arrival at honolulu was plentifully exciting. naturally every one was on deck. captain bearman set up a sort of preliminary barking through his splendid whiskers.

mr. curry’s press agent, though not conspicuous for creative ingenuity, had carried out with tolerable success most of the “advance” ideas with which the impresario had eagerly and patiently supplied him. there was a throng down to welcome in the band of venturesome troupers. the newspapers sent their most gifted reporters, and had reserved space on their front pages for a generous human-interest yarn. a native orchestra was strumming on the dock. of course all the songbirds were wild to debark.

shore connections established, the reporters descended and tongues were ardently loosed. most of the songbirds had a very efficiently developed sense of publicity. miss valentine, the coloratura who could sing up to f, turned from one to another, talking with elaborate elegance and conveying the impression that she considered this a very great lark indeed—something in the nature of a playful interlude between triumphs of the past (a little yawn and much patting of curls) and radiant contracts in the future. the comedian told funny stories of life aboard the skipping goone, and agreeably noted[94] out of a corner of his eye that some of them were being reduced to hieroglyphics. one story they all seized upon was the story of the clerk who had failed to wake up; and the clerk must be found and interviewed, and somebody even snapped his picture.

as for the impresario—of course he was made use of to the fullest advantage. “like a conquering monarch,” one of the papers next day proclaimed his arrival; nor was this an exaggeration, for xenophon curry in all his bright habiliments did look like a conquering monarch, and carried himself like one, too, so proud was he—oh, a very human sort of conquering monarch: one with a smile such as, in the words of another paper, “it would be worth walking all the way around oahu to see.”