Reaching the Federal Building, he waited breathlessly at the tiny window while the indifferent clerk ran over the general mail. With a large bundle of letters in his hand he skimmed them over and finally 111 paused, started on, returned, and tossed out a letter. Wilson tore it open. It was from Jo. It read:
“Dear Comrade:
I have made my decision––I am going with Dr. Sorez to Bogova, South America. I have just written them at home and now I am writing you as I promised. I’m afraid you will think, like the others, that I am off on a senseless quest; but perhaps you won’t. If only you knew how much my father is to me! Dr. Sorez is sure he is still living. I know he used to go to Carlina, of which Bogova is the capitol. Why he should let us believe him dead is, of course, something for me to learn. At any rate, I am off, and off––to-day. The priest makes it unsafe for Dr. Sorez to remain here any longer. You see, I have a long journey before me. But I love it. I’m half a sailor, you know.
I am writing this in the hope that you will receive it in time to meet me at the steamer––the Columba, a merchantman. It sails at four from Pier 7, East Boston. If not, let me tell you again how much I thank you for what you have done––and would do. From time to time I shall write to you, if you wish, and you can write to me in care of Dr. Carl Sorez, the Metropole, Bogova, Carlina. When I come back we must meet again. Good luck to you, comrade.
Sincerely yours,
Jo Manning.”
Meet her at the steamer! The boat sailed at four. It was now quarter of. He ran from the building to Washington street. Here he found a cab.
“Five dollars,” he panted, “if you get me to Pier 7, East Boston, at four o’clock.”
He jumped in and had hardly closed the door before 112 the cabby had brought his whip across the flanks of the dozing horse. The animal came to life and tore down Washington Street at a pace that threatened to wreck the vehicle. The wheels skimmed sides of electric cars and brushed the noses of passing teams. A policeman shouted, but the cabby took a chance and kept on. Down Atlantic Avenue the light cab swayed from side to side, swerving to within a hair’s distance of the elevated structure. They wasted five precious minutes at the Ferry. From here the distance was short. At one end of the wharf Wilson sprang through the small group of stevedores who, their work done, were watching the receding steamer. He was too late by five minutes. But he pushed on to the very tip of the wharf in his endeavor to get as near as possible to the boat. The deck looked deserted save for the bustling sailors. Then Fate favored him with one glance of her. She had come up from below, evidently for a last look at the wharf. He saw her––saw her start––saw her hesitate, and then saw her impulsively throw out her arms to him. He felt a lump in his throat as, with his whole heart in the action, he in his turn reached towards her.