"
The hatter laid his head on the deck and waved his anemic legs
in accordance with directions from Colonel Armour (late Wrenn).
The hay was off. The _Merian_ tooted and headed across the
Mersey to the Huskinson Dock, in Liverpool, while the cattlemen
played tag about the deck. Whooping and laughing, they made
last splashy toilets at the water-butts, dragged out their
luggage, and descended to the dock-house.
As the cattlemen passed Bill Wrenn and Morton, shouting
affectionate good-bys in English or courteous Yiddish, Bill
commented profanely to Morton on the fact that the solid stone
floor of the great shed seemed to have enough sea-motion to
"make a guy sick." It was nearly his last utterance as Bill Wrenn.
He became Mr. Wrenn, absolute Mr. Wrenn, on the street,
as he saw a real English bobby, a real English carter, and the
sign, "Cocoa House. Tea _Id_."
England!
"Now for some real grub!" cried Morton. "No more scouse and
willow-leaf tea."
Stretching out their legs under a table glorified with toasted
Sally Lunns and Melton Mowbrays, served by a waitress who said
"Thank _you_" with a rising inflection, they gazed at the line of
mirrors running Britishly all around the room over the long
lounge seat, and smiled with the triumphant content which comes
to him whose hunger for dreams and hunger for meat-pies are
satisfied together.
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