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He was a well-built man, and his muscles seemed on the point of bursting out of the painfully new and ready-made black clothes he wore. "Warm day," Walt greeted him. Walt believed in country democracy, and never missed an opportunity to practice it. The man paused and nodded. "I guess I ain't used much to the warm," he vouchsafed half apologetically. "I'm more accustomed to zero weather."
Between lovers, those who truly love, the parting is ever painful Frank Hamersley, taking leave of Adela Miranda, feels this as does Walt Wilder separating from Conchita. There may be a difference in degree, in the intensity of their respective passions; perhaps also something in its character. Still the sentiment is the same. Both suffer at the thought of separation, feel it keenly.
There was a sound of cheering from the intercom. Tom asked if I wanted to fire another clip. I told him I thought I had the hang of it now, and screwed a swab onto the ramrod and opened the breech to clean the gun. Joe Kivelson grinned at me when I went up to the conning tower. "That wasn't bad, Walt," he said. "You never manned a 50-mm before, did you?"
Such massive head-lines that soon sink into platitudinous prose; such robust swinging rhythms, Emerson told Walt that he must have had a "long foreground." It is true. Notwithstanding his catalogues of foreign countries, he was hardly a cosmopolitan.
"We can't last five minutes!" gasped Walt, as he gazed out. The lad fired grimly into the advancing rush, however, and the others stood to their guns like veterans. Their cheeks were blanched under the tan, though, and the corners of their mouths tightened. Each one of those defenders realized the practical hopelessness of their positions.
Baxter was puffing heavily, for it had been a hard climb. At our feet extended a panorama of what seemed like a whole State. The wide-spread fields of wheat, of corn, exalted us. "God, what a glorious country!... no wonder Walt loved America ... in spite of the abuses capital has perpetrated in it." "Walt Mason?" I enquired, mischievously.... "No," he responded, seriously, "Walt Whitman."
And how inexpressibly sad it was to hear him prattling on of the ideal life, of socialism, of Walt Whitman and what not, all the dear old quackeries, while I was already settling down comfortably to a conservative middle age. He had no hope that had not long been my despair, no aversion that I had not accepted among the more or less comfortable conditions of the universe.
A very different individual is now seen at its entrance. Walt Wilder, with bowie-knife bared, its blade cutting the cords that kept the tent closed. In an instant they are severed, the flap flies open, and two female forms rush forth. In another instant one of them is lying along Hamersley's breast, the other in the embrace of Wilder. Kisses and words are exchanged.
The quality of BEING, in the object's self, according to its own central idea and purpose, and of growing therefrom and thereto not criticism by other standards and adjustments thereto is the lesson of Nature. Who knows whether this may not be Walt Whitman's "secret," or, at any rate, the spiritual experience of which the poet's latest biographer, Mr. Emory Holloway, writes?
"Walt Wilder!" are the words that leap from a dozen pairs of lips, while they, pronouncing the name with glances aghast, look as if a spectre had suddenly appeared to them. An apparition, however, that is welcome; altogether different to the impression it has produced upon their guide.
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