The light--standing, they told me, on Fire Island--winked at us repeatedly, unaware, perhaps, that we were all married. I’ll confess we didn’t mind at all and would have winked back if we could have winked hard enough to carry nineteen nautical miles. Ring Once was waiting at the stateroom door to tell me to have all baggage packed and outside first thing in the morning. “I’ll see that it’s taken off the ship,” he said. “You’ll find it under your initial on the dock.” “What do you mean, under my initial?” He explained and then noticed that my junk was unlabeled. I’d worried over this a long while. My French Line stickers had not stuck. And how would New Yorkers and Chicagoans know I’d been abroad? I couldn’t stop each one and tell him. The trusty steward disappeared and soon returned with four beautiful labels, square, with a red border, a white star in the middle, and a dark blue L, meaning me, in the middle of the star. “Put those on so they’ll stay,” I instructed him. “There’s no sense in crossing the ocean and then keeping it a secret.” _Tuesday, October 2. A Regular Hotel._ M. de M. Hanson, looking as if he’d had just as much sleep as I, was in his, or somebody else’s deck chair, reading a yesterday’s New York paper, when I emerged to greet the dawn. “I don’t know where this came from,” he said, “but it’s got what you want to know. The series opens in Chicago next Saturday. They play there Saturday and Sunday, jump back to New York Monday and play here Tuesday and Wednesday.” “And,” said I, “may the better team win--in four games.” We were anchored in the harbor, waiting for a pilot, that was, as usual, late. I was impatient but M. de M. didn’t seem to care. He’s wild about ocean travel so long as it’s stationary. Presently the youngest of the food commissioners, one Mr. Bowron, joined us. He asked the name of every piece of land in sight. We answered all his questions, perhaps correctly. “That one,” said M. de M., pointing, “is Staten Island. Of course you’ve heard of it.” “I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Bowron. “What!” cried Mr. Hanson. “Never heard of Staten Island!” “The home of Matty McIntyre,” I put in. “One of the greatest outside lefts in the history of soccer. He played with the Detroit and Chicago elevens in the American League.” Mr. Bowron looked apologetic. “And in that direction,” said Mr. Hanson, pointing again, “is Coney Island, where fashionable New York spends its summers.” “Except,” said I, “the aristocratic old families who can’t be weaned away from Palisades Park.” Mr. Bowron interviewed us on the subject of hotels. “There are only two or three first-class ones,” said Mr. Hanson. “The Biltmore’s fair. It’s got elevators and running hot water.” “But no electric lights,” I objected. “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Hanson. “They put in electricity and set the meter the week we left.”