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172

At nine o'clock Tuesday morning I  commandeered an Irishman with a fliver at Grand Central. We collected my belongings and made a hurried dash to stop at my cousin Elviras' place of business on 37th street - then "as fast as you can to Pier #62 at the foot of 23rd street." The driver knew his brethren at cross streets so it wasn't many minutes before I was into the busy dock section. At pier #62 I could see the tips of the two masts and smokestacks peeping over the roof of the pier; that looked good because from its appearance I judged a regular liner was to be my conveyor rather than the transport.

I showed the guard my papers and was directed upstairs to the office. Here I was given a ticket assigning me to station #74, First Class, of the U.S.M.S. "New York". My baggage was being carried to the gangplank by a stevedore so I turned to go downstairs to dismiss my faithful taxi driver when I was politely informed by a guard at the head of the staircase that once