“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
drummer distributed cards to all his acquaintances recommending “our special cuvée 1911 Brut at $24.00 per case of pints.”
People forgot that they had been across the ocean or on the sea at all, their minds being filled with disquieting thoughts anent getting through the Customs. Little girls worried about being late to school. Little boys uttered horrible swear words at having to go back at all. Everything was jam, bustle, confusion. The baggage was piled in a towering mass by the second-cabin gangway, and a hundred more of the crew stood idly waiting to hustle it ashore at the proper moment. Intelligent men and women gained intense pleasure from recognizing a particular piece of their baggage among the ruck, although it had reposed in their state-room but an hour before.
It seemed hours before the Pavonia slowly began to turn her nose to the dock, assisted by a dozen puffing tugs who rammed her with padded bows in order to make a shorter corner. At an opening at the end of the Cunard pier could be seen a multitude of tiny heads.
“There ’s John, I know it is!" cried the parrot lady, wildly waving her handkerchief, al-277
