Every now and
then he stopped, snapped open his watch and shut it again quickly,
as if to hurry the lagging minutes.
For the first time in years Tom Grogan, who had always unloaded
his boats, had failed him. A scow loaded with stone for the
sea-wall that Babcock was building for the Lighthouse Department
had lain three days at the government dock without a bucket having
been swung across her decks. His foreman had just reported that
there was not enough material to last the concrete-mixers two
hours. If Grogan did not begin work at once, the divers must come
up.
Heretofore to turn over to Grogan the unloading of material for
any submarine work had been like feeding grist to a mill--so many
tons of concrete stone loaded on the scows by the stone crushing
company had meant that exact amount delivered by Grogan on
Babcock's mixing-platforms twenty-four hours after arrival, ready
for the divers below. This was the way Grogan had worked, and he
had required no watching.
Babcock's impatience did not cease even when he took his seat on
the upper deck of the ferry-boat and caught the welcome sound of
the paddles sweeping back to the landing at St. George. He
thought of his men standing idle, and of the heavy penalties which
would be inflicted by the Government if the winter caught him
before the section of wall was complete.
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