Mr. Carville gave me one of his quick, good-tempered glances.
"Soon?" he echoed. "Do you know, sir, how long it takes to load the Raritan? Just eight hours. Humph!"
Mr. Carville was fond of using this ejaculation of his in a double sense, if I may say so. As he spoke his eyes were fixed with some interest upon four of our neighbours, who had seated themselves near us and had laid a grey mill-board card-table across their knees. Whether it was the card-table, or the extraordinary speed with which the Raritan was loaded, that excited his amusement, I am unable to decide. I was too familiar with the American habit of gambling in trains to take much notice of it. It is possible that Mr. Carville was less sophisticated.
"That," I said, "does not give you much time on shore."
"No," he said, "it doesn't. Speaking in a general way, we're glad to get to sea. In port, at this end at any rate, it's one continual rush. Shore people have very little consideration for sea-going men. They come and bang at your door any time, day or night. You may be changing your shift—don't matter, in they come. Some business or other. At sea," he concluded, "we do have a little peace."
"Where are you bound for?" I asked, opening my paper.
"Oh, Savona or some Riviera port, I expect. They don't give us our orders till we're off Sandy Hook. You're going to New York, I suppose, sir, on business?"
"Not exactly. I'm going to Staten Island," I replied, "and I believe this is the quickest way."
He regarded me with astonishment.
"Is that so? I suppose you'll be taking the ferry to St. George, then?"