The company formed for roll-call at one end of the shed, with their packs and rifles.  Breakfast was served to them while they waited.  After an hour’s standing on the concrete, they saw encouraging signs.  Two gangplanks were lowered from the vessel at the end of the slip, and up each of them began to stream a close brown line of men in smart service caps.  They recognized a company of Kansas Infantry, and began to grumble because their own service caps hadn’t yet been given to them; they would have to sail in their old Stetsons.  Soon they were drawn into one of the brown lines that went continuously up the gangways, like belting running over machinery.  On the deck one steward directed the men down to the hold, and another conducted the officers to their cabins.  Claude was shown to a four-berth state-room.  One of his cabin mates, Lieutenant Fanning, of his own company, was already there, putting his slender luggage in order.  The steward told them the officers were breakfasting in the dining saloon.

By seven o’clock all the troops were aboard, and the men were allowed on deck.  For the first time Claude saw the profile of New York City, rising thin and gray against an opal-coloured morning sky.  The day had come on hot and misty.  The sun, though it was now high, was a red ball, streaked across with purple clouds.  The tall buildings, of which he had heard so much, looked unsubstantial and illusionary,—­mere shadows of grey and pink and blue that might dissolve with the mist and fade away in it.  The boys were disappointed.  They were Western men, accustomed to the hard light of high altitudes, and they wanted to see the city clearly; they couldn’t make anything of these uneven towers that rose dimly through the vapour.  Everybody was asking questions.  Which of those pale giants was the Singer Building?  Which the Woolworth?  What was the gold dome, dully glinting through the fog?  Nobody knew.  They agreed it was a shame they could not have had a day in New York before they sailed away from it, and that they would feel foolish in Paris when they had to admit they had never so much as walked up Broadway.  Tugs and ferry boats and coal barges were moving up and down the oily river, all novel sights to the men.  Over in the Canard and French docks they saw the first examples of the “camouflage” they had heard so much about; big vessels daubed over in crazy patterns that made the eyes ache, some in black and white, some in soft rainbow colours.

A tug steamed up alongside and fastened.  A few moments later a man appeared on the bridge and began to talk to the captain.  Young Fanning, who had stuck to Claude’s side, told him this was the pilot, and that his arrival meant they were going to start.  They could see the shiny instruments of a band assembling in the bow.

“Let’s get on the other side, near the rail if we can,” said Fanning.  “The fellows are bunching up over here because they want to look at the Goddess of Liberty as we go out.  They don’t even know this boat turns around the minute she gets into the river.  They think she’s going over stern first!”