Shandygaff | Page 6

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 into the water under the ship's side. Two
smiling stewards with mountainous portmanteaux followed the party.
"Mother, are Castor and Pollux all right?" cried the smallest child, and
promptly fell on his nose on the gangway, disrupting the file.
Stockton, with characteristic delicacy, refrained from making himself
known until the Vernes had recovered from the embarrassments of
leaving the ship. He followed them at a distance to the "V" section
where they waited for the customs examination. With mingled feelings
he saw that Finsbury Verne was no cloud-walking deity, but one even
as himself, indifferently clad, shy and perplexed of eye, worried with
the comic cares of a family man. All his heart warmed toward the poet,
who stood in his bulging greatcoat, perspiring and aghast at the uproar
around him. He shrank from imagining what might happen when he
appeared at home with the whole family, but without hesitation he
approached and introduced himself.

Verne's eyes shone with unaffected pleasure at the meeting, and he
presented the reviewer to his wife and the children, two boys and two
girls. The two boys, aged about ten and eight, immediately uttered
cryptic remarks which Stockton judged were addressed to him.
"Castorian!" cried the larger boy, looking at the yellow suit.
"Polluxite!" piped the other in the same breath.
Mrs. Verne, in some embarrassment, explained that the boys were in
the throes of a new game they had invented on the voyage. They had
created two imaginary countries, named in honour of the goldfish, and
it was now their whim to claim for their respective countries any person
or thing that struck their fancy. "Castoria was first," said Mrs. Verne,
"so you must consider yourself a citizen of that nation."
Somewhat shamefaced at this sudden honour, Mr. Stockton turned to
the poet. "You're all coming home with me, aren't you?" he said. "I got
your telegram this morning. We'd be delighted to have you."
"It's awfully good of you," said the poet, "but as a matter of fact we're
going straight on to the country to-morrow morning. My wife has some
relatives in Yonkers, wherever they are, and she and the children are
going to stay with them. I've got to go up to Harvard to give some
lectures."
A rush of cool, sweet relief bathed Stockton's brow.
"Why, I'm disappointed you're going right on," he stammered. "Mrs.
Stockton and I were hoping--"
"My dear fellow, we could never impose such a party on your
hospitality," said Verne. "Perhaps you can recommend us to some quiet
hotel where we can stay the night."
Like all New Yorkers, Stockton could hardly think of the name of any
hotel when asked suddenly. At first he said the Astor House, and then
remembered that it had been demolished years before. At last he

recollected that a brother of his from Indiana had once stayed at the
Obelisk.
After the customs formalities were over--not without embarrassment, as
Mr. Verne's valise when opened displayed several pairs of bright red
union suits and a half-empty bottle of brandy--Stockton convoyed them
to a taxi. Noticing the frayed sleeve of the poet's ulster he felt quite
ashamed of the aggressive newness of his clothes. And when the
visitors whirled away, after renewed promises for a meeting a little
later in the spring, he stood for a moment in a kind of daze. Then he
hurried toward the nearest telephone booth.
As the Vernes sat at dinner that night in the Abyssinian Room of the
Obelisk Hotel, the poet said to his wife: "It would have been delightful
to spend a few days with the Stocktons."
"My dear," said she, "I wouldn't have these wealthy Americans see how
shabby we are for anything. The children are positively in rags, and
your clothes--well, I