Escaping the chilly wind that blew up from the river I spent some time studying the interior of the lovely little church and reading the epitaphs of the old Swedish pastors. Of Olaf Parlin, one of these, it is nobly written "And in the Last Combat, strengthened by Heavenly Succours, he Quit the Field not Captive but Conqueror."
But still there was no sign of the Haverford. I strolled up the waterfront, stopping by the barge Victor to admire a very fat terrier fondled by the skipper's wife. I was about to ask if I could step aboard, thinking that the deck of the barge would afford a rather better view of the hoped-for transport, when I saw the ferry Peerless, one of the three ancient oddities that ply between South street and Gloucester. And at the same moment the whistles down the river began to blow a deep, vibrant chorus. Obviously, the best way to see the Haverford was to take a deep sea voyage to Gloucester.
And so it was. When the Peerless pulled away from her slip the first thing we saw was the reception boat City of Camden, with the Mayor's committee aboard, backing up-stream in a flutter of flags. And then we came right abreast of the big liner, which had just come opposite her pier. She stood very high in the water, and seems none the worse for the five months' ducking she is said to have had. Her upper decks were brown with men, all facing away from us, however, to acknowledge the roar of cheering from the piers. So they
