Sure, he declared to himself, he was on the liner now; he was
sliding up the muddy Mersey (see the _W. S. Travel Notes_ for
the source of his visions); he was off to St. George's Square
for an organ-recital (see the English Baedeker); then an express
for London and--Gee!

The ferryboat was entering her slip. Mr. Wrenn trotted toward
the bow to thrill over the bump of the boat's snub nose against
the lofty swaying piles and the swash of the brown waves heaped
before her as she sidled into place. He was carried by the herd
on into the station.

He did not notice the individual people in his exultation as he
heard the great chords of the station's paean. The vast roof
roared as the iron coursers stamped titanic hoofs of scorn at
the little stay-at-home.

That is a washed-out hint of how the poets might describe Mr.
Wrenn's passion. What he said was "Gee!"

He strolled by the lists of destinations hung on the track gates.
Chicago (the plains! the Rockies! sunset over mining-camps!),
Washington, and the magic Southland--thither the iron horses
would be galloping, their swarthy smoke manes whipped back by
the whirlwind, pounding out with clamorous strong hoofs their
sixty miles an hour. Very well. In time he also would mount
upon the iron coursers and charge upon Chicago and the
Southland; just as soon as he got ready.