III
Their launch rounded the bend; at the head of the lake,
under a mountain slope, they saw the little central dining-shack
of their hotel and the crescent of squat log cottages
which served as bedrooms. They landed, and endured the critical
examination of the habitués who had been at the hotel for
a whole week. In their cottage, with its high stone fireplace,
they hastened, as Babbitt expressed it, to "get into some regular
he-togs.'' They came out; Paul in an old gray suit and
soft white shirt; Babbitt in khaki shirt and vast and flapping
khaki trousers. It was excessively new khaki; his rimless
spectacles belonged to a city office; and his face was not tanned
but a city pink. He made a discordant noise in the place. But
with infinite satisfaction he slapped his legs and crowed, "Say,
this is getting back home, eh?''
They stood on the wharf before the hotel. He winked at
Paul and drew from his back pocket a plug of chewing-tobacco,
a vulgarism forbidden in the Babbitt home. He took a
chew, beaming and wagging his head as he tugged at it. "Um!
Um! Maybe I haven't been hungry for a wad of eating-tobacco!
Have some?''
They looked at each other in a grin of understanding. Paul
took the plug, gnawed at it. They stood quiet, their jaws
working. They solemnly spat, one after the other, into the
placid water. They stretched voluptuously, with lifted arms
and arched backs. From beyond the mountains came the
shuffling sound of a far-off train. A trout leaped, and fell
back in a silver circle. They sighed together.
