Silent-footed coolies drifted past, sullen-faced negroes jostled
him, stately Martinique women stalked through the confusion with
queenly dignity. These last were especially qualified to take the
stranger's eye, being tall and slender and wearing gaudy head-
dresses, the tips of which stood up like rabbits' ears. Unlike the
fat and noisy Jamaicans, they were neat and clean, their skirts
snow-white and stiffly starched, and they held themselves as
proudly erect as if pacing a stage.
The indescribable confusion of races reminded the young American
of a Red Sea port where the myriad peoples of the far East
intermingle. He heard a dozen different dialects; even the negroes
used an accent that was difficult to understand. One thing only
struck a familiar note, and that with peculiar force and
sharpness. Down the railroad track toward him came a locomotive
with the letters "P. R. R." upon it, at which he said aloud:
"Hurrah, I'm in Jersey City! I'll take the Twenty-third Street
Ferry and be at the Astor in no time."
He made his way slowly through the turmoil to the cable office,
where he wrote a message, only to have it refused.
"We don't send C. O. D.," the operator told him.
"Must have coin in advance, eh?"
"Yes, sir.
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