The mellow blast of the steam whistle pushed aside the sea fog beyond Thunder City's harbor; gulls wheeled around the steamer's smokestacks, forcibly dressed in formalwear by the coal dust rushing up to meet them.
Thunder City's harbor was always this busy; even the gulls' cries sounded so weary it was as if smoke were coming out of their throats.
The wooden gantry arms rose and fell without rest, plucking crates from the mounded cargo. Stevedores with towels slung over their shoulders trudged back and forth, carrying them into the warehouses.
There were washerwomen, Scavengers picking up stray lumps of coal, newsboys darting through the streets, and brokers everywhere, casting about for opportunity…
If Queen Street was an oil painting of dazzling colors, then the tone here was closer to charcoal lines in a black-and-white sketch.
Yet into this gray, sketch-like scene, a streak of color burst that could not possibly be ignored.
