There were more of the latter, and the passageway was still thronged.  Just as Stockton reached the foot of the plank a little man in green ulster and deerstalker cap, followed by a plump little woman and four children in single file, each holding fast to the one in front like Alpine climbers, came down the narrow bridge, taking almost ludicrous care not to slip on the cleated boards.  To his amazement the reviewer recognized the dark beard and soulful eyes of the poet.

Mr. Verne clutched in rigid arms, not a roll of manuscripts, but a wriggling French poodle, whose tufted tail waved under the poet’s chin.  The lady behind him, evidently his wife, as she clung steadfastly to the skirt of his ulster, held tightly in the other hand a large glass jar in which two agitated goldfish were swimming, while the four children watched their parents with anxious eyes for the safety of their pets.  “Daddy, look out for Ink!” shrilled one of them, as the struggles of the poodle very nearly sent him into the water under the ship’s side.  Two smiling stewards with mountainous portmanteaux followed the party.  “Mother, are Castor and Pollux all right?” cried the smallest child, and promptly fell on his nose on the gangway, disrupting the file.

Stockton, with characteristic delicacy, refrained from making himself known until the Vernes had recovered from the embarrassments of leaving the ship.  He followed them at a distance to the “V” section where they waited for the customs examination.  With mingled feelings he saw that Finsbury Verne was no cloud-walking deity, but one even as himself, indifferently clad, shy and perplexed of eye, worried with the comic cares of a family man.  All his heart warmed toward the poet, who stood in his bulging greatcoat, perspiring and aghast at the uproar around him.  He shrank from imagining what might happen when he appeared at home with the whole family, but without hesitation he approached and introduced himself.

Verne’s eyes shone with unaffected pleasure at the meeting, and he presented the reviewer to his wife and the children, two boys and two girls.  The two boys, aged about ten and eight, immediately uttered cryptic remarks which Stockton judged were addressed to him.

“Castorian!” cried the larger boy, looking at the yellow suit.

“Polluxite!” piped the other in the same breath.

Mrs. Verne, in some embarrassment, explained that the boys were in the throes of a new game they had invented on the voyage.  They had created two imaginary countries, named in honour of the goldfish, and it was now their whim to claim for their respective countries any person or thing that struck their fancy.  “Castoria was first,” said Mrs. Verne, “so you must consider yourself a citizen of that nation.”

Somewhat shamefaced at this sudden honour, Mr. Stockton turned to the poet.  “You’re all coming home with me, aren’t you?” he said.  “I got your telegram this morning.  We’d be delighted to have you.”