tall, hawk-faced man whose limousine was purring
outside must be a certain publisher he knew by sight.

What would these gentlemen say when they learned that the poet was to
stay with Kenneth Stockton, in New Utrecht? He rolled up the
mustard-coloured trousers one more round--they were much too long for
him--and watched the great hull slide along the side of the pier with a
peculiar tingling shudder that he had not felt since the day of his
wedding.

He expected no difficulty in recognizing Finsbury Verne, for he was very
familiar with his photograph. As the passengers poured down the
slanting gangway, all bearing the unmistakable air and stamp of
superiority that marks those who have just left the sacred soil of
England, he scanned the faces with an eye of keen regard. To his
surprise he saw the gentlemen he had marked respectively as Mr. Howells
and the publisher greet people who had not the slightest resemblance to
the poet, and go with them to the customs alcoves. Traveller after
traveller hurried past him, followed by stewards carrying luggage;
gradually the flow of people thinned, and then stopped altogether, save
for one or two invalids who were being helped down the incline by
nurses. And still no sign of Finsbury Verne.

Suddenly a thought struck him. Was it possible that--the second class?
His eye brightened and he hurried to the gangway, fifty yards farther
down the pier, where the second-cabin passengers were disembarking.

There were more of the latter, and the passageway was still thronged.
Just as Stockton reached the foot of the plank a little man in green
ulster and deerstalker cap, followed by a plump little woman and four
children in single file, each holding fast to the one in front like
Alpine climbers, came down the narrow bridge, taking almost ludicrous
care not to slip on the cleated boards. To his amazement the reviewer
recognized the dark beard and soulful eyes of the poet.

Mr. Verne clutched in rigid arms, not a roll of manuscripts, but a
wriggling French poodle, whose tufted tail waved under the poet's chin.
The lady behind him, evidently his wife, as she clung steadfastly to the
skirt of his ulster, held tightly in the other hand a large glass jar in
which two agitated goldfish were swimming, while the four children
watched their parents with anxious eyes for the safety of their pets.
"Daddy, look out for Ink!" shrilled one of them, as the struggles of the
poodle very nearly sent him i