People spoke of other worlds and here was one, nineteen minutes from Chicago. And last night, under the lucidate, the town banker had gone to another world, three hundred years away, had gone back to the magic of Burns.
A great lad for the ladies, Bobbie Burns, and a great love for the people. A poet with revolutionary leanings, all heart, a bleeder and a believer. Studious, Doak sat, on the front porch in another world.
Were the people so stupid they couldn't be trusted with words? They could be misled with words and confused and stirred to unrighteous anger. And informed with words and guided and ennobled and solaced and stirred to high destiny.
How had wrestling ever taken the place of words?
Someone said, "Dreaming, city-man?"
He looked up quickly to see Martha standing there. Mrs. Klein had evidently gone into the house without his being aware of it.
"Dreaming," Doak admitted. "Holding high converse with the mighty dead." He smiled at her. "Through for the week?"
"Through." She took the chair her mother usually occupied. "Five and a half days of whereas and wherefore earns me a day and a half for myself. At the risk of seeming forward would you like to go swimming with me this afternoon?"
"I can't think of a better way to spend it," Doak answered. "How about transportation?"
"It's only a little over a mile. We can walk." She paused. "Or did you plan to see Senator Arnold?"