All was yet quite still over at Burmeister and Wain's; the black morning
smoke curled up from the chimneys, and the east wind dashed it down upon
the white roofs. Then it became still blacker, and spread over the
harbour among the rigging of the ships, which lay sad and dark in the
gray morning light, with white streaks of snow along their sides. At the
Custom House the bloodhounds would soon be shut in, and the iron gates
opened.

The east wind was strong, rolling the waves in upon Langelinie, and
breaking them in grayish-green foam among the slimy stones, whilst long
swelling billows dashed into the harbour, broke under the Custom House,
and rolled great names and gloomy memories over the stocks round the
fleet's anchorage, where lay the old dismantled wooden frigates in all
their imposing uselessness.

The harbour was still full of ships, and goods were piled high in the
warehouses and upon the quays.

Nobody could know what kind of winter they were to have--whether they
would be cut off for months from the world, or if it would go by with
fogs and snow-slush.

Therefore there lay row upon row of petroleum casks, which, together
with the enormous coal mountains, awaited a severe winter, and there lay
pipes and hogsheads of wine and cognac, patiently waiting for new
adulterations; oil and tallow and cork and iron--all lay and waited,
each its own destiny.

Everywhere lay work waiting--heavy work, coarse work, and fine work,
from the holds of the massive English coal-steamers, right up to the