Thus it comes to pass that I go; as I know from the first I shall go,
and Sandford knows that I will go; and, most of all, as Mary knows
that I will go.
In fact, she is packing for me already; not saying a word, but simply
packing; and I--I go out-doors again, sidling into a jog beside the
bow-window, to diminish the din of the wind in my ears, listening
open-mouthed until--
Yes, there it sounds again; faint, but distinct; mellow, sonorous,
vibrant. _Honk!_ _honk!_ _honk!_ and again _honk!_ _honk!_ _honk!_ It
wafts downward from some place, up above where the stars should be and
are not; up above the artificial illumination of the city; up where
there are freedom, and space infinite, and abandon absolute.
With an effort, I force myself back into the house. I take down and
oil my old double-barrel, lovingly, and try the locks to see that all
is in order. I lay out my wrinkled and battered duck suit handy for
the morning, after carefully storing away in an inner pocket, where
they will keep dry, the bundle of postcards Mary brings me--first
exacting a promise to report on one each day, when I know I shall be
five miles from the nearest postoffice, and that I shall bring them
all back unused.
And, last of all, I slip to bed, and to dreams of gigantic honkers
serene in the blue above; of whirring, whistling wings that cut the
air like myriad knife blades; until I wake up with a start at the
rattle of the telephone beside my bed, and I know that, though dark as
a pit of pitch, it is morning, and that Sandford is already astir.