That was not so bad.
He would settle himself comfortably and look out.
For just outside Fonda, a mile or two beyond, was that same Mohawk that ran through Lycurgus and past the factory, and along the banks of which the year before, he and Roberta had walked about this time.
But the memory of that being far from pleasant now, he turned his eyes to a paper he had bought, and behind which he could shield himself as much as possible, while he once more began to observe the details of the more inward scene which now so much more concerned him — the nature of the lake country around Big Bittern, which ever since that final important conversation with Roberta over the telephone, had been interesting him more than any other geography of the world.
For on Friday, after the conversation, he had stopped in at the Lycurgus House and secured three different folders relating to hotels, lodges, inns and other camps in the more remote region beyond Big Bittern and Long Lake. (If only there were some way to get to one of those completely deserted lakes described by that guide at Big Bittern — only, perhaps, there might not be any row- boats on any of these lakes at all!) And again on Saturday, had he not secured four more circulars from the rack at the depot (they were in his pocket now)?
Had they not proved how many small lakes and inns there were along this same railroad, which ran north to Big Bittern, to which he and Roberta might resort for a day or two if she would — a night, anyhow, before going to Big Bittern and Grass Lake — had he not noted that in particular — a beautiful lake it had said — near the station, and with at least three attractive lodges or country home inns where two could stay for as low as twenty dollars a week.
That meant that two could stay for one night surely for as little as five dollars.
It must be so surely — and so he was going to say to her, as he had already planned these several days, that she needed a little rest before going away to a strange place. That it would not cost very much — about fifteen dollars for fares and all, so the circulars said — if they went to Grass Lake for a night — this same night after reaching Utica — or on the morrow, anyhow.
And he would have to picture it all to her as a sort of honeymoon journey — a little pleasant outing — before getting married.
And it would not do to succumb to any plan of hers to get married before they did this — that would never do.
(Those five birds winging toward that patch of trees over there — below that hill.)
It certainly would not do to go direct to Big Bittern from Utica for a boat ride — just one day — seventy miles.
That would not sound right to her, or to any one.
It would make her suspicious, maybe.
It might be better, since he would have to get away from her to buy a hat in Utica, to spend this first night there at some inexpensive, inconspicuous hotel, and once there, suggest going up to Grass Lake.
And from there they could go to Big Bittern in the morning.
He could say that Big Bittern was nicer — or that they would go down to Three Mile Bay — a hamlet really as he knew — where they could be married, but en route stop at Big Bittern as a sort of lark.
He would say that he wanted to show her the lake — take some pictures of her and himself.
He had brought his camera for that and for other pictures of Sondra later.
The blackness of this plot of his!
(Those nine black and white cows on that green hillside.)
But again, strapping that tripod along with his tennis racquet to the side of his suitcase, might not that cause people to imagine that they were passing tourists from some distant point, maybe, and if they both disappeared, well, then, they were not people from anywhere around here, were they?
Didn’t the guide say that the water in the lake was all of seventy-five feet deep — like that water at Pass Lake?
And as for Roberta’s grip — oh, yes, what about that?
He hadn’t even thought about that as yet, really.
(Those three automobiles out there running almost as fast as this train.)
Well, in coming down from Grass Lake after one night there (he could say that he was going to marry her at Three Mile Bay at the north end of Greys Lake, where a minister lived whom he had met), he would induce her to leave her bag at that Gun Lodge station, where they took the bus over to Big Bittern, while he took his with him.
He could just say to some one — the boatman, maybe, or the driver, that he was taking his camera in his bag, and ask where the best views were.
Or maybe a lunch.
Was that not a better idea — to take a lunch and so deceive Roberta, too, perhaps?
And that would tend to mislead the driver, also, would it not?
People did carry cameras in bags when they went out on lakes, at times.
At any rate it was most necessary for him to carry his bag in this instance.
Else why the plan to go south to that island and from thence through the woods?
(Oh, the grimness and the terror of this plan!
Could he really execute it?)
But that strange cry of that bird at Big Bittern.
He had not liked that, or seeing that guide up there who might remember him now.
He had not talked to him at all — had not even gotten out of the car, but had only looked out at him through the window; and in so far as he could recall the guide had not even once looked at him — had merely talked to Grant Cranston and Harley Baggott, who had gotten out and had done all the talking.
But supposing this guide should be there and remember him?
But how could that be when he really had not seen him? This guide would probably not remember him at all — might not even be there.
But why should his hands and face be damp all the time now — wet almost, and cold — his knees shaky?
(This train was following the exact curve of this stream — and last summer he and Roberta.
But no —)
As soon as they reached Utica now this was the way he would do — and must keep it well in mind and not get rattled in any way.
He must not — he must not. He must let her walk up the street before him, say a hundred feet or so between them, so that no one would think he was following her, of course.
And then when they were quite alone somewhere he would catch up with her and explain all about this — be very nice as though he cared for her as much as ever now — he would have to — if he were to get her to do as he wanted.
And then — and then, oh, yes, have her wait while he went for that extra straw hat that he was going to — well, leave on the water, maybe.
And the oars, too, of course.
And her hat — and — well —