down to indeterminate blackness either of depth or mud. Private
philanthropists had fenced or covered these. Private facetiousness had
labelled most of them with signboards. These were rough pictures of
disaster painted from the marking pot, and various screeds--"Head of
Navigation," "No Bottom," "Horse and Dray Lost Here," "Take Soundings,"
"Storage, Inquire Below," "Good Fishing for Teal," and the like.

Among these obstructions Sherwood guided his team skilfully, dodging not
only them, but other vehicles darting or crawling in the same direction.
There were no rules of the road. Omnibuses careered along, every window
rattling loudly; drays creaked and strained, their horses' hoofs slipping
against wet planks; horsemen threaded their way; nondescript delivery
wagons tried to outrattle the omnibuses. The din was something
extraordinary--hoofs drumming, wheels rumbling, oaths and shouts, and from
the sidewalks the blare and bray of brass bands in front of the various
auction shops. Newsboys and bootblacks darted in all directions, shouting
raucously as they do to-day. Cigar boys, an institution of the time, added
to the hubbub. Everybody was going in the same direction, some sauntering
with an air of leisure, some hurrying as though their fortunes were at
stake.

A wild shriek arose, and everybody made room for the steam sand shovel on
its way to dump the sand hills into the bay. It was called the "steam
paddy" to distinguish it from the "hand paddy"--out of Cork or Dublin. It
rumbled by on its track, very much like juggernaut in its calm indifference
as to how many it ran over. Sherwood's horses looked at it nervously
askance; but he spoke to them, and though they trembled they stood.

Now they debouched on the Central Wharf, and the sound of the hoofs and the
wheels changed its tone. Central Wharf extended a full mile into the bay.