The Heart Line by Gelett Burgess — Read

Outward, across the narrow, mile-long mole, the Oakland Local, a train of twelve coaches, swept on from block to block, beckoned by semaphores, till it threw itself with a roar into the great train-shed upon the Oakland pier. The locomotive stopped, throbbing and panting rhythmically, spouting a cloud of steam that eddied among the iron trusses of the roof. The air-brakes settled back with a long, relieved hiss. The cars emptied streams of passengers; the ferry-station became as populous and busy as a disturbed ant-hill. Up the broad stairs and into the huge waiting-room the commuters poured, there to await the boat.

It was half-past nine in the morning. The earlier trains, laden with clerks and stenographers and the masses of early workers, had already relieved the traffic across the bay. The present contingent consisted chiefly of the more well-to-do business men, ladies bent on shopping in the city, and a scattering of sorts. Some clustered in a dense group by the door of the gangway, the better to rush on board and capture the favorite seats; the rest took to the settees and unfolded their morning papers, conversed, or watched the gathering throng.