in the cold grey dawn of the great sailing day, shadowy figures began going aboard the skipping goone. the city delivered them up. then gradually the city awoke, and the waterfront went about its usual occupations.
as morning advanced, the skipping goone became a setting for some of the wildest scenes in the history of opera in america. red-eyed sopranos were bumped by stevedores; a stout lady whose forte was contralto matrons, went madly about in search of a trunk. sailors were puttering, while captain bearman croaked out sullen orders through his beautiful flaming whiskers. finally, the lord of all commotion, xenophon curry, who was sure, yes desperately and perspiringly sure, half the important things had been forgotten.
and of course flora utterbourne was on hand to see them off. she walked right aboard the skipping goone, her face smilingly full of every good wish for the impresario as she stood beside him on deck conversing with unbroken animation, yet always in that fluid, gliding manner which he knew so well now. yes, flora in her speech flowed on like a gracious river. and there was just a faint sadness behind her frank gaze, which meant that this departure was going to leave an unexpected emptiness. however, if there was sadness in her gaze, there was sadness also in the impresario’s. xenophon curry, though borne up by unquenchable optimism, realized that it was going to be surprisingly hard to say good-bye—maybe for years or a lifetime—to the lady who had asked him the way to crawl hill.
the skipping goone looked small and a little pathetic this morning. what was in store for them in the wide, wild ocean?
a crowd was waving on the wharf. the last perfervid farewells had been said, and the singers went about nibbling bon voyage chocolates, defiant of mal de mer. there were flowers, there was even confetti. the drab old schooner had taken on a very festive look indeed—almost like the barque of cleopatra!
every hand clutched a handkerchief, every handkerchief sought its niche in the vibrating atmosphere. a tenor tried his voice behind the deckhouse and emerged singing auld lang syne. the last hawser was cast off. a tug hooted.
and so it was that the skipping goone in her brave new paint, bearing a mixed cargo of merchandise and songbirds, gay with flutter and bloom, was trundled off down the bay and out upon the heaving vast, bound for parts remote and adventures cloaked in an impenetrable veil.
