“Where were you born?”
“Stockholm.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Where do you live?”
“Ryder Street, Swansea.”
“Any advance?”
“Yes.”
And so on with each of us.
“Don’t forget,” says the clerk from the depths of a three-and-a-half-inch collar, “to be on the ship at nine o’clock to-morrow morning.” And we troop out to make room for another crew, meet yet another coming to be paid off at the other counter, wish we were they, and eventually reach the ship.