Three deaths so far—and sorrow and homelessness. And folks away off in the great city of New York turning on their faucets, and watering their lawns, and putting out their fires with this same water, and never thinking, never knowing....
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE BRIGHT MORN
The long tramp up the mountain proved to Tom that he was weary. It seemed as if he would never reach Mead’s. Oh, for Mead’s! Then he would know that another hour’s climbing would bring him to the summit. No more landmarks to watch for, just the unbroken stretch of woods road, up, up, up....
He entered the cottage like a thief in the night and was soon stretched upon his ugly little iron couch. But he was too tired and excited to sleep. His knees ached. He lay listening to the safety cables clanking in the wind.
Far off in the woods he could hear the call of a wildcat. And the cheery little crickets nearby beguiled him with their soothing orchestra. A katydid soloist entertained him. Well, one thing he would do, he would arouse Anson Dyker—Whalen—out of that blamed sarcastic calm of his. Oh yes, he would do that. He had the ammunition.
Early in the morning he went down into the deserted kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. He had never before seen the kitchen quiet and deserted. A holy calm pervaded it, and it seemed unnatural not to hear the clatter of dishes, the vocal accompaniment by Miranda, and the emphatic voice of Audry edifying her with her theories and conclusions. The kitchen was not kitchen without Audry in the full swing of debate.
It seemed good to be out in the fresh, early morning. He felt no ill effects of his long tramp except that his knees ached. He was not going to run the chance of missing Whalen by waiting for breakfast. Besides, he wished to see Whalen before he saw any one else. He would rouse him, he would make him sit up and take notice....
He strolled down the mountainside a few yards and sat on a discarded line-pole and waited. He watched the much praised early bird and noted the unhappy fate of the early worm. Luck was with him for after a little while Whalen came down the road alone.
So much had transpired in Tom’s mind that it seemed to him that he had not seen Whalen for weeks. He was carrying his axe and smoking a pipe. He looked very peasant-like in the early morning, picturesque in his canvas smock. He had a kind of easy efficiency about him, a kind of unobtrusive reserve force of experience and intelligence and power.