THE following Sunday Morton, standing on the upper deck of the good ship Umbria, saw in the distance the serrated outline of his country’s real metropolis. Up the bay, past the gaunt and gray structures looming above the sands of Coney Island, through the leaden murk and mist of the late autumn day, his eyes roved and lingered, glorying inwardly at the pride and pomp of New York. He took in deep draughts of the air. It was good to be back again, and his heart lifted.
He was met at the pier by a representative from the