But the morning sun can do much for a man. Today was clear, and our
breakfast was excellent, and we faced the prospect of our seven-mile
return hike almost with eagerness.
Since I like to walk alone, I started out ahead of my new friends. Twice
during the first half of the downhill journey I stopped to rest. But
after the second sitting, I never stopped again.
The truth is, I was afraid to stop. That rheumatic knee of mine got
worse and worse. Every downward step plunged it into a kettle of hot
agony. It creaked so loud I couldn’t hear the birds sing. It went back
and forth through sheer force of habit, and I knew that if ever I
interrupted its rhythmic routine to rest, I’d never get it started
again.
So on and on I walked, through an eternity, and it was close to noon
when suddenly the forest-roofed trail broke out into the open, and some
cars were sitting around, and I knew here was the end of the rainbow.
The Great Walker had made it home. He collapsed on a rock.
Now my Cleveland friends should have been no more than five minutes
behind. But time passed. And more time. And they didn’t come. Finally I
got to worrying, and thinking of bears or snakes or broken legs.
At last—three-quarters of an hour behind me—they came, limping and halt.
Mr. Wilson’s toes somehow had got all mixed up with each other, and
wound up a mass of blood inside his boots. And Mr. Liggett discovered he
had some muscles that hadn’t been used since he was marching down roads
in France in 1918. We were, as they say in the South, a “sorry” trio.
It is with a breaking heart that I recount this, for I believe Mr.
Wilson intends to tell some heroic story about it around Cleveland. But
I say this is a democracy, and if my own frail knee must suffer the
cruel scrutiny of the public spotlight, then Mr. Wilson’s torn toes
shall not hide in privacy.