THE Mary Powell lay huddled up close to the wharf, with a great white flag crossed with blue stripes at one end, and the glorious old star-spangled banner at the other. In fact, she was all dressed out in flags. They were soaked through and through till their slimpsiness was distressing. In fact, the steamboat looked like a draggled rooster with no fence or cart to hide under.
The committee were all there, with a whole swarm of ladies in waterproof cloaks, huddled together like chickens in a coop. There were generals, too, with gold epaulets on their shoulders: one that I'd heard of in the war, General McDowell, and some others, that lighted up the deck a little with their gold lace and sword-handles.
She moved—I mean the Mary Powell. The sea was gray, the sky was black. Now and then I saw a flag fluttering by on some vessel, like a poor frightened bird searching for shelter, and pitied it. Then all at once bang went a gun. I hopped right up, and screamed out:
"What's that?"
"The salute," says a gentleman close by me. "A salute for the Grand Duke."
I sat down astonished.
"Sir," says I, "I can't believe it. I—I've been saluted myself before this, and I know what it is. No human lips could have made that noise."
The man looked at me, and puckered up his lips a trifle, as if he were trying to choke back a laugh.
"I'm speaking of guns," says he, "not the sweet little salutes in your mind."
"Oh," says I, "that makes a difference, though I never heard firing off guns by that name before."