The reporters of the other papers, in which this interesting item had not appeared, besieged Myles and Billings for further information regarding his lordship and his expected arrival. As neither of them had any to give, their questioners gradually dispersed, each determined to be the first to secure an interview with the distinguished foreigner. Some of them went down the harbor in row-boats, and others haunted the wharves, while some even drove down to the Pequot House, on the chance that the English yacht might stop there before proceeding up the river. They were all doomed to disappointment; for up to two o’clock nothing had been seen of the Happy Thought.
It had been arranged that at this hour the press-boat, taking such reporters as wished to go, should steam up the river for a last look at the course and the quarters in which the crews were spending a day of idleness and complete rest. At two o’clock, therefore, all the reporters ceased for a time to watch for the English yacht, and hastened aboard the press-boat, each being afraid to stay behind lest the others might get hold of something he would be sorry to miss.
At Billings’ suggestion Myles went with the rest, but his fellow-worker remained behind, claiming that he had important business to attend to. He began to attend to it, with an activity that would have amazed his companions had they been on hand to witness it, the moment he was left alone.
While he was thus busy the press-boat, with its load of jolly passengers, steamed slowly and heavily up the river. After half an hour of laborious puffing and snorting, as it drew near the head of the course and came within sight of the quarters, somebody on board called out:
“Hello! Here’s a lively little fellow coming up behind us. It must be a launch from one of the big yachts.”
All eyes were instantly directed toward the slender craft that, with polished brass-work gleaming in the bright sunlight, and gay colors flying at stem and stern, was overhauling them so rapidly that they seemed to be anchored. The curiosity with which they watched its approach was changed to incredulous amazement as it shot past them, and they could decipher the private signal that fluttered above its bows. It was a burgee of blue silk on which in letters of gold they read the name Happy Thought. The same name appeared on the black bands encircling the jaunty straw hats of its crew. Could Lord Steerem have arrived? It must be so. Yes, there was the flag of the Royal Yacht Squadron flying from the after jack-staff, and, in the glass-encased pilot-house they caught a fleeting glimpse of a slight, dark-mustached figure, clad in yachting uniform.
That must be Lord Steerem himself. But how could he have given them the slip? How aggravating that he should have arrived just at this time.
“Hurry up, captain! Crowd on steam, engineer! Never mind your boiler. We mustn’t lose sight of this fellow now. The whole country is anxious to learn of his movements. Who is he? Why, a swell from over the water. An English lord. An Oxford coxswain. The most important personage to arrive in America for many a day!”
So the press-boat puffed and labored harder than ever, while the excited reporters crowded forward in their anxiety not to lose sight of the swift launch cleaving the waters ahead of them like an arrow. They bore the bow of their boat deep into the water and lifted her stern high in the air in their eagerness to secure the best places from which to see, and the poor old craft almost came to a stand-still. Still they yelled: “Faster—faster, captain! Pile on your steam, engineer!”