Peddlers carried bundles of flags and knots of colored balloons, which tugged and eddied in the cold wind. In an Italian drug store at the corner of Sixth, under a sign, Telefono Pubblico per Qualsiasi Distanza, a distracted pretzel basket man, who had already sold out his wares, was calling up some distant base of supplies in the hope of replenishing his stock. Jefferson Square, brown and leafless, was packed with people. Down by the docks loomed up a tall, black funnel, dribbling smoke. "There she is!" cried an excited lady, leaping from cobble to cobble. For a moment I almost apologized to the good old Haverford for having misjudged her. Was she really docked already, on the tick of time? Then I saw that the vessel in sight had only two masts, and I knew that my old favorite had four.
The crowd at the lower end of Washington avenue was immense, held firmly in check by mounted police. Red Cross ambulances and trucks were slowly butting their way down to the pier, envied by us humbler souls who had no way of getting closer. Perched on a tall wagon a group of girls, apparently factory hands, were singing merrily "Bring Back My Bonnie to Me." On every side I heard scraps of detached conversation. "He was wounded and gassed, and he says 'if they send me back to that stuff it'll be in a box.'" Sheltering behind a stout telephone pole, perhaps the very one which was flinging the peddler's anguished cry for more pretzels, I sought a light for
