Some two months later the _Meteoric_, one of the fast ocean
greyhounds, was approaching the port of New York. At sight of land the
cabin passengers, who had been killing time resignedly in one
another's society, became possessed with a rampant desire to leave the
vessel as soon as possible. When it was definitely announced that the
_Meteoric_ would reach her dock early enough in the afternoon to
enable them to have their baggage examined and get away before dark,
they gave vent to their pent-up spirits in mutual congratulations and
adieus.

Among those on board thus chafing to escape from the limitations of an
ocean voyage was George Colfax, whose eagerness to land was enhanced
by the hope that his absence had made the heart of his lady-love
fonder. His travels had been restful and stimulating; but there is
nothing like one's own country, after all. So he reflected as, cigar
in mouth, he perused the newspapers which the pilot had brought, and
watched the coast-line gradually change to the familiar monuments of
Manhattan.

Yet apparently there was a subconsciousness to his thought, for as he
folded his last newspaper and stretched himself with the languor of a
man no longer harried by lack of knowledge as to what has happened
during the last seven days, he muttered under his breath:

"Confound the customs anyway!"

A flutter of garments and a breezy voice brought him politely to his
feet.