In the meantime, somewhere in a crack of affairs, Walter had put up a rod, and stepping from rock to rock had found a pool where the trout longed for the fly, and brought back a dozen speckled, pink-and-silver, scarlet-finned quarter-pounders.
Blanc was chef; his slouch hat back on his shock head, his marvellous red-striped stockings and pink calico shirt and aggressive suspenders and other curios of garments showed up on his figure as on a telegraph pole, where he stood before the fire. He squatted low and shook the frying-pan over the red coals; he stared at the fish earnestly as they doubled their tails “croche” with freshness; he watched that the corn-meal in which they were rolled should not burn; and it was supper-time. We had fish and flapjacks and bacon and fried potatoes.
Godin, butler, urged these delicacies upon us with soft French speech and alert glances of interest. Godin differed in several ways from the butler of commerce.
The twilight gathered brown around the red firelight; the fish jumped in the darkening river; tents glimmered behind us and promised rest and deep sleep. We had come far to get these gifts of the gods and had dropped chains on the road; our freed spirits thought with kindly pity of the bored people sitting down to banquets in London, suffering in dinner clothes and candle-light at Newport, trying to squeeze happiness out of smelly automobiles and cramped steamer cabins. That three-quarters of them would pity us did not lessen our sympathy.
Next morning I was slowly aware that the shadows of innumerable leaves danced noiselessly an abandoned two-step on the white walls of my tent. With eyes half open I watched the silent, wild play, and then I was aware of wild play not silent in the house across the street.
Bob, with squeals of ecstasy and peals of big laughter, was waking Walter. By slow groans and quick, impassioned remonstrances I knew that he was waking him with water, applied carefully with a sponge and recklessly out of a cup. I heard it splash in a fat cupful against the canvas, and by Walter’s howl I knew the canvas had not got it all. I shivered, for the morning was sharp—better Walter than I for that baptism. In a minute more they were fraternizing against me.
Wake, wake, freshman, wake,
Wake while our song strikes the sky,
Bob thundered out of tune. Walter wandered into the concert with a recitative strangely like an air, but yet not. My tent flap was fastened; noise was all they could do.
“Good morning,” I was saluted. “Are you ready for breakfast?”