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Free, free,
that's _me!_" He had persuaded himself that there was practically
no danger of the boat's sinking or catching fire. Anyway, he
just wasn't going to be scared. As the steamer trudged up East
River he watched the late afternoon sun brighten the Manhattan
factories and make soft the stretches of Westchester fields.
(Of course, he "thrilled.")
He had no state-room, but was entitled to a place in a
twelve-berth room in the hold. Here large farmers without their
shoes were grumpily talking all at once, so he returned to the
deck; and the rest of the night, while the other passengers
snored, he sat modestly on a canvas stool, unblinkingly gloating
over a sea-fabric of frosty blue that was shot through with
golden threads when they passed lighthouses or ships. At dawn
he was weary, peppery-eyed, but he viewed the flooding light
with approval.
At last, Boston.
The front part of the shipping-office on Atlantic Avenue was a
glass-inclosed room littered with chairs, piles of circulars,
old pictures of Cunarders, older calendars, and directories to
be ranked as antiques.


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