I THEY had four hours in New York between trains. The one thing Babbitt wished to see was the Pennsylvania Hotel, which had been built since his last visit. He stared up at it, muttering, “Twenty-two hundred rooms and twenty-two hundred baths! That's got everything in the world beat. Lord, their turnover¹ must be—well, suppose price of rooms is four to eight dollars a day, and I suppose maybe some ten and—four times twenty-two hundred-say six times twenty-two hundred—well, anyway, with restaurants and everything, say summers between eight and fifteen thousand a day. Every day! I never thought I'd see a thing like that! Some town! Of course the average fellow in Zenith has got more Individual Initiative than the fourflushers here, but I got to hand it to New York. Yes, sir, town, you're all right—some ways. Well, old Paulski, I guess we've seen everything that's worth while. How'll we kill the rest of the time? Movie?”
 
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 wharf³ on the North River they stared at the stern of the Aquitania and her stacks and wireless⁴ antenna⁵ 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 squint⁶ 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 cocktail⁷, and darn the police!' Not bad at all. What juh like to see, over there, Paulibus?”
 
Paul did not answer. Babbitt turned. Paul was standing⁸ with clenched⁹ fists, head drooping¹⁰, staring at the liner as in terror. His thin body, seen against the summer-glaring planks¹¹ of the wharf, was childishly meager¹².
 
Again, “What would you hit for on the other side, Paul?”
 
Scowling¹³ 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.”
 
II
 
Though he exulted¹⁴, and made sage¹⁵ speculations¹⁶ 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 aged¹⁷ 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 transparent¹⁸, thin-looking, flashing with minnows. A guide in black felt hat with trout¹⁹-flies in the band, and flannel²⁰ shirt of a peculiarly daring blue, sat on a log and whittled²¹ and was silent. A dog, a good country dog, black and woolly gray, a dog rich in leisure and in meditation²², scratched and grunted²³ and slept. The thick sunlight was lavish²⁴ on the bright water, on the rim²⁵ of gold-green balsam boughs²⁶, 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 Ted² scrapping²⁸. 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.
 
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 squat²⁹ log cottages which served as bedrooms. They landed, and endured the critical examination of the habitues 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 rimless³⁰ spectacles belonged to a city office; and his face was not tanned but a city pink. He made a discordant³¹ 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 winked³² 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 tugged³³ 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, gnawed³⁴ at it. They stood quiet, their jaws³⁵ working. They solemnly spat³⁶, one after the other, into the placid³⁷ water. They stretched voluptuously³⁸, with lifted arms and arched backs. From beyond the mountains came the shuffling³⁹ sound of a far-off train. A trout leaped, and fell back in a silver circle. They sighed together.
 
IV
 
They had a week before their families came. Each evening they planned to get up early and fish before breakfast. Each morning they lay abed till the breakfast-bell, pleasantly conscious that there were no efficient wives to rouse them. The mornings were cold; the fire was kindly⁴⁰ as they dressed.
 
Paul was distressingly⁴¹ clean, but Babbitt reveled in a good sound dirtiness, in not having to shave till his spirit was moved to it. He treasured every grease spot and fish-scale on his new khaki trousers.
 
All morning they fished unenergetically, or tramped the dim and aqueous-lighted trails among rank ferns and moss⁴² sprinkled with crimson⁴³ bells. They slept all afternoon, and till midnight played stud-poker⁴⁴ with the guides. Poker was a serious business to the guides. They did not gossip; they shuffled⁴⁵ the thick greasy⁴⁶ cards with a deft⁴⁷ ferocity menacing to the “sports;” and Joe Paradise, king of guides, was sarcastic⁴⁸ to loiterers who halted the game even to scratch.
 
At midnight, as Paul and he blundered to their cottage over the pungent⁴⁹ wet grass, and pine-roots confusing in the darkness, Babbitt rejoiced that he did not have to explain to his wife where he had been all evening.
 
They did not talk much. The nervous loquacity⁵⁰ and opinionation of the Zenith Athletic⁵¹ Club dropped from them. But when they did talk they slipped into the naive⁵² intimacy⁵³ of college days. Once they drew their canoe up to the bank of Sunasquam Water, a stream walled in by the dense⁵⁴ green of the hardhack. The sun roared on the green jungle but in the shade was sleepy peace, and the water was golden and rippling⁵⁵. Babbitt drew his hand through the cool flood, and mused⁵⁶:
 
“We never thought we'd come to Maine together!”
 
“No. We've never done anything the way we thought we would. I expected to live in Germany with my granddad's people, and study the fiddle⁵⁷.”
 
“That's so. And remember how I wanted to be a lawyer and go into politics? I still think I might have made a go of it. I've kind of got the gift of the gab—anyway, I can think on my feet, and make some kind of a spiel on most anything, and of course that's the thing you need in politics. By golly, Ted's going to law-school, even if I didn't! Well—I guess it's worked out all right. Myra's been a fine wife. And Zilla means well, Paulibus.”
 
“Yes. Up here, I figure out all sorts of plans to keep her amused. I kind of feel life is going to be different, now that we're getting a good rest and can go back and start over again.”
 
“I hope so, old boy.” Shyly: “Say, gosh, it's been awful nice to sit around and loaf and gamble and act regular, with you along, you old horse-thief!”
 
“Well, you know what it means to me, Georgie. Saved my life.”
 
The shame of emotion overpowered them; they cursed a little, to prove they were good rough fellows; and in a mellow⁵⁸ silence, Babbitt whistling while Paul hummed, they paddled back to............