It did not increase his self esteem thus to loiter and kill time in order to avoid some one. He felt rather shiftless to have to hang around Catskill for three or four hours. What would Audry think of such a thing? Why had he not gone about his stern duty in Kingston instead of coming way up here?
He strolled down to the river where he thought it would be cooler. A little north of the Day Line landing was an old float from which the scouts had sometimes fished for killies. A fishing skiff was drawn partway on it. It belonged to Louis who lived in the little house nearby. That was the only name he had—Louis.
Tom sat on an old water-soaked crate that had been rescued from the river. He felt tired now—and lonesome. And utterly miserable. Near him stood a small rusty can and he kicked it idly with his foot and knocked it over. As it rolled away over the float it left a little scattered pile of damp earth full of wriggling angleworms. He watched one of these squirm a yard or two. Then a swallow swooped gracefully down and picked it up. He wondered about the bird which Whalen had befriended and whether it had flown away.
The gathering twilight increased his disconsolate feeling. But it was cooler by the river, or else the weather was changing. A freshening breeze blew in his face and he opened his shirt front and clutched his shirt away from his chest and shoulders so as to enjoy the fullest measure of relief the welcome breeze afforded. A single cloud appeared in the sky. The boat began bobbing and made a clamorous noise as its stern beat the water and its bow knocked against the float.
Out in the middle of the river, and bathed in the rich glow of the sunset, was his friend the Goodfellow. She was dancing in the choppy water and her glazed port-holes shone golden. She seemed sportive and carefree. A shimmering path ran from her almost to Tom’s very feet as if to give him safe conduct to her hospitable deck. It was funny how this sunlit way ran straight from him to her. And now she turned about, her graceful prow straight toward him, and seemed to bow a kind of welcome to him.
The Goodfellow!
The cloud in the sky grew larger and darker. This unbearable day had tempted the storm demon. Relief, if only for a short while, was coming at last.
It was not now in the spirit of covetousness that Tom longed to be upon the trim little cruiser. He would not think of buying her, not unless Anson Dyker, answering the charge of murder, should refuse the money which he, Tom, would, oh so gladly, proffer. But it seemed isolated out there, and that accorded with his mood. He was overwhelmed and borne down by the grim duty, which was his. How could a thing which made him feel so contemptible, so despicable, be a good thing to do. “It is your, accusation, you’re a part of the state.” How logical, clear, true, was Audry’s reasoning. Of course she was right. She had read books and all that and she knew.
Tom wondered what Whalen—Dyker—would say, and how he would act, when they went up there to get him. Tom thought he would just give that weary look, lay down his axe and follow the men, the detectives. Perhaps it would even be a relief to him. Would he have to know that Tom was the one—the good citizen? He would just say good-bye to the men in that taciturn way of his; he could never be excited, he could never be otherwise than brave—never. Tom was glad to think that there was one up there who would be loyal, elegantly loyal, and try to cheer him. Fairgreaves. He was all right, Fairgreaves. Cutaway coat and derby hat and royal manner, but he was all right.
He hardly saw where he was going, so deep and vivid was his musing. And so utterly wretched was he. In a kind of trance he went to the little house and asked if he might use the boat. Louis knew him and gave a ready consent. He was proud to be of service to the young assistant at Temple Camp. Then the next thing he knew, he was out upon the river rowing toward his first love, the Goodfellow.