bobs up almost immediately,--one of those fellows
whom no amount of snubbing can keep under. Old Probabilities is also on
board, discoursing at intervals to all who will give ear. Some quiet and
interesting folk in a state of suspense, and one young fellow--a regular
trump,--promise better things.

We reach Tacoma at 6.30 p. m.; a queer, scattering town on Commencement
Bay, at the head of Puget Sound. Very deep water just off shore. Two
boys in a sailboat are blown about at the mercy of the fitful wind; boat
on beam-ends; boys on the uppermost gunwale; sail lying flat on the
water. But nobody seems to care, not even the young castaways. Perhaps
the inhabitants of Tacoma are amphibious. Very beautiful sheet of water,
this Puget Sound; long, winding, monotonous shores; trees all alike,
straight up and down, mostly pines and cedars; shores rather low, and
outline too regular for much picturesque effect. Tacoma commands the
best view of the Sound and of Mt. Tacoma, with its fifteen thousand
perpendicular feet looming rose-pink in the heavens, and all its fifteen
glaciers seeming to glow with an inner tropic warmth. There are eighteen
hundred miles of shore-line embroidering this marvellous Sound. We are
continually rounding abrupt points, as in a river,--points so much alike
that an untutored eye can not tell one from another. Old Probabilities
industriously taking his reckonings and growing more and more
enthusiastic at every turn--especially so when the after-glow burns the
sea to a coal; it reminds him of a volcanic eruption. There are some
people who when they see anything new to them are instantly reminded of
something else they have seen, and the new object becomes second rate on
the spot. A little travel is a dangerous thing.

Pay $3.25 for my fare from Tacoma to Port Townsend, and find a moment
later that some are paying only $1 for the same accommodations.
Competition is the mother of these pleasant surprises, but it is worth
thrice the original price--the enjoyment of this twilight cruise. More
after-glow, much more, with the Olympian Mountains lying between us and
the ocean. In the foreground is a golden flood with scarlet ripples
breaking through it--a vision splendid and long continued. Air growing
quite chilly; strong draughts at some of the turns in the stream.
Surely, in this case, the evening and the morning are not the same day.

At 9.30 p. m. we approach Seattle--a handsome town, with its terraces of
li