"Christ'fer!" croaked the guard.
I descended to the street and threaded my way to the ferry. Across the river Hoboken was thronged with luggage-laden mankind, swarthy sons and daughters of toil for the most part; an eddying stream of which the general trend was toward a group of steamship docks. With it I was borne into a vast two-story pier, strewn below with everything that ships transport across the seas and resounding above with the voice of an excited multitude. Near the center of the upper wharf stood an isolated booth bearing a transient sign-board:
"SCHNELLDAMPFER.
PRINZESSIN ----."
Within, sat a coatless, broad-gauge Teuton, puffing at a stogie.
"Third-class to Gibraltar," I requested, stooping to peer through the wicket.
The German reached mechanically for a pen and began to fill in a leaf of what looked like a large check-book. Then he paused and squinted out upon me:
Ah--er--you mean steerage?"
"Steerage, mein Herr; to Gibraltar."
He signed the blue check and pushed it toward me, still holding it firmly by one corner.
"Thirty dollars and fifty cents," he rumbled.