"Oh yes. I never get any sympathy," said the captain, laughing himself.
"And yet I'll wager Miss Linton was 'house-proud' in that 'Home for
Tired People' of hers, and she ought to sympathize with a tidy man. You
should have seen my wife's face when she came aboard once at Liverpool,
and saw the ship; and she's never had the same respect for me since!
There--the last man is off the ship, and the gangways are clear; nothing
to keep all you homesick people now." He said good-bye, and ran up the
steps to his cabin under the bridge.
It was a queer home-coming at first, to a vast pier, empty save for a
few officials and policemen--for no outsiders were allowed within the
barriers. But once clear of customs officials and other formalities
they packed themselves into cabs, and in a few moments were outside
the railed-off space, turning into a road lined on either side with
people--all peering into the long procession of cabs, in the hope of
finding their own returning dear ones. It was but a few moments before a
posse of uncles, aunts and cousins swooped down upon the Lintons, whose
cab prudently turned down a side street to let the wave of welcome
expend itself. In the side street, too, were motors belonging to the
aunts and uncles; and presently the new arrivals were distributed among
them, and were being rushed up to Melbourne, along roads still crowded
by the people who had flocked to welcome the "diggers" home.
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