The vast roof
roared as the iron coursers stamped titanic hoofs of scorn at
the little stay-at-home.
That is a washed-out hint of how the poets might describe Mr.
Wrenn's passion. What he said was "Gee!"
He strolled by the lists of destinations hung on the track gates.
Chicago (the plains! the Rockies! sunset over mining-camps!),
Washington, and the magic Southland--thither the iron horses
would be galloping, their swarthy smoke manes whipped back by
the whirlwind, pounding out with clamorous strong hoofs their
sixty miles an hour. Very well. In time he also would mount
upon the iron coursers and charge upon Chicago and the
Southland; just as soon as he got ready.
Then he headed for Cortlandt Street; for Long Island, City.
finally, the Navy Yard. Along his way were the docks of the
tramp steamers where he might ship as steward in the
all-promising Sometime. He had never done anything so reckless
as actually to ask a skipper for the chance to go a-sailing, but
he had once gone into a mission society's free shipping-office
on West Street where a disapproving elder had grumped at him,
"Are you a sailor? No? Can't do anything for you, my friend.
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