You leap from your berth to the port-hole in one bound.
A schooner and a coastwise steamer are in sight, gulls are swinging in long circles with the ship, and far away on the horizon lies a haze which is America.
You dress with care and hurry to the deck. You bow and give a gay "good morning!" to some people you've not spoken to before. You even have a word for the man who always walks with a pedometer, and the one who is coming back from Germany after having put a noiseless soup-spoon on the market. The deck is all abloom with pretty girls in pretty hats and pretty suits.
Even the ship is making ready for the shore. Hatches are off, busy donkey-engines are hustling mail-bags up from dark recesses within, stewards are smiling as they rush about with trunks and rolls of rugs.
"I'm Boots, sir. Don't forget Boots, sir."
Ah, no, good Boots! Thrice welcome, Boots! And here's thy toll, already set aside, like all the other tips, in envelopes.
Land ho!
The world is blithe and gay—except for one depressing thought. The nearer you get to the New York custom-house, the heavier becomes the load of luggage on your mind. Dresses, hats, wraps, lingerie, so gaily bought in Paris, lie withering like Dead Sea fruit in the forlorn cold storage of furiously labelled wardrobe trunks.
"Must I declare that Paris motor-coat? It never fitted, and it's fairly worn to shreds!"
"Yes, dear, everything. And sh-h! There are spotters on the ships, you know."