When the morning sun pierced the thin mist and streamed through the grimy window of their tiny apartment, Shane had already risen from his makeshift bed.
He stretched his stiff shoulders and glanced at Mary, still fast asleep under the thin blanket. Determined not to wake her, Shane tiptoed to the cabinet, pulled out the coat he had prepared the night before, and carefully tucked MacDonald's letter of introduction into its inner pocket.
After nibbling on a piece of hard bread left over from last night, Shane quietly closed the door. Outside, the Lower East Side was already alive with movement: peddlers pushing carts of fresh bread and milk, newsboys shouting headlines of the day, and early risers hurrying to factories and the docks.
Shane made his way toward the New York Harbor docks. The morning air carried a briny tang from the East River, mixed with diesel fumes and the scent of wet wood.
Giant freighters loomed like steel giants along the piers, cranes groaned as they lifted cargo, and dockworkers bustled among stacks of crates and barrels.
Following the address on the letter, Shane found Mr. Hawke's office, a modest brick building with a brass plaque near the edge of the pier. He straightened his clothes and knocked.
"Come in," a low voice called.
Inside, a tall man with streaks of gray in his hair looked up from a pile of papers. Shane introduced himself politely: "Mr. Hawke? My name's Shane Cassidy. Mr. MacDonald sent me to see you."
Hawke read the letter, a smile breaking across his weathered face. "Ah, MacDonald… If he recommends you, that says a lot. So, Shane, what do you want?"
"I'd like to work on the docks," Shane said steadily. "Anything at all. I need to support my sister and me."
Hawke studied him for a moment, then gestured toward the bustling pier. "Listen, kid. There's no easy work here—hauling sacks, moving crates, standing in wind, rain, or sun. It'll break your bones. Can you handle it?"
"I can, sir," Shane replied firmly. "I'll do whatever it takes."
A hint of approval flickered in Hawke's eyes. "Report here at six tomorrow morning. I'll assign someone to show you the ropes."
Shane left early the next morning, dressed in the canvas work shirt and trousers he and Mary had bought. A simple sandwich and a water bottle slung in a cloth bag were all he carried. The streets were fragrant with baking bread and coffee, alive with hurried workers and the occasional clatter of a bicycle bell.
At the pier, Mr. Hawke introduced him to Jack, an old dockworker whose bronzed face and graying stubble told of decades at the waterfront. "This is your rookie," Hawke said. "Take good care of him."
Jack's teaching was blunt and relentless. Shane learned quickly. He was shoved under moving cargo slings, handed stacks of manifest papers, and taught to tie ropes with precision—or risk serious injury.
Lunch breaks involved rusty tin boxes of cold corned beef, during which Jack demonstrated knot-tying techniques on wooden crates. "New York Harbor doesn't wait for slow hands," Jack said. "Either learn fast, or back to the potato fields you came from."
Shane observed carefully: subtle tics, like Jack touching his left ear, revealed errors in manifests. He noticed the tipping habits of sailors: British men valued straightforwardness, Italians required a polite flourish.
By the twelfth day, Shane could coordinate an entire freighter's unloading without guidance. Jack, silently watching, patted him on the shoulder and handed him a half-pint of cheap whiskey.
"Keep it hidden. Don't let the foreman smell it," Jack muttered.
A fellow Irishman, Tom Duke, arrived soon after, greeting Shane with a grin and thick Cork accent. Together, the three men shared whiskey, laughed at crude jokes, and savored the rare warmth of companionship after long, exhausting days.
The sun set into the Hudson River, staining the wooden planks deep brown. Shane and Tom often climbed the old steam gantry crane at night, cigarettes glowing like tiny beacons.
"By the Liffey in Dublin," Shane said, taking a drag, "the smell of baked bread should be drifting right now."
Tom chuckled. "Aye, the shepherds of Cork are herding their sheep home as we speak."
The crane trembled with the rhythm of the tide. Shoulder to shoulder, they watched the harbor below, the glow of cigarette tips flickering like lighthouses in the darkness. In this steel-and-concrete jungle, simple moments like these—friendship, survival, and quiet reflection—were worth more than any Manhattan fortune.