Читать книгу The Wireless Operator—With the U. S. Coast Guard онлайн

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And when Henry thought of the snug little headquarters they had had in a private house in Staten Island, with a delightful elderly couple, he jumped to his feet and almost shouted with relief. Why hadn’t he thought of those old people before? They would take him in and tide him over until his friends returned. They would be glad to see him again, too. Henry felt sure of that, and, sighing with relief, he leaped to his feet, seized his little suit-case, and hustled over to the near-by municipal ferry-house, just in time to catch an outgoing boat for Staten Island.

Eased in mind, he now eagerly watched the harbor, thrilling with the stirring scenes before him. Six miles as the crow flies lay the course across the bay to Staten Island, and this six miles was alive with shipping. Everywhere vessels were moving. Sister ferry-boats were ploughing the waves straight toward Staten Island. In the Hudson and the East Rivers more ferry-boats were crossing back and forth. Big steamers were moving majestically along. Tugboats without number churned the choppy waves to foam, some riding in solitary state, and some towing long strings of barges at the ends of great hawsers. Others were snuggled in between big lighters, like porters with huge bandboxes under each arm. In the anchorages below the Statue of Liberty great tramp ships rode idly at anchor, awaiting cargoes. And on the opposite side of the bay, below Governor’s Island, stately sailing ships rolled gently in their moorings. Motor-boats, yachts, sailboats, even an occasional rowboat, moved this way and that. The surface of the water was crossed and recrossed with lines of yeasty foam, churned up by the passing craft, while the air was vibrant with the ceaseless tooting of ships’ whistles.