In fact, she is packing for me already; not saying a word, but simply packing; and I––I go out-doors again, sidling into a jog beside the bow-window, to diminish the din of the wind in my ears, listening open-mouthed until––
Yes, there it sounds again; faint, but distinct; mellow, sonorous, vibrant. Honk! honk! honk! and again honk! honk! honk! It wafts downward from some place, up above where the stars should be and are not; up above the artificial illumination of the city; up where there are freedom, and space infinite, and abandon absolute.
With an effort, I force myself back into the house. I take down and oil my old double-barrel, lovingly, and try the locks to see that all is in order. I lay out my wrinkled and 289 battered duck suit handy for the morning, after carefully storing away in an inner pocket, where they will keep dry, the bundle of postcards Mary brings me––first exacting a promise to report on one each day, when I know I shall be five miles from the nearest postoffice, and that I shall bring them all back unused.
And, last of all, I slip to bed, and to dreams of gigantic honkers serene in the blue above; of whirring, whistling wings that cut the air like myriad knife blades; until I wake up with a start at the rattle of the telephone beside my bed, and I know that, though dark as a pit of pitch, it is morning, and that Sandford is already astir. 290
Chapter V––Anticipation
In the smoking-car forward I find Sandford. He is a most disreputable-looking specimen. Garbed in weather-stained corduroys, and dried-grass sweater, and great calfskin boots, he sprawls among gun-cases and shell-carriers––no sportsman will entrust these essentials to the questionable ministrations of a baggage-man––and the air about him is blue from the big cigar he is puffing so ecstatically. He nods and proffers me its mate.
“Going to be a great day,” he announces succinctly, and despite a rigorous censorship there is a suggestion of excitement in the voice. “The wind’s dead north, and it’s cloudy and damp. Rain, maybe, about daylight.”
“Yes.” I am lighting up stolidly, although my nerves are atingle.
“We’re going to hit it right, just right. The flight’s on. I heard them going over all night. The lake will be black with the big fellows, the Canada boys.” 291
“Yes,” I repeat; then conscience gives a last dig. “I ought not to do it, though. I didn’t have time to break a single engagement”––I’m a dental surgeon, too, by the way, with likewise an office of tile and enamel––“or explain at all. And the muss there’ll be at the shop when––”