An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

appeared to be divided by a point or an island suggesting a

greater length and further windings or curves than were

visible from where the car had stopped. And except for the

small lodge and boathouse at this upper end it had

appeared so very lonesome—not a launch or canoe on it at

the time their party arrived. And as in the case of all the

other lakes seen this day, the banks to the very shore line

were sentineled with those same green pines—tall, spear-

shaped—their arms widespread like one outside his

window here in Lycurgus. And beyond them in the distance,

to the south and west, rose the humped and still smooth

and green backs of the nearer Adirondacks. And the water

before them, now ruffled by a light wind and glowing in the

afternoon sun, was of an intense Prussian blue, almost

black, which suggested, as was afterwards confirmed by a

guide who was lounging upon the low veranda of the small

inn—that it was very deep—“all of seventy feet not more

than a hundred feet out from that boat-house.”

And at this point Harley Baggott, who was interested to

learn more about the fishing possibilities of this lake in

behalf of his father, who contemplated coming to this region

in a few days, had inquired of the guide who appeared not

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to look at the others in the car: “How long is this lake,

anyhow?”

“Oh, about seven miles.”“Any fish in it?”“Throw a line in and

see. The best place for black bass and the like of that

almost anywhere around here. Off the island down yonder,

or just to the south of it round on the other side there,

there’s a little bay that’s said to be one of the best fishin’

holes in any of the lakes up this way. I’ve seen a coupla

men bring back as many as seventy-five fish in two hours.

That oughta satisfy anybody that ain’t tryin’ to ruin the place

for the rest of us.”

The guide, a thinnish, tall and wizened type, with a long,

narrow head and small, keen, bright blue eyes laughed a

yokelish laugh as he studied the group. “Not thinkin’ of tryin’

your luck to-day?”

“No, just inquiring for my dad. He’s coming up here next

week, maybe. I want to see about accommodations.”

“Well, they ain’t what they are down to Racquette, of

course, but then the fish down there ain’t what they are up

here, either.” He visited all with a sly and wry and knowing

smile.

Clyde had never seen the type before. He was interested

by all the anomalies and contrarities of this lonesome world

as contrasted with cities he had known almost exclusively,

as well as the decidedly exotic and material life and

equipment with which, at the Cranstons’ and elsewhere, he

was then surrounded. The strange and comparatively

deserted nature of this region as contrasted with the brisk

and vigorous life of Lycurgus, less than a hundred miles to

the south.

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“The country up here kills me,” commented Stuart Finchley

at this point. “It’s so near the Chain and yet it’s so different,

scarcely any one living up here at all, it seems.”

“Well, except for the camps in summer and the fellows that

come up to hunt moose and deer in the fall, there ain’t

much of anybody or anything around here after September

first,” commented the guide. “I’ve been guidin’ and trappin’

for nigh onto seventeen years now around here and ‘cept

for more and more people around some of the lakes below

here—the Chain principally in summer—I ain’t seen much

change. You need to know this country purty well if yer

goin’t strike out anywhere away from the main roads,

though o’ course about five miles to the west o’ here is the

railroad. Gun Lodge is the station. We bring ’em by bus

from there in the summer. And from the south end down

there is a sorta road leadin’ down to Greys Lake and Three

Mile Bay. You musta come along a part of it, since it’s the

only road up into this country as yet. They’re talkin’ of cuttin’

one through to Long Lake sometime, but so far it’s mostly

talk. But from most of these other lakes around here,

there’s no road at all, not that an automobile could make.

Just trails and there’s not even a decent camp on some

o’’em. You have to bring your own outfit. But Ellis and me

was over to Gun Lake last summer—that’s thirty miles west

o’ here and we had to walk every inch of the way and carry

our packs. But, oh, say, the fishin’ and moose and deer

come right down to the shore in places to drink. See ’em as

plain as that stump across the lake.”

And Clyde remembered that, along with the others, he had

carried away the impression that for solitude and charm—or

at least mystery—this region could scarcely be matched.

And to think it was all so comparatively near Lycurgus—not

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more than a hundred miles by road; not more than seventy

by rail, as he eventually came to know.

But now once more in Lycurgus and back in his room after

just explaining to Roberta, as he had, he once more

encountered on his writing desk, the identical paper

containing the item concerning the tragedy at Pass Lake.

And in spite of himself, his eye once more followed

nervously and yet unwaveringly to the last word all the

suggestive and provocative details. The uncomplicated and

apparently easy way in which the lost couple had first

arrived at the boathouse; the commonplace and entirely

unsuspicious way in which they had hired a boat and set

forth for a row; the manner in which they had disappeared

to the north end; and then the upturned boat, the floating

oars and hats near the shore. He stood reading in the still

strong evening light. Outside the windows were the dark

boughs of the fir tree of which he had thought the preceding

day and which now suggested all those firs and pines about

the shores of Big Bittern.

But, good God! What was he thinking of anyhow? He,

Clyde Griffiths! The nephew of Samuel Griffiths! What was

“getting into” him? Murder! That’s what it was. This terrible

item—this devil’s accident or machination that was

constantly putting it before him! A most horrible crime, and

one for which they electrocuted people if they were caught.

Besides, he could not murder anybody—not Roberta,

anyhow. Oh, no! Surely not after all that had been between

them. And yet—this other world I—Sondra—which he was

certain to lose now unless he acted in some way——

His hands shook, his eyelids twitched—then his hair at the

roots tingled and over his body ran chill nervous titillations

in waves. Murder! Or upsetting a boat at any rate in deep

water, which of course might happen anywhere, and by

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accident, as at Pass Lake. And Roberta could not swim. He

knew that. But she might save herself at that—scream—

cling to the boat—and then—if there were any to hear—and

she told afterwards! An icy perspiration now sprang to his

forehead; his lips trembled and suddenly his throat felt

parched and dry. To prevent a thing like that he would have

to—to—but no—he was not like that. He could not do a

thing like that—hit any one—a girl—Roberta—and when

drowning or struggling. Oh, no, no—no such thing as that!

Impossible.

He took his straw hat and went out, almost before any one

heard him think, as he would have phrased it to himself,

such horrible, terrible thoughts. He could not and would not

think them from now on. He was no such person. And yet—

and yet—these thoughts. The solution—if he wanted one.

The way to stay here—not leave—marry Sondra—be rid of

Roberta and all—all—for the price of a little courage or

daring. But no!

He walked and walked—away from Lycurgus—out on a

road to the southeast which passed through a poor and

decidedly unfrequented rural section, and so left him alone

to think—or, as he felt, not to be heard in his thinking.

Day was fading into dark. Lamps were beginning to glow in

the cottages here and there. Trees in groups in fields or

along the road were beginning to blur or smokily blend. And

although it was warm—the air lifeless and lethargic—he

walked fast, thinking, and perspiring as he did so, as

though he were seeking to outwalk and outthink or divert

some inner self that preferred to be still and think.

That gloomy, lonely lake up there!

That island to the south!

Who would see?

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Who could hear?

That station at Gun Lodge with a bus running to it at this

season of the year. (Ah, he remembered that, did he? The

deuce!) A terrible thing, to remember a thing like that in