Witless

WITLESS

by Dennis Vickers

Published by Sunny Waters Books

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright © 2001 Dennis Vickers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE: CHRISTIE ASKS A QUESTION.

JOEL BRITTS AND THE FOUNDING OF BRITTS MILL

HUBERT WILLIAM DARTMOUTH AND THE FOUNDING OF THE BRETHREN OF THE BRIDGE

HUBERT WILLIAM DARTMOUTH II AND THE FOUNDING OF THE CHURCH OF THE BRIDGE

ARTHUR WOODAEPFEL AND THE FOUNDING OF THE BRITTS MILL SCHOOL

JOEL BRITTS’ FUNERAL

THE TAKEOVER

ARTHUR AND ANNA STRIKE AN ALLIANCE

THE CHURCH PLANS A HOLIDAY

ARTHUR AND ANNA LOSE A FRIEND

DR. ALEX O’CONNOR AND THE FOUNDING OF THE WITLESS WARRIORS

ARTHUR AND ANNA ARE DISCOVERED

GEORGE BRITTS AND ARTHUR WOODAEPFEL BUILD A SCHOOL

THE NEW SCHOOL IS COMPARED TO THE OLD

A CHURCH SECRET IS EXPOSED

DESECRATION OF THE FOUNDERS’ CEMETERY

THE WARRIORS FINAL GAME

ARTHUR WOODAEPFEL -- THE FALL.

COMPETITION FOR THE ENTERPRISE, NONE FOR THE WARRIORS

A LETTER ARRIVES FROM ST. LOUIS

SCOOTER MAKES HIS LAST RELAY THROW

JACK HAYES EXPLAINS THE MYSTERIES

DAISY AND BASTION PREPARE FOR WINTER

Prologue: Christie asks a question.

Mr. Arthur! Mr. Arthur! I have a question! Christie Cambridge stretched to raise her hand as high as she could without leaving her seat.

Arthur Woodaepfel sat at his desk in the front of the classroom with his hands folded on the desktop. Christie, Mrs. Langdon has the floor. If you have a question about what she’s been telling the class you must ask her.

Anna stood at the front of the classroom by the blackboard. She smoothed her dress and smiled. Do you have a question about Susan Anthony, Christie?

Christie looked around the classroom. Her classmates, fifteen children ranging from six to sixteen years old, watched her expectantly. It’s not about her. I remembered something while you were talking and I had a question. Christie sat forward in her chair. Her freckled face was bright and eager. She looked quickly from Arthur to Anna and back to Arthur. Her long, tightly woven braid jumped from one side of her back to the other as she turned her head.

If you have a question you should stand and ask it. Stand up straight. Speak clearly so that everyone can hear you. We all want to hear your question.

Christie stood with one hand flat on the top of her desk and the other picking at the bow on the front of her dress. I’m sorry my question isn’t about Susan Anthony, she said. I was listening but then I remembered something my mamma said last night. I forgot about it because it was in the middle of the night and I fell asleep but then I remembered just now. Maybe it’s not important.

Of course it’s important, Anna said. Your questions are always important.

I woke up last night and I heard my mamma and daddy laughing and I listened to hear what they were laughing about but I couldn’t hear because they were whispering but then my mamma said, Ernie,that’s what she calls my daddyErnie, you’re as big as a fence post."

A hush fell over the classroom and then a few of the older girls giggled. One of the boys coughed. Christie shifted her feet and looked around the room anxiously. What did my mamma mean when she said that? she said. My daddy is a lot bigger than a fence post.

I’m sure she meant your daddy is strong and sturdy and vigorous, Anna said. Sometimes people make comparisons to capture what they mean. We’ve talked about that in class. Sometimes the comparisons are very creative and it’s good when they are. It’s a fine way to express oneself. I think your mother was doing that.

When people know each other very well and love each other very much they have secret words and phrases they use to talk to each other. The way they talk to each other may seem strange to other people but that doesn’t matter. Their secret words and phrases aren’t for other people to understand, Arthur said.

It’s like when your mother calls you by a special name. Does your mother have a special name for you? Anna said.

Yes she does. How did you know?

Because I know your mother loves you very much and so it would be natural for her to have a secret name for you. I’ll bet nobody else calls you by that name.

That’s right, Christie said. Only my mamma.

And nobody else knows what it is or what it means?

Only my mamma.

It’s the same with your mother and father, Arthur said. You overheard them talking with their secret words and it sounded strange to you because the words are a secret just for them. It’s like a conspiracy.

Yes, Anna said. It’s like a conspiracy.

Joel Britts and the Founding of Britts Mill

Human spirits are inherently and persistently isolated from each other. Such is our nature and our circumstance. Only a triumph of will and a shower of good fortune can bring human spirits together into conspiracy. When this occurs it is a miracle in the universe, like a soap bubble formed from the diverse elements of air and water. The bubble is a perfect sphere in a world of imperfect, odd, awkward shapes. Immensely powerful in its perfection, it can break light down into its parts. Immensely fragile, it disappears without residue at the slightest disturbance. Like the soap bubble, nothing is more powerful than a conspiracy of human spirits, or more fragile. - Arthur Woodaepfel, Collected Essays, Randall Jacobs, editor (Chicago: Progressive Press, 1910), p. 73.

In the summer of 1846 Joel Britts and his family traveled by ox-drawn wagon to southern Wisconsin. They came from Ohio. Joel was forty years old and his wife, Cecilia, was thirty-eight. Their sons, George and Lee, were nineteen and eighteen respectively. No news of their arrival went back to Ohio. No one there would have been interested in the event, except for the several businessmen to whom Joel owed money or perhaps the father of a rather homely sixteen-year-old girl who had questions for the two boys.

Near the wagon trail that brought them from Illinois to Wisconsin they discovered a large spring joining its water to a cheerful creek winding through the rolling hills toward the river. Water from the spring was delightfully fresh and cold. The temperature, Joel pointed out to the others, established that the water came from deep in the sandstone below. We can count on this spring all winter, he said as he dipped his water bottle into the spring. Water like this lifts the spirit. He drained the bottle in one long drink and performed a fast jig to illustrate the effect. They named the spring Big Spring to distinguish it from the more diminutive water sources scattered among the hills along the creek.

Just north of the spring the land rose quickly to a rounded hilltop. The side of this hill was high enough above the creek to be spared from spring flooding and was sheltered by the hill from winds coming from the north. The slope toward the south enhanced the sun’s warmth. Halfway up the hillside they dug a cellar into the earth and sandstone and built a one-room log cabin over it.

The wagon trail they had followed in the last segment of their journey traversed the top of the hill and then cut down to ford the creek and continue east, the direction from which they had come. In the other direction, a few miles to the west, it forked, with one branch continuing west toward the lead fields and the other turning north toward Fort Winnebago. Twenty years earlier the trail had been a simple footpath preserved from the encroaching woods and grasslands by occasional use from small groups of Indians and a handful of other travelers.

South and west of the creek the land rose quickly to a chain of rounded-top bluffs overlooking the surrounding countryside. One outcropping supported an ancient white pine growing from its top. The tree, soon to be known as Sentinel Pine, was visible for miles on either side of the creek and was a landmark for travelers on the wagon trail.

The spirit of the Great Spring, known to her friends as Daisy, bubbled happily in the bright morning sun of a March morning. The spirit of the oak tree, known to his friends as Bastion, called over to her from his perch on a nearby knoll.

Owl told me all about them. He’s seen what they do in his journey to the south.

Yes, I’ve heard the stories too.

They’re not just stories. They’ve done it again and again, in place after place.

Yes, I know they’re not just stories. Still, perhaps it sounds worse than it is.

They dam up the creeks and the rivers. They dig new creeks where it suits them.

So I’ve heard.

They cut down trees and fashion the bones into the boxes they live in. Sometimes they cut the bones into little pieces and burn them.

Yes, Owl told me that too.

They’ll do the same here when they arrive.

Perhaps not. Perhaps they won’t come this far.

What color is the sky in your world? Bastion shook his bare branches in consternation. That’s a fantasy. They’ll come here as sure as the winter follows the fall.

Don’t be sarcastic. I’m worried too. But there’s no reason to panic. Sometimes they fit in with little disruption at all. Owl told me that too.

I’ve heard that you can’t talk to them.

I’ve heard some of them. Some you can talk to, some you can’t.

None of the other animals are like that. Some of them are stubborn and obstinate, but you can talk to them.

They’re more complicated than the other animals. That makes them interesting.

They scare the sap out of me. I dread the day they come here.

You’ll feel better in a month or two. You’ll have your leaves back then. You’ll feel better.

This has nothing to do with my leaves.

It’s just that you’re so grouchy this time of year. You’re not a spring person.

I don’t bubble along, chirping away like some idiot songbird, if that’s what you mean.

I only meant that things will look better to you in a month or two. You know that as well as I do.

Some things maybe.

Let’s get to know them before we judge. Owl says some of them have a harmony in them, not a harmony of time but a harmony of sound. I’m looking forward to hearing that.

I’m looking forward to having my bones cut up for one of their damned boxes, or burned up in one of their little fires.

Don’t be so pessimistic. They don’t touch most of the trees. Owl told me. A fine young tree like you, you don’t have anything to worry about.

There’s that fantasy again.

Maybe it’s a fantasy. Maybe it isn’t. There’s not much we can do about it, is there? We might as well hope for the best and take what comes.

I’m hoping they’re swept away crossing the river, or frozen solid by the north wind, or what? I don’t know. I wish they wouldn’t come here.

The first fall and winter the Britts focused their attention on necessities. They stacked hay to see the oxen through the winter, cut firewood, sealed the cabin against drafts, and preserved what wild fruits, nuts and berries they could find. When the demands of this work were not immediate they explored the valley. In the course of these explorations they found a large sandstone outcropping two miles to the north along the road. They climbed to the top, enjoyed the view, and then chiseled their initials and the date into the rock, JB, CB, GB, LB1847. The boys lingered behind and contrived to chisel the names of their Ohio sweethearts into the rock next to their own initials. This project took over an hour and ended in a brief fistfight when George discovered that Lee had marked the rock with the name Mary Lou, just as George had done.

Below the outcropping, near the creek, they found a more-or-less permanent but variously occupied Indian camp. Its inhabitants were afraid or indifferent and avoided the newcomers altogether. The Britts likewise regarded the natives with fear or indifference, depending on the circumstances, and kept their distance.

The winter passed quickly, moved along by these activities and the excitement of a new beginning. In the spring their fifth child was born. Cecilia, now thirty-nine years old, hoped this new daughter would be their last child and that she would survive like her brothers to adulthood and not fall to the childhood illnesses and accidents that had claimed her sisters. In honor of the month of her birth they named the new daughter May.

By spring the few provisions they brought with them—salt, flour, beans, salt-pork, and a half case of canned pears—had dwindled to nothing. The pears were the desserts for several family celebrations in the first months at the new home site, including the fall equinox, Christmas, New-Years, the spring equinox, and lastly the birth of May.

After the coldest part of the winter had passed Joel and the two boys began constructing a sawmill immediately above the ford of the creek. The blade, belts, and drive gears for the saw had come with the Britts from Ohio packed carefully in the bottom of the wagon. They built the frame and platform from green timber cut with axes and handsaws. They laid out a dam and spillway and moved in large rocks from a nearby hillside to construct it, but the bulk of the work on the dam waited until the earth thawed and the spring flooding passed. They cut trees in the woods nearby and hauled the logs to the site in anticipation of having the sawmill in operation by the end of June.

When the frost was out of the earth they divided their time between clearing land near the cabin and hauling earth and rock to the dam. On the summer solstice they put the first log through the sawmill. Once the sawmill was in operation, they proceeded quickly to produce a good supply of six-inch beams and one-inch siding boards. They hauled some of the lumber to near the cabin to construct a barn, a project for later in the summer, and some they used for a large building around the sawmill itself and for storage sheds for lumber. Across the side of the sawmill building and facing the wagon trail Joel painted JOEL BRITTS AND SONS and underneath LUMBER. The black pine-tar paint he used dripped down the letters as he painted, giving the sign a teary appearance, but the public posting of their business intention was cause for celebration. The Britts spent the entire afternoon picnicking and fishing near the spring.

Demand for lumber grew as settlers moved into the surrounding countryside. By the middle of the second summer, in 1848, Joel had accumulated enough cash to buy two hundred and twenty acres of land including the cabin and sawmill sites, land to which he had already committed two years of his and his family’s lives. He cleaned out a brass canister formerly used to hold lamp oil and stored the deed in it. Purchase of the land provided the occasion of another celebration, this time conducted in the sawmill building itself and involving a small barrel of stout beer Joel had brought back from Madison. Several neighbors joined the Britts in the party, which began in the afternoon with card playing and lingered into the evening with fiddle music and dancing.

The next morning Joel drew a large map of the two hundred and twenty acres, including five forty-acre sections and one twenty-acre half-section, on the inside of the front wall of the sawmill building. He drew in the creek, the spring, and the road and marked the location of the cabin and sawmill. He drew in small lots near the sawmill, arranged along the road. At even intervals he drew in roads that didn’t exist yet, naming them Liberty, Penn, Washington, and Franklin. High on the wall he drew a crude castle surrounded by a wall and moat. He labeled this Camelot. If you stand on the barrel and peak in the window you can see Guenevere in her bath, he told the boys.

Over the next several years he sold several of the lots along the road and recorded the sales on the same wall under the map. The new lots served to locate a blacksmith shop, a slaughterhouse, a general store and post office, a hotel and saloon, a boot and leather shop, a restaurant and barbershop along with the associated residences.

Farmers moved into the country surrounding the growing new community, and converted it from a wilderness to a patchwork of small farms. Often they were young couples starting out. Farm-able land in the area was inexpensive compared to Illinois, Indiana, or Ohio, and provided an opportunity for young settlers with determination and strength but little cash. Many were the children of farmers farther east who had reached the age to marry but because of older siblings or disagreements with their parents or a variety of other reasons had no prospects of inheriting their parents’ farms.

As the town surrounding the sawmill grew it came to be known as Britts Mill, a place where the farm families nearby could find food they couldn’t produce themselves, craftsmen, and manufactured goods. It was there that they gathered, especially on Saturday afternoons and evenings, to enjoy the company of neighbors.

A town government was established to separate off the town and the area around it as an independent political entity and to provide for local handling of roads and community issues. Annual elections were held for town chairman, two other town supervisors, and a town clerk. The supervisor and clerk positions were held by various publicly-minded citizens over the early years, but the chairmanship was awarded by election again and again to Joel Britts, who was regarded by many to be the father of the community and uniquely suited to direct its evolution.

The population living in and around Britts Mill developed a spirit of community and camaraderie. The culture was distinguished by an intense interest in new settlers, attracting them, greeting them, getting to know them, and helping them. When the local volunteer work force was assembled a cabin could be built in a day, a barn in two. The town exuded a fun-seeking, love-of-life spirit.

Many of the new settlers had left their parents’ homes because of disagreements about their choices of avocations or marriage partners or general behavior. There were difficulties behind them involving all of the conflicts that arise between careful, conservative parents and free-spirited children. This concentration of displaced free spirits in the vicinity of Britts Mill resulted in a community that encouraged eccentric behavior, especially if it was done solely for the purpose of a good time.

Christian Baird stopped his wagon in front of the sawmill, climbed down, and settled the horses. It was early afternoon, a Saturday in late August. The sun shone through the haze like a giant furnace door left open. A gentle, persistent wind moved lazily over the countryside, a hot breath that moved the heavy air along with no apparent purpose. He helped his wife Mary down from the wagon.

The Britts must be inside. I hear the saw, he said, nodding toward the building. The whine from the saw nearly drowned out his words, making the last point obvious. He was a tall, lean man, in denim overalls with a collar-less shirt underneath. His broad shoulders and strong-looking arms, coupled with his slim waist, narrow hips and bandy legs gave him a top-heavy appearance. His hat, a simple smooth dome of felt over a broad flat brim, was well worn and sweat-stained. The brim was pulled down in front over his eyebrows to shade out the sun overhead. He wore a full beard clipped back so that its shape followed the shape of his face closely. His light blue eyes, starkly contrasted against thick dark eyebrows and a deeply tanned dark-bearded face, twinkled in a way that suggested a prank was about to be put underway. His quick smile, skewed slightly to the right side, contributed to the impression.

That or they’re having a cat-swinging contest, Mary said. She smiled at this characterization of the sound from the mill, one of several repeated throughout the town.

I’ll talk with them about lumber for the barn. They should have what we need on hand. We’ll load up the wagon. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two. You going to the store?

To start with anyway. With this heat I’m hoping someone will walk with me up to the spring. Molly maybe, if she’s not busy. Mary smoothed the fabric of her dress down the front. She wore a full length, light-fabric dress, snug fitting above the waist but billowing with ample fabric below. The top few buttons were undone, contrary to the fashion of the day but a reasonable accommodation to the heat. The sleeves were rolled up to above her elbows. Her hair, long, thick and light brown, was pulled back away from her face with a band of fabric tied around it at the back of her head. Her long oval face was set in a partial smile. Her light blue eyes sparkled with humor but behind the sparkle there was a hint of something elsesecrets.

When it cools down later let’s have dinner at the hotel and then maybe join in the dancing. We’ll have a little celebration to mark our buying boards for the barn. Christian examined the wagon wheel as he spoke, poking at its metal rim with his finger.

Can we afford it?

If I get a good price on the boards. Then we’ll have all the more reason to celebrate.

The sun comes up, the roosters crow, the hens lay, and Christian Baird has another celebration. She patted his arm affectionately. I’ll meet you at the hotel later or maybe I’ll run into you along the way before then. She turned and set off in the direction of the general store.

Christian opened the door to the sawmill and went in. He found George and Lee Britts finishing the first cut on a new log. Lee operated the lever that brought power to the saw blade while George levered the log down the track through it. Christian waved to Lee who had noticed his entrance. George’s back was to him and he was occupied with the heavy work of moving the log forward. Christian leaned against the doorsill and waited.

As the log finished its way through the first cut friction on the saw blade decreased and the speed of the blade increased. The whine rose in pitch to a shrill siren. Lee pulled back on the lever. The belts driving the blade relaxed and the noise fell off quickly to a rhythmic thump-thump of the gears underneath the floor driving the flywheel. Lee climbed across the frame and disengaged the water wheel from the rest of the drive mechanism, silencing that noise as well. All that was left was the rhythmic splashing of water over the wheel and the deep grown of its axle.

Christian Baird, Lee called out from his perch by the water wheel, drawing his brother’s attention to the visitor.

My ears are still ringing, Christian called back. I don’t know if it’s from the whine of that saw or the quiet now that you’ve shut it down.

A common reaction, Lee said. You get used to it.

The quiet makes it feel hotter in here too.

Another common reaction. Same thing happens when it’s cold. It feels colder when the saw is shut down. So are you here for some business or just to shake the dust out of your ears? His voice was louder than it needed to be in the now quiet building.

Business, Christian said. I’m ready for the siding boards for the new barn. I’ll need nails too.

Luckily we sell boards here, George said, wiping his face on a towel hung from a support beam near him. In fact, that’s why we trouble ourselves with this damn thing. He kicked the side of the saw’s frame. The sheer pleasure of running it wore off years ago.

How big is that barn? Lee said as he climbed down from the frame. He walked over to stand near Christian.

Twenty feet across, forty deep. The sides are twelve high.

A hundred and twenty feet around, twelve foot boards. We should have that much on hand. You plan to haul it back today?

That’s the plan.

That’s a heavy load for one trip. Your horses won’t want to do it in this heat.

We won’t be going home until later, after it’s cooled down.

You could take part of the load tonight and Lee and I could bring the rest early next week, George said, joining the other two by the door. We could come early and bring a few of the boys with us. We get three or four hammers going and that siding will be up in less time than a rooster spends getting to know a hen.

The help would be welcome. What do you get for the siding boards these days? I’m not a rich man.

These aren’t just boards, now, Lee said. These are the finest pine, lovingly cut from the heart of logs hand-selected by my brother here. Some of his spirit is in every board.

That would explain why his spirit seems a little dim lately. Keep that up, George, and you won’t have enough left to lift Emmy’s skirts when she gets the spark.

There too we could get some of the boys together to help George out. Three or four hammers going and

Twenty-five cents a board foot, George said. One hundred and twenty feet around, twelve foot lengths, you’re looking at three hundred and sixty dollars.

That’s more than I’ve got. I was thinking two hundred.

That’s less than fifteen cents a board foot. We don’t sell scrap for that. We could come down to maybe three hundred if you promise to say nice things about us for the next fifty years or so.

If I took that up no one would believe me anymore. Three hundred is still too much. I could manage two-fifty maybe. But that would leave me without any cider money for the winter.

We can’t to be the cause of that. A man needs extra fuel when the weather turns cold. Look, you’ve got a nice stand of oak on your place along the creek. How about we make up the difference with some logs cut from there this wintersay two hundred and twenty-five dollars and ten logs from your place. We’ll throw in the nails.

That oak grove is where Mary likes to stroll in the evenings in the spring. She won’t be happy if I start selling those trees. Two hundred and twenty dollars and five logs and I’ll help you cut them.

Well, it wouldn’t make much sense for us to be sitting here this winter looking at a pile of boards under a snow drift while just up the road you were looking at the wind blowing through a half-finished barn, now would it? All right, two-twenty, five logs, we throw in the nails, and you buy a jug to pass at the card game tonight.

Done, Christian said, holding out his hand.

But if anyone asks you paid a buck a board foot and we made you run the saw, George said, shaking his hand warmly.

Pull your wagon around to the shed and we’ll load half the order, Lee said. George and I’ll get Willie and maybe Earl and bring the rest out early Tuesday.

Christian paid for the lumber and then moved the wagon. The three men selected boards from the stack in the shed and loaded them. They made six stacks in the wagon, filling it across its width, each stack a little over a foot high. The boards protruded out the open back two feet or so. The wagon settled under the weight. The horses turned their heads and watched the loading over their shoulders uneasily.

It’s too damn hot to be moving lumber around, Christian said as they finished. How about you two call it a day and we’ll sneak down to the other end of the mill pond where the water is good and cold. We’ll bring a jug and have a little dip.

With a little promotion I’ll bet we’d get half the town into the mill pond today, Lee said, mopping his forehead with a red bandanna. That’d be fun.

Might be indiscreet for the kind of dip I’m thinking.

Oh. A dip in the all-togethers. Now we’re talking. We haven’t done that in a long while. You’re right about the indiscretion part, though. We don’t want half the town looking on if you’re thinking we’ll take full benefit of the cool water.

It’s hotter than the hinges in hell, Christian said. A day like this deserves special treatment. No one could blame us for taking a cool dip on a day like today.

Earl was cleaning up the hotel dining room earlier this morning, George said. I’ll bet he’d close shop early and join us for a little nature dip.

The Hudson boys were wandering around earlier too, talking about going fishing. The fish aren’t going to be biting in the middle of the afternoon.

Let’s hope not, especially if the bait is

Okay, here’s the plan. Christian, you and Lee take the wagon up there. You need to get these horses out of the sun anyway. Maybe you can pick up Earl on the way. I’ll hunt down the Hudson boys and join you at the upstream end of the pond. I’ll bring the jug. Let’s keep quiet about this now. I’ll catch hell from Emmy if she hears I dipped my bare ass in the pond with a gallery looking on.

The men proceeded as George had planned. Christian and Lee took the team and wagon past the hotel where they found Earl McIntire sitting in a straight-backed chair on the front stoop. He agreed to join them immediately and climbed into the back of the wagon, sitting on the limber. Then they drove up the rutted trail along the edge of the millpond identified on Joel Britts’ map as Penn Street. They stopped under a willow tree near the head of the pond and walked out onto a floating dock fabricated by the Hudson boys to launch their rowboat. The rowboat sat upside down across the end of the dock. The air over the water was a little cooler but the sun felt even more intense reflected off of the surface. The water, tinted green and brown, was clear enough to see several feet into its depth. Here and there weeds grew up to near the surface but these clusters were the exception and were concentrated near the shore.

Presently they saw George with Carl and Jack Hudson coming up the trail, walking quickly, and laughing as they approached. George carried a jug over his shoulder. Brother George’s hard cider, Lee said. This is beginning to shape up very nicely. Christian, Lee, and Earl stood clustered at the end of the dock, the water lapping at their boots as the dock settled under their weight. So, somebody’s got to go in first.

You volunteering? Christian said.

I think we should vote, Lee said. I vote for Christian. With this he put his hand flat on Christian’s chest as if to record the vote. He pushed hard. Christian tumbled over backwards, his feet slipping on the wet dock and flying up. He hit the water with his back, creating a loud splash. The water parted around him and then surged back to cover him, his boots the last to disappear. His hat floated, crown up, where his head had gone under. In an instant his head reappeared. He sputtered water from his nose. He swam two breaststrokes back to the dock and grabbed on. He wiped his soaked shirtsleeve across his face.

Your vote carries a hell-of-a lot of weight. He laughed. I was thinking of voting for you. With this he lunged up onto the dock, reaching for Lee’s ankle. Lee jumped back, causing Christian to miss, but the movement was too quick for the slippery surface and Lee fell backwards off of the dock, entering the water with a splash much as Christian had just done. His movement shifted the dock in the water and Earl, standing next to the boat at the end, lost his balance. He teetered briefly, trying to reposition his weight over his feet, but finding this impossible he grinned and fell slowly into the water, his body straight as a plank. He tipped his hat to the others as he hit the water.

We were promised a nature swim, George called out from the landed end of the dock. What the hell is this? Three grown men splashing around in the town’s water supplyhats, boots, and all. Where’s your sense of propriety?

We fell in, Christian called back.