and, once in a great while, the mammoth blast of an outward bound liner.
Pop dimly made out the dark hulk of a ferry boat to Brooklyn starting out from its pier just to the left of him. The boat was sounding its fog horn steadily. Suddenly the monotonous tooting changed to staccato blasts of alarm. The warning wails of a second vessel shrieked just off the starboard bow of the outgoing ferry. Too late! Pop sprang up in alarm out of his apathy as he saw through the fog screen the two black masses closing in on each other. Fog and current had conspired to bring disaster.
There was a splintering crash mingled with the shouting and cries of human beings.
Pop ran and joined the mob that was rushing through the ferry house out to the dock whence the ill-fated boat had just departed. A few more adventurous ones mounted to the pilings jutting out into the river and ran out on them as far as they could go. Pop was among these. The two colliding vessels, locked in a firm grip, were drifting. Boats, sounding gongs, whistles and horns, were rushing toward them. There seemed no immediate danger. Apparently nobody was overboard. Shore was only a hundred yards off in the direction the wounded boats were floating. Even if they were sinking, they could be beached before that fatality happened.
The little knot of men, huddling on the pilings and shivering in the damp January cold, stood watching while rescuing tugs hovered around the accident. Seemingly Pop alone detected the faint
