“It has not arrived,” was the answer.
Distressed and surprised, I went off the next day to the Steamship Office to demand the coat. From White Star to Cunard, from Cunard to White Star, backwards and forwards I trudged. At last a package securely sewn up and sealed was found. Was that it?
Really I could not say, as I had never seen the parcel before; but, as my name was on it, I presumed it was. Would the clerk kindly look inside and see if it was a blue cloth coat with a fur lining and sable collar?
The clerk regretted, but he dared not open it, and suggested my filling in a sheet of paper.
“Certainly, I would fill in anything to get my coat.”
So I began. They have a way in America of asking the most irrelevant questions. Your age?—Parents?—Probable length of sojourn?—What illnesses have you had?—If you are a cripple?—What languages you speak?—and generally end up by enquiring of first-class passengers if they have ever been in prison.
I answered reams of such-like questions, as far as I can remember; swore to all sorts of queer things, and against “Value” put forty or fifty pounds, which was what the coat had originally cost.
The clerk took the paper, read it slowly through, appeared to juggle with figures, and then said calmly:
“The duty will be twenty-three pounds!” ($115.)