"No, I'll not come on board, Dev," said my guardian. "I--I couldn't
stand it. Good-by, my dear boy."
We clasped hands again; then I felt his arm resting on my shoulder, and
flung both of mine about him in an old-time, boyish hug.
"_Au revoir_, Dunny. Back next year," I shouted cheerily as the driver
threw in his clutch and the car glided on its way.
Preceded by various porters, I threaded my way at a snail's pace through
the dense crowd of waiting passengers, swarthy-faced sons of Italy,
apparently bound for the steerage. The great gray bulk of the _Re
d'Italia_ loomed before me, floating proudly at her stern the green,
white, and red flag blazoned with the Savoyard shield.
"Wave while they let you," I apostrophized it, saluting. "When we get
outside the three-mile limit and stop courting notice, you'll not fly
long."
At the gang-plank I was halted, and I produced my passport and exhibited
the _vise_ of his excellency, the Italian consul-general in New York.
I strolled aboard, was assigned to Cabin D, and informed by my steward
that there were in all but five first-class passengers, a piece of news
that left me calm.
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