In the fullness of time the ship was ready to receive her passengers.  I was introduced to the young gentleman who was to be my roommate, and found him to be intelligent, cheerful of spirit, unselfish, full of generous impulses, patient, considerate, and wonderfully good-natured.  Not any passenger that sailed in the Quaker City will withhold his endorsement of what I have just said.  We selected a stateroom forward of the wheel, on the starboard side, “below decks.”  It bad two berths in it, a dismal dead-light, a sink with a washbowl in it, and a long, sumptuously cushioned locker, which was to do service as a sofa—­partly —­and partly as a hiding place for our things.  Notwithstanding all this furniture, there was still room to turn around in, but not to swing a cat in, at least with entire security to the cat.  However, the room was large, for a ship’s stateroom, and was in every way satisfactory.

The vessel was appointed to sail on a certain Saturday early in June.

A little after noon on that distinguished Saturday I reached the ship and went on board.  All was bustle and confusion. [I have seen that remark before somewhere.] The pier was crowded with carriages and men; passengers were arriving and hurrying on board; the vessel’s decks were encumbered with trunks and valises; groups of excursionists, arrayed in unattractive traveling costumes, were moping about in a drizzling rain and looking as droopy and woebegone as so many molting chickens.  The gallant flag was up, but it was under the spell, too, and hung limp and disheartened by the mast.  Altogether, it was the bluest, bluest spectacle!  It was a pleasure excursion—­there was no gainsaying that, because the program said so—­it was so nominated in the bond—­but it surely hadn’t the general aspect of one.

Finally, above the banging, and rumbling, and shouting, and hissing of steam rang the order to “cast off!”—­a sudden rush to the gangways—­a scampering ashore of visitors-a revolution of the wheels, and we were off—­the pic-nic was begun!  Two very mild cheers went up from the dripping crowd on the pier; we answered them gently from the slippery decks; the flag made an effort to wave, and failed; the “battery of guns” spake not—­the ammunition was out.

We steamed down to the foot of the harbor and came to anchor.  It was still raining.  And not only raining, but storming.  “Outside” we could see, ourselves, that there was a tremendous sea on.  We must lie still, in the calm harbor, till the storm should abate.  Our passengers hailed from fifteen states; only a few of them had ever been to sea before; manifestly it would not do to pit them against a full-blown tempest until they had got their sea-legs on.  Toward evening the two steam tugs that had accompanied us with a rollicking champagne-party of young New Yorkers on board who wished to bid farewell to one of our number in due and ancient form departed, and we were alone on the deep.  On deep five fathoms, and anchored fast to the bottom.  And out in the solemn rain, at that.  This was pleasuring with a vengeance.