At this the last remnants of suspense burst and scattered, and
every one had to do something or other to work off the oppression.
They seized the heads of the farmers' horses and pushed them back,
clapped their hands, attempted jokes, or only laughed noisily while
they stamped on the stone paving.

"Good voyage?" asked a score of voices at once.

"All well!" answered the captain cheerfully.

And now he, too, has got rid of his incubus, and rolls forth words
of command; the propeller churns up the water behind, hawsers fly
through the air, and the steam winch starts with a ringing metallic
clang, while the vessel works herself broadside in to the wharf.

Between the forecastle and the bridge, in under the upper deck and
the after, there is a swarm of people, a curiously stupid swarm,
like sheep that get up on to one another's backs and look foolish.
"What a cargo of cattle!" cries the fat pilot up to the captain,
tramping delightedly on the breakwater with his wooden-soled boots.
There are sheepskin caps, old military caps, disreputable old rusty
hats, and the women's tidy black handkerchiefs. The faces are as
different as old, wrinkled pigskin and young, ripening fruit; but
want, and expectancy, and a certain animal greed are visible in all
of them. The unfamiliarity of the moment brings a touch of stupidity
into them, as they press forward, or climb up to get a view over
their neighbors' heads and stare open-mouthed at the land where the
wages are said to be so high, and the brandy so uncommonly strong.
They see the fat, fur-clad farmers and the men come down to engage
laborers.