factories and make soft the stretches of Westchester fields.
(Of course, he "thrilled.")

He had no state-room, but was entitled to a place in a
twelve-berth room in the hold. Here large farmers without their
shoes were grumpily talking all at once, so he returned to the
deck; and the rest of the night, while the other passengers
snored, he sat modestly on a canvas stool, unblinkingly gloating
over a sea-fabric of frosty blue that was shot through with
golden threads when they passed lighthouses or ships. At dawn
he was weary, peppery-eyed, but he viewed the flooding light
with approval.

At last, Boston.

The front part of the shipping-office on Atlantic Avenue was a
glass-inclosed room littered with chairs, piles of circulars,
old pictures of Cunarders, older calendars, and directories to
be ranked as antiques. In the midst of these remains a
red-headed Yankee of forty, smoking a Pittsburg stogie, sat
tilted back in a kitchen chair, reading the Boston _American_.
Mr. Wrenn delivered M. Baraieff's letter and stood waiting,
holding his suit-case, ready to skip out and go aboard a
cattle-boat immediately.

The shipping-agent glanced through the letter, then snapped:

"Bryff's crazy. Always sends 'em too early. Wrenn, you ought
to come to me first. What j'yuh go to that Jew first for? Here
he goes and sends you a day late--or couple days too early. 'F