I.
The clocks are hammering out the midnight hour on Saturday, January 5th, as several carriages dash over the snowy streets of Brooklyn, one of them made more conspicuous than the rest by the antics of an attendant dog. It is a black and white fox terrier, with a suggestion of the lurcher in its pedigree. Busy with many tram-cars and a variety of other traffic, the streets are bright with gas and electric lamps. “Fussy” is quite a foreigner in Brooklyn; carriage, horses, and driver are strange to him. One looks out to see the sagacious animal leaping along through the crowd, never heeding the calls of boys and men, now making short cuts to head the vehicle, and now dropping behind.
“You will lose him one day,” I say to Fussy’s owner, by way of warning.
“Oh, no!” says Miss Terry. “He follows my carriage everywhere, day or night, going to the theatre or leaving it, strange town or otherwise. I have a small piece of carpet for him to lie upon in my dressing-room. Sometimes, just as we are leaving for the theatre, my maid pretends to forget it. But Fussy will dart back to my room and bring it, dragging it downstairs into the street, and only dropping it by the carriage-door. One day, at New York, he leaped into the hotel elevator with it, and out again on the ground floor, as if he had been accustomed to elevators all his life.”
We are three,—Miss Terry, Irving, and myself. We are making our way to the Brooklyn ferry. The boat belonging to the Pennsylvania Railroad is waiting to convey us across the North river to the Desbrosses-street depot of that well-known corporation. “Fussy” is there as soon as we are, and poor “Charlie,” who is getting blind, has to be carried aboard. Nearly all the members of the company are here already. They are a picturesque group in the somewhat uncertain light of distant lamps, and a world of stars sparkling in a frosty sky that seems further away from the earth than our English firmament. Mr. Terriss looks like a dashing Capt. Hawksley on his travels,—fur coat, cap, self-possessed air, and all. Mr. Tyars wears a “Tam O’Shanter” and ulster. He might be the laird of a Scotch county, just come down from the hills. The grey-haired, pale-faced gentleman, muffled to the eyes in fur cap and comforter, is Mr. Mead, whose imperial stride as “the buried majesty of Denmark” is repeated here in response to the call of a friend in the cabin. Mr. Howe carries his years and experience with an elastic gait, and a fresh, pleasant face. He is a notable figure in the group, dressed in every respect like an English gentleman,—overcoat, hat, gloves. He has a breezy country manner, and, if one did not know him, one might say, “This is a Yorkshire man, who farms his own land, going to the West to have a look at Kansas, and perhaps at Manitoba.” Mr. Ball, the musical conductor, wears his fur collar and spectacles with quite a professional air. Norman Forbes brings with him ideas of Bond street, and Robertson, who sings “Hey, Nonnie,” to the swells in Leonato’s garden, is wrapped up as a tenor should be, though he has the carriage of an athlete. The American winter lends itself to artistic considerations in the matter of cloaks, coats, leggins, scarfs, and “head-gear.” The ladies of the company have sought the hot shelter of the spacious saloon. Miss Terry pushes the swinging-door.
“I shall be stifled in there,” she says, retreating before a blast of hot air.
“And starved to death out here,” says Irving.
“Well, I prefer the latter,” she replies, taking her place among the crowd on the outer platform.
“Our English friends would complain of heat at the North pole,” says an American gentleman to another, as they push their way into the saloon.
It is an impressive sight, this great, rolling flood of the North river at midnight. The reflection of the boat’s lights upon the tide give it an oily appearance.