But his real object was to loll on a West and South Railroad in luxury, and go sailing out into the foam and perilous seas of North River.  He passed through the smoking-cabin.  He didn’t smoke—­the habit used up travel-money.  Once seated on the upper deck, he knew that at last he was outward-bound on a liner.  True, there was no great motion, but Mr. Wrenn was inclined to let realism off easily in this feature of his voyage.  At least there were undoubted life-preservers in the white racks overhead; and everywhere the world, to his certain witnessing, was turned to crusading, to setting forth in great ships as if it were again in the brisk morning of history when the joy of adventure possessed the Argonauts.

He wasn’t excited over the liners they passed.  He was so experienced in all of travel, save the traveling, as to have gained a calm interested knowledge.  He knew the Campagnia three docks away, and explained to a Harlem grocer her fine points, speaking earnestly of stacks and sticks, tonnage and knots.

Not excited, but—­where couldn’t he go if he were pulling out for Arcady on the Campagnia! Gee!  What were even the building-block towers of the Metropolitan and Singer buildings and the Times’s cream-stick compared with some old shrine in a cathedral close that was misted with centuries!

All this he felt and hummed to himself, though not in words.  He had never heard of Arcady, though for many years he had been a citizen of that demesne.

Sure, he declared to himself, he was on the liner now; he was sliding up the muddy Mersey (see the W.  S. Travel Notes for the source of his visions); he was off to St. George’s Square for an organ-recital (see the English Baedeker); then an express for London and—­Gee!

The ferryboat was entering her slip.  Mr. Wrenn trotted toward the bow to thrill over the bump of the boat’s snub nose against the lofty swaying piles and the swash of the brown waves heaped before her as she sidled into place.  He was carried by the herd on into the station.

He did not notice the individual people in his exultation as he heard the great chords of the station’s paean.  The vast roof roared as the iron coursers stamped titanic hoofs of scorn at the little stay-at-home.

That is a washed-out hint of how the poets might describe Mr. Wrenn’s passion.  What he said was “Gee!”

He strolled by the lists of destinations hung on the track gates.  Chicago (the plains! the Rockies! sunset over mining-camps!), Washington, and the magic Southland—­thither the iron horses would be galloping, their swarthy smoke manes whipped back by the whirlwind, pounding out with clamorous strong hoofs their sixty miles an hour.  Very well.  In time he also would mount upon the iron coursers and charge upon Chicago and the Southland; just as soon as he got ready.