"I have a terrible fear," he declared, "that, with this limit of yours,
we will wake up in Asbury Park."
Friday night came and found us prepared for departure, and at midnight
we held our lottery. In a pillow-case we placed twenty slips of paper,
on each of which was written the name of a summer resort. Ten of these
places were selected by Kinney, and ten by myself. Kinney dramatically
rolled up his sleeve, and, plunging his bared arm into our grab-bag,
drew out a slip of paper and read aloud: "New Bedford, via New Bedford
Steamboat Line." The choice was one of mine.
"New Bedford!" shouted Kinney. His tone expressed the keenest
disappointment. "It's a mill town!" he exclaimed. "It's full of cotton
mills."
"That may be," I protested. "But it's also a most picturesque old
seaport, one of the oldest in America. You can see whaling vessels at
the wharfs there, and wooden figure-heads, and harpoons--"
"Is this an expedition to dig up buried cities," interrupted Kinney, "or
a pleasure trip? I don't _want_ to see harpoons! I wouldn't know a
harpoon if you stuck one into me. I prefer to see hatpins."
The _Patience_ did not sail until six o'clock, but we were so anxious to
put New York behind us that at five we were on board.
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