“Not sooner than a quarter to eleven,” he says.
“Yes, it’s a queer night; snow falling very thickly; makes the river journey slower than usual; snow is as bad as fog.”
The entire train of eight enormous cars, containing the Lyceum company and their baggage, is transported by boat right down the Harlem river, a distance of several miles, the raft and train being attached to a tug-boat. The train is run upon the floating track at Harlem, and connected with the main line again at Jersey City.
“I was to ask for the steamer ‘Maryland.’”
“Yes, her quay is outside the depot. I will let you know when she is reported. You will hear her whistle.”
Trying to return to the waiting-room I find I am locked in. Presently a good-natured official lets me out. In the meantime the _café_ has closed, the book-stall has fastened its windows and put out its lights. The waiters on trains have thinned in numbers. Two poor Chinamen who have been here are talking pigeon English to a porter.
“You missed it at seven,” he says; “no more train till twelve.”
“Twelfy!” says John, calmly counting his fingers; “no morey go tilly twelf.”
The two celestials sit down quietly to wait; the ferry-boats give out their hoarse signals, and presently a number of other people come in, covered with snow, a bitter wind accompanying them, as the doors open and shut. They stamp their feet and shake the snow from off their garments, and you hear the jingle of sleigh-bells without. A farmer whose dress suggests Mathias, in “The Bells,” comes in. He carries a bundle. There is a slip of green laurel in his button-hole. I avail myself of the supposed privilege of the country, and talk to him.
“Yes,” he says. “Christmas presents; I guess that’s what I’ve been to New York for. I live at Katskill. No, not much in the way of farming. My father had land in Yorkshire. Guess I am an Englishman, as one may say, though born on the Hudson. Did I ever hear of Rip Van Winkle at Katskill? I guess so. Live there now? No, sir; guess it’s a story, aint it? But there was a sort of a hermit feller lived on the Hudson till a year or two ago. He was English. A scholar, they said, and learned. His grandchild, a girl, lived with him. Did nothing but read. Built the hut hisself. Never seen except when he and the girl went to buy stores. It was in the papers, when he died, a year or two back. Broke his heart, ‘cause his girl skipped.”