Once he stepped aside to give passage to the great horse, or one like
him, and his train of little cars. The man driving nodded to him. Again
he happened on two men unloading similar cars, and passing the boards
down to other men below, who piled them skilfully, two end planks one
way, and then the next tier the other, in regular alternation. They wore
thick leather aprons, and square leather pieces strapped across the
insides of their hands as a protection against splinters. These, like
all other especial accoutrements, seemed to Bob somehow romantic, to be
desired, infinitely picturesque. He passed on with the clear,
yellow-white of the pine boards lingering back of his retina.
But now suddenly his sauntering brought him to the water front. The
tramway ended in a long platform running parallel to the edge of the
docks below. There were many little cars, both in the process of
unloading and awaiting their turn. The place swarmed with men, all
busily engaged in handing the boards from one to another as buckets are
passed at a fire. At each point where an unending stream of them passed
over the side of each ship, stood a young man with a long, flexible
rule.
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