for whatever work he had.

They found the whole crew swinging along the hundred foot front of the
dock, broadening the brilliant red waterline with all possible dispatch.
The reason for attacking the front first was obvious. In case of rough
weather, the way of the dock would pile the waves higher ahead than
anywhere else. Leonard and his new friend lowered themselves on a
swinging platform over the twelve-foot pontoon and joined in the work.

Tug and dock were now passing through the congested traffic of the lower
Thames and the enormous English shipping spread in a panorama before
them. Here were barges, smacks, scows, sailing vessels; big liners
plowing through the press with hoarse whistles; rusty English tramps,
that carried the Union Jack to the uttermost ends of the earth. Even a
few dreadnoughts lay castled on the broadening waters. On both sides of
the river, dull warehouses and factories stretched out rusty wharves,
like myriad fingers, to receive the tonnage that converged on this
center of the world's activities.

American curiosity almost prevented Madden from working at all. He
painted intermittently, between wonders, so to speak. As for Caradoc, he
made no pretense to labor, but propped a broad shoulder against the
supporting rope, stuck a cigarette under his white mustache and fell to
regarding the waterscape in a serious, preoccupied fashion.

"Say, old man," warned Leonard in an undertone, briskly plying his
brush, "that mate looked down at us then. He'll raise a rough house if
we don't get a move on and keep our section up."

Caradoc came out of his muse, tossed his cigarette into the swirling