with half the shed, wandering in and out through the crowd, his great
bulk towering above it. Here and there he helped a fat, heavy baby down
the length of the shed, or lifted aside a big box that blocked the way.
He might have been the Presiding Genius of the place. Men took him in
with a good-humored wink, as he towered along, and women looked after
him gratefully. Amid the bustle and enforced waiting, he was the only
soul at rest. Time belonged to him. He was at home. He had played his
part in similar scenes in hundreds of ports. The city bubbling and
calling outside had no bewilderments for Uncle William. New York was
only one more foreign port, and he had touched too many to have fear of
them. They were all alike--exorbitant cab-men, who came down on their
fare if you stood by your box and refused to let it be lifted till terms
were made; rum-shops and gambling-holes, and worse, hedging the way from
the wharf; soiled women haunting one's steps, if one halted a bit or
turned to the right or left in indecision. He had talked with women of
every port. They were a huge band, a great sisterhood that reached thin
hands about the earth, touching it with shame; and they congregated most
where the rivers empty their burden of filth into the sea. Uncle William
knew them well. He could steer a safe path among them; and he could
turn a young man, hesitating, with foolish, confident smile on his face.
Uncle William had not been in New York for twelve years, but he had a
sailor's unerring instinct for the dangers and the comforts of a port.
He knew which way hell lay, and which of the drivers, backing and
cursing and calling, one could trust. He signaled to one with his eye.

"What'll ye charge to give this young feller a lift?" Uncle William
indicated the youth beside him.

The driver looked him over with keen eye. "That's all right." He moved
along on the seat to make room. "Come on, young man."