hich followed. Mr. Heathcroft, who seemed to have made the
acquaintance of most of the pretty girls on board, informed us in the
intervals between a two-step and a tango, that he had been "dancing
madly."

"You Americans are extraordinary people," he added. "Your dances are
as extraordinary as your food. That Mrs. Van Hook, who sits near me
at table, was indulging in--what do you call them?--oh, yes, griddle
cakes--this morning. Begged me to try them. I declined. Horrid things
they were. Round, like a--like a washing-flannel, and swimming in
treacle. Frightful!"

"And that man," commented Hephzy, "eats cold toast and strawberry
preserves for breakfast and washes 'em down with three cups of tea. And
he calls nice hot pancakes frightful!"

At ten o'clock in the morning of the sixth day we sighted the Irish
coast through the dripping haze which shrouded it and at four we dropped
anchor abreast the breakwater of the little Welsh village which was to
be our landing place. The sun was shining dimly by this time and the
rounded hills and the mountains beyond them, the green slopes dotted
with farms and checkered with hedges and stone walls, the gray stone
fort with its white-washed barrack buildings, the spires and chimneys
of the village in the hollow--all these combined to make a picture which
was homelike and yet not like home, foreign and yet strangely familiar.

We leaned over the rail and watched the trunks and boxes and bags and
bundles shoot down the slide into the baggage and mail-boat which lay
alongside. Hephzy was nervous.

"They'll smash everything to pieces--they surely will!" she declared.
"Either that or smash themselves, I don't know which is liable to happen
first. Mercy on us! Did you see that? That box hit the man right in the
back!"

"It didn't hurt him," I said, reassuringly. "It was nothing but a
hat-box."

"Hurt HIM--no! But I guess likely it didn't do the hat much good. I
thought baggage smashin' was an American institution, but they've got
some experts over here. Oh, my soul and body! there goes MY trunk--end
over end, of course. Well, I'm glad there's no eggs in it, anyway.
Josiah Dimick always used to carry two dozen eggs to his daughter-in-law
every time he went to Boston. He had 'em in a box once and put the box
on the seat alongside of him and a big fat woman came and sat--Oh! that
was your trunk, Hosy! Did you hear it hit? I expect every one of those
'English Poets' went from top to bot