It was a huge coarse packing trunk.

The crew were busied in watching the light of the South Ferry and avoiding the floats and tugs groaning along in front of Governor's Island.
There was no one aft as the muscular scoundrel seized a handspike and tilted the rough-looking packing trunk overboard.

It sank instantly, though Braun started as he fancied he heard a crash.
"If the propeller struck it, no matter," he growled.

"There's a hundred pounds of broken stairway irons lashed on him.

And I will soon be thousands of miles away." He shook the rain off like a burly water dog as he glanced in at the cabin window of the tug.