XVII
The way of a maid with a man
MICKY slowly climbed his ladder, carrying Graeme's clothes on his arm, and wondering what luck the poor devil was having. He felt sure of Bruyere, and the tide was not so very strong. Anyhow, Graeme had been stroke at Oxford and certainly could take care of himself. Each moment the night was getting thinner and the ports of the Frenchman gleamed clearer through the drifting haze. Nebulous lights appeared on all sides, indicating where other liners lay awaiting permission to enter the channel to the city. Overhead one could almost—almost—see the stars. Hoarse tootings came from the inner harbor, but the noise on the water was nothing like the noise in the air to which Micky had been listening. A lurid glow high in the sky above the fog showed where Broadway was.
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