The battery was silenced.
We walked through five miles of rotten-ripe red raspberries and got thorns in our half-naked knees and carmined our fingers with raspberry juice, and we kept spitting out unpalatable fruits and making uncomplimentary remarks. Then we got to open pine woods and freed our feet of the tangles, and Vachel began to sing softly to himself a children’s processional hymn:
We are the Magi,
Children though we are.
We are the wise men,
Following the star.
“There are only two of us.” I ventured. “Where do you think the third king has got to?”
“That’s King Christopher,” said Vachel, sadly. “That’s our ‘other wise man.’ He is with us, but he’s invisible. He is sitting in Greeley Square or Vesey Street, and it was thinking of him that really started me on Horace Greeley.”
“How do you mean?”