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9
the Cleveland Exposition. When still thirty miles away, we could see the lights of Cleveland glowing in the sky. We continued to plow on through the black night around us far out in the lake. A few brightly-lighted passenger boats passed us. Our lookout paced back and forth at the bow. The wind was cool and strong. Finally we swung toward the Cleveland light and presently passed behind the breakwater. The lake front was a blaze of color. We docked. The modernistic buildings of the Exposition were near by. Fireworks still blazed. It must have been quite late. We were tired and went to bed before sailing for Detroit.
The relatively short run from Cleveland to Detroit begins with a slant to the northwest across the upper end of Lake Erie and then the sail up the Detroit River. We must have left Cleveland around midnight and by breakfast time we were easing up the Detroit River amid a welter of shipping. It was Sunday morning but anything but peaceful. Huge freighters were on every hand, low in the water with enormous cargoes of ore, grain and limestone coming down from the north, while there was a steady parade of empty ore boats plowing easily upstream, high and topheavy-looking, with, now and then, a deep-laden coal carrier shoving along with decks nearly awash. There seemed to be much confusion and there was a continuous din of ships' whistles as they blasted out their passing signals -- one to pass port, two to starboard. And the SOUTH AMERICAN was involved frequently in this, her blasts so close by they seemed to split the air on board. Tossed into this bedlam were occasional greeting signals -- three long and two short blasts -- of one ship greeting another or maybe saluting someone ashore. All the confusion, but particularly the constant blaring of the whistles, proved to be very disturbing to Rog. At age four (and for some time thereafter), Rog was usually very popular and was made over by many people, and this was no exception. So, many of his newly acquired "friends" tried to reassure and comfort him but to little avail. He was a very unhappy little boy as we moved up the river and finally docked. Especially when the SOUTH AMERICAN'S whistle let go, Rog would put his hands over his ears and yell miserably. One of the passengers, a Mr. Howard, who was an elderly shoe manufacturer aboard with his wife and took the cruise every year, had already taken a great shine to Rog. I'll always remember his remonstrating with me for remonstrating with Rog about his behavior. Mr. Howard said in a hurt way, "He can't help it," and shook his head. I guess he had more insight into the situation than I did. A big, black Canadian National car ferry moored next to us failed to woo Rog away from his extreme perturbation at the din of the whistles. We took a disturbed little walk toward the business district but soon returned to the boat. Rog finally began to forget the whistles -- or perhaps to get resigned to them.