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"Down there, sir," explained Tad, pointing to the ledge of rock over which Walter had fallen. "I know I know but " "I heard him call. Walt's alive! Walt's alive! But I don't know how we are going to get him." The shout of joy that had framed itself on the lips of Ned Rector and Stacy Brown died out in an indistinct murmur. "Is it possible!
What's this Walt's picked up about Ravick sending equipment to fight the fire?" he yelled. Dad came over, and nodded. "It wasn't Ravick, it was Mort Hallstock. He commandeered the Co-op equipment and sent it up," he said. "He called me and wanted to know whom to send for it that Ravick's gang wouldn't start shooting at right away. Casmir Oughourlian sent some of his men."
His comrade, perceiving how much he is pained, modifies what he meant to say. "Thar's no need to be so much afeard o' what may happen to her. She ain't goin' to be rubbed out, anyhow; an' if she hasn't no brother to purtect her, I reckon she's got a frien' in you, Frank. An' hyar's another o' the same, as they say in the Psalms o' Davit." Walt's words have a hopeful sound.
I sat down and closed my eyes to recall old Walt's lines of beauty about the World below the brine. Forests at the bottom of the sea, the branches and leaves. Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seed. The thick tangle,... and pink turf. When I looked again at the reef I espied a small boat, almost a speck outside the coral barrier.
I remember a dinner given by the Whitman Society about twenty years ago, at the St. Denis Hotel, which was both grotesque and pitiable. The guest of honour was "Pete" Doyle, the former car-conductor and "young rebel friend of Walt's," then a middle-aged person. John Swinton, who presided, described Whitman as a troglodyte, but a cave-dweller he never was; rather the avatar of the hobo.
Some supercilious observers, flashing through on the way to Atlantic City, may only see a town in which there is no delirious and seizing beauty. Let us remind them of Walt's own words: A great city is that which has the greatest men and women, If it be a few ragged huts it is still the greatest city in the whole world.
"Hark!" came suddenly from Jack. Far back somewhere in the tunnels they had threaded they could hear loud shouts and cries. The sound of the pursuit boomed out even above the noise of the waterfall. "They're after us!" exclaimed Jack. "Shall we take the boat?" Walt's usually calm voice shook a little as he asked the question. "It's our only chance. Come on, in with you, Ralph."
His mother thinks that, if "Hiawatha" is poetry, may be Walt's book is, too. He never counsels with any one, and is utterly indifferent as to what people may say or think. He is not a stirring and punctual man, is always a little late; not an early riser, not prompt at dinner; always has ample time, and will not be hurried; the business gods do not receive his homage.
"Mean to tell me you don't want a pony like this?" "I didn't say so, Ned. No, I wouldn't say that, because it isn't true. You asked me if I didn't wish I had him. Of course, I want a pony more than anything else in the world. But I want my own, not yours. That is different, you see. Much as I want one, I don't covet either yours or Walt's." "Well, you are a funny fellow.
"Now fix the snares roun' thar thrapples. Make the other eends fast by giein' them a wheen o' turn over them branches above. See as ye draw 'em tight 'ithout streetchin'." Walt's orders are carried out quickly, and to the letter, for the men executing them now comprehend what is meant. They also, too well, who are seated upon the backs of the mules. It is an old trick of their own.
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