Not excited, but--where couldn't he go if he were pulling out
for Arcady on the _Campagnia!_ Gee! What were even the
building-block towers of the Metropolitan and Singer buildings
and the _Times's_ cream-stick compared with some old shrine in a
cathedral close that was misted with centuries!
All this he felt and hummed to himself, though not in words.
He had never heard of Arcady, though for many years he had
been a citizen of that demesne.
Sure, he declared to himself, he was on the liner now; he was
sliding up the muddy Mersey (see the _W. S. Travel Notes_ for
the source of his visions); he was off to St. George's Square
for an organ-recital (see the English Baedeker); then an express
for London and--Gee!
The ferryboat was entering her slip. Mr. Wrenn trotted toward
the bow to thrill over the bump of the boat's snub nose against
the lofty swaying piles and the swash of the brown waves heaped
before her as she sidled into place. He was carried by the herd
on into the station.
He did not notice the individual people in his exultation as he
heard the great chords of the station's paean.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27