"Yes; I didn't know her in New York, but she has a house in Mayfair and hobnobs with half the peerage. Good looks and money, that's all the Londoners care for. I heard a countess say that all Americans are alike. We have no aristocracy, therefore our social distinctions are absurd. The reception of an American in London depends on whether he is rich enough to entertain, good looking enough to be attractive, or queer enough to be amusing."
"I say, Duncan, we are just getting into the slip," said Van Vort, looking forward, "and you haven't told me yet where you are going, and what brought you aboard this ferry."
"Why, I met Harry Osgood this morning, just after I landed, and he asked me out to his place for Sunday. I hate New York on the blessed Sabbath, so here I am."
"I am bound for the Osgoods, too," answered Van Vort. "I am in luck to find some one going out. But come on, we must hurry or we sha'n't get seats in the train."
The ferry-boat brushed violently against the side of the slip, and most of the passengers, losing their balance, were compelled to grasp each other unconventionally for support. The engine-room bell clanged furiously; there were more jars and creakings as the boat scraped past the great piles and reached her moorings; then the restless van horses stamped, the chains rattled over the windlasses, and the passengers crowded forward to the bows. The iron gates were opened, and the living sea of people flowed rapidly up the incline toward the railway station. It was the mighty ebbing of the human tide which daily floods the great city across the river. Could one stand there, watching the weary throng come forth, and, like the Spanish student of old, find a willing Asmodæus at one's elbow, what stories of hopes and disappointments, what tales of trouble and misery could he not unfold for inspection. Pallid shop-girls and weary seamstresses were there; grimy laborers with their tools, tired clerks, toiling mothers with their babes, and pale, careworn children, early driven to the wheel, with here and there a face on whom prosperity had set her seal, and perhaps a few, like Duncan, whose lives are passed in that dazzling upper world, so hopelessly closed to the toiling masses. All these, and more, streamed off the ponderous ferry, hurrying to their homes. But Duncan and Van Vort had no time to moralize, and being anxious to get seats in the smoking car they pushed rapidly to the front of the moving mass of people, showed their tickets to the inspector, and passed through the station door to the platform.
The Morristown train was drawn up on the right-hand track. They found it already well filled with people brought over by the first boat; and after wandering the entire length of the smoking car they were about despairing of finding seats when they were hailed by a familiar voice: "Hello, fellows, where are you going?" Looking around they saw Howard-Jones, with a yellow-covered novel under his arm and a freshly lighted cigar between his lips, standing on the station platform and looking the picture of masculine content.
"We are trying to find a seat, but the place is full," said Duncan. "Are you going on this train?"
"Yes; going out to Osgood's."
"So are we," put in Van Vort, "but we don't want to stand up all the way. You look as unconcerned as though you were sporting a private car."
"So I am," replied Howard-Jones carelessly. "Just go into the car ahead and find Waterman; mention the fact that you are friends of mine, and perhaps he will give you a seat, but be sure you speak politely. Waterman won't stand impertinence."