accommodate four 8000-ton ships at a time, will one day make Philadelphia one of the world's greatest ports. And the thought that every lover of seafaring will bring away with him is that these fabricated ships, built according to a set plan with interchangeable parts, are beautiful ships. Humble cargo carriers, but to an untutored eye they have much of the loveliness of form of some of the stateliest liners. Looking into the newly finished chartroom, wheelroom and other deckhouses of the Saluda, I envied her future master.
We climbed down steep steel ladders to look at the engine and boiler rooms. No grimy stokehold on these ships—they are oil-burners. One of the furnaces was lit, and through the half-open door one could see a roaring glow of flame. In the engine room quiet and skillful workmen were doing mysterious things to a huge turbine. The shining cylinders and huge pistons of the old reciprocating engine were missing; in their place a bewildering complex of wheels and valves and asbestos covered piping. Looking down from above the engine room was a vast echoing cavern, spotted with orange electric bulbs, with the occasional groan and humming of electric motors and men in overalls moving quietly about their tasks. The quietness of Hog Island is one of its curiously impressive features. It is not a wilderness of roaring, frenzied machinery. Everything moves with efficient docility. Even the riveting guns that echo inside the hollow caves of unfinished hulls are hardly as
