There had been rain, but it was bright enough that February morning of departure--just a bit squally along the west. What a gay crowd there was at the pier and on the vessel! I thought all of New York must be going. That was a mistake--they were mostly visitors, as I discovered later. It would average three visitors to one passenger, I should think. I had more than that--twice as many. I am not boasting--they came mainly to be sure that I got aboard and stayed there, and to see that I didn't lose most of my things. They knew me and what I would be likely to do, alone. They wanted to steer me to the right state-room and distribute my traps. Then they could put me in charge of Providence and the deck-steward, and wash their hands of me, and feel that whatever happened they had done their duty and were not to blame. So I had six, as I say, and we worked our way through, among the passengers and visitors, who seemed all to be talking and laughing at once or pawing over mail and packages heaped upon the cabin table. I didn't feel like laughing and talking, and I wasn't interested in the mail. Almost everybody in the world that meant anything to me was in my crowd, and they were going away, presently, to leave me on this big ship, among strangers, bound for the strange lands. My long dream of the Orient dwindled to a decrepit thing. But presently we found my state-room, and it was gratifying. I was impressed with its regal furnishings. After all, there were compensations in a habitation like that. Besides, there were always the two tons of dressed chicken and those thousands of champagne. I became more cheerful. Only, I wish the ship people wouldn't find it necessary to blow their whistle so loud and suddenly to send one's friends ashore. There is no chance to carry off somebody--somebody you would enjoy having along. They blow that thing until it shivers the very marrow of one's soul. How the visitors do crowd ashore! A word--a last kiss--a "God bless you"--your own are gone presently--you are left merely standing there, abandoned, marooned, deserted--feeling somehow that it's all wrong, and that something ought to be done about it. Why don't those people hurry? You want to get away now; you want it over with. A familiar figure fights its way up the gang-plank, breasting the shoreward tide. Your pulse jumps--they are going to take you home, after all. But no, he only comes to tell you that _your_ six will be at a certain place near the end of the dock, where you can see them, and wave to them. You push to the ship's side for a place at the rail. The last visitors are straggling off now, even to the final official. Then somewhere somebody does something that slackens the cables, the remaining gang-plank is dragged away. That whistle again, and then a band--our band--turns loose a perfect storm of music.