From Mondays till Saturdays, calm; a perfect
environment for a poet. You would be surprised to learn of the vast
army of poets and novelists and dramatists who dispense four-in-hands,
collars, buttons and hosiery six days in the week and who go
a-picnicking on the seventh, provided it does not rain.
Thomas had an idea. It was not a reflection of his lamented father's;
it was wholly his own. He wanted to be loved. His father's idea had
been to love; thus, humanity had laughed him into the grave. So it
will be seen that Thomas' idea was the more sensible of the two.
The voyage was uneventful. Blue day followed blue day. When at length
the great port of New York loomed in the distance, Thomas felt a
thrilling in his spine. Perhaps yonder he might make his fortune; no
matter what else he did, that remained to be accomplished, for he was a
fortune-hunter, of the ancient type; that is, he expected to work for
it. Shore leave would be his, and if during that time he found
nothing, why, he was determined to finish the summer as a steward; and
by fall he would have enough in wages and tips to give him a start in
life.
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