Through the darkness, through that Northern pine-walled silence, he blundered down to the lake-front and found a canoe. There were no paddles in it but with a board, sitting awkwardly amidships and poking at the water rather than paddling, he made his way far out on the lake. The lights of the hotel and the cottages became yellow dots, a cluster of glow-worms at the base of Sachem Mountain. Larger and ever more imperturbable was the mountain in the star-filtered darkness, and the lake a limitless pavement of black marble. He was dwarfed and dumb and a little awed, but that insignificance freed him from the pomposities of being Mr. George F. Babbitt of Zenith; saddened and freed his heart. Now he was conscious of the presence of Paul, fancied him (rescued from prison, from Zilla and the brisk exactitudes of the tar-roofing business) playing his violin at the end of the canoe. He vowed, “I will go on! I’ll never go back! Now that Paul’s out of it, I don’t want to see any of those damn people again! I was a fool to get sore because Joe Paradise didn’t jump up and hug me. He’s one of these woodsmen; too wise to go yelping and talking your arm off like a cityman. But get him back in the mountains, out on the trail--! That’s real living!” IV Joe reported at Babbitt’s cabin at nine the next morning. Babbitt greeted him as a fellow caveman: “Well, Joe, how d’you feel about hitting the trail, and getting away from these darn soft summerites and these women and all?” “All right, Mr. Babbitt.” “What do you say we go over to Box Car Pond--they tell me the shack there isn’t being used--and camp out?” “Well, all right, Mr. Babbitt, but it’s nearer to Skowtuit Pond, and you can get just about as good fishing there.” “No, I want to get into the real wilds.” “Well, all right.” “We’ll put the old packs on our backs and get into the woods and really hike.” “I think maybe it would be easier to go by water, through Lake Chogue. We can go all the way by motor boat--flat-bottom boat with an Evinrude.” “No, sir! Bust up the quiet with a chugging motor? Not on your life! You just throw a pair of socks in the old pack, and tell ’em what you want for eats. I’ll be ready soon’s you are.” “Most of the sports go by boat, Mr. Babbitt. It’s a long walk.” “Look here, Joe: are you objecting to walking?” “Oh, no, I guess I can do it. But I haven’t tramped that far for sixteen years. Most of the sports go by boat. But I can do it if you say so-- I guess.” Joe walked away in sadness.