Classicly

At the top of the steps to the drawing-office Kit stopped and leaned against the rails. The building slips were occupied, and when work was pushed ahead at night he liked to look about the yard. Smoke rolled across the river; the tide ebbed and wet mudbanks reflected the steelworks fires. When the flames got dim, smaller lights trembled on the curving channel. On one side bare, skeletons of ships melted in the gloom, and behind dark walls wheels rolled. Then sparks blew from twinkling forges on a wooden stage and light hammers rattled like a rifle volley.

Kit knew the rivet gang fastened the Mariposa’s plates, but he must get to work and he pulled out his key. The head draftsman, Blake, and the night watchman had other keys. When Kit opened the door he heard steps and somebody shouted: