II
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.''
For once, Babbitt understood him.
