An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

need was contemplating the loneliness and the usefulness at times of such a lone spot as this. And at one point it was that a wier-wier, one of the solitary waterbirds of this region, uttered its ouphe and barghest cry, flying from somewhere near into some darker recess within the woods. And at this sound it was that Clyde had stirred nervously and then sat up in the car. It was so very different to any bird-cry he had ever heard anywhere.

“What was that?” he asked of Harley Baggott, who sat next him.

“What?”

“Why, that bird or something that just flew away back there just now?”

“I didn’t hear any bird.”

“Gee! That was a queer sound. It makes me feel creepy.”

As interesting and impressive as anything else to him in this almost tenantless region had been the fact that there were so many lonesome lakes, not one of which he had ever heard of before. The territory through which they were speeding as fast as the dirt roads would permit, was dotted with them in these deep forests of pine. And only occasionally in passing near one, were there any signs indicating a camp or lodge, and those to be reached only by some half-blazed trail or rutty or sandy road disappearing through darker trees. In the main, the shores of the more remote lakes passed, were all but untenanted, or so sparsely that a cabin or a distant lodge to be seen across the smooth waters of some pine-encircled gem was an object of interest to all.

Why must he think of that other lake in Massachusetts! That boat! The body of that girl found⁠—but not that of the man who accompanied her! How terrible, really!

He recalled afterwards⁠—here in his room, after the last conversation with Roberta⁠—that the car, after a few more miles, had finally swung into an open space at the north end of a long narrow lake⁠—the south prospect of which appeared to be divided by a point or an island suggesting a greater length and further windings or curves than were visible from where the car had stopped. And except for the small lodge and boathouse at this upper end it had appeared so very lonesome⁠—not a launch or canoe on it at the time their party arrived. And as in the case of all the other lakes seen this day, the banks to the very shore line were sentineled with those same green pines⁠—tall, spear-shaped⁠—their arms widespread like one outside his window here in Lycurgus. And beyond them in the distance, to the south and west, rose the humped and still smooth and green backs of the nearer Adirondacks. And the water before them, now ruffled by a light wind and glowing in the afternoon sun, was of an intense Prussian blue, almost black, which suggested, as was afterwards confirmed by a guide who was lounging upon the low veranda of the small inn⁠—that it was very deep⁠—“all of seventy feet not more than a hundred feet out from that boathouse.”

And at this point Harley Baggott, who was interested to learn more about the fishing possibilities of this lake in behalf of his father, who contemplated coming to this region in a few days, had inquired of the guide who appeared not to look at the others in the car:

“How long is this lake, anyhow?”

“Oh, about seven miles.”

“Any fish in it?”

“Throw a line in and see. The best place for black bass and the like of that almost anywhere around here. Off the island down yonder, or just to the south of it round on the other side there, there’s a little bay that’s said to be one of the best fishin’ holes in any of the lakes up this way. I’ve seen a coupla men bring back as many as seventy-five fish in two hours. That oughta satisfy anybody that ain’t tryin’ to ruin the place for the rest of us.”

The guide, a thinnish, tall and wizened type, with a long, narrow head and small, keen, bright blue eyes laughed a yokelish laugh as he studied the group. “Not thinkin’ of tryin’ your luck today?”

“No, just inquiring for my dad. He’s coming up here next week, maybe. I want to see about accommodations.”

“Well, they ain’t what they are down to Racquette, of course, but then the fish down there ain’t what they are up here, either.” He visited all with a sly and wry and knowing smile.

Clyde had never seen the type before. He was interested by all the anomalies and contrarities of this lonesome world as contrasted with cities he had known almost exclusively, as well as the decidedly exotic and material life and equipment with which, at the Cranstons’ and elsewhere, he was then surrounded. The strange and comparatively deserted nature of this region as contrasted with the brisk and vigorous life of Lycurgus, less than a hundred miles to the south.

“The country up here kills me,” commented Stuart Finchley at this point. “It’s so near the Chain and yet it’s so different, scarcely anyone living up here at all, it seems.”

“Well, except for the camps in summer and the fellows that come up to hunt moose and deer in the fall, there ain’t much of anybody or anything around here after September first,” commented the guide. “I’ve been guidin’ and trappin’ for nigh onto seventeen years now around here and ’cept for more and more people around some of the lakes below here⁠—the Chain principally in summer⁠—I ain’t seen much change. You need to know this country purty well if yer goin’t strike out anywhere away from the main roads, though o’ course about five miles to the west o’ here is the railroad. Gun Lodge is the station. We bring ’em by bus from there in the summer. And from the south end down there is a sorta road leadin’ down to Greys Lake and Three Mile Bay. You musta come along a part of it, since it’s the only road up