“Where’s that dog?”
“Here, papa. I have him by the collar,” answered Wynnette.
“Keep hold of him, then. And sit down, all of you, and be quiet until this crowd leaves the deck. We cannot attempt to get to our staterooms at present.”
His party complied with this order.
“All ashore!” called out a voice in authority.
The words were magical.
Hurried embraces; laughing good-bys; weeping good-bys; fervent God bless yous; agonized partings; and then a pressure over the gang plank to the pier.
Five minutes later and the valedictory gun was fired, and the Persia stood out to sea.
“Oh,” said little Elva, as she observed the sad faces of some passengers who were leaning over the sides of the ship and waving handkerchiefs to friends on the pier—“oh, I am glad we are all going together and have not left any one behind to cry after—no, not even our dog.”
A little later on our passengers sought their staterooms below. Dickon—than whom no blacker boy ever was born—took the dog to that part of the ship for such four-footed passengers made and provided, and then went to look up his own berth in the second cabin.