To break the friendships formed at Yale
they sang. And the train moved faster, and the boys stood in the half-light of the station, arms around each other’s shoulders, leaning on each other, singing. And the train drew away.
On the 27th of August the Celtic sailed from Liverpool for New York. As the land of Wales melted into clouds a young fellow with conspicuous, broad shoulders walked aft and fell into conversation with a man who stood watching the fading earth-line.
“I never can take any stock in the ship till the land’s clean gone,” the man said. “It will be gone in a few minutes now.” He glanced about the deck as if the next interest were awakening. “A crowd on board,” he said. “Quite a lot of celebrities. Have you noticed the passenger list?”
“No,” answered the boy politely, but a bit absent-mindedly.
“There’s Lord and Lady de Gray, and a French marquis—I forget his name; and a Russian prince—I can’t pronounce his. And there are several big Americans. That’s Trefethen over there—Marcus Trefethen, the capitalist.” He nodded across the deck where a tall man stood alone, smoking and staring out at sea.
The boy turned. “Marcus Trefethen? I’d like to see him.” His eyes searched. “Where?”
“The tall fellow with a cigar—right where you’re looking.” The gaze changed to bewilderment, and with that there flashed to his face an astonished delight. “Marcus Trefethen your grandmother!” he threw at the man, and with a leap he was gone.
“Mr. Lord—why this is great! You haven’t forgotten me—Dick Elliot—the races on Lake Whitney last May. Yes—I didn’t think you would.” Trefethen’s hand hurt with the grip it got.