But Paul desired to see a liner. “Always
wanted to go to Europe—and, by thunder,
I will, too, some day before I past out,” he
sighed.
From a rough wharf on the North River they stared
at the stern of the Aquitania and her stacks and wireless
antenna lifted above the dock-house which shut her
in.
“By golly,” Babbitt droned, “wouldn’t
be so bad to go over to the Old Country and take a
squint at all these ruins, and the place where Shakespeare
was born. And think of being able to order a drink
whenever you wanted one! Just range up to a bar
and holler out loud, ’Gimme a cocktail, and
darn the police!’ Not bad at all. What juh
like to see, over there, Paulibus?”
Paul did not answer. Babbitt turned. Paul
was standing with clenched fists, head drooping, staring
at the liner as in terror. His thin body, seen
against the summer-glaring planks of the wharf, was
childishly meager.
Again, “What would you hit for on the other
side, Paul?”
Scowling at the steamer, his breast heaving, Paul
whispered, “Oh, my God!” While Babbitt
watched him anxiously he snapped, “Come on, let’s
get out of this,” and hastened down the wharf,
not looking back.
“That’s funny,” considered Babbitt.
“The boy didn’t care for seeing the ocean
boats after all. I thought he’d be interested
in ’em.”
Though he exulted, and made sage speculations about
locomotive horse-power, as their train climbed the
Maine mountain-ridge and from the summit he looked
down the shining way among the pines; though he remarked,
“Well, by golly!” when he discovered that
the station at Katadumcook, the end of the line, was
an aged freight-car; Babbitt’s moment of impassioned
release came when they sat on a tiny wharf on Lake
Sunasquam, awaiting the launch from the hotel.
A raft had floated down the lake; between the logs
and the shore, the water was transparent, thin-looking,
flashing with minnows. A guide in black felt hat
with trout-flies in the band, and flannel shirt of
a peculiarly daring blue, sat on a log and whittled
and was silent. A dog, a good country dog, black
and woolly gray, a dog rich in leisure and in meditation,
scratched and grunted and slept. The thick sunlight
was lavish on the bright water, on the rim of gold-green
balsam boughs, the silver birches and tropic ferns,
and across the lake it burned on the sturdy shoulders
of the mountains. Over everything was a holy peace.
Silent, they loafed on the edge of the wharf, swinging
their legs above the water. The immense tenderness
of the place sank into Babbitt, and he murmured, “I’d
just like to sit here—the rest of my life—and
whittle—and sit. And never hear a typewriter.
Or Stan Graff fussing in the ’phone. Or
Rone and Ted scrapping. Just sit. Gosh!”
He patted Paul’s shoulder. “How does
it strike you, old snoozer?”
“Oh, it’s darn good, Georgie. There’s
something sort of eternal about it.”
