An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

where they would be within five miles of the Metissic Inn,

and where they could dine and dance to their heart’s

content.

And then the silence and the beauty of this camp at night,

after all had presumably gone to bed. The stars! The

mystic, shadowy water, faintly rippling in a light wind, the

mystic, shadowy pines conferring in the light breezes, the

cries of night birds and owls—too disturbing to Clyde to be

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listened to with anything but inward distress. The wonder

and glory of all this—if only—if only he were not stalked

after, as by a skeleton, by the horror not only of what he

had done in connection with Roberta but the danger and

the power of the law that deemed him a murderer! And

then Sondra, the others having gone to bed—or off into the

shadow,—stealing out for a few last words and kisses

under the stars. And he whispering to her how happy he

was, how grateful for all her love and faith, and at one point

almost tempted to ask whether in case it should ever

appear that he was not as good as she now seemed to

imagine him, she would still love him a little—not hate him

entirely—yet refraining for fear that after that exhibition of

terror the preceding night she might connect his present

mood with that, or somehow with the horrible, destructive

secret that was gnawing at his vitals.

And then afterwards, lying in the four-cot tent with Baggott,

Harriet and Grant, listening nervously for hours for any

prowling steps that might mean—that might mean—God—

what might they not mean even up here?—the law! arrest!

exposure! Death. And waking twice in the night out of

dread, destructive dreams,—and feeling as though—and

fearing—that he had cried out in his sleep.

But then the glory of the morning once more—with its

rotund and yellow sun rising over the waters of the lake—

and in a cove across the lake wild ducks paddling about.

And after a time Grant and Stuart and Harley, half-clad and

with guns and a great show of fowling skill, foolishly setting

forth in canoes in the hope of bagging some of the game

with long distance shots, yet getting nothing, to the

merriment of all the others. And the boys and girls, stealing

out in bright-colored bathing suits and silken beach robes to

the water, there to plunge gayly in and shout and clatter

concerning the joy of it all. And breakfast at nine, with

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afterwards the gayety and beauty of the bright flotilla of

canoes making eastward along the southern lake shore,

banjos, guitars and mandolins strumming and voices raised

in song, jest, laughter.

“Whatever matter wissum sweet to-day? Face all dark.

Cantum be happy out here wis Sondra and all these nicey

good-baddies?”

And Clyde as instantly realizing that he must pretend to be

gay and care-free.

And then Harley Baggott and Grant and Harriet at about

noon announcing that there—just ahead—was the fine

beach they had in mind—the Ramshorn, a spit of land

commanding from its highest point all the length and

breadth of the lake. And with room on the shore below for

all the tents and paraphernalia of the company. And then,

throughout this warm, pleasant Sunday afternoon, the usual

program of activities—lunching, swimming, dancing,

walking, card-playing, music. And Clyde and Sondra, like

other couples, stealing off—Sondra with a mandolin—to a

concealed rock far to the east of the camp, where in the

shade of the pines they could lie—Sondra in Clyde’s arms—

and talk of the things they were certain to do later, even

though, as she now announced, Mrs. Finchley was

declaring that after this particular visit of Clyde’s her

daughter was to have nothing more to do with him in any

such intimate social way as this particular trip gave

opportunity for. He was too poor—too nondescript a relative

of the Griffiths. (It was so that Sondra, yet in a more veiled

way, described her mother as talking.) Yet adding: “How

ridiculous, sweetum! But don’t you mind. I just laughed and

agreed because I don’t want to aggravate her just now. But

I did ask her how I was to avoid meeting you here or

anywhere now since you are as popular as you are. My

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sweetum is so good-looking. Everybody thinks so—even

the boys.”

At this very hour, on the veranda of the Silver Inn at

Sharon, District Attorney Mason, with his assistant Burton

Burleigh, Coroner Heit and Earl Newcomb, and the

redoubtable Sheriff Slack, paunched and scowling, yet

genial enough in ordinary social intercourse, together with

three assistants—first, second and third deputies Kraut,

Sissel and Swenk—conferring as to the best and most

certain methods of immediate capture.

“He has gone to Bear Lake. We must follow and trap him

before news reaches him in any way that he is wanted.”

And so they set forth—this group—Burleigh and Earl

Newcomb about Sharon itself in order to gather such

additional data as they might in connection with Clyde’s

arrival and departure from here for the Cranstons’ on

Friday, talking with and subpoenaing any such individuals

as might throw any light on his movements; Heit to Three

Mile Bay on much the same errand, to see Captain Mooney

of the “Cygnus” and the three men and Mason, together

with the sheriff and his deputies, in a high-powered launch

chartered for the occasion, to follow the now known course

of the only recently-departed camping party, first to Little

Fish Inlet and from there, in case the trail proved sound, to

Bear Lake.

And on Monday morning, while those at Ramshorn Point

after breaking camp were already moving on toward Shelter

Beach fourteen miles east, Mason, together with Slack and

his three deputies, arriving at the camp deserted the

morning before. And there, the sheriff and Mason taking

counsel with each other and then dividing their forces so

that in canoes commandeered from lone residents of the

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region they now proceeded, Mason and First Deputy Kraut

along the south shore, Slack and Second Deputy Sissel

along the north shore, while young Swenk, blazing with a

desire to arrest and handcuff some one, yet posing for the

occasion as a lone young hunter or woodsman, paddled

directly east along the center of the lake in search of any

informing smoke or fires or tents or individuals idling along

the shores. And with great dreams of being the one to

capture the murderer—I arrest you, Clyde Griffiths, in the

name of the law!—yet because of instructions from Mason,

as well as Slack, grieving that instead, should he detect any

signs, being the furthermost outpost, he must, in order to

avoid frightening the prey or losing him, turn on his track

and from some point not so likely to be heard by the

criminal fire one single shot from his eight-chambered

repeater, where-upon whichever party chanced to be

nearest would fire one shot in reply and then proceed as

swiftly as possible in his direction. But under no

circumstances was he to attempt to take the criminal alone,

unless noting the departure by boat or on foot of a

suspicious person who answered the description of Clyde.

At this very hour, Clyde, with Harley Baggott, Bertine and

Sondra, in one of the canoes, paddling eastward along with

the remainder of the flotilla, looking back and wondering.

Supposing by now, some officer or some one had arrived at

Sharon and was following him up here? For would it be

hard to find where he had gone, supposing only that they

knew his name?

But they did not know his name. Had not the items in the

papers proved that? Why worry so always, especially on

this utterly wonderful trip and when at last he and Sondra

could be together again? And besides, was it not now

possible for him to wander off by himself into these thinly

populated woods along the shore to the eastward, toward

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that inn at the other end of the lake—and not return? Had

he not inquired most casually on Saturday afternoon of

Harley Baggott as well as others as to whether there was a

road south or east from the east end of the lake? And had

he not learned there was?

And at last, at noon, Monday, reaching Shelter Beach, the

third spot of beauty contemplated by the planners of this

outing, where he helped to pitch the tents again while the

girls played about.

Yet at the same hour, at the Ramshorn site, because of the

ashes from their fires left upon the shore, young Swenk,

most eagerly and enthusiastically, like some seeking

animal, approaching and examining the same and then

going on—swiftly. And but one hour later, Mason and Kraut,

reconnoitering the same spot, but without either devoting

more than a cursory glance, since it was obvious that the

prey had moved farther on.