"They did these things better in colonial days." Several people began to discuss the inaction of the fleet off Charleston bar during the bombardment; the navy was freely denounced and defended, and Berkley, pleased that he had started a row, listened complacently, inserting a word here and there calculated to incite several prominent citizens to fisticuffs.

And the ferry-boat started with everybody getting madder.
But when fisticuffs appeared imminent in mid-stream, out of somewhat tardy consideration for Ailsa he set free the dove of peace.
"Perhaps," he remarked pleasantly, "the fleet _couldn't_ cross the bar.

I've heard of such things." And as nobody had thought of that, hostilities were averted.
Paddle-wheels churning, the rotund boat swung into the Brooklyn dock.

Her gunwales rubbed and squeaked along the straining piles green with sea slime; deck chains clinked, cog-wheels clattered, the stifling smell of dock water gave place to the fresher odour of the streets.
"I would like to walk uptown," said Ailsa Paige.

"I really don't care to sit still in a car for two miles.