing like monster snakes, they took on purple and greenish shoes, and threw grossly reflections of themselves down on the oily water around us, filled with blue and gold shimmerings now. What a strange, wonderful purple, murmured a quiet voice by my side. Stubbornly, I resisted conversion. I wanted more afternoons in that boat. Now it's blowing that oily odor our way, I declared in sudden annoyance. I no sooner get to enjoying myself, when along comes one of the smells of this place. And where's the beauty in them? Can you show me? Here's a place that should be a great storehouse of pure fresh air for the city to breathe, and? Oh, hush up, said Eleanor. But I doggedly found other blemishes here, swamps, railroad yards, and sooty tracks that filled the waterfront for miles, where there should have been parks and boulevards. At the same time, I assumed the tone of one who tries to be fair and patient. Whenever she showed me some new beauty in water or sky, I took great pains to look at it well, when an angry little squall of wind came ruffling over the summer waves in sweeping bands of deep, soft blues. I gazed and gazed at its wonder as though I could never have enough. And so gazing, I spied floating there a sodden old mattress, a fleet of tin cans. And I said that it seemed an unhealthy thing to dump all our refuse so close to the city. They don't, she retorted indignantly. They take it out miles beyond the hook. In short, I considered myself mighty clever. Day by day I prolonged my conversion, holding obstinately back, while Eleanor revealed to me the miracles worked by the sunset here, and by the clouds, the winds, and the tides, the very smoke in the ship themselves, all playing weird tricks on each other. Slowly the crude glory of it stalled upon me unawares, until, to my own intense surprise, the harbor now became for me a breathing, heaving, gleaming thing filled deep with the rush and the vigor of life, a thing no longer sinister crushing down on a man's old age, but strangely deeply stirring. Look out, my friend, I warned myself. This is no harbor you're falling in love with. 8. Although at such lucid moments I would sometimes go a-soring up into the most dazzling dreams, more often I would plunge in gloom, for Eleanor's dreams and all her thoughts seemed centered on her father. From each corner of that watery world, no matter how far we wondered, the high tower from which he looked down on it all would suddenly loom above the horizon. Over the dreariest marshes it peeped and into all our talk he came. A marsh was a place that he was to transform, orally odors were things he would sweep away. For every abuse that I could discover, her father was working out some cure. With a whole core of engineers drafting his dreams into practicable plans, there was no end to the things he could do. Here is a girl, I told myself, so selfishly wrapped up in her father she hasn't a thought for anyone else. She's using me to boom his work as she has doubtless used writers before me, and will use dozens more when I'm gone. No doubt she would like to have dozens of me sitting right here beside her now. It's not at all a romantic thought, but think how she could use me then, and I would glower at her. But it is a lonely, desolate job to sit and glower at a girl who appears so placently unaware of the fact that you are glowering, and slowly emerging from my gloom I would wonder about this love that was in her. At times when she talked she made me feel small, my own love for my mother, how utterly selfish it had been. Here was a passion so deep and so real, it made her almost forget I was there, asking questions hungrily watching her, trying to learn about her life. When I was in school, she said in that low deliberate voice of hers, my father and I went abroad every summer. We tramped in the Alps for weeks at a time, keeping way off the beaten paths to watch the work of the Swiss engineers. One of them was a woman. We saw the bridge she'd built over a gorge, and I became deeply excited. Until then I had never had any idea that I could go into my father's work. But now I wondered if I could. That winter in school I really worked. I was dreadfully dull at mathematics, but I wouldn't see it. I made up my mind to go to Cornell for the course on engineering. I worked like a slave for two years to get ready, and just succeeded in getting in. Then toward the middle of freshman year I realized that I was becoming a quite absurdly solemn young grind. There were over a hundred girls in college, but I had made barely any friends, and so I firmly resolved to be gay. I made a regular business of it and worked my way in the clubs and dances, hunting for the girls I liked and scheming to make them like me too. By May I was way behind in my work. I tried to make up. I began cramming every night until one or two in the morning, and I passed my examinations. But that summer I broke down. My father had to drop his work and take me abroad for an operation, and by the time we got back he had lost nearly six months of his time. I decided that as an engineer I was a dismal failure. I'd much better give my father a chance. So when he took up this work in New York I spent all my time on our new apartment. I loved fussing with it. I shopped like a bee, and this kept me busy all autumn. Besides I was going about with Sue. She had managed me long ago at school, and I was glad to let her now, for I was hunting for new ideas. But Sue put me on so many committees that by spring my nerves were in shreds, and again for weeks I was flat on my back. One evening, then, when my father came home and sat down by my bedside, it came over me all of a sudden, the wonderful quiet strength in his hand, in the look in his eyes. Where have you been? I asked him. Down on the harbor, he told me. Since eight in the morning he'd been in a launch exploring it all.  Soon I was feeling deliciously quiet. I'm going down there too, I thought. By the next evening I had the idea for this boat. When I told him he was delighted, and we both grew excited over the plans which he drew by my bed, I made him draw dozens. At last it was built and lay at its dock. And I packed all I needed into a trunk and we came down in a taxi. It was a lovely May afternoon and we had a beautiful ride up the Hudson. And from then on through the summer I hardly went ashore at all. I knew if I did it would spoil it all. Every night we slept on board in those two cozy little bunks. I learned to cook here. Soon I was able to run the boat and even to help my father a little. I knew just enough about his work to go places for him and save his time. I'd forgotten I ever had any nerves, for I felt I belonged to something now that got way down to the roots of things. Do you see what I mean? This harbor isn't like a hotel or an evening gown or Weber infields. I love pretty gowns and my father and I wouldn't miss Weber infields for worlds. But they're all on top. This is down at the bottom. It's one of those deep places that seem to make the world go round. It's right where the ocean bumps into the land. You can get your roots here. You can feel you are real. You see what my father is doing is to take this whole harbor and study it hard. Not just the water, the shipping and docks. For when he says the port of New York, he means all the railroads too, and he's studying how they all come in and why it is that everything has become so frightfully snarled. A lot of big shipping men are behind him and he's to draw up a plan for it all which they're going to give to the city to use to make this port what it's got to be, the very first in the ocean world. It's one of those slow tremendous pieces of work. It will take years to carry it out and hundreds of millions of dollars. My father thinks there's hardly a chance that he'll ever live to see it all done. I know he will. I'm sure he will. He's the kind of a man who keeps himself young. But whether he really sees it or not, or gets any credit, he doesn't care. That's the kind of a person my father is, Eleanor added softly. My father wants to meet you, she told me toward the end of June, at one of those times when she let the boat drift while we had long absorbing talks. He has read that thing you wrote about the German Seahog and he thinks it's awfully well done. That's good of him, I said gruffly. Somehow or other it always makes me uncomfortable when people talk about my work. When they criticize, I am annoyed, and when they praise, I am uneasy. What do they know about it? They spent an hour reading what it took me weeks to write. They don't even know what I tried to do, nor do they care. They haven't time. I never feel so cut off from people, so utterly alone in the world, as when some benevolent person says, I like that little story of yours.  I liked it too, said Eleanor. Did you? I asked delightedly. Far from retiring into my shell, I wanted at once to open up and make her feel how much I had missed in that crude effort. Soon she had me talking about it, and while I talked on eagerly, I tried to guess from her questions whether she'd read it more than once. Finally, I guessed she had. And glancing at her now and then, I wondered how much she could ever know about me or I about her, really know. And the intimacy I saw had loomed radiant and boundless. I strained every nerve to show her myself, to show her the very best of myself. But then I heard her ask me, wouldn't you like to talk to my father? Here was a fine end to it all. I don't know, I answered gloomily. I could see already those engineer eyes moving amusantly down my pages. I could see her watching his face and getting to feel as he did about me. What good would it do, I added. What good would it do?  Don't you see what I mean? I asked eagerly. Why should a man as busy as he is waste his time on a kid like me? After all that you've told me about him, I feel sometimes as though all the writers on earth don't count anymore, because all the really big things are being done by men like your father. That's much better, said Eleanor. Only, of course, it isn't true. If you poor little writers want to get big and really count, she went on serenely, all you have to do is to write about my father. I'll begin the minute you say so, I told her. Then it's arranged, said my companion, with an exceedingly comfortable sigh. We've taken the cottage up on the sound for the summer, she continued, and we're moving up tomorrow. Suppose you come up over Sunday. Thanks, I'd love to, I replied. So she's to be away for months I added dismalade to myself. No more of these long afternoons. End of Chapter 9 Recording by Tom Weiss Chapter 10 of The Harbor This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss. The Harbor by Ernest Poole Chapter 10 On the following Saturday when I met her boat at an East River dock, at once I felt a difference. We were waiting for her father. The moments dragged and I grew glum, trying as I would to be pleasant. Here he is, she said at last. Tall, rather lank and loosely clothed, Dillon was coming down the pier in easy, leisurely fashion, talking to a man by his side. His face lighted up when he saw us. Just a minute, he said. His voice was low, but it had a peculiar carrying quality. His rugged face was deeply lined and I noticed a little gray in his hair. He was smiling straight down into the eyes of his companion, a much younger man, thin and poorly dressed, whose face looked drawn and tired. When I was your age, I heard Dillon remark, I got into just the same kind of a snarl.  But I saw the younger man listen, absorbed, his thin lips parting in a smile. I saw him come out from under his worries. I saw his chief watching him, pulling him out. All right, Jim, he ended. See what you can do. Say, chief, just you forget this, will you? The other said intensely. Don't give it a thought. It's going to be done. It's forgotten. Another easy smile at his man, and then Eleanor's father turned to us. I could feel him casually take me in. The thing I liked most in that sketch of yours, he was saying a few minutes later, when our boat was on her course, was the way you listed that Dutchman's cargo, one baby carriage, to Lahore. A very large picture in five little words, I can see that Hindu baby now, being wheeled in its carriage to Crocodile Park, and wondering where the devil this queer new wagon came from. I've been nosing around these docks for years, but I missed that part of them right along, that human part, till you came along with your neat writer's trick, one baby carriage to Lahore. You ought to be proud young man at your age to have written one sentence so long that it goes halfway around the world. As he talked in that half-bendering tone, I tried to feel cross, but it wouldn't do. That low voice and those gray eyes were not making fun of me. They were making friends with me. They were so kindly, curious, so open and sincere. Soon he had lighted a cigar and was telling Eleanor gravely just how she ought to run her boat. Why be so busy about it, he asked. Oh, you be quiet, she replied, as she sharply spun her wheel. Like an automobile in a crowded street, our craft was lurching its way in short dashes in and out of the rush-hour traffic. The narrow east river was black with boats. Ferries, tugs, and steamers seemed to be coming at us from every side. Now with a leap we would be off, then abruptly churning the water behind us we would hold back, drifting, watching our chance for another rush. Eleanor's face was glowing now, her hat was off, her neck was tense, and her blue-gray eyes wide open fixed on the chaos ahead were shining with excitement. Now and then a long curling wisp of her hair would get in her eyes, and savagely she would blow it back. And her like quiet father puffed his cigar with his gray eyes restfully on her. The serenity of her, he murmured to me. Oh, now, my dear, he said gently as we careened his starboard, that was a slip. I can't say I would have done it like that.  No, said Dylan calmly. I can't exactly say I have. Still, he relapsed and enjoyed his cigar. Just a short time after this we had the only ugly moment that I had been through in all our rides. A huge sound steamer was ahead. Dashing close along under her port, we came suddenly out before her and met a tug whose fool of a captain had made a rush to cross her bow. It was one of those sickening incidents when you see nothing at all to do. But Eleanor saw a quick jerk on her lever, a swift spinning of her wheel, and with a leap we were right under the steamer's bow. It missed our stern by a foot as it passed and then we were safe on the other side. She made a low sound. In a moment her face went deathly white, her eyes shut, and she nearly let go of the wheel. But then her slight form tightening, slowly opening her eyes, she turned toward her father. Now, he asked very softly, and there passed a look between them. All right, she breathed and turned back to her wheel, and for some time very little was said. But I understood her love for him now. These two were such companions as I had never seen before.  For watching her father and feeling the abounding reserve of force deep under his quiet, I told myself that here was a big man, the first really big one I'd ever come close to, and I was so eager to know him and see just what he was like inside, that I had no room for myself or his daughter, because I wanted to write him up. What a weird, curious feeling it is, this passion for writing up people you meet. On the remainder of the ride and at supper that night on the porch of their cottage, a little house perched on a rocky point directly overlooking the water, I did my best to draw him out, and Eleanor seemed quite ready to help me.  Soon, she was doing all the talking, her voice growing lower and more intense as she tried to make me feel all he meant when he said, it's going to be the first port in the world.  She told of the night two years before when he had come home all shaken and queer, and had said to her huskily, Eleanor child, at last it's sure there's to be a Panama canal.  When it comes to millions of dollars for his work, she said, he's so very keen that he makes you feel like a little child, but when it's merely a question of dollars for himself to live on, he's a perfect baby. He won't look at a bill, he always turns them over to me. He won't enter a shop, he won't go to a tailor. One ready-made clothing store has his measure, and twice a year I order his clothes and then have a fight to get him to wear them. He never knows what he eats except steak. One night when we had been having steak six evenings in succession, I tried chicken for a change. At first he didn't know what was wrong. Every now and then he would seem to notice something. What's the matter with me, I could see he was asking. Then all at once he had it. My dear, he said very coaxingly, could we have a nice juicy porterhouse steak for supper tomorrow evening. From these and many other details slowly I got the feel of my man. Closer, more intimate he grew. All the work I had done in Paris, questioning, drawing out my friends until I could feel their innermost selves coming out of them into me, was counting now. I had never done so well before.  And she thinks she's doing it all by herself, I thought exultingly. But as there came a pause in our talk, she turned slightly in her seat and glanced in through the window into the lighted room behind, and instantly her expression changed. A swift look of surprise, a puzzled frown, at a moment of hard thinking, and then, with a murmured excuse, she rose and went away quickly into the house. In the meantime I had followed her look. Sitting close by the lamp in the room inside, Dylan was staring straight at this spot where I was invisible in the dark, and he looked old and rigid as though he'd been staring like that for some time. I caught just a glimpse. Then he heard her step and turned hastily back to his work. I looked at my watch. It was after twelve. And he never knew it was all about him, I said to myself disgustedly. I hope this doesn't spoil at all. But that is precisely what it did. The next morning she was coolly polite, and Dylan determinately genial. I could feel a silent struggle between them as to what should be done with me. She wanted to get rid of me. He wanted to keep us together. Gone was all his quiet strength. In his place was an anxious friendliness. He made me tell him what I was writing. He said he was glad that his press agent daughter had taken me round and opened my eyes. And as soon as she got through with me, he himself would do all he could. I'm through with him, said Eleanor cheerfully. I've shown him all I possibly can. What you need now, she added, turning to me in her old easy manner, is to watch the harbor all by yourself and get your own feelings about it. You might begin at the North River Docks. I spent a wretched afternoon. All my plans for my work and my life assumed the most gray and desolate hues. Eleanor was taking a nap. At last she came down and gave me some tea. May I come out and see you now and then? I asked her very humbly. It would help me so much to talk over my work. No, she answered kindly. I think you'd better not. Why not, I've learned it. What have I done? She hesitated, then looked at me squarely. You've made my absurd young father, she said, think that he is no longer young. I lost just a moment in admiration. There wasn't one girl in a hundred who would have come out with it like that. Then I seized my chance. Why, it's perfectly idiotic, I cried.   No longer young, I continued, that man will be young when you and I are blinking in our dull, old age. He's the biggest man I ever met. And I want to know him. I want to know how he thinks and feels. I want that more than anything else. And now you come between us. Are you real? asked Eleanor. I looked back unflinchingly. Just you try me, I retorted. No, she replied with a quiet smile. She said goodbye to me that night. The next morning at seven o'clock I met her father down at the boat. We had a quick swim together and then climbed on board. And the next minute, with a sober old seaman called Captain Artie at the wheel, the boat was speeding for New York while we dressed and cooked and breakfasted. This was Eleanor's idea, Dylan said. It gets me to town by nine o'clock and takes me back each day at five, so I hardly miss a night at home. Did she ever tell you, he went on, about the first week she spent in this boat? She said it was a wonderful time. It was a nightmare, Dylan said. I looked at him quickly. What do you mean? Her fight for her strength. She looked like a ghost with a stiff upper lip. She fainted twice, but she wouldn't give up. She said she knew she could do it if I'd only let her stick it out. She has quite a will, that daughter of mine, he added quietly. You know, he went on, that idea of hers that you tackle the North River Peers isn't bad. Why don't you put in the whole summer there, watching the big liners? I won't ask you to come to my office now, for our work is still in that early stage where we don't want any publicity. I could feel his casual glance and I wondered whether he noticed my sharp disappointment. When we are ready, he resumed, we're sure to be flooded with writers. I hope there'll be one man in the lot who'll stick to the work for a year or more, a man with a kind of passion in him for the thing we're trying to do. There's nothing we wouldn't do for that man. I hope he's going to be you. At once a vision opened up work with Eleanor's father, of long talks with Eleanor. I'll try to get ready for it, I said. You've made a fine start, he continued, and I think you're going to make good. But first let's see what you'll do by yourself. Get your own view of this place as it is today before we talk about plans for tomorrow. And don't hurry. Take your time. As he said this quietly, I suddenly awoke to the fact that we were tearing down the river at a perfectly gorgeous speed. The river was crowding with traffic ahead. All was a rushing chaos of life, and we were rushing worst of all. And yet we did not seem to hurry. Old Captain Artie sat at the wheel with the most resigned, patient look in his eyes. And drawing lazily on a cigar, Dylan was watching a new line of wars. You know I've found, he was saying, the only place to live in this age and get any pleasure out of life is to always take more time than you need for every job you tackle. I'm taking at least seven years to this job. I might possibly do it as well in five, but I'd miss half the fun of it all. I'd be glaring at separate parts of it, each one as it came along, and I'd never have time to see it full size and let it carry me round the world, to that baby carriage, for instance, over in Lahore. We were rounding the battery now, and in that sparkling morning light with billowy waves of sea green all around us, sudden snowy clouds of spray, we watched for a moment the skyscraper group, the homes of the big companies. The sunshine was reflected from thousands of dazzling window eyes, little streamers of steam were flung out gaily overhead, streets suddenly open to our view, narrow cuts revealing the depths below, and there came to our ears a deep humming. That's the brains of it all, said Dylan. In all you'll see while exploring the wharves, you'll find some string that leads back here, and you don't want to let that worry you. Let the muckrakers worry and plan all they please for a sea gate and a nation that's to run with its brains removed. You want to remember it can't be done. You want to look harder and harder until you find out for yourself that there are men up there on Wall Street without whose brains no big things can be done in this country. I'm working under their orders and some day I hope you'll be doing the same, for they don't need less publicity but more. He left me at the battery, and as I stood looking after him I found myself feeling somewhat dazed. A question flashed into my mind. What would Joe Kramer say to this? I remembered what he had said to me once. Tell Wall Street to get off the roof. Well, that was his view. Here was another, and this man was certainly just as sincere and decidedly more wise and sane, all together a larger size. Besides, I was in love with his daughter. End of Chapter 10 Recording by Tom Weiss Chapter 11 of the Harbor This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Weiss The Harbor by Ernest Poole Chapter 11 On the Manhattan side of the North River, from 23rd Street down for a mile, there stretches a deafening region of cobblestones in asphalt over which trucks by thousands go clattering each day. There are long lines of freight cars here and snorting locomotives. Along the south shore are many saloons, a few cheap, decent little hotels, and some that are far from decent. And along the water side is a solid line of dock sheds. Their front is one unbroken wall of sheet iron and concrete. I came up against this wall. Over the top I could see here and there the great round funnels of the ships, but at every passenger doorway and at every wide freight entrance I found a sign, no visitors admit it, and under the sign a watchman who would ungraciously take a cigar and then go right on being a watchman. There seemed no way to get inside. The old-fashioned mystery of the sea was replaced by the inscrutability of what some muck-rickers called the pool. Don't worry, Eleanor's father had said, all very well, but I needed money. While I had been making with Eleanor those long and delightful explorations of the harbor and ourselves, at home my father's bank account had been steadily dwindling, and all that I had been able to make had gone into expenses. I don't know what to do, said Sue, alone with me that evening. The butcher says he won't wait any longer. He has simply got to be paid this week. I'll see what I can do, I said. I came back to my new hunting ground and all night long I prowled about. I sipped large schooners of beer at bars, listening to the burly dockers crowded close around me. I watched the waterfront, empty and still, with acres of spectral wagons and trucks, and here and there a lantern. I had a long talk with a broken old bum who lay on his back in an empty truck, looking up at the stars and spun me yarns of his life as it cooked on ships, all up and down the world. Now and again in the small wee hours I met hurrying groups of men, women, and children poorly clad, and following them to one of the piers I heard the sleepy watchman growl, steerage passengers over there. I saw the dawn break slowly and everything around me grow bluish and unreal. I watched the teamsters come trampling along leading horses and harness them to the trucks. I heard the first clatter of the day. I saw the figures of dockers appear, more and more. I saw some of them drift to the docks. Soon there were crowds of thousands, and as stevedores there began bawling out names, gang after gang of men stepped forward, until at last the chosen throngs were marching in past the timekeepers. Hungryly I peered after them up the long cavernous docksheds. No visitors admitted. Then I went into a lunchroom for ham and eggs and a huge cup of coffee. I ate an enormous breakfast. On the floor beside me a cross and weary-looking old woman was scrubbing the dirty oilcloth there. But I myself felt no weariness. While all was still vivid and fresh in my mind, sitting there I wrote down what I had seen. A magazine editor said it would do. And so we paid the butcher. The same editor gave me a sweeping letter of introduction to all ocean liners. This I showed to a dock watchman who directed me upstairs. In the office above I showed it to a clerk who directed me to the dock superintendent, who read it and told me to go downtown. I recalled what Dylan had said about strings. Here was string number one I reflected, and I followed it down Manhattan into the tall buildings, only to be asked down there just what it was I wanted to know. I don't want to know anything I replied. I just want permission to watch the work. We can't allow that was the answer of this harbour of big companies. At every pier that I approached I received about the same reply. At home Sue spoke of other bills, and now that I was in trouble hard-pressed for money and groping my way about I found myself missing Eleanor to a most desperate degree. Her face, her smiling blue-gray eyes kept rising in my mind, sometimes with memories and hopes that permeated my whole view both of the harbour and my work with a warm glad expectant glow, but more often with no feeling at all but one of sickening emptiness. She was not here. The only way to get back to her was to make good with her father, and so I would not ask his aid or even go to him for advice, testing me was he, all right, I would show him. And I returned to my editor whom my intensity rather amused. The joke of it is, he said, that they think down there you're a muckraker. I'll be one if this keeps on. But it won't, he replied, as soon as you've once broken in, and they see it's a glory story you want, you can't imagine how nice they'll be. I haven't broken in, I said. You will tomorrow, he told me, because Abner Bell will be with you. He's our star photographer. Wait till you see little Ab go to work. The place he can't get into hasn't been invented. Besides the editor at it, Abner is just a sort of chap to take hold of an author from Paris and turn him into a writer. And this Abner Bell proceeded to do.  You see, he said, when I met him the next day down at the docks, you can't ask a harbour to hold up her chin and look into your camera while you count.  You've got to run right at her in bark. Look here, old man, he was asking a watchman a few moments later. What's the name of the superintendent on the next pier down the line? Captain Towns. Towns. Towns. Is that Bill Towns? No, it's Ed. I wonder what's become of Bill. All right, brother, much obliged. See you again. And he went on. Say he asked the next watchman. Is Eddie, I mean, Captain Towns upstairs? Sure he is.  Thank you. Up we went to the office. Captain Towns, good morning. Well, sir, what can I do for you? The Captain was an Englishman with a voice as heavy and deep as his eyes. Why, Captain, I'm sent here by the firm that's putting P.V.'s Paris perfume on the market out in the Middle West. They're going in heavy on ads this fall, and I've got an order to hang around here until I can get a photo of one of your biggest liners. The idea is to run it as an ad with a caption under it something like this. The Kaiser Wilhelm reaching New York with twenty thousand bottles of P.V.'s best, direct from Paris. The Kaiser Wilhelm, said the Captain ponderously, is a German boat. She docks in Hoboken, my friend. Of course she does, said Abner, and I can lug this heavy camera way over there if you say so, and hand ten thousand dollars with the free ads to a German line, stick up pictures of their boat in little drugstore windows all up and down the Middle West. Do you know how to tell me to go away? Captain Towns smiled heavily. No, he said. I guess I don't. Here's a pass that'll give you the run of the dock. Make it too, said Abner, and fix it so my friend and I can stick around for quite a while. You're a pretty good liar, I told him as we went downstairs. Oh, hell, he answered modestly. Let's go out on the porch and get cool. We went out on the open end of the pier and sat down on a wooden beam which Abner called a bulkhead. If we don't begin calling things names, he remarked, we'll never get to feeling we're here. Let's just sit and feel for a while. I've begun, I replied. We sat in the shade of two wooden piles with the glare of a midsummer sun all around us. The East River had been like a crowded creek compared to this wide expanse of water, slapping and gleaming out there in the sun with smoke shadows chasing over it all. There was the rough odor of smoke in the air from craft of all kinds as they scurried about. The high black bow of a canarder loomed at the end of the dock next ours. Far across the river, the stout German liners lay at their berths, and they did not look like seahogs.  How all the hogs had waddled away, and the very smoke and the oil on the waves had taken on deep, vivid hues, as I had seen through Eleanor's eyes. What a strange, wonderful purple her low voice seemed to murmur at my side. She's going away from here, said Ab. I started. Who is? That canarder, look at the smoke pour out of her stacks. Got a cigarette about you? No, I answered roughly. Damn. In the slip on our other side, a large freight boat was loading, and a herd of scows and barges were pressing close around her. These clumsy craft had cabins and in some whole families lived. Harbour Gypsies, a good title. I had paid the butcher, but the grocer was still waiting. So I dismissed my motorboat and grimly turned to scows instead. Children by the dozen were making friends from barge to barge. Dogs were all about us, and they too were busy visiting. High up on the roof of a collider's cabin, an impudent little sky terrier kept barking at the sooty men who were shoveling down below.  Most of the barges had derrick mass, and all these mass were moving. They rose between me and the sky, bobbing, tossing, and crisscrossing, filling the place with the feeling of life, the undending, restless life of the sea. An ear-shattering roar broke in on it all. Our canarder was starting. Smoke belching black from her funnels, the monster was beginning to move. But what was this woman doing close bias? Out of the cabin of a large barge, she had dragged a little rocking chair, and now she had brought out a baby, all dressed up in its Sunday best, and was rocking expectantly, watching the ship. Thundering to the harbor, the canarder now moved slowly out. As she swept into the river, the end of the pier was revealed to our eyes all black with people waving. They waved until she was out in midstream. Then, as they began to turn away, one plump, motherly looking woman happened to glance toward us. Why, the cute little baby, we heard her exclaim, and the next minute, hundreds of people were looking. The barge mother rocked serenely. Abner grabbed his camera and jumped nimbly down on the barge, where he took the baby's picture with the amused crowd for a background. The kid's name, he remarked on his return, is Violetta Rosie. She was born at 2 a.m. at Pier 49. He was silent for a moment and then went on sententially. Think what it'll mean to her, through all the storm and stress of life, to be able to look fondly back upon the dear old homestead. There's a punch to Violetta. Better run her in. I will, I said. And that little thing of mine, he queried modestly, about the dear old homestead? I've got it, I replied. I hand quite a few little things to writers, Abe continued cheerfully. If you'll just give me some idea of what it is you're looking for. I'm looking for the punch, I answered promptly. Then we'll get on fine, he said. The editor got me worried some. He said you'd trained in Paris. Oh, that was only a starter, I told him. Presently he went into the dock shed on his unending quest of the punch, and left to myself I got thinking. What did Paris know about us? De Moppa-Saint's methods wouldn't do here. I noticed two painters in overall at work on that large freighter. With long brooms that they held in both hands, they were slapping a band of crude yellow paint along her scarred and rusted side. That was what I needed, the broom. All at once the harbor took hold of me hard, and exulting in its bigness the bold, raw, splattering bigness of my native Yankee land, now for some glory stories, I said. I went into the dock shed and there I stayed right through until night, till my mind was limp and battered from the rush of new impressions. For in this long sea station under the blue arc lights, in boxes, barrels, crates and bags, tumbling, banging, crashing, came the products of this modern land. You could feel the pulse of a continent here. From the factories, the mines and mills, the prairies and the forests, the plantations and the vineyards, there flowed a mighty tide of things, endlessly both day and night.  You could see the stuff converging here to be gathered into coarse rote nets and swept up to the liners. The pulse beat fast and furious. It gangs at every hatchway you saw men heaving, sweating, you heard them swearing, panting. That day they worked straight through the night, for the pulse kept beating, beating, and the ship must sail on time. And now I too worked day and night. In the weeks that followed, Abner Bell came and went many times, but for me it was my entire life. Though small a bill I was tough and hard, I had not been sick for a day and years, and now I easily stood the strain. Day by day my story grew, my glory story of world trade. Watching, questioning, listening here, making notes, writing hasty sketches to help keep us going at home. Slowly I could feel this place yielding up its inner self, its punch and bigness, endless rush, its feeling of a nation young and piling up prodigious wealth. From the custom house came fabulous tales of millionaires ransacking the world, rare old furniture, rugs and tapestries, paintings, jewels, gorgeous gowns poured in a dazzling torrent all that summer through the docks.  And into that same ship that week, as though in payment for these two, in dust and heavy smell of sweat I saw a thousand cattle driven, bellowing and lowing. I exalted in these symptoms of our crude and lusty youth. I watched my countrymen going abroad. Not only through the summer, but straight on into the fall they came by tens of thousands out of the west.  One day at noon on the end of a dock, when the ship was already far out in midstream and all the crashing music and cheers had died away, a meek old lady wiped her eyes and murmured very tearfully, I suppose they'll be eating their luncheon soon.   My work here rose to a climax a week or two before Christmas, when the newest liner of them all pulled off a new world's record for speed. With the company's publicity man, who had become a friend of mine, I went on the health officer's tug down the bay to meet her on the coldest, darkest night I've ever known on water. Shortly after nine o'clock, the big boat's light gleamed off the hook and she bore down upon us. She came close, slowed down, and towered by our side, weared as a ghost with snow and ice in glimmering sheets on her steel sides. She did not stop. We caught a rope ladder and scrambled up, and at once we felt her speeding on. And she was indeed a story that night. Bellowing hoarsely now in warning to all small craft to get out of her way, she was rushing into the harbor. Suddenly she slowed again, and three dark mail tugs ranged alongside. And through canvas chutes, four thousand sacks of Christmas mail began to pour down while the ship moved on. Up her other side came climbing gangs of men who began to make ready her winches and open up her hatches. Now we were moving in close to the pier with a whole fleet of tugs around us. Faint shouts rose in the zero night, toots and sharp whistles. One of the gangplanks was down at last, and two hundred dockers came up on the run. Off went the passengers in the luggage, reporters scurrying through the crowds. But the ship did not rest, for she was to sail again the next night. This was to be a world's record for speed. All night long the work went on, and I watched it from a deck above going in now and then for food and hot drinks. On her dock side forward, Christmas boxes, veils and packages were being whipped up out of her hold to the rattle of her winches. One sharp whistle and up they shot into the air till they swung some seventy feet above. Another whistle and down they whirled into the dock shed far below, from which a blaze of light poured up. At the same time she was coaling. Along the black wall of her other side, as I peered over the rail above, I saw far below a row of barges crowded with Italians. Powerful lights swung over their heads in the freezing wind, swung above black coal heaps and the lapping water. It was an inferno of shifting lights and long, leaping shadows. I watched till daylight plotted out the yellow glare of the lanterns, then I went home to get some sleep, and late that night when I came back I found her almost ready to sail. Out of taxis and automobiles chugging down in front of the pier, the passengers were pouring in. Many were in evening clothes, some just come from dinners and others from box parties. The theatres had just let out. The rich warm hues of the women's cloaks, the gay headdresses here and there, and the sparkling earrings, immaculate gloves, and dainty wanton-slippered feet kept giving flashes of color to this dark, freezing ocean place. Most of these people went scurrying up into the warm, gorgeous café of the ship, which was run from a hotel in Paris. What had all this to do with the sea?  You're the company's guest tonight.  Now come with me, he said at last, and he took me along warm passageways to the row of cabins deluxe. First we looked into the bridal suite, to which one of the Pittsburgh makers of steel, having just divorced a homely old wife, was presently to bring his new bride, a ravishing young creature of musical comedy fame. They had been married that afternoon. A French maid was unpacking dainty, shimmering little gowns, soft furry things, and other things of silk and lace, and hanging them up in closets. It was a large room, and there were other rooms adjoining, and two big luxurious baths. The cost of it all was four thousand dollars for the five days. There were tall mirrors and dressing tables, there were capacious easy chairs. Low subdued lights were here and there, and a thick rug was on the floor. Over in one corner was a huge double bed of cream-colored wood with rich soft quilts upon it. Beside the bed in a pink satin cradle there lay a tiny pecanese dog. Next he whispered. We peeped into the next state room, and there divided from her neighbors by only one thin partition a sober wrinkled little old lady in black velvet sat quietly reading her Bible. Soon she would be saying her prayers. Next he whispered, and in the cabin on her other side we caught a glimpse of two jovial men playing cards in gay pajamas with a bottle of scotch between them. Next, and as we went on down the row, he gave me the names of an English earl, a Jewish clothing merchant, a Minnesota ranchman, a banker's widow from Boston, a Tammany politician, a Catholic bishop from Baltimore, a millionaire cheese maker from Troy, and a mining king from Montana. How about that, he asked at the end for an American row deluxe. My God, it's great, I whispered. There's only one big question here, he added.  This big boat will throw them all overboard for you. If you can answer, I've got the price. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Tom Weiss