She kisses her hand to the vessel, and then turns to wonder at the city, which seems to be coming towards us, so steadily does the “Yosemite” glide along, hardly suggesting motion.
Then suddenly the word is passed that the “Yosemite” is about to land her passengers. A few minutes later she slips alongside the wharf at the foot of Canal street. The reporters take their leave, raising their hats to Miss Terry, many of them shaking hands with Mr. Irving. Carriages are in waiting for Mr. Barrett and his party. A small crowd, learning who the new-comers were, give them a cheer of welcome, and Henry Irving and Ellen Terry stand upon American soil.
“I am told,” says Mr. Irving, as we drive away, “that when Jumbo arrived in New York he put out his foot and felt if the ground was solid enough to bear his weight. The New Yorkers, I believe, were very much amused at that. They have a keen sense of fun. Where are we going now?”
“To the Customs, at the White Star wharf, to sign your declaration papers,” says Mr. Florence.
“How many packages have you in your state-room, madame?” asks a sturdy official, addressing Miss Terry.
“Well, really I don’t know; three or four, I think.”
“Not more than that?” suggests Mr. Barrett.
“Perhaps five or six.”
“Not any more?” asks the official. “Shall I say five or six?”
“Well, really, I cannot say. Where’s my maid? Is it important,—the exact number?”