"BABBITT\n\nBy Sinclair Lewis\n\n\nTo Edith Wharton\n\n\n\n\nBABBITT\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nTHE towers of Zenith aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of\nsteel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as\nsilver rods. They were neither citadels nor churches, but frankly and\nbeautifully office-buildings.\n\nThe mist took pity on the fretted structures of earlier generations: the\nPost Office with its shingle-tortured mansard, the red brick minarets\nof hulking old houses, factories with stingy and sooted windows, wooden\ntenements colored like mud. The city was full of such grotesqueries, but\nthe clean towers were thrusting them from the business center, and\non the farther hills were shining new houses, homes--they seemed--for\nlaughter and tranquillity.\n\nOver a concrete bridge fled a limousine of long sleek hood and noiseless\nengine. These people in evening clothes were returning from an all-night\nrehearsal of a Little Theater play, an artistic adventure considerably\nilluminated by champagne. Below the bridge curved a railroad, a maze\nof green and crimson lights. The New York Flyer boomed past, and twenty\nlines of polished steel leaped into the glare.\n\nIn one of the skyscrapers the wires of the Associated Press were closing\ndown. The telegraph operators wearily raised their celluloid eye-shades\nafter a night of talking with Paris and Peking. Through the building\ncrawled the scrubwomen, yawning, their old shoes slapping. The dawn mist\nspun away. Cues of men with lunch-boxes clumped toward the immensity of\nnew factories, sheets of glass and hollow tile, glittering shops where\nfive thousand men worked beneath one roof, pouring out the honest wares\nthat would be sold up the Euphrates and across the veldt. The whistles\nrolled out in greeting a chorus cheerful as the April dawn; the song of\nlabor in a city built--it seemed--for giants.\n\n\nII\n\nThere was nothing of the giant in the aspect of the man who was\nbeginning to awaken on the sleeping-porch of a Dutch Colonial house in\nthat residential district of Zenith known as Floral Heights.\n\nHis name was George F. Babbitt. He was forty-six years old now, in\nApril, 1920, and he made nothing in particular, neither butter nor shoes\nnor poetry, but he was nimble in the calling of selling houses for more\nthan people could afford to pay.\n\nHis large head was pink, his brown hair thin and dry. His face was\nbabyish in slumber, despite his wrinkles and the red spectacle-dents on\nthe slopes of his nose. He was not fat but he was exceedingly well fed;\nhis cheeks were pads, and the unroughened hand which lay helpless upon\nthe khaki-colored blanket was slightly puffy. He seemed prosperous,\nextremely married and unromantic; and altogether unromantic appeared\nthis sleeping-porch, which looked on one sizable elm, two respectable\ngrass-plots, a cement driveway, and a corrugated iron garage. Yet\nBabbitt was again dreaming of the fairy child, a dream more romantic\nthan scarlet pagodas by a silver sea.\n\nFor years the fairy child had come to him. Where others saw but Georgie\nBabbitt, she discerned gallant youth. She waited for him, in the\ndarkness beyond mysterious groves. When at last he could slip away from\nthe crowded house he darted to her. His wife, his clamoring friends,\nsought to follow, but he escaped, the girl fleet beside him, and they\ncrouched together on a shadowy hillside. She was so slim, so white, so\neager! She cried that he was gay and valiant, that she would wait for\nhim, that they would sail--\n\nRumble and bang of the milk-truck.\n\nBabbitt moaned; turned over; struggled back toward his dream. He could\nsee only her face now, beyond misty waters. The furnace-man slammed the\nbasement door. A dog barked in the next yard. As Babbitt sank blissfully\ninto a dim warm tide, the paper-carrier went by whistling, and the\nrolled-up Advocate thumped the front door. Babbitt roused, his stomach\nconstricted with alarm. As he relaxed, he was pierced by the familiar\nand irritating rattle of some one cranking a Ford: snap-ah-ah,\nsnap-ah-ah, snap-ah-ah. Himself a pious motorist, Babbitt cranked with\nthe unseen driver, with him waited through taut hours for the roar of\nthe starting engine, with him agonized as the roar ceased and again\nbegan the infernal patient snap-ah-ah--a round, flat sound, a shivering\ncold-morning sound, a sound infuriating and inescapable. Not till the\nrising voice of the motor told him that the Ford was moving was he\nreleased from the panting tension. He glanced once at his favorite tree,\nelm twigs against the gold patina of sky, and fumbled for sleep as for a\ndrug. He who had been a boy very credulous of life was no longer greatly\ninterested in the possible and improbable adventures of each new day.\n\nHe escaped from reality till the alarm-clock rang, at seven-twenty.\n\n\nIII\n\nIt was the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced\nalarm-clocks, with all modern attachments, including cathedral chime,\nintermittent alarm, and a phosphorescent dial. Babbitt was proud\nof being awakened by such a rich device. Socially it was almost as\ncreditable as buying expensive cord tires.\n\nHe sulkily admitted now that there was no more escape, but he lay and\ndetested the grind of the real-estate business, and disliked his family,\nand disliked himself for disliking them. The evening before, he had\nplayed poker at Vergil Gunch's till midnight, and after such holidays\nhe was irritable before breakfast. It may have been the tremendous\nhome-brewed beer of the prohibition-era and the cigars to which that\nbeer enticed him; it may have been resentment of return from this fine,\nbold man-world to a restricted region of wives and stenographers, and of\nsuggestions not to smoke so much.\n\nFrom the bedroom beside the sleeping-porch, his wife's detestably\ncheerful \"Time to get up, Georgie boy,\" and the itchy sound, the brisk\nand scratchy sound, of combing hairs out of a stiff brush.\n\nHe grunted; he dragged his thick legs, in faded baby-blue pajamas, from\nunder the khaki blanket; he sat on the edge of the cot, running his\nfingers through his wild hair, while his plump feet mechanically felt\nfor his slippers. He looked regretfully at the blanket--forever a\nsuggestion to him of freedom and heroism. He had bought it for a camping\ntrip which had never come off. It symbolized gorgeous loafing, gorgeous\ncursing, virile flannel shirts.\n\nHe creaked to his feet, groaning at the waves of pain which passed\nbehind his eyeballs. Though he waited for their scorching recurrence, he\nlooked blurrily out at the yard. It delighted him, as always; it was\nthe neat yard of a successful business man of Zenith, that is, it was\nperfection, and made him also perfect. He regarded the corrugated\niron garage. For the three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth time in a year he\nreflected, \"No class to that tin shack. Have to build me a frame garage.\nBut by golly it's the only thing on the place that isn't up-to-date!\"\nWhile he stared he thought of a community garage for his acreage\ndevelopment, Glen Oriole. He stopped puffing and jiggling. His arms were\nakimbo. His petulant, sleep-swollen face was set in harder lines. He\nsuddenly seemed capable, an official, a man to contrive, to direct, to\nget things done.\n\nOn the vigor of his idea he was carried down the hard, dean,\nunused-looking hall into the bathroom.\n\nThough the house was not large it had, like all houses on Floral\nHeights, an altogether royal bathroom of porcelain and glazed tile and\nmetal sleek as silver. The towel-rack was a rod of clear glass set in\nnickel. The tub was long enough for a Prussian Guard, and above the\nset bowl was a sensational exhibit of tooth-brush holder, shaving-brush\nholder, soap-dish, sponge-dish, and medicine-cabinet, so glittering and\nso ingenious that they resembled an electrical instrument-board. But the\nBabbitt whose god was Modern Appliances was not pleased. The air of the\nbathroom was thick with the smell of a heathen toothpaste. \"Verona been\nat it again! 'Stead of sticking to Lilidol, like I've re-peat-ed-ly\nasked her, she's gone and gotten some confounded stinkum stuff that\nmakes you sick!\"\n\nThe bath-mat was wrinkled and the floor was wet. (His daughter Verona\neccentrically took baths in the morning, now and then.) He slipped on\nthe mat, and slid against the tub. He said \"Damn!\" Furiously he snatched\nup his tube of shaving-cream, furiously he lathered, with a belligerent\nslapping of the unctuous brush, furiously he raked his plump cheeks\nwith a safety-razor. It pulled. The blade was dull. He said,\n\"Damn--oh--oh--damn it!\"\n\nHe hunted through the medicine-cabinet for a packet of new razor-blades\n(reflecting, as invariably, \"Be cheaper to buy one of these dinguses and\nstrop your own blades,\") and when he discovered the packet, behind the\nround box of bicarbonate of soda, he thought ill of his wife for putting\nit there and very well of himself for not saying \"Damn.\" But he did say\nit, immediately afterward, when with wet and soap-slippery fingers he\ntried to remove the horrible little envelope and crisp clinging oiled\npaper from the new blade. Then there was the problem, oft-pondered,\nnever solved, of what to do with the old blade, which might imperil\nthe fingers of his young. As usual, he tossed it on top of the\nmedicine-cabinet, with a mental note that some day he must remove the\nfifty or sixty other blades that were also temporarily, piled up there.\nHe finished his shaving in a growing testiness increased by his spinning\nheadache and by the emptiness in his stomach. When he was done, his\nround face smooth and streamy and his eyes stinging from soapy water,\nhe reached for a towel. The family towels were wet, wet and clammy and\nvile, all of them wet, he found, as he blindly snatched them--his\nown face-towel, his wife's, Verona's, Ted's, Tinka's, and the lone\nbath-towel with the huge welt of initial. Then George F. Babbitt did\na dismaying thing. He wiped his face on the guest-towel! It was a\npansy-embroidered trifle which always hung there to indicate that the\nBabbitts were in the best Floral Heights society. No one had ever used\nit. No guest had ever dared to. Guests secretively took a corner of the\nnearest regular towel.\n\nHe was raging, \"By golly, here they go and use up all the towels, every\ndoggone one of 'em, and they use 'em and get 'em all wet and sopping,\nand never put out a dry one for me--of course, I'm the goat!--and then\nI want one and--I'm the only person in the doggone house that's got\nthe slightest doggone bit of consideration for other people and\nthoughtfulness and consider there may be others that may want to use the\ndoggone bathroom after me and consider--\"\n\nHe was pitching the chill abominations into the bath-tub, pleased by\nthe vindictiveness of that desolate flapping sound; and in the midst his\nwife serenely trotted in, observed serenely, \"Why Georgie dear, what are\nyou doing? Are you going to wash out the towels? Why, you needn't wash\nout the towels. Oh, Georgie, you didn't go and use the guest-towel, did\nyou?\"\n\nIt is not recorded that he was able to answer.\n\nFor the first time in weeks he was sufficiently roused by his wife to\nlook at her.\n\n\nIV\n\nMyra Babbitt--Mrs. George F. Babbitt--was definitely mature. She had\ncreases from the corners of her mouth to the bottom of her chin, and her\nplump neck bagged. But the thing that marked her as having passed the\nline was that she no longer had reticences before her husband, and no\nlonger worried about not having reticences. She was in a petticoat now,\nand corsets which bulged, and unaware of being seen in bulgy corsets.\nShe had become so dully habituated to married life that in her full\nmatronliness she was as sexless as an anemic nun. She was a good woman,\na kind woman, a diligent woman, but no one, save perhaps Tinka her\nten-year-old, was at all interested in her or entirely aware that she\nwas alive.\n\nAfter a rather thorough discussion of all the domestic and social\naspects of towels she apologized to Babbitt for his having an alcoholic\nheadache; and he recovered enough to endure the search for a B.V.D.\nundershirt which had, he pointed out, malevolently been concealed among\nhis clean pajamas.\n\nHe was fairly amiable in the conference on the brown suit.\n\n\"What do you think, Myra?\" He pawed at the clothes hunched on a chair in\ntheir bedroom, while she moved about mysteriously adjusting and patting\nher petticoat and, to his jaundiced eye, never seeming to get on with\nher dressing. \"How about it? Shall I wear the brown suit another day?\"\n\n\"Well, it looks awfully nice on you.\"\n\n\"I know, but gosh, it needs pressing.\"\n\n\"That's so. Perhaps it does.\"\n\n\"It certainly could stand being pressed, all right.\"\n\n\"Yes, perhaps it wouldn't hurt it to be pressed.\"\n\n\"But gee, the coat doesn't need pressing. No sense in having the whole\ndarn suit pressed, when the coat doesn't need it.\"\n\n\"That's so.\"\n\n\"But the pants certainly need it, all right. Look at them--look at those\nwrinkles--the pants certainly do need pressing.\"\n\n\"That's so. Oh, Georgie, why couldn't you wear the brown coat with the\nblue trousers we were wondering what we'd do with them?\"\n\n\"Good Lord! Did you ever in all my life know me to wear the coat of\none suit and the pants of another? What do you think I am? A busted\nbookkeeper?\"\n\n\"Well, why don't you put on the dark gray suit to-day, and stop in at\nthe tailor and leave the brown trousers?\"\n\n\"Well, they certainly need--Now where the devil is that gray suit? Oh,\nyes, here we are.\"\n\nHe was able to get through the other crises of dressing with comparative\nresoluteness and calm.\n\nHis first adornment was the sleeveless dimity B.V.D. undershirt, in\nwhich he resembled a small boy humorlessly wearing a cheesecloth tabard\nat a civic pageant. He never put on B.V.D.'s without thanking the God of\nProgress that he didn't wear tight, long, old-fashioned undergarments,\nlike his father-in-law and partner, Henry Thompson. His second\nembellishment was combing and slicking back his hair. It gave him a\ntremendous forehead, arching up two inches beyond the former hair-line.\nBut most wonder-working of all was the donning of his spectacles.\n\nThere is character in spectacles--the pretentious tortoiseshell, the\nmeek pince-nez of the school teacher, the twisted silver-framed glasses\nof the old villager. Babbitt's spectacles had huge, circular, frameless\nlenses of the very best glass; the ear-pieces were thin bars of gold. In\nthem he was the modern business man; one who gave orders to clerks and\ndrove a car and played occasional golf and was scholarly in regard to\nSalesmanship. His head suddenly appeared not babyish but weighty, and\nyou noted his heavy, blunt nose, his straight mouth and thick, long\nupper lip, his chin overfleshy but strong; with respect you beheld him\nput on the rest of his uniform as a Solid Citizen.\n\nThe gray suit was well cut, well made, and completely undistinguished.\nIt was a standard suit. White piping on the V of the vest added a flavor\nof law and learning. His shoes were black laced boots, good boots,\nhonest boots, standard boots, extraordinarily uninteresting boots.\nThe only frivolity was in his purple knitted scarf. With considerable\ncomment on the matter to Mrs. Babbitt (who, acrobatically fastening the\nback of her blouse to her skirt with a safety-pin, did not hear a word\nhe said), he chose between the purple scarf and a tapestry effect\nwith stringless brown harps among blown palms, and into it he thrust a\nsnake-head pin with opal eyes.\n\nA sensational event was changing from the brown suit to the gray the\ncontents of his pockets. He was earnest about these objects. They were\nof eternal importance, like baseball or the Republican Party. They\nincluded a fountain pen and a silver pencil (always lacking a supply of\nnew leads) which belonged in the righthand upper vest pocket. Without\nthem he would have felt naked. On his watch-chain were a gold penknife,\nsilver cigar-cutter, seven keys (the use of two of which he had\nforgotten), and incidentally a good watch. Depending from the chain was\na large, yellowish elk's-tooth-proclamation of his membership in the\nBrotherly and Protective Order of Elks. Most significant of all was his\nloose-leaf pocket note-book, that modern and efficient note-book\nwhich contained the addresses of people whom he had forgotten, prudent\nmemoranda of postal money-orders which had reached their destinations\nmonths ago, stamps which had lost their mucilage, clippings of verses by\nT. Cholmondeley Frink and of the newspaper editorials from which Babbitt\ngot his opinions and his polysyllables, notes to be sure and do things\nwhich he did not intend to do, and one curious inscription--D.S.S.\nD.M.Y.P.D.F.\n\nBut he had no cigarette-case. No one had ever happened to give him\none, so he hadn't the habit, and people who carried cigarette-cases he\nregarded as effeminate.\n\nLast, he stuck in his lapel the Boosters' Club button. With the\nconciseness of great art the button displayed two words: \"Boosters-Pep!\"\nIt made Babbitt feel loyal and important. It associated him with Good\nFellows, with men who were nice and human, and important in business\ncircles. It was his V.C., his Legion of Honor ribbon, his Phi Beta Kappa\nkey.\n\nWith the subtleties of dressing ran other complex worries. \"I feel kind\nof punk this morning,\" he said. \"I think I had too much dinner last\nevening. You oughtn't to serve those heavy banana fritters.\"\n\n\"But you asked me to have some.\"\n\n\"I know, but--I tell you, when a fellow gets past forty he has to look\nafter his digestion. There's a lot of fellows that don't take proper\ncare of themselves. I tell you at forty a man's a fool or his doctor--I\nmean, his own doctor. Folks don't give enough attention to this matter\nof dieting. Now I think--Course a man ought to have a good meal after\nthe day's work, but it would be a good thing for both of us if we took\nlighter lunches.\"\n\n\"But Georgie, here at home I always do have a light lunch.\"\n\n\"Mean to imply I make a hog of myself, eating down-town? Yes, sure!\nYou'd have a swell time if you had to eat the truck that new steward\nhands out to us at the Athletic Club! But I certainly do feel out of\nsorts, this morning. Funny, got a pain down here on the left side--but\nno, that wouldn't be appendicitis, would it? Last night, when I was\ndriving over to Verg Gunch's, I felt a pain in my stomach, too. Right\nhere it was--kind of a sharp shooting pain. I--Where'd that dime go to?\nWhy don't you serve more prunes at breakfast? Of course I eat an apple\nevery evening--an apple a day keeps the doctor away--but still, you\nought to have more prunes, and not all these fancy doodads.\"\n\n\"The last time I had prunes you didn't eat them.\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't feel like eating 'em, I suppose. Matter of fact, I think\nI did eat some of 'em. Anyway--I tell you it's mighty important to--I\nwas saying to Verg Gunch, just last evening, most people don't take\nsufficient care of their diges--\"\n\n\"Shall we have the Gunches for our dinner, next week?\"\n\n\"Why sure; you bet.\"\n\n\"Now see here, George: I want you to put on your nice dinner-jacket that\nevening.\"\n\n\"Rats! The rest of 'em won't want to dress.\"\n\n\"Of course they will. You remember when you didn't dress for the\nLittlefields' supper-party, and all the rest did, and how embarrassed\nyou were.\"\n\n\"Embarrassed, hell! I wasn't embarrassed. Everybody knows I can put\non as expensive a Tux. as anybody else, and I should worry if I don't\nhappen to have it on sometimes. All a darn nuisance, anyway. All right\nfor a woman, that stays around the house all the time, but when a\nfellow's worked like the dickens all day, he doesn't want to go and\nhustle his head off getting into the soup-and-fish for a lot of folks\nthat he's seen in just reg'lar ordinary clothes that same day.\"\n\n\"You know you enjoy being seen in one. The other evening you admitted\nyou were glad I'd insisted on your dressing. You said you felt a lot\nbetter for it. And oh, Georgie, I do wish you wouldn't say 'Tux.' It's\n'dinner-jacket.'\"\n\n\"Rats, what's the odds?\"\n\n\"Well, it's what all the nice folks say. Suppose Lucile McKelvey heard\nyou calling it a 'Tux.'\"\n\n\"Well, that's all right now! Lucile McKelvey can't pull anything on\nme! Her folks are common as mud, even if her husband and her dad are\nmillionaires! I suppose you're trying to rub in your exalted social\nposition! Well, let me tell you that your revered paternal ancestor,\nHenry T., doesn't even call it a 'Tux.'! He calls it a 'bobtail jacket\nfor a ringtail monkey,' and you couldn't get him into one unless you\nchloroformed him!\"\n\n\"Now don't be horrid, George.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't want to be horrid, but Lord! you're getting as fussy as\nVerona. Ever since she got out of college she's been too rambunctious\nto live with--doesn't know what she wants--well, I know what she\nwants!--all she wants is to marry a millionaire, and live in Europe,\nand hold some preacher's hand, and simultaneously at the same time stay\nright here in Zenith and be some blooming kind of a socialist agitator\nor boss charity-worker or some damn thing! Lord, and Ted is just as bad!\nHe wants to go to college, and he doesn't want to go to college.\nOnly one of the three that knows her own mind is Tinka. Simply can't\nunderstand how I ever came to have a pair of shillyshallying children\nlike Rone and Ted. I may not be any Rockefeller or James J. Shakespeare,\nbut I certainly do know my own mind, and I do keep right on plugging\nalong in the office and--Do you know the latest? Far as I can figure\nout, Ted's new bee is he'd like to be a movie actor and--And here I've\ntold him a hundred times, if he'll go to college and law-school and\nmake good, I'll set him up in business and--Verona just exactly as bad.\nDoesn't know what she wants. Well, well, come on! Aren't you ready yet?\nThe girl rang the bell three minutes ago.\"\n\n\nV\n\nBefore he followed his wife, Babbitt stood at the westernmost window of\ntheir room. This residential settlement, Floral Heights, was on a rise;\nand though the center of the city was three miles away--Zenith had\nbetween three and four hundred thousand inhabitants now--he could see\nthe top of the Second National Tower, an Indiana limestone building of\nthirty-five stories.\n\nIts shining walls rose against April sky to a simple cornice like a\nstreak of white fire. Integrity was in the tower, and decision. It\nbore its strength lightly as a tall soldier. As Babbitt stared,\nthe nervousness was soothed from his face, his slack chin lifted in\nreverence. All he articulated was \"That's one lovely sight!\" but he was\ninspired by the rhythm of the city; his love of it renewed. He beheld\nthe tower as a temple-spire of the religion of business, a faith\npassionate, exalted, surpassing common men; and as he clumped down to\nbreakfast he whistled the ballad \"Oh, by gee, by gosh, by jingo\" as\nthough it were a hymn melancholy and noble.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nRELIEVED of Babbitt's bumbling and the soft grunts with which his wife\nexpressed the sympathy she was too experienced to feel and much\ntoo experienced not to show, their bedroom settled instantly into\nimpersonality.\n\nIt gave on the sleeping-porch. It served both of them as dressing-room,\nand on the coldest nights Babbitt luxuriously gave up the duty of being\nmanly and retreated to the bed inside, to curl his toes in the warmth\nand laugh at the January gale.\n\nThe room displayed a modest and pleasant color-scheme, after one of the\nbest standard designs of the decorator who \"did the interiors\" for most\nof the speculative-builders' houses in Zenith. The walls were gray, the\nwoodwork white, the rug a serene blue; and very much like mahogany was\nthe furniture--the bureau with its great clear mirror, Mrs. Babbitt's\ndressing-table with toilet-articles of almost solid silver, the plain\ntwin beds, between them a small table holding a standard electric\nbedside lamp, a glass for water, and a standard bedside book\nwith colored illustrations--what particular book it was cannot be\nascertained, since no one had ever opened it. The mattresses were firm\nbut not hard, triumphant modern mattresses which had cost a great deal\nof money; the hot-water radiator was of exactly the proper scientific\nsurface for the cubic contents of the room. The windows were large\nand easily opened, with the best catches and cords, and Holland\nroller-shades guaranteed not to crack. It was a masterpiece among\nbedrooms, right out of Cheerful Modern Houses for Medium Incomes. Only\nit had nothing to do with the Babbitts, nor with any one else. If people\nhad ever lived and loved here, read thrillers at midnight and lain in\nbeautiful indolence on a Sunday morning, there were no signs of it. It\nhad the air of being a very good room in a very good hotel. One expected\nthe chambermaid to come in and make it ready for people who would stay\nbut one night, go without looking back, and never think of it again.\n\nEvery second house in Floral Heights had a bedroom precisely like this.\n\nThe Babbitts' house was five years old. It was all as competent\nand glossy as this bedroom. It had the best of taste, the best of\ninexpensive rugs, a simple and laudable architecture, and the latest\nconveniences. Throughout, electricity took the place of candles and\nslatternly hearth-fires. Along the bedroom baseboard were three plugs\nfor electric lamps, concealed by little brass doors. In the halls were\nplugs for the vacuum cleaner, and in the living-room plugs for the piano\nlamp, for the electric fan. The trim dining-room (with its admirable oak\nbuffet, its leaded-glass cupboard, its creamy plaster walls, its modest\nscene of a salmon expiring upon a pile of oysters) had plugs which\nsupplied the electric percolator and the electric toaster.\n\nIn fact there was but one thing wrong with the Babbitt house: It was not\na home.\n\n\nII\n\nOften of a morning Babbitt came bouncing and jesting in to breakfast.\nBut things were mysteriously awry to-day. As he pontifically tread the\nupper hall he looked into Verona's bedroom and protested, \"What's the\nuse of giving the family a high-class house when they don't appreciate\nit and tend to business and get down to brass tacks?\"\n\nHe marched upon them: Verona, a dumpy brown-haired girl of twenty-two,\njust out of Bryn Mawr, given to solicitudes about duty and sex and\nGod and the unconquerable bagginess of the gray sports-suit she was now\nwearing. Ted--Theodore Roosevelt Babbitt--a decorative boy of seventeen.\nTinka--Katherine--still a baby at ten, with radiant red hair and a\nthin skin which hinted of too much candy and too many ice cream sodas.\nBabbitt did not show his vague irritation as he tramped in. He really\ndisliked being a family tyrant, and his nagging was as meaningless as it\nwas frequent. He shouted at Tinka, \"Well, kittiedoolie!\" It was the only\npet name in his vocabulary, except the \"dear\" and \"hon.\" with which he\nrecognized his wife, and he flung it at Tinka every morning.\n\nHe gulped a cup of coffee in the hope of pacifying his stomach and his\nsoul. His stomach ceased to feel as though it did not belong to him,\nbut Verona began to be conscientious and annoying, and abruptly there\nreturned to Babbitt the doubts regarding life and families and business\nwhich had clawed at him when his dream-life and the slim fairy girl had\nfled.\n\nVerona had for six months been filing-clerk at the Gruensberg Leather\nCompany offices, with a prospect of becoming secretary to Mr. Gruensberg\nand thus, as Babbitt defined it, \"getting some good out of your\nexpensive college education till you're ready to marry and settle down.\"\n\nBut now said Verona: \"Father! I was talking to a classmate of mine\nthat's working for the Associated Charities--oh, Dad, there's the\nsweetest little babies that come to the milk-station there!--and I feel\nas though I ought to be doing something worth while like that.\"\n\n\"What do you mean 'worth while'? If you get to be Gruensberg's\nsecretary--and maybe you would, if you kept up your shorthand and didn't\ngo sneaking off to concerts and talkfests every evening--I guess you'll\nfind thirty-five or forty bones a week worth while!\"\n\n\"I know, but--oh, I want to--contribute--I wish I were working in a\nsettlement-house. I wonder if I could get one of the department-stores\nto let me put in a welfare-department with a nice rest-room and chintzes\nand wicker chairs and so on and so forth. Or I could--\"\n\n\"Now you look here! The first thing you got to understand is that all\nthis uplift and flipflop and settlement-work and recreation is nothing\nin God's world but the entering wedge for socialism. The sooner a man\nlearns he isn't going to be coddled, and he needn't expect a lot of free\ngrub and, uh, all these free classes and flipflop and doodads for his\nkids unless he earns 'em, why, the sooner he'll get on the job and\nproduce--produce--produce! That's what the country needs, and not all\nthis fancy stuff that just enfeebles the will-power of the working man\nand gives his kids a lot of notions above their class. And you--if you'd\ntend to business instead of fooling and fussing--All the time! When I\nwas a young man I made up my mind what I wanted to do, and stuck to it\nthrough thick and thin, and that's why I'm where I am to-day, and--Myra!\nWhat do you let the girl chop the toast up into these dinky little\nchunks for? Can't get your fist onto 'em. Half cold, anyway!\"\n\nTed Babbitt, junior in the great East Side High School, had been making\nhiccup-like sounds of interruption. He blurted now, \"Say, Rone, you\ngoing to--\"\n\nVerona whirled. \"Ted! Will you kindly not interrupt us when we're\ntalking about serious matters!\"\n\n\"Aw punk,\" said Ted judicially. \"Ever since somebody slipped up and let\nyou out of college, Ammonia, you been pulling these nut conversations\nabout what-nots and so-on-and-so-forths. Are you going to--I want to use\nthe car tonight.\"\n\nBabbitt snorted, \"Oh, you do! May want it myself!\" Verona protested,\n\"Oh, you do, Mr. Smarty! I'm going to take it myself!\" Tinka wailed,\n\"Oh, papa, you said maybe you'd drive us down to Rosedale!\" and Mrs.\nBabbitt, \"Careful, Tinka, your sleeve is in the butter.\" They glared,\nand Verona hurled, \"Ted, you're a perfect pig about the car!\"\n\n\"Course you're not! Not a-tall!\" Ted could be maddeningly bland. \"You\njust want to grab it off, right after dinner, and leave it in front of\nsome skirt's house all evening while you sit and gas about lite'ature\nand the highbrows you're going to marry--if they only propose!\"\n\n\"Well, Dad oughtn't to EVER let you have it! You and those beastly Jones\nboys drive like maniacs. The idea of your taking the turn on Chautauqua\nPlace at forty miles an hour!\"\n\n\"Aw, where do you get that stuff! You're so darn scared of the car that\nyou drive up-hill with the emergency brake on!\"\n\n\"I do not! And you--Always talking about how much you know about motors,\nand Eunice Littlefield told me you said the battery fed the generator!\"\n\n\"You--why, my good woman, you don't know a generator from a\ndifferential.\" Not unreasonably was Ted lofty with her. He was a natural\nmechanic, a maker and tinkerer of machines; he lisped in blueprints for\nthe blueprints came.\n\n\"That'll do now!\" Babbitt flung in mechanically, as he lighted the\ngloriously satisfying first cigar of the day and tasted the exhilarating\ndrug of the Advocate-Times headlines.\n\nTed negotiated: \"Gee, honest, Rone, I don't want to take the old boat,\nbut I promised couple o' girls in my class I'd drive 'em down to\nthe rehearsal of the school chorus, and, gee, I don't want to, but a\ngentleman's got to keep his social engagements.\"\n\n\"Well, upon my word! You and your social engagements! In high school!\"\n\n\"Oh, ain't we select since we went to that hen college! Let me tell you\nthere isn't a private school in the state that's got as swell a bunch as\nwe got in Gamma Digamma this year. There's two fellows that their dads\nare millionaires. Say, gee, I ought to have a car of my own, like lots\nof the fellows.\" Babbitt almost rose. \"A car of your own! Don't you want\na yacht, and a house and lot? That pretty nearly takes the cake! A boy\nthat can't pass his Latin examinations, like any other boy ought to, and\nhe expects me to give him a motor-car, and I suppose a chauffeur, and an\nareoplane maybe, as a reward for the hard work he puts in going to the\nmovies with Eunice Littlefield! Well, when you see me giving you--\"\n\nSomewhat later, after diplomacies, Ted persuaded Verona to admit that\nshe was merely going to the Armory, that evening, to see the dog and\ncat show. She was then, Ted planned, to park the car in front of the\ncandy-store across from the Armory and he would pick it up. There were\nmasterly arrangements regarding leaving the key, and having the gasoline\ntank filled; and passionately, devotees of the Great God Motor, they\nhymned the patch on the spare inner-tube, and the lost jack-handle.\n\n\nTheir truce dissolving, Ted observed that her friends were \"a scream of\na bunch-stuck-up gabby four-flushers.\" His friends, she indicated,\nwere \"disgusting imitation sports, and horrid little shrieking ignorant\ngirls.\" Further: \"It's disgusting of you to smoke cigarettes, and so on\nand so forth, and those clothes you've got on this morning, they're too\nutterly ridiculous--honestly, simply disgusting.\"\n\nTed balanced over to the low beveled mirror in the buffet, regarded his\ncharms, and smirked. His suit, the latest thing in Old Eli Togs, was\nskin-tight, with skimpy trousers to the tops of his glaring tan boots, a\nchorus-man waistline, pattern of an agitated check, and across the back\na belt which belted nothing. His scarf was an enormous black silk wad.\nHis flaxen hair was ice-smooth, pasted back without parting. When he\nwent to school he would add a cap with a long vizor like a shovel-blade.\nProudest of all was his waistcoat, saved for, begged for, plotted for;\na real Fancy Vest of fawn with polka dots of a decayed red, the points\nastoundingly long. On the lower edge of it he wore a high-school button,\na class button, and a fraternity pin.\n\nAnd none of it mattered. He was supple and swift and flushed; his eyes\n(which he believed to be cynical) were candidly eager. But he was not\nover-gentle. He waved his hand at poor dumpy Verona and drawled: \"Yes, I\nguess we're pretty ridiculous and disgusticulus, and I rather guess our\nnew necktie is some smear!\"\n\nBabbitt barked: \"It is! And while you're admiring yourself, let me tell\nyou it might add to your manly beauty if you wiped some of that egg off\nyour mouth!\"\n\nVerona giggled, momentary victor in the greatest of Great Wars, which\nis the family war. Ted looked at her hopelessly, then shrieked at Tinka:\n\"For the love o' Pete, quit pouring the whole sugar bowl on your corn\nflakes!\"\n\nWhen Verona and Ted were gone and Tinka upstairs, Babbitt groaned to his\nwife: \"Nice family, I must say! I don't pretend to be any baa-lamb, and\nmaybe I'm a little cross-grained at breakfast sometimes, but the way\nthey go on jab-jab-jabbering, I simply can't stand it. I swear, I feel\nlike going off some place where I can get a little peace. I do think\nafter a man's spent his lifetime trying to give his kids a chance and\na decent education, it's pretty discouraging to hear them all the time\nscrapping like a bunch of hyenas and never--and never--Curious; here\nin the paper it says--Never silent for one mom--Seen the morning paper\nyet?\"\n\n\"No, dear.\" In twenty-three years of married life, Mrs. Babbitt had seen\nthe paper before her husband just sixty-seven times.\n\n\"Lots of news. Terrible big tornado in the South. Hard luck, all right.\nBut this, say, this is corking! Beginning of the end for those fellows!\nNew York Assembly has passed some bills that ought to completely outlaw\nthe socialists! And there's an elevator-runners' strike in New York and\na lot of college boys are taking their places. That's the stuff! And\na mass-meeting in Birmingham's demanded that this Mick agitator, this\nfellow De Valera, be deported. Dead right, by golly! All these agitators\npaid with German gold anyway. And we got no business interfering with\nthe Irish or any other foreign government. Keep our hands strictly off.\nAnd there's another well-authenticated rumor from Russia that Lenin is\ndead. That's fine. It's beyond me why we don't just step in there and\nkick those Bolshevik cusses out.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" said Mrs. Babbitt.\n\n\"And it says here a fellow was inaugurated mayor in overalls--a\npreacher, too! What do you think of that!\"\n\n\"Humph! Well!\"\n\nHe searched for an attitude, but neither as a Republican, a\nPresbyterian, an Elk, nor a real-estate broker did he have any doctrine\nabout preacher-mayors laid down for him, so he grunted and went on. She\nlooked sympathetic and did not hear a word. Later she would read the\nheadlines, the society columns, and the department-store advertisements.\n\n\"What do you know about this! Charley McKelvey still doing the sassiety\nstunt as heavy as ever. Here's what that gushy woman reporter says about\nlast night:\"\n\n\nNever is Society with the big, big S more flattered than when they are\nbidden to partake of good cheer at the distinguished and hospitable\nresidence of Mr. and Mrs. Charles L. McKelvey as they were last night.\nSet in its spacious lawns and landscaping, one of the notable sights\ncrowning Royal Ridge, but merry and homelike despite its mighty stone\nwalls and its vast rooms famed for their decoration, their home was\nthrown open last night for a dance in honor of Mrs. McKelvey's notable\nguest, Miss J. Sneeth of Washington. The wide hall is so generous in\nits proportions that it made a perfect ballroom, its hardwood floor\nreflecting the charming pageant above its polished surface. Even\nthe delights of dancing paled before the alluring opportunities for\ntete-a-tetes that invited the soul to loaf in the long library before\nthe baronial fireplace, or in the drawing-room with its deep comfy\narmchairs, its shaded lamps just made for a sly whisper of pretty\nnothings all a deux; or even in the billiard room where one could take\na cue and show a prowess at still another game than that sponsored by\nCupid and Terpsichore.\n\n\nThere was more, a great deal more, in the best urban journalistic\nstyle of Miss Elnora Pearl Bates, the popular society editor of the\nAdvocate-Times. But Babbitt could not abide it. He grunted. He wrinkled\nthe newspaper. He protested: \"Can you beat it! I'm willing to hand a lot\nof credit to Charley McKelvey. When we were in college together, he was\njust as hard up as any of us, and he's made a million good bucks out\nof contracting and hasn't been any dishonester or bought any more city\ncouncils than was necessary. And that's a good house of his--though it\nain't any 'mighty stone walls' and it ain't worth the ninety thousand\nit cost him. But when it comes to talking as though Charley McKelvey\nand all that booze-hoisting set of his are any blooming bunch of of, of\nVanderbilts, why, it makes me tired!\"\n\nTimidly from Mrs. Babbitt: \"I would like to see the inside of their\nhouse though. It must be lovely. I've never been inside.\"\n\n\"Well, I have! Lots of--couple of times. To see Chaz about business\ndeals, in the evening. It's not so much. I wouldn't WANT to go there to\ndinner with that gang of, of high-binders. And I'll bet I make a whole\nlot more money than some of those tin-horns that spend all they got on\ndress-suits and haven't got a decent suit of underwear to their name!\nHey! What do you think of this!\"\n\nMrs. Babbitt was strangely unmoved by the tidings from the Real Estate\nand Building column of the Advocate-Times:\n\n     Ashtabula Street, 496--J. K. Dawson to\n     Thomas Mullally, April 17, 15.7 X 112.2,\n     mtg. $4000 . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nom\n\nAnd this morning Babbitt was too disquieted to entertain her with items\nfrom Mechanics' Liens, Mortgages Recorded, and Contracts Awarded. He\nrose. As he looked at her his eyebrows seemed shaggier than usual.\nSuddenly:\n\n\"Yes, maybe--Kind of shame to not keep in touch with folks like the\nMcKelveys. We might try inviting them to dinner, some evening. Oh,\nthunder, let's not waste our good time thinking about 'em! Our little\nbunch has a lot liver times than all those plutes. Just compare a real\nhuman like you with these neurotic birds like Lucile McKelvey--all\nhighbrow talk and dressed up like a plush horse! You're a great old\ngirl, hon.!\"\n\nHe covered his betrayal of softness with a complaining: \"Say, don't let\nTinka go and eat any more of that poison nutfudge. For Heaven's sake,\ntry to keep her from ruining her digestion. I tell you, most folks don't\nappreciate how important it is to have a good digestion and regular\nhabits. Be back 'bout usual time, I guess.\"\n\nHe kissed her--he didn't quite kiss her--he laid unmoving lips against\nher unflushing cheek. He hurried out to the garage, muttering: \"Lord,\nwhat a family! And now Myra is going to get pathetic on me because we\ndon't train with this millionaire outfit. Oh, Lord, sometimes I'd like\nto quit the whole game. And the office worry and detail just as bad. And\nI act cranky and--I don't mean to, but I get--So darn tired!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTo George F. Babbitt, as to most prosperous citizens of Zenith, his\nmotor car was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism. The office was his\npirate ship but the car his perilous excursion ashore.\n\nAmong the tremendous crises of each day none was more dramatic than\nstarting the engine. It was slow on cold mornings; there was the long,\nanxious whirr of the starter; and sometimes he had to drip ether into\nthe cocks of the cylinders, which was so very interesting that at lunch\nhe would chronicle it drop by drop, and orally calculate how much each\ndrop had cost him.\n\nThis morning he was darkly prepared to find something wrong, and he felt\nbelittled when the mixture exploded sweet and strong, and the car didn't\neven brush the door-jamb, gouged and splintery with many bruisings by\nfenders, as he backed out of the garage. He was confused. He shouted\n\"Morning!\" to Sam Doppelbrau with more cordiality than he had intended.\n\nBabbitt's green and white Dutch Colonial house was one of three in that\nblock on Chatham Road. To the left of it was the residence of Mr. Samuel\nDoppelbrau, secretary of an excellent firm of bathroom-fixture jobbers.\nHis was a comfortable house with no architectural manners whatever; a\nlarge wooden box with a squat tower, a broad porch, and glossy paint\nyellow as a yolk. Babbitt disapproved of Mr. and Mrs. Doppelbrau as\n\"Bohemian.\" From their house came midnight music and obscene laughter;\nthere were neighborhood rumors of bootlegged whisky and fast motor\nrides. They furnished Babbitt with many happy evenings of discussion,\nduring which he announced firmly, \"I'm not strait-laced, and I don't\nmind seeing a fellow throw in a drink once in a while, but when it comes\nto deliberately trying to get away with a lot of hell-raising all the\nwhile like the Doppelbraus do, it's too rich for my blood!\"\n\nOn the other side of Babbitt lived Howard Littlefield, Ph.D., in a\nstrictly modern house whereof the lower part was dark red tapestry\nbrick, with a leaded oriel, the upper part of pale stucco like spattered\nclay, and the roof red-tiled. Littlefield was the Great Scholar of the\nneighborhood; the authority on everything in the world except babies,\ncooking, and motors. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Blodgett College,\nand a Doctor of Philosophy in economics of Yale. He was the\nemployment-manager and publicity-counsel of the Zenith Street Traction\nCompany. He could, on ten hours' notice, appear before the board of\naldermen or the state legislature and prove, absolutely, with figures\nall in rows and with precedents from Poland and New Zealand, that the\nstreet-car company loved the Public and yearned over its employees;\nthat all its stock was owned by Widows and Orphans; and that whatever it\ndesired to do would benefit property-owners by increasing rental values,\nand help the poor by lowering rents. All his acquaintances turned\nto Littlefield when they desired to know the date of the battle of\nSaragossa, the definition of the word \"sabotage,\" the future of the\nGerman mark, the translation of \"hinc illae lachrimae,\" or the number of\nproducts of coal tar. He awed Babbitt by confessing that he often sat up\ntill midnight reading the figures and footnotes in Government reports,\nor skimming (with amusement at the author's mistakes) the latest volumes\nof chemistry, archeology, and ichthyology.\n\nBut Littlefield's great value was as a spiritual example. Despite\nhis strange learnings he was as strict a Presbyterian and as firm a\nRepublican as George F. Babbitt. He confirmed the business men in the\nfaith. Where they knew only by passionate instinct that their system of\nindustry and manners was perfect, Dr. Howard Littlefield proved it\nto them, out of history, economics, and the confessions of reformed\nradicals.\n\nBabbitt had a good deal of honest pride in being the neighbor of such a\nsavant, and in Ted's intimacy with Eunice Littlefield. At sixteen\nEunice was interested in no statistics save those regarding the ages\nand salaries of motion-picture stars, but--as Babbitt definitively put\nit--\"she was her father's daughter.\"\n\nThe difference between a light man like Sam Doppelbrau and a really fine\ncharacter like Littlefield was revealed in their appearances. Doppelbrau\nwas disturbingly young for a man of forty-eight. He wore his derby on\nthe back of his head, and his red face was wrinkled with meaningless\nlaughter. But Littlefield was old for a man of forty-two. He was tall,\nbroad, thick; his gold-rimmed spectacles were engulfed in the folds of\nhis long face; his hair was a tossed mass of greasy blackness; he puffed\nand rumbled as he talked; his Phi Beta Kappa key shone against a spotty\nblack vest; he smelled of old pipes; he was altogether funereal\nand archidiaconal; and to real-estate brokerage and the jobbing of\nbathroom-fixtures he added an aroma of sanctity.\n\nThis morning he was in front of his house, inspecting the grass parking\nbetween the curb and the broad cement sidewalk. Babbitt stopped his car\nand leaned out to shout \"Mornin'!\" Littlefield lumbered over and stood\nwith one foot up on the running-board.\n\n\"Fine morning,\" said Babbitt, lighting--illegally early--his second\ncigar of the day.\n\n\"Yes, it's a mighty fine morning,\" said Littlefield.\n\n\"Spring coming along fast now.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's real spring now, all right,\" said Littlefield.\n\n\"Still cold nights, though. Had to have a couple blankets, on the\nsleeping-porch last night.\"\n\n\"Yes, it wasn't any too warm last night,\" said Littlefield.\n\n\"But I don't anticipate we'll have any more real cold weather now.\"\n\n\"No, but still, there was snow at Tiflis, Montana, yesterday,\" said the\nScholar, \"and you remember the blizzard they had out West three days\nago--thirty inches of snow at Greeley, Colorado--and two years ago we\nhad a snow-squall right here in Zenith on the twenty-fifth of April.\"\n\n\"Is that a fact! Say, old man, what do you think about the Republican\ncandidate? Who'll they nominate for president? Don't you think it's\nabout time we had a real business administration?\"\n\n\"In my opinion, what the country needs, first and foremost, is a good,\nsound, business-like conduct of its affairs. What we need is--a business\nadministration!\" said Littlefield.\n\n\"I'm glad to hear you say that! I certainly am glad to hear you say\nthat! I didn't know how you'd feel about it, with all your associations\nwith colleges and so on, and I'm glad you feel that way. What the\ncountry needs--just at this present juncture--is neither a college\npresident nor a lot of monkeying with foreign affairs, but a good--sound\neconomical--business--administration, that will give us a chance to have\nsomething like a decent turnover.\"\n\n\"Yes. It isn't generally realized that even in China the schoolmen are\ngiving way to more practical men, and of course you can see what that\nimplies.\"\n\n\"Is that a fact! Well, well!\" breathed Babbitt, feeling much calmer, and\nmuch happier about the way things were going in the world. \"Well, it's\nbeen nice to stop and parleyvoo a second. Guess I'll have to get down to\nthe office now and sting a few clients. Well, so long, old man. See you\ntonight. So long.\"\n\n\nII\n\nThey had labored, these solid citizens. Twenty years before, the hill\non which Floral Heights was spread, with its bright roofs and immaculate\nturf and amazing comfort, had been a wilderness of rank second-growth\nelms and oaks and maples. Along the precise streets were still a few\nwooded vacant lots, and the fragment of an old orchard. It was brilliant\nto-day; the apple boughs were lit with fresh leaves like torches of\ngreen fire. The first white of cherry blossoms flickered down a gully,\nand robins clamored.\n\nBabbitt sniffed the earth, chuckled at the hysteric robins as he would\nhave chuckled at kittens or at a comic movie. He was, to the eye, the\nperfect office-going executive--a well-fed man in a correct brown soft\nhat and frameless spectacles, smoking a large cigar, driving a good\nmotor along a semi-suburban parkway. But in him was some genius of\nauthentic love for his neighborhood, his city, his clan. The winter was\nover; the time was come for the building, the visible growth, which to\nhim was glory. He lost his dawn depression; he was ruddily cheerful when\nhe stopped on Smith Street to leave the brown trousers, and to have the\ngasoline-tank filled.\n\nThe familiarity of the rite fortified him: the sight of the tall red\niron gasoline-pump, the hollow-tile and terra-cotta garage, the window\nfull of the most agreeable accessories--shiny casings, spark-plugs with\nimmaculate porcelain jackets tire-chains of gold and silver. He was\nflattered by the friendliness with which Sylvester Moon, dirtiest and\nmost skilled of motor mechanics, came out to serve him. \"Mornin', Mr.\nBabbitt!\" said Moon, and Babbitt felt himself a person of importance,\none whose name even busy garagemen remembered--not one of these\ncheap-sports flying around in flivvers. He admired the ingenuity of the\nautomatic dial, clicking off gallon by gallon; admired the smartness\nof the sign: \"A fill in time saves getting stuck--gas to-day 31 cents\";\nadmired the rhythmic gurgle of the gasoline as it flowed into the tank,\nand the mechanical regularity with which Moon turned the handle.\n\n\"How much we takin' to-day?\" asked Moon, in a manner which combined the\nindependence of the great specialist, the friendliness of a familiar\ngossip, and respect for a man of weight in the community, like George F.\nBabbitt.\n\n\"Fill 'er up.\"\n\n\"Who you rootin' for for Republican candidate, Mr. Babbitt?\"\n\n\"It's too early to make any predictions yet. After all, there's still\na good month and two weeks--no, three weeks--must be almost three\nweeks--well, there's more than six weeks in all before the Republican\nconvention, and I feel a fellow ought to keep an open mind and give\nall the candidates a show--look 'em all over and size 'em up, and then\ndecide carefully.\"\n\n\"That's a fact, Mr. Babbitt.\"\n\n\"But I'll tell you--and my stand on this is just the same as it was four\nyears ago, and eight years ago, and it'll be my stand four years from\nnow--yes, and eight years from now! What I tell everybody, and it can't\nbe too generally understood, is that what we need first, last, and all\nthe time is a good, sound business administration!\"\n\n\"By golly, that's right!\"\n\n\"How do those front tires look to you?\"\n\n\"Fine! Fine! Wouldn't be much work for garages if everybody looked after\ntheir car the way you do.\"\n\n\"Well, I do try and have some sense about it.\" Babbitt paid his bill,\nsaid adequately, \"Oh, keep the change,\" and drove off in an ecstasy of\nhonest self-appreciation. It was with the manner of a Good Samaritan\nthat he shouted at a respectable-looking man who was waiting for a\ntrolley car, \"Have a lift?\" As the man climbed in Babbitt condescended,\n\"Going clear down-town? Whenever I see a fellow waiting for a trolley,\nI always make it a practice to give him a lift--unless, of course, he\nlooks like a bum.\"\n\n\"Wish there were more folks that were so generous with their machines,\"\ndutifully said the victim of benevolence. \"Oh, no, 'tain't a question of\ngenerosity, hardly. Fact, I always feel--I was saying to my son just the\nother night--it's a fellow's duty to share the good things of this world\nwith his neighbors, and it gets my goat when a fellow gets stuck\non himself and goes around tooting his horn merely because he's\ncharitable.\"\n\nThe victim seemed unable to find the right answer. Babbitt boomed on:\n\n\"Pretty punk service the Company giving us on these car-lines. Nonsense\nto only run the Portland Road cars once every seven minutes. Fellow gets\nmighty cold on a winter morning, waiting on a street corner with the\nwind nipping at his ankles.\"\n\n\"That's right. The Street Car Company don't care a damn what kind of a\ndeal they give us. Something ought to happen to 'em.\"\n\nBabbitt was alarmed. \"But still, of course it won't do to just keep\nknocking the Traction Company and not realize the difficulties they're\noperating under, like these cranks that want municipal ownership. The\nway these workmen hold up the Company for high wages is simply a\ncrime, and of course the burden falls on you and me that have to pay\na seven-cent fare! Fact, there's remarkable service on all their\nlines--considering.\"\n\n\"Well--\" uneasily.\n\n\"Darn fine morning,\" Babbitt explained. \"Spring coming along fast.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's real spring now.\"\n\nThe victim had no originality, no wit, and Babbitt fell into a great\nsilence and devoted himself to the game of beating trolley cars to the\ncorner: a spurt, a tail-chase, nervous speeding between the huge yellow\nside of the trolley and the jagged row of parked motors, shooting past\njust as the trolley stopped--a rare game and valiant.\n\nAnd all the while he was conscious of the loveliness of Zenith. For\nweeks together he noticed nothing but clients and the vexing To Rent\nsigns of rival brokers. To-day, in mysterious malaise, he raged or\nrejoiced with equal nervous swiftness, and to-day the light of spring\nwas so winsome that he lifted his head and saw.\n\nHe admired each district along his familiar route to the office: The\nbungalows and shrubs and winding irregular drive ways of Floral Heights.\nThe one-story shops on Smith Street, a glare of plate-glass and new\nyellow brick; groceries and laundries and drug-stores to supply the more\nimmediate needs of East Side housewives. The market gardens in Dutch\nHollow, their shanties patched with corrugated iron and stolen doors.\nBillboards with crimson goddesses nine feet tall advertising cinema\nfilms, pipe tobacco, and talcum powder. The old \"mansions\" along Ninth\nStreet, S. E., like aged dandies in filthy linen; wooden castles turned\ninto boarding-houses, with muddy walks and rusty hedges, jostled\nby fast-intruding garages, cheap apartment-houses, and fruit-stands\nconducted by bland, sleek Athenians. Across the belt of railroad-tracks,\nfactories with high-perched water-tanks and tall stacks-factories\nproducing condensed milk, paper boxes, lighting-fixtures, motor cars.\nThen the business center, the thickening darting traffic, the crammed\ntrolleys unloading, and high doorways of marble and polished granite.\n\nIt was big--and Babbitt respected bigness in anything; in mountains,\njewels, muscles, wealth, or words. He was, for a spring-enchanted\nmoment, the lyric and almost unselfish lover of Zenith. He thought of\nthe outlying factory suburbs; of the Chaloosa River with its strangely\neroded banks; of the orchard-dappled Tonawanda Hills to the North,\nand all the fat dairy land and big barns and comfortable herds. As he\ndropped his passenger he cried, \"Gosh, I feel pretty good this morning!\"\nIII\n\nEpochal as starting the car was the drama of parking it before he\nentered his office. As he turned from Oberlin Avenue round the corner\ninto Third Street, N.E., he peered ahead for a space in the line of\nparked cars. He angrily just missed a space as a rival driver slid into\nit. Ahead, another car was leaving the curb, and Babbitt slowed up,\nholding out his hand to the cars pressing on him from behind, agitatedly\nmotioning an old woman to go ahead, avoiding a truck which bore down on\nhim from one side. With front wheels nicking the wrought-steel bumper\nof the car in front, he stopped, feverishly cramped his steering-wheel,\nslid back into the vacant space and, with eighteen inches of room,\nmanoeuvered to bring the car level with the curb. It was a virile\nadventure masterfully executed. With satisfaction he locked a\nthief-proof steel wedge on the front wheel, and crossed the street to\nhis real-estate office on the ground floor of the Reeves Building.\n\nThe Reeves Building was as fireproof as a rock and as efficient as\na typewriter; fourteen stories of yellow pressed brick, with clean,\nupright, unornamented lines. It was filled with the offices of lawyers,\ndoctors, agents for machinery, for emery wheels, for wire fencing, for\nmining-stock. Their gold signs shone on the windows. The entrance was\ntoo modern to be flamboyant with pillars; it was quiet, shrewd, neat.\nAlong the Third Street side were a Western Union Telegraph Office,\nthe Blue Delft Candy Shop, Shotwell's Stationery Shop, and the\nBabbitt-Thompson Realty Company.\n\nBabbitt could have entered his office from the street, as customers\ndid, but it made him feel an insider to go through the corridor of\nthe building and enter by the back door. Thus he was greeted by the\nvillagers.\n\nThe little unknown people who inhabited the Reeves Building\ncorridors--elevator-runners, starter, engineers, superintendent, and the\ndoubtful-looking lame man who conducted the news and cigar stand--were\nin no way city-dwellers. They were rustics, living in a constricted\nvalley, interested only in one another and in The Building. Their\nMain Street was the entrance hall, with its stone floor, severe marble\nceiling, and the inner windows of the shops. The liveliest place on the\nstreet was the Reeves Building Barber Shop, but this was also Babbitt's\none embarrassment. Himself, he patronized the glittering Pompeian\nBarber Shop in the Hotel Thornleigh, and every time he passed the\nReeves shop--ten times a day, a hundred times--he felt untrue to his own\nvillage.\n\nNow, as one of the squirearchy, greeted with honorable salutations by\nthe villagers, he marched into his office, and peace and dignity were\nupon him, and the morning's dissonances all unheard.\n\nThey were heard again, immediately.\n\nStanley Graff, the outside salesman, was talking on the telephone with\ntragic lack of that firm manner which disciplines clients: \"Say, uh, I\nthink I got just the house that would suit you--the Percival House, in\nLinton.... Oh, you've seen it. Well, how'd it strike you?... Huh?\n...Oh,\" irresolutely, \"oh, I see.\"\n\nAs Babbitt marched into his private room, a coop with semi-partition of\noak and frosted glass, at the back of the office, he reflected how hard\nit was to find employees who had his own faith that he was going to make\nsales.\n\nThere were nine members of the staff, besides Babbitt and his partner\nand father-in-law, Henry Thompson, who rarely came to the office. The\nnine were Stanley Graff, the outside salesman--a youngish man given to\ncigarettes and the playing of pool; old Mat Penniman, general utility\nman, collector of rents and salesman of insurance--broken, silent, gray;\na mystery, reputed to have been a \"crack\" real-estate man with a firm\nof his own in haughty Brooklyn; Chester Kirby Laylock, resident salesman\nout at the Glen Oriole acreage development--an enthusiastic person with\na silky mustache and much family; Miss Theresa McGoun, the swift and\nrather pretty stenographer; Miss Wilberta Bannigan, the thick, slow,\nlaborious accountant and file-clerk; and four freelance part-time\ncommission salesmen.\n\nAs he looked from his own cage into the main room Babbitt mourned,\n\"McGoun's a good stenog., smart's a whip, but Stan Graff and all those\nbums--\" The zest of the spring morning was smothered in the stale office\nair.\n\nNormally he admired the office, with a pleased surprise that he should\nhave created this sure lovely thing; normally he was stimulated by\nthe clean newness of it and the air of bustle; but to-day it seemed\nflat--the tiled floor, like a bathroom, the ocher-colored metal ceiling,\nthe faded maps on the hard plaster walls, the chairs of varnished pale\noak, the desks and filing-cabinets of steel painted in olive drab. It\nwas a vault, a steel chapel where loafing and laughter were raw sin.\n\nHe hadn't even any satisfaction in the new water-cooler! And it was the\nvery best of water-coolers, up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking.\nIt had cost a great deal of money (in itself a virtue). It possessed a\nnon-conducting fiber ice-container, a porcelain water-jar (guaranteed\nhygienic), a drip-less non-clogging sanitary faucet, and machine-painted\ndecorations in two tones of gold. He looked down the relentless stretch\nof tiled floor at the water-cooler, and assured himself that no tenant\nof the Reeves Building had a more expensive one, but he could not\nrecapture the feeling of social superiority it had given him. He\nastoundingly grunted, \"I'd like to beat it off to the woods right now.\nAnd loaf all day. And go to Gunch's again to-night, and play poker,\nand cuss as much as I feel like, and drink a hundred and nine-thousand\nbottles of beer.\"\n\nHe sighed; he read through his mail; he shouted \"Msgoun,\" which meant\n\"Miss McGoun\"; and began to dictate.\n\nThis was his own version of his first letter:\n\n\"Omar Gribble, send it to his office, Miss McGoun, yours of twentieth to\nhand and in reply would say look here, Gribble, I'm awfully afraid if\nwe go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the Allen\nsale, I had Allen up on carpet day before yesterday and got right down\nto cases and think I can assure you--uh, uh, no, change that: all my\nexperience indicates he is all right, means to do business, looked into\nhis financial record which is fine--that sentence seems to be a little\nballed up, Miss McGoun; make a couple sentences out of it if you have\nto, period, new paragraph.\n\n\"He is perfectly willing to pro rate the special assessment and strikes\nme, am dead sure there will be no difficulty in getting him to pay for\ntitle insurance, so now for heaven's sake let's get busy--no, make that:\nso now let's go to it and get down--no, that's enough--you can tie\nthose sentences up a little better when you type 'em, Miss McGoun--your\nsincerely, etcetera.\"\n\nThis is the version of his letter which he received, typed, from Miss\nMcGoun that afternoon:\n\n     BABBITT-THOMPSON REALTY CO.\n     Homes for Folks\n     Reeves Bldg., Oberlin Avenue & 3d St., N.E\n     Zenith\n\nOmar Gribble, Esq., 376 North American Building, Zenith.\n\nDear Mr. Gribble:\n\nYour letter of the twentieth to hand. I must say I'm awfully afraid that\nif we go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the\nAllen sale. I had Allen up on the carpet day before yesterday, and got\nright down to cases. All my experience indicates that he means to do\nbusiness. I have also looked into his financial record, which is fine.\n\nHe is perfectly willing to pro rate the special assessment and there\nwill be no difficulty in getting him to pay for title insurance.\n\nSO LET'S GO! Yours sincerely,\n\nAs he read and signed it, in his correct flowing business-college hand,\nBabbitt reflected, \"Now that's a good, strong letter, and clear's a\nbell. Now what the--I never told McGoun to make a third paragraph there!\nWish she'd quit trying to improve on my dictation! But what I can't\nunderstand is: why can't Stan Graff or Chet Laylock write a letter like\nthat? With punch! With a kick!\"\n\nThe most important thing he dictated that morning was the fortnightly\nform-letter, to be mimeographed and sent out to a thousand \"prospects.\"\nIt was diligently imitative of the best literary models of the day; of\nheart-to-heart-talk advertisements, \"sales-pulling\" letters, discourses\non the \"development of Will-power,\" and hand-shaking house-organs,\nas richly poured forth by the new school of Poets of Business. He had\npainfully written out a first draft, and he intoned it now like a poet\ndelicate and distrait:\n\nSAY, OLD MAN! I just want to know can I do you a whaleuva favor? Honest!\nNo kidding! I know you're interested in getting a house, not merely a\nplace where you hang up the old bonnet but a love-nest for the wife and\nkiddies--and maybe for the flivver out beyant (be sure and spell that\nb-e-y-a-n-t, Miss McGoun) the spud garden. Say, did you ever stop\nto think that we're here to save you trouble? That's how we make a\nliving--folks don't pay us for our lovely beauty! Now take a look:\n\nSit right down at the handsome carved mahogany escritoire and shoot us\nin a line telling us just what you want, and if we can find it we'll\ncome hopping down your lane with the good tidings, and if we can't, we\nwon't bother you. To save your time, just fill out the blank enclosed.\nOn request will also send blank regarding store properties in Floral\nHeights, Silver Grove, Linton, Bellevue, and all East Side residential\ndistricts.\n\nYours for service,\n\nP.S.--Just a hint of some plums we can pick for you--some genuine\nbargains that came in to-day:\n\nSILVER GROVE.--Cute four-room California bungalow, a.m.i., garage, dandy\nshade tree, swell neighborhood, handy car line. $3700, $780 down and\nbalance liberal, Babbitt-Thompson terms, cheaper than rent.\n\nDORCHESTER.--A corker! Artistic two-family house, all oak trim, parquet\nfloors, lovely gas log, big porches, colonial, HEATED ALL-WEATHER\nGARAGE, a bargain at $11,250.\n\n\nDictation over, with its need of sitting and thinking instead of\nbustling around and making a noise and really doing something, Babbitt\nsat creakily back in his revolving desk-chair and beamed on Miss McGoun.\nHe was conscious of her as a girl, of black bobbed hair against demure\ncheeks. A longing which was indistinguishable from loneliness enfeebled\nhim. While she waited, tapping a long, precise pencil-point on the\ndesk-tablet, he half identified her with the fairy girl of his dreams.\nHe imagined their eyes meeting with terrifying recognition; imagined\ntouching her lips with frightened reverence and--She was chirping,\n\"Any more, Mist' Babbitt?\" He grunted, \"That winds it up, I guess,\" and\nturned heavily away.\n\nFor all his wandering thoughts, they had never been more intimate than\nthis. He often reflected, \"Nev' forget how old Jake Offutt said a wise\nbird never goes love-making in his own office or his own home. Start\ntrouble. Sure. But--\"\n\nIn twenty-three years of married life he had peered uneasily at every\ngraceful ankle, every soft shoulder; in thought he had treasured them;\nbut not once had he hazarded respectability by adventuring. Now, as\nhe calculated the cost of repapering the Styles house, he was restless\nagain, discontented about nothing and everything, ashamed of his\ndiscontentment, and lonely for the fairy girl.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nIT was a morning of artistic creation. Fifteen minutes after the purple\nprose of Babbitt's form-letter, Chester Kirby Laylock, the resident\nsalesman at Glen Oriole, came in to report a sale and submit an\nadvertisement. Babbitt disapproved of Laylock, who sang in choirs and\nwas merry at home over games of Hearts and Old Maid. He had a tenor\nvoice, wavy chestnut hair, and a mustache like a camel's-hair brush.\nBabbitt considered it excusable in a family-man to growl, \"Seen this\nnew picture of the kid--husky little devil, eh?\" but Laylock's domestic\nconfidences were as bubbling as a girl's.\n\n\"Say, I think I got a peach of an ad for the Glen, Mr. Babbitt.\nWhy don't we try something in poetry? Honest, it'd have wonderful\npulling-power. Listen:\n\n     'Mid pleasures and palaces,\n     Wherever you may roam,\n     You just provide the little bride\n     And we'll provide the home.\n\nDo you get it? See--like 'Home Sweet Home.' Don't you--\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, yes, hell yes, of course I get it. But--Oh, I think we'd\nbetter use something more dignified and forceful, like 'We lead, others\nfollow,' or 'Eventually, why not now?' Course I believe in using\npoetry and humor and all that junk when it turns the trick, but with a\nhigh-class restricted development like the Glen we better stick to the\nmore dignified approach, see how I mean? Well, I guess that's all, this\nmorning, Chet.\"\n\n\nII\n\nBy a tragedy familiar to the world of art, the April enthusiasm of Chet\nLaylock served only to stimulate the talent of the older craftsman,\nGeorge F. Babbitt. He grumbled to Stanley Graff, \"That tan-colored voice\nof Chet's gets on my nerves,\" yet he was aroused and in one swoop he\nwrote:\n\nDO YOU RESPECT YOUR LOVED ONES?\n\nWhen the last sad rites of bereavement are over, do you know for certain\nthat you have done your best for the Departed? You haven't unless they\nlie in the Cemetery Beautiful,\n\nLINDEN LANE\n\nthe only strictly up-to-date burial place in or near Zenith, where\nexquisitely gardened plots look from daisy-dotted hill-slopes across the\nsmiling fields of Dorchester.\n\n     Sole agents\n     BABBITT-THOMPSON REALTY COMPANY\n     Reeves Building\n\nHe rejoiced, \"I guess that'll show Chan Mott and his weedy old Wildwood\nCemetery something about modern merchandizing!\"\n\n\nIII\n\nHe sent Mat Penniman to the recorder's office to dig out the names\nof the owners of houses which were displaying For Rent signs of other\nbrokers; he talked to a man who desired to lease a store-building for\na pool-room; he ran over the list of home-leases which were about to\nexpire; he sent Thomas Bywaters, a street-car conductor who played at\nreal estate in spare time, to call on side-street \"prospects\" who were\nunworthy the strategies of Stanley Graff. But he had spent his credulous\nexcitement of creation, and these routine details annoyed him. One\nmoment of heroism he had, in discovering a new way of stopping smoking.\n\nHe stopped smoking at least once a month. He went through with it like\nthe solid citizen he was: admitted the evils of tobacco, courageously\nmade resolves, laid out plans to check the vice, tapered off his\nallowance of cigars, and expounded the pleasures of virtuousness to\nevery one he met. He did everything, in fact, except stop smoking.\n\nTwo months before, by ruling out a schedule, noting down the hour and\nminute of each smoke, and ecstatically increasing the intervals between\nsmokes, he had brought himself down to three cigars a day. Then he had\nlost the schedule.\n\nA week ago he had invented a system of leaving his cigar-case\nand cigarette-box in an unused drawer at the bottom of the\ncorrespondence-file, in the outer office. \"I'll just naturally be\nashamed to go poking in there all day long, making a fool of myself\nbefore my own employees!\" he reasoned. By the end of three days he was\ntrained to leave his desk, walk to the file, take out and light a cigar,\nwithout knowing that he was doing it.\n\nThis morning it was revealed to him that it had been too easy to open\nthe file. Lock it, that was the thing! Inspired, he rushed out and\nlocked up his cigars, his cigarettes, and even his box of safety\nmatches; and the key to the file drawer he hid in his desk. But the\ncrusading passion of it made him so tobacco-hungry that he immediately\nrecovered the key, walked with forbidding dignity to the file, took out\na cigar and a match--\"but only one match; if ole cigar goes out, it'll\nby golly have to stay out!\" Later, when the cigar did go out, he took\none more match from the file, and when a buyer and a seller came in for\na conference at eleven-thirty, naturally he had to offer them cigars.\nHis conscience protested, \"Why, you're smoking with them!\" but he\nbullied it, \"Oh, shut up! I'm busy now. Of course by-and-by--\" There was\nno by-and-by, yet his belief that he had crushed the unclean habit made\nhim feel noble and very happy. When he called up Paul Riesling he was,\nin his moral splendor, unusually eager.\n\nHe was fonder of Paul Riesling than of any one on earth except himself\nand his daughter Tinka. They had been classmates, roommates, in the\nState University, but always he thought of Paul Riesling, with his dark\nslimness, his precisely parted hair, his nose-glasses, his hesitant\nspeech, his moodiness, his love of music, as a younger brother, to be\npetted and protected. Paul had gone into his father's business,\nafter graduation; he was now a wholesaler and small manufacturer of\nprepared-paper roofing. But Babbitt strenuously believed and lengthily\nannounced to the world of Good Fellows that Paul could have been a great\nviolinist or painter or writer. \"Why say, the letters that boy sent me\non his trip to the Canadian Rockies, they just absolutely make you see\nthe place as if you were standing there. Believe me, he could have given\nany of these bloomin' authors a whale of a run for their money!\"\n\nYet on the telephone they said only:\n\n\"South 343. No, no, no! I said SOUTH--South 343. Say, operator, what\nthe dickens is the trouble? Can't you get me South 343? Why certainly\nthey'll answer. Oh, Hello, 343? Wanta speak Mist' Riesling, Mist'\nBabbitt talking. . . 'Lo, Paul?\"\n\n\"Yuh.\"\n\n\"'S George speaking.\"\n\n\"Yuh.\"\n\n\"How's old socks?\"\n\n\"Fair to middlin'. How 're you?\"\n\n\"Fine, Paulibus. Well, what do you know?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing much.\"\n\n\"Where you been keepin' yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh, just stickin' round. What's up, Georgie?\"\n\n\"How 'bout lil lunch 's noon?\"\n\n\"Be all right with me, I guess. Club?'\n\n\"Yuh. Meet you there twelve-thirty.\"\n\n\"A' right. Twelve-thirty. S' long, Georgie.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nHis morning was not sharply marked into divisions. Interwoven with\ncorrespondence and advertisement-writing were a thousand nervous\ndetails: calls from clerks who were incessantly and hopefully seeking\nfive furnished rooms and bath at sixty dollars a month; advice to Mat\nPenniman on getting money out of tenants who had no money.\n\nBabbitt's virtues as a real-estate broker--as the servant of society in\nthe department of finding homes for families and shops for distributors\nof food--were steadiness and diligence. He was conventionally honest, he\nkept his records of buyers and sellers complete, he had experience with\nleases and titles and an excellent memory for prices. His shoulders were\nbroad enough, his voice deep enough, his relish of hearty humor strong\nenough, to establish him as one of the ruling caste of Good Fellows. Yet\nhis eventual importance to mankind was perhaps lessened by his large and\ncomplacent ignorance of all architecture save the types of houses turned\nout by speculative builders; all landscape gardening save the use of\ncurving roads, grass, and six ordinary shrubs; and all the commonest\naxioms of economics. He serenely believed that the one purpose of the\nreal-estate business was to make money for George F. Babbitt. True,\nit was a good advertisement at Boosters' Club lunches, and all the\nvarieties of Annual Banquets to which Good Fellows were invited, to\nspeak sonorously of Unselfish Public Service, the Broker's Obligation\nto Keep Inviolate the Trust of His Clients, and a thing called Ethics,\nwhose nature was confusing but if you had it you were a High-class\nRealtor and if you hadn't you were a shyster, a piker, and a\nfly-by-night. These virtues awakened Confidence, and enabled you to\nhandle Bigger Propositions. But they didn't imply that you were to be\nimpractical and refuse to take twice the value of a house if a buyer was\nsuch an idiot that he didn't jew you down on the asking-price.\n\nBabbitt spoke well--and often--at these orgies of commercial\nrighteousness about the \"realtor's function as a seer of the future\ndevelopment of the community, and as a prophetic engineer clearing the\npathway for inevitable changes\"--which meant that a real-estate broker\ncould make money by guessing which way the town would grow. This\nguessing he called Vision.\n\nIn an address at the Boosters' Club he had admitted, \"It is at once the\nduty and the privilege of the realtor to know everything about his own\ncity and its environs. Where a surgeon is a specialist on every vein and\nmysterious cell of the human body, and the engineer upon electricity in\nall its phases, or every bolt of some great bridge majestically arching\no'er a mighty flood, the realtor must know his city, inch by inch, and\nall its faults and virtues.\"\n\nThough he did know the market-price, inch by inch, of certain districts\nof Zenith, he did not know whether the police force was too large or too\nsmall, or whether it was in alliance with gambling and prostitution.\nHe knew the means of fire-proofing buildings and the relation of\ninsurance-rates to fire-proofing, but he did not know how many firemen\nthere were in the city, how they were trained and paid, or how complete\ntheir apparatus. He sang eloquently the advantages of proximity of\nschool-buildings to rentable homes, but he did not know--he did not\nknow that it was worth while to know--whether the city schoolrooms were\nproperly heated, lighted, ventilated, furnished; he did not know how the\nteachers were chosen; and though he chanted \"One of the boasts of Zenith\nis that we pay our teachers adequately,\" that was because he had read\nthe statement in the Advocate-Times. Himself, he could not have given\nthe average salary of teachers in Zenith or anywhere else.\n\nHe had heard it said that \"conditions\" in the County Jail and the Zenith\nCity Prison were not very \"scientific;\" he had, with indignation at the\ncriticism of Zenith, skimmed through a report in which the notorious\npessimist Seneca Doane, the radical lawyer, asserted that to throw\nboys and young girls into a bull-pen crammed with men suffering from\nsyphilis, delirium tremens, and insanity was not the perfect way of\neducating them. He had controverted the report by growling, \"Folks that\nthink a jail ought to be a bloomin' Hotel Thornleigh make me sick. If\npeople don't like a jail, let 'em behave 'emselves and keep out of it.\nBesides, these reform cranks always exaggerate.\" That was the beginning\nand quite completely the end of his investigations into Zenith's\ncharities and corrections; and as to the \"vice districts\" he brightly\nexpressed it, \"Those are things that no decent man monkeys with.\nBesides, smatter fact, I'll tell you confidentially: it's a protection\nto our daughters and to decent women to have a district where tough nuts\ncan raise cain. Keeps 'em away from our own homes.\"\n\nAs to industrial conditions, however, Babbitt had thought a great deal,\nand his opinions may be coordinated as follows:\n\n\"A good labor union is of value because it keeps out radical unions,\nwhich would destroy property. No one ought to be forced to belong to a\nunion, however. All labor agitators who try to force men to join a union\nshould be hanged. In fact, just between ourselves, there oughtn't to\nbe any unions allowed at all; and as it's the best way of fighting the\nunions, every business man ought to belong to an employers'-association\nand to the Chamber of Commerce. In union there is strength. So any\nselfish hog who doesn't join the Chamber of Commerce ought to be forced\nto.\"\n\nIn nothing--as the expert on whose advice families moved to new\nneighborhoods to live there for a generation--was Babbitt more\nsplendidly innocent than in the science of sanitation. He did not know\na malaria-bearing mosquito from a bat; he knew nothing about tests of\ndrinking water; and in the matters of plumbing and sewage he was as\nunlearned as he was voluble. He often referred to the excellence of the\nbathrooms in the houses he sold. He was fond of explaining why it\nwas that no European ever bathed. Some one had told him, when he was\ntwenty-two, that all cesspools were unhealthy, and he still denounced\nthem. If a client impertinently wanted him to sell a house which had a\ncesspool, Babbitt always spoke about it--before accepting the house and\nselling it.\n\nWhen he laid out the Glen Oriole acreage development, when he ironed\nwoodland and dipping meadow into a glenless, orioleless, sunburnt flat\nprickly with small boards displaying the names of imaginary streets, he\nrighteously put in a complete sewage-system. It made him feel superior;\nit enabled him to sneer privily at the Martin Lumsen development,\nAvonlea, which had a cesspool; and it provided a chorus for the\nfull-page advertisements in which he announced the beauty, convenience,\ncheapness, and supererogatory healthfulness of Glen Oriole. The only\nflaw was that the Glen Oriole sewers had insufficient outlet, so that\nwaste remained in them, not very agreeably, while the Avonlea cesspool\nwas a Waring septic tank.\n\nThe whole of the Glen Oriole project was a suggestion that Babbitt,\nthough he really did hate men recognized as swindlers, was not too\nunreasonably honest. Operators and buyers prefer that brokers should\nnot be in competition with them as operators and buyers themselves,\nbut attend to their clients' interests only. It was supposed that the\nBabbitt-Thompson Company were merely agents for Glen Oriole, serving\nthe real owner, Jake Offutt, but the fact was that Babbitt and Thompson\nowned sixty-two per cent. of the Glen, the president and purchasing\nagent of the Zenith Street Traction Company owned twenty-eight per\ncent., and Jake Offutt (a gang-politician, a small manufacturer,\na tobacco-chewing old farceur who enjoyed dirty politics, business\ndiplomacy, and cheating at poker) had only ten per cent., which\nBabbitt and the Traction officials had given to him for \"fixing\" health\ninspectors and fire inspectors and a member of the State Transportation\nCommission.\n\nBut Babbitt was virtuous. He advocated, though he did not practise, the\nprohibition of alcohol; he praised, though he did not obey, the laws\nagainst motor-speeding; he paid his debts; he contributed to the church,\nthe Red Cross, and the Y. M. C. A.; he followed the custom of his\nclan and cheated only as it was sanctified by precedent; and he never\ndescended to trickery--though, as he explained to Paul Riesling:\n\n\"Course I don't mean to say that every ad I write is literally true or\nthat I always believe everything I say when I give some buyer a good\nstrong selling-spiel. You see--you see it's like this: In the first\nplace, maybe the owner of the property exaggerated when he put it into\nmy hands, and it certainly isn't my place to go proving my principal\na liar! And then most folks are so darn crooked themselves that they\nexpect a fellow to do a little lying, so if I was fool enough to never\nwhoop the ante I'd get the credit for lying anyway! In self-defense I\ngot to toot my own horn, like a lawyer defending a client--his bounden\nduty, ain't it, to bring out the poor dub's good points? Why, the Judge\nhimself would bawl out a lawyer that didn't, even if they both knew\nthe guy was guilty! But even so, I don't pad out the truth like Cecil\nRountree or Thayer or the rest of these realtors. Fact, I think a fellow\nthat's willing to deliberately up and profit by lying ought to be shot!\"\n\nBabbitt's value to his clients was rarely better shown than this\nmorning, in the conference at eleven-thirty between himself, Conrad\nLyte, and Archibald Purdy.\n\n\nV\n\nConrad Lyte was a real-estate speculator. He was a nervous speculator.\nBefore he gambled he consulted bankers, lawyers, architects, contracting\nbuilders, and all of their clerks and stenographers who were willing\nto be cornered and give him advice. He was a bold entrepreneur, and he\ndesired nothing more than complete safety in his investments, freedom\nfrom attention to details, and the thirty or forty per cent. profit\nwhich, according to all authorities, a pioneer deserves for his risks\nand foresight. He was a stubby man with a cap-like mass of short gray\ncurls and clothes which, no matter how well cut, seemed shaggy. Below\nhis eyes were semicircular hollows, as though silver dollars had been\npressed against them and had left an imprint.\n\nParticularly and always Lyte consulted Babbitt, and trusted in his slow\ncautiousness.\n\nSix months ago Babbitt had learned that one Archibald Purdy, a grocer\nin the indecisive residential district known as Linton, was talking of\nopening a butcher shop beside his grocery. Looking up the ownership of\nadjoining parcels of land, Babbitt found that Purdy owned his present\nshop but did not own the one available lot adjoining. He advised Conrad\nLyte to purchase this lot, for eleven thousand dollars, though an\nappraisal on a basis of rents did not indicate its value as above nine\nthousand. The rents, declared Babbitt, were too low; and by waiting they\ncould make Purdy come to their price. (This was Vision.) He had to bully\nLyte into buying. His first act as agent for Lyte was to increase the\nrent of the battered store-building on the lot. The tenant said a number\nof rude things, but he paid.\n\nNow, Purdy seemed ready to buy, and his delay was going to cost him ten\nthousand extra dollars--the reward paid by the community to Mr. Conrad\nLyte for the virtue of employing a broker who had Vision and\nwho understood Talking Points, Strategic Values, Key Situations,\nUnderappraisals, and the Psychology of Salesmanship.\n\nLyte came to the conference exultantly. He was fond of Babbitt, this\nmorning, and called him \"old hoss.\" Purdy, the grocer, a long-nosed man\nand solemn, seemed to care less for Babbitt and for Vision, but Babbitt\nmet him at the street door of the office and guided him toward the\nprivate room with affectionate little cries of \"This way, Brother\nPurdy!\" He took from the correspondence-file the entire box of cigars\nand forced them on his guests. He pushed their chairs two inches forward\nand three inches back, which gave an hospitable note, then leaned\nback in his desk-chair and looked plump and jolly. But he spoke to the\nweakling grocer with firmness.\n\n\"Well, Brother Purdy, we been having some pretty tempting offers from\nbutchers and a slew of other folks for that lot next to your store,\nbut I persuaded Brother Lyte that we ought to give you a shot at the\nproperty first. I said to Lyte, 'It'd be a rotten shame,' I said, 'if\nsomebody went and opened a combination grocery and meat market right\nnext door and ruined Purdy's nice little business.' Especially--\"\nBabbitt leaned forward, and his voice was harsh, \"--it would be hard\nluck if one of these cash-and-carry chain-stores got in there and\nstarted cutting prices below cost till they got rid of competition and\nforced you to the wall!\"\n\nPurdy snatched his thin hands from his pockets, pulled up his trousers,\nthrust his hands back into his pockets, tilted in the heavy oak chair,\nand tried to look amused, as he struggled:\n\n\"Yes, they're bad competition. But I guess you don't realize the Pulling\nPower that Personality has in a neighborhood business.\"\n\nThe great Babbitt smiled. \"That's so. Just as you feel, old man. We\nthought we'd give you first chance. All right then--\"\n\n\"Now look here!\" Purdy wailed. \"I know f'r a fact that a piece of\nproperty 'bout same size, right near, sold for less 'n eighty-five\nhundred, 'twa'n't two years ago, and here you fellows are asking me\ntwenty-four thousand dollars! Why, I'd have to mortgage--I wouldn't mind\nso much paying twelve thousand but--Why good God, Mr. Babbitt, you're\nasking more 'n twice its value! And threatening to ruin me if I don't\ntake it!\"\n\n\"Purdy, I don't like your way of talking! I don't like it one little\nbit! Supposing Lyte and I were stinking enough to want to ruin any\nfellow human, don't you suppose we know it's to our own selfish interest\nto have everybody in Zenith prosperous? But all this is beside\nthe point. Tell you what we'll do: We'll come down to twenty-three\nthousand-five thousand down and the rest on mortgage--and if you want to\nwreck the old shack and rebuild, I guess I can get Lyte here to loosen\nup for a building-mortgage on good liberal terms. Heavens, man, we'd\nbe glad to oblige you! We don't like these foreign grocery trusts any\nbetter 'n you do! But it isn't reasonable to expect us to sacrifice\neleven thousand or more just for neighborliness, IS it! How about it,\nLyte? You willing to come down?\"\n\nBy warmly taking Purdy's part, Babbitt persuaded the benevolent Mr. Lyte\nto reduce his price to twenty-one thousand dollars. At the right moment\nBabbitt snatched from a drawer the agreement he had had Miss McGoun type\nout a week ago and thrust it into Purdy's hands. He genially shook his\nfountain pen to make certain that it was flowing, handed it to Purdy,\nand approvingly watched him sign.\n\nThe work of the world was being done. Lyte had made something over\nnine thousand dollars, Babbitt had made a four-hundred-and-fifty dollar\ncommission, Purdy had, by the sensitive mechanism of modern finance,\nbeen provided with a business-building, and soon the happy inhabitants\nof Linton would have meat lavished upon them at prices only a little\nhigher than those down-town.\n\nIt had been a manly battle, but after it Babbitt drooped. This was the\nonly really amusing contest he had been planning. There was nothing\nahead save details of leases, appraisals, mortgages.\n\nHe muttered, \"Makes me sick to think of Lyte carrying off most of the\nprofit when I did all the work, the old skinflint! And--What else have\nI got to do to-day?... Like to take a good long vacation. Motor trip.\nSomething.\" He sprang up, rekindled by the thought of lunching with Paul\nRiesling.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nBABBITT'S preparations for leaving the office to its feeble self during\nthe hour and a half of his lunch-period were somewhat less elaborate\nthan the plans for a general European war.\n\nHe fretted to Miss McGoun, \"What time you going to lunch? Well, make\nsure Miss Bannigan is in then. Explain to her that if Wiedenfeldt calls\nup, she's to tell him I'm already having the title traced. And oh,\nb' the way, remind me to-morrow to have Penniman trace it. Now if anybody\ncomes in looking for a cheap house, remember we got to shove that Bangor\nRoad place off onto somebody. If you need me, I'll be at the Athletic\nClub. And--uh--And--uh--I'll be back by two.\"\n\nHe dusted the cigar-ashes off his vest. He placed a difficult unanswered\nletter on the pile of unfinished work, that he might not fail to attend\nto it that afternoon. (For three noons, now, he had placed the same\nletter on the unfinished pile.) He scrawled on a sheet of yellow\nbacking-paper the memorandum: \"See abt apt h drs,\" which gave him an\nagreeable feeling of having already seen about the apartment-house\ndoors.\n\nHe discovered that he was smoking another cigar. He threw it away,\nprotesting, \"Darn it, I thought you'd quit this darn smoking!\" He\ncourageously returned the cigar-box to the correspondence-file, locked\nit up, hid the key in a more difficult place, and raged, \"Ought to take\ncare of myself. And need more exercise--walk to the club, every single\nnoon--just what I'll do--every noon-cut out this motoring all the time.\"\n\nThe resolution made him feel exemplary. Immediately after it he decided\nthat this noon it was too late to walk.\n\nIt took but little more time to start his car and edge it into the\ntraffic than it would have taken to walk the three and a half blocks to\nthe club.\n\n\nII\n\nAs he drove he glanced with the fondness of familiarity at the\nbuildings.\n\nA stranger suddenly dropped into the business-center of Zenith could not\nhave told whether he was in a city of Oregon or Georgia, Ohio or Maine,\nOklahoma or Manitoba. But to Babbitt every inch was individual and\nstirring. As always he noted that the California Building across the way\nwas three stories lower, therefore three stories less beautiful, than\nhis own Reeves Building. As always when he passed the Parthenon Shoe\nShine Parlor, a one-story hut which beside the granite and red-brick\nponderousness of the old California Building resembled a bath-house\nunder a cliff, he commented, \"Gosh, ought to get my shoes shined this\nafternoon. Keep forgetting it.\" At the Simplex Office Furniture Shop,\nthe National Cash Register Agency, he yearned for a dictaphone, for a\ntypewriter which would add and multiply, as a poet yearns for quartos or\na physician for radium.\n\nAt the Nobby Men's Wear Shop he took his left hand off the\nsteering-wheel to touch his scarf, and thought well of himself as one\nwho bought expensive ties \"and could pay cash for 'em, too, by golly;\"\nand at the United Cigar Store, with its crimson and gold alertness, he\nreflected, \"Wonder if I need some cigars--idiot--plumb forgot--going\nt' cut down my fool smoking.\" He looked at his bank, the Miners' and\nDrovers' National, and considered how clever and solid he was to bank\nwith so marbled an establishment. His high moment came in the clash\nof traffic when he was halted at the corner beneath the lofty Second\nNational Tower. His car was banked with four others in a line of steel\nrestless as cavalry, while the cross town traffic, limousines and\nenormous moving-vans and insistent motor-cycles, poured by; on the\nfarther corner, pneumatic riveters rang on the sun-plated skeleton of\na new building; and out of this tornado flashed the inspiration of\na familiar face, and a fellow Booster shouted, \"H' are you, George!\"\nBabbitt waved in neighborly affection, and slid on with the traffic as\nthe policeman lifted his hand. He noted how quickly his car picked up.\nHe felt superior and powerful, like a shuttle of polished steel darting\nin a vast machine.\n\nAs always he ignored the next two blocks, decayed blocks not yet\nreclaimed from the grime and shabbiness of the Zenith of 1885. While\nhe was passing the five-and-ten-cent store, the Dakota Lodging House,\nConcordia Hall with its lodge-rooms and the offices of fortune-tellers\nand chiropractors, he thought of how much money he made, and he boasted\na little and worried a little and did old familiar sums:\n\n\"Four hundred fifty plunks this morning from the Lyte deal. But taxes\ndue. Let's see: I ought to pull out eight thousand net this year, and\nsave fifteen hundred of that--no, not if I put up garage and--Let's\nsee: six hundred and forty clear last month, and twelve times six-forty\nmakes--makes--let see: six times twelve is seventy-two hundred and--Oh\nrats, anyway, I'll make eight thousand--gee now, that's not so bad;\nmighty few fellows pulling down eight thousand dollars a year--eight\nthousand good hard iron dollars--bet there isn't more than five per\ncent. of the people in the whole United States that make more than\nUncle George does, by golly! Right up at the top of the heap! But--Way\nexpenses are--Family wasting gasoline, and always dressed like\nmillionaires, and sending that eighty a month to Mother--And all these\nstenographers and salesmen gouging me for every cent they can get--\"\n\nThe effect of his scientific budget-planning was that he felt at once\ntriumphantly wealthy and perilously poor, and in the midst of\nthese dissertations he stopped his car, rushed into a small\nnews-and-miscellany shop, and bought the electric cigar-lighter which\nhe had coveted for a week. He dodged his conscience by being jerky and\nnoisy, and by shouting at the clerk, \"Guess this will prett' near pay\nfor itself in matches, eh?\"\n\nIt was a pretty thing, a nickeled cylinder with an almost silvery\nsocket, to be attached to the dashboard of his car. It was not only, as\nthe placard on the counter observed, \"a dandy little refinement,\nlending the last touch of class to a gentleman's auto,\" but a priceless\ntime-saver. By freeing him from halting the car to light a match, it\nwould in a month or two easily save ten minutes.\n\nAs he drove on he glanced at it. \"Pretty nice. Always wanted one,\" he\nsaid wistfully. \"The one thing a smoker needs, too.\"\n\nThen he remembered that he had given up smoking.\n\n\"Darn it!\" he mourned. \"Oh well, I suppose I'll hit a cigar once in a\nwhile. And--Be a great convenience for other folks. Might make just\nthe difference in getting chummy with some fellow that would put over\na sale. And--Certainly looks nice there. Certainly is a mighty clever\nlittle jigger. Gives the last touch of refinement and class. I--By\ngolly, I guess I can afford it if I want to! Not going to be the only\nmember of this family that never has a single doggone luxury!\"\n\nThus, laden with treasure, after three and a half blocks of romantic\nadventure, he drove up to the club.\n\n\nIII\n\nThe Zenith Athletic Club is not athletic and it isn't exactly a club,\nbut it is Zenith in perfection. It has an active and smoke-misted\nbilliard room, it is represented by baseball and football teams, and in\nthe pool and the gymnasium a tenth of the members sporadically try to\nreduce. But most of its three thousand members use it as a cafe in which\nto lunch, play cards, tell stories, meet customers, and entertain out-of\ntown uncles at dinner. It is the largest club in the city, and its chief\nhatred is the conservative Union Club, which all sound members of the\nAthletic call \"a rotten, snobbish, dull, expensive old hole--not one\nGood Mixer in the place--you couldn't hire me to join.\" Statistics show\nthat no member of the Athletic has ever refused election to the Union,\nand of those who are elected, sixty-seven per cent. resign from the\nAthletic and are thereafter heard to say, in the drowsy sanctity of the\nUnion lounge, \"The Athletic would be a pretty good hotel, if it were\nmore exclusive.\"\n\nThe Athletic Club building is nine stories high, yellow brick with\nglassy roof-garden above and portico of huge limestone columns below.\nThe lobby, with its thick pillars of porous Caen stone, its pointed\nvaulting, and a brown glazed-tile floor like well-baked bread-crust, is\na combination of cathedral-crypt and rathskellar. The members rush into\nthe lobby as though they were shopping and hadn't much time for it. Thus\ndid Babbitt enter, and to the group standing by the cigar-counter he\nwhooped, \"How's the boys? How's the boys? Well, well, fine day!\"\n\nJovially they whooped back--Vergil Gunch, the coal-dealer, Sidney\nFinkelstein, the ladies'-ready-to-wear buyer for Parcher & Stein's\ndepartment-store, and Professor Joseph K. Pumphrey, owner of the Riteway\nBusiness College and instructor in Public Speaking, Business English,\nScenario Writing, and Commercial Law. Though Babbitt admired this\nsavant, and appreciated Sidney Finkelstein as \"a mighty smart buyer\nand a good liberal spender,\" it was to Vergil Gunch that he turned with\nenthusiasm. Mr. Gunch was president of the Boosters' Club, a weekly\nlunch-club, local chapter of a national organization which promoted\nsound business and friendliness among Regular Fellows. He was also no\nless an official than Esteemed Leading Knight in the Benevolent and\nProtective Order of Elks, and it was rumored that at the next election\nhe would be a candidate for Exalted Ruler. He was a jolly man, given to\noratory and to chumminess with the arts. He called on the famous\nactors and vaudeville artists when they came to town, gave them cigars,\naddressed them by their first names, and--sometimes--succeeded\nin bringing them to the Boosters' lunches to give The Boys a Free\nEntertainment. He was a large man with hair en brosse, and he knew the\nlatest jokes, but he played poker close to the chest. It was at his\nparty that Babbitt had sucked in the virus of to-day's restlessness.\n\nGunch shouted, \"How's the old Bolsheviki? How do you feel, the morning\nafter the night before?\"\n\n\"Oh, boy! Some head! That was a regular party you threw, Verg! Hope\nyou haven't forgotten I took that last cute little jack-pot!\" Babbitt\nbellowed. (He was three feet from Gunch.)\n\n\"That's all right now! What I'll hand you next time, Georgie! Say, juh\nnotice in the paper the way the New York Assembly stood up to the Reds?\"\n\n\"You bet I did. That was fine, eh? Nice day to-day.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's one mighty fine spring day, but nights still cold.\"\n\n\"Yeh, you're right they are! Had to have coupla blankets last night,\nout on the sleeping-porch. Say, Sid,\" Babbitt turned to Finkelstein, the\nbuyer, \"got something wanta ask you about. I went out and bought me an\nelectric cigar-lighter for the car, this noon, and--\"\n\n\"Good hunch!\" said Finkelstein, while even the learned Professor\nPumphrey, a bulbous man with a pepper-and-salt cutaway and a pipe-organ\nvoice, commented, \"That makes a dandy accessory. Cigar-lighter gives\ntone to the dashboard.\"\n\n\"Yep, finally decided I'd buy me one. Got the best on the market, the\nclerk said it was. Paid five bucks for it. Just wondering if I got\nstuck. What do they charge for 'em at the store, Sid?\"\n\nFinkelstein asserted that five dollars was not too great a sum, not for\na really high-class lighter which was suitably nickeled and provided\nwith connections of the very best quality. \"I always say--and believe\nme, I base it on a pretty fairly extensive mercantile experience--the\nbest is the cheapest in the long run. Of course if a fellow wants to be\na Jew about it, he can get cheap junk, but in the long RUN, the cheapest\nthing is--the best you can get! Now you take here just th' other day:\nI got a new top for my old boat and some upholstery, and I paid out a\nhundred and twenty-six fifty, and of course a lot of fellows would say\nthat was too much--Lord, if the Old Folks--they live in one of these\nhick towns up-state and they simply can't get onto the way a city\nfellow's mind works, and then, of course, they're Jews, and they'd\nlie right down and die if they knew Sid had anted up a hundred and\ntwenty-six bones. But I don't figure I was stuck, George, not a bit.\nMachine looks brand new now--not that it's so darned old, of course; had\nit less 'n three years, but I give it hard service; never drive less\n'n a hundred miles on Sunday and, uh--Oh, I don't really think you\ngot stuck, George. In the LONG run, the best is, you might say, it's\nunquestionably the cheapest.\"\n\n\"That's right,\" said Vergil Gunch. \"That's the way I look at it. If a\nfellow is keyed up to what you might call intensive living, the way you\nget it here in Zenith--all the hustle and mental activity that's going\non with a bunch of live-wires like the Boosters and here in the Z.A.C.,\nwhy, he's got to save his nerves by having the best.\"\n\nBabbitt nodded his head at every fifth word in the roaring rhythm; and\nby the conclusion, in Gunch's renowned humorous vein, he was enchanted:\n\n\"Still, at that, George, don't know's you can afford it. I've heard your\nbusiness has been kind of under the eye of the gov'ment since you stole\nthe tail of Eathorne Park and sold it!\"\n\n\"Oh, you're a great little josher, Verg. But when it comes to kidding,\nhow about this report that you stole the black marble steps off the\npost-office and sold 'em for high-grade coal!\" In delight Babbitt patted\nGunch's back, stroked his arm.\n\n\"That's all right, but what I want to know is: who's the real-estate\nshark that bought that coal for his apartment-houses?\"\n\n\n\"I guess that'll hold you for a while, George!\" said Finkelstein. \"I'll\ntell you, though, boys, what I did hear: George's missus went into the\ngents' wear department at Parcher's to buy him some collars, and before\nshe could give his neck-size the clerk slips her some thirteens. 'How\njuh know the size?' says Mrs. Babbitt, and the clerk says, 'Men that\nlet their wives buy collars for 'em always wear thirteen, madam.' How's\nthat! That's pretty good, eh? How's that, eh? I guess that'll about fix\nyou, George!\"\n\n\"I--I--\" Babbitt sought for amiable insults in answer. He stopped,\nstared at the door. Paul Riesling was coming in. Babbitt cried, \"See you\nlater, boys,\" and hastened across the lobby. He was, just then, neither\nthe sulky child of the sleeping-porch, the domestic tyrant of the\nbreakfast table, the crafty money-changer of the Lyte-Purdy conference,\nnor the blaring Good Fellow, the Josher and Regular Guy, of the Athletic\nClub. He was an older brother to Paul Riesling, swift to defend him,\nadmiring him with a proud and credulous love passing the love of women.\nPaul and he shook hands solemnly; they smiled as shyly as though they\nhad been parted three years, not three days--and they said:\n\n\"How's the old horse-thief?\"\n\n\"All right, I guess. How're you, you poor shrimp?\"\n\n\"I'm first-rate, you second-hand hunk o' cheese.\"\n\nReassured thus of their high fondness, Babbitt grunted, \"You're a fine\nguy, you are! Ten minutes late!\" Riesling snapped, \"Well, you're lucky\nto have a chance to lunch with a gentleman!\" They grinned and went into\nthe Neronian washroom, where a line of men bent over the bowls inset\nalong a prodigious slab of marble as in religious prostration before\ntheir own images in the massy mirror. Voices thick, satisfied,\nauthoritative, hurtled along the marble walls, bounded from the ceiling\nof lavender-bordered milky tiles, while the lords of the city, the\nbarons of insurance and law and fertilizers and motor tires, laid down\nthe law for Zenith; announced that the day was warm-indeed, indisputably\nof spring; that wages were too high and the interest on mortgages too\nlow; that Babe Ruth, the eminent player of baseball, was a noble man;\nand that \"those two nuts at the Climax Vaudeville Theater this week\ncertainly are a slick pair of actors.\" Babbitt, though ordinarily his\nvoice was the surest and most episcopal of all, was silent. In the\npresence of the slight dark reticence of Paul Riesling, he was awkward,\nhe desired to be quiet and firm and deft.\n\nThe entrance lobby of the Athletic Club was Gothic, the washroom Roman\nImperial, the lounge Spanish Mission, and the reading-room in\nChinese Chippendale, but the gem of the club was the dining-room, the\nmasterpiece of Ferdinand Reitman, Zenith's busiest architect. It was\nlofty and half-timbered, with Tudor leaded casements, an oriel, a\nsomewhat musicianless musicians'-gallery, and tapestries believed\nto illustrate the granting of Magna Charta. The open beams had\nbeen hand-adzed at Jake Offutt's car-body works, the hinge; were of\nhand-wrought iron, the wainscot studded with handmade wooden pegs, and\nat one end of the room was a heraldic and hooded stone fireplace which\nthe club's advertising-pamphlet asserted to be not only larger than any\nof the fireplaces in European castles but of a draught incomparably more\nscientific. It was also much cleaner, as no fire had ever been built in\nit.\n\nHalf of the tables were mammoth slabs which seated twenty or thirty men.\nBabbitt usually sat at the one near the door, with a group including\nGunch, Finkelstein, Professor Pumphrey, Howard Littlefield, his\nneighbor, T. Cholmondeley Frink, the poet and advertising-agent, and\nOrville Jones, whose laundry was in many ways the best in Zenith. They\ncomposed a club within the club, and merrily called themselves \"The\nRoughnecks.\" To-day as he passed their table the Roughnecks greeted him,\n\"Come on, sit in! You 'n' Paul too proud to feed with poor folks? Afraid\nsomebody might stick you for a bottle of Bevo, George? Strikes me you\nswells are getting awful darn exclusive!\"\n\nHe thundered, \"You bet! We can't afford to have our reps ruined by being\nseen with you tightwads!\" and guided Paul to one of the small tables\nbeneath the musicians'-gallery. He felt guilty. At the Zenith Athletic\nClub, privacy was very bad form. But he wanted Paul to himself.\n\nThat morning he had advocated lighter lunches and now he ordered nothing\nbut English mutton chop, radishes, peas, deep-dish apple pie, a bit of\ncheese, and a pot of coffee with cream, adding, as he did invariably,\n\"And uh--Oh, and you might give me an order of French fried potatoes.\"\nWhen the chop came he vigorously peppered it and salted it. He always\npeppered and salted his meat, and vigorously, before tasting it.\n\nPaul and he took up the spring-like quality of the spring, the virtues\nof the electric cigar-lighter, and the action of the New York State\nAssembly. It was not till Babbitt was thick and disconsolate with mutton\ngrease that he flung out:\n\n\"I wound up a nice little deal with Conrad Lyte this morning that put\nfive hundred good round plunks in my pocket. Pretty nice--pretty nice!\nAnd yet--I don't know what's the matter with me to-day. Maybe it's an\nattack of spring fever, or staying up too late at Verg Gunch's, or maybe\nit's just the winter's work piling up, but I've felt kind of down in the\nmouth all day long. Course I wouldn't beef about it to the fellows at\nthe Roughnecks' Table there, but you--Ever feel that way, Paul? Kind\nof comes over me: here I've pretty much done all the things I ought to;\nsupported my family, and got a good house and a six-cylinder car, and\nbuilt up a nice little business, and I haven't any vices 'specially,\nexcept smoking--and I'm practically cutting that out, by the way. And I\nbelong to the church, and play enough golf to keep in trim, and I only\nassociate with good decent fellows. And yet, even so, I don't know that\nI'm entirely satisfied!\"\n\nIt was drawled out, broken by shouts from the neighboring tables, by\nmechanical love-making to the waitress, by stertorous grunts as the\ncoffee filled him with dizziness and indigestion. He was apologetic and\ndoubtful, and it was Paul, with his thin voice, who pierced the fog:\n\n\"Good Lord, George, you don't suppose it's any novelty to me to find\nthat we hustlers, that think we're so all-fired successful, aren't\ngetting much out of it? You look as if you expected me to report you as\nseditious! You know what my own life's been.\"\n\n\"I know, old man.\"\n\n\"I ought to have been a fiddler, and I'm a pedler of tar-roofing! And\nZilla--Oh, I don't want to squeal, but you know as well as I do about\nhow inspiring a wife she is.... Typical instance last evening: We went\nto the movies. There was a big crowd waiting in the lobby, us at the\ntail-end. She began to push right through it with her 'Sir, how dare\nyou?' manner--Honestly, sometimes when I look at her and see how she's\nalways so made up and stinking of perfume and looking for trouble and\nkind of always yelping, 'I tell yuh I'm a lady, damn yuh!'--why, I want\nto kill her! Well, she keeps elbowing through the crowd, me after her,\nfeeling good and ashamed, till she's almost up to the velvet rope and\nready to be the next let in. But there was a little squirt of a man\nthere--probably been waiting half an hour--I kind of admired the little\ncuss--and he turns on Zilla and says, perfectly polite, 'Madam, why are\nyou trying to push past me?' And she simply--God, I was so ashamed!--she\nrips out at him, 'You're no gentleman,' and she drags me into it and\nhollers, 'Paul, this person insulted me!' and the poor skate he got\nready to fight.\n\n\"I made out I hadn't heard them--sure! same as you wouldn't hear a\nboiler-factory!--and I tried to look away--I can tell you exactly how\nevery tile looks in the ceiling of that lobby; there's one with brown\nspots on it like the face of the devil--and all the time the people\nthere--they were packed in like sardines--they kept making remarks\nabout us, and Zilla went right on talking about the little chap, and\nscreeching that 'folks like him oughtn't to be admitted in a place\nthat's SUPPOSED to be for ladies and gentlemen,' and 'Paul, will you\nkindly call the manager, so I can report this dirty rat?' and--Oof!\nMaybe I wasn't glad when I could sneak inside and hide in the dark!\n\n\"After twenty-four years of that kind of thing, you don't expect me to\nfall down and foam at the mouth when you hint that this sweet, clean,\nrespectable, moral life isn't all it's cracked up to be, do you? I can't\neven talk about it, except to you, because anybody else would think I\nwas yellow. Maybe I am. Don't care any longer.... Gosh, you've had to\nstand a lot of whining from me, first and last, Georgie!\"\n\n\"Rats, now, Paul, you've never really what you could call whined.\nSometimes--I'm always blowing to Myra and the kids about what a whale of\na realtor I am, and yet sometimes I get a sneaking idea I'm not such a\nPierpont Morgan as I let on to be. But if I ever do help by jollying you\nalong, old Paulski, I guess maybe Saint Pete may let me in after all!\"\n\n\"Yuh, you're an old blow-hard, Georgie, you cheerful cut-throat, but\nyou've certainly kept me going.\"\n\n\"Why don't you divorce Zilla?\"\n\n\"Why don't I! If I only could! If she'd just give me the chance! You\ncouldn't hire her to divorce me, no, nor desert me. She's too fond of\nher three squares and a few pounds of nut-center chocolates in between.\nIf she'd only be what they call unfaithful to me! George, I don't want\nto be too much of a stinker; back in college I'd 've thought a man who\ncould say that ought to be shot at sunrise. But honestly, I'd be tickled\nto death if she'd really go making love with somebody. Fat chance! Of\ncourse she'll flirt with anything--you know how she holds hands and\nlaughs--that laugh--that horrible brassy laugh--the way she yaps, 'You\nnaughty man, you better be careful or my big husband will be after\nyou!'--and the guy looking me over and thinking, 'Why, you cute little\nthing, you run away now or I'll spank you!' And she'll let him go just\nfar enough so she gets some excitement out of it and then she'll begin\nto do the injured innocent and have a beautiful time wailing, 'I\ndidn't think you were that kind of a person.' They talk about these\ndemi-vierges in stories--\"\n\n\"These WHATS?\"\n\n\"--but the wise, hard, corseted, old married women like Zilla are worse\nthan any bobbed-haired girl that ever went boldly out into this-here\nstorm of life--and kept her umbrella slid up her sleeve! But rats, you\nknow what Zilla is. How she nags--nags--nags. How she wants everything I\ncan buy her, and a lot that I can't, and how absolutely unreasonable she\nis, and when I get sore and try to have it out with her she plays the\nPerfect Lady so well that even I get fooled and get all tangled up in\na lot of 'Why did you say's' and 'I didn't mean's.' I'll tell you,\nGeorgie: You know my tastes are pretty fairly simple--in the matter of\nfood, at least. Course, as you're always complaining, I do like decent\ncigars--not those Flor de Cabagos you're smoking--\"\n\n\"That's all right now! That's a good two-for. By the way, Paul, did I\ntell you I decided to practically cut out smok--\"\n\n\"Yes you--At the same time, if I can't get what I like, why, I can\ndo without it. I don't mind sitting down to burnt steak, with canned\npeaches and store cake for a thrilling little dessert afterwards, but\nI do draw the line at having to sympathize with Zilla because she's\nso rotten bad-tempered that the cook has quit, and she's been so busy\nsitting in a dirty lace negligee all afternoon, reading about some brave\nmanly Western hero, that she hasn't had time to do any cooking. You're\nalways talking about 'morals'--meaning monogamy, I suppose. You've been\nthe rock of ages to me, all right, but you're essentially a simp. You--\"\n\n\"Where d' you get that 'simp,' little man? Let me tell you--\"\n\n\"--love to look earnest and inform the world that it's the 'duty of\nresponsible business men to be strictly moral, as an example to the\ncommunity.' In fact you're so earnest about morality, old Georgie, that\nI hate to think how essentially immoral you must be underneath. All\nright, you can--\"\n\n\"Wait, wait now! What's--\"\n\n\"--talk about morals all you want to, old thing, but believe me, if\nit hadn't been for you and an occasional evening playing the violin to\nTerrill O'Farrell's 'cello, and three or four darling girls that let me\nforget this beastly joke they call 'respectable life,' I'd 've killed\nmyself years ago.\n\n\"And business! The roofing business! Roofs for cowsheds! Oh, I don't\nmean I haven't had a lot of fun out of the Game; out of putting it over\non the labor unions, and seeing a big check coming in, and the business\nincreasing. But what's the use of it? You know, my business isn't\ndistributing roofing--it's principally keeping my competitors from\ndistributing roofing. Same with you. All we do is cut each other's\nthroats and make the public pay for it!\"\n\n\"Look here now, Paul! You're pretty darn near talking socialism!\"\n\n\"Oh yes, of course I don't really exactly mean that--I s'pose.\nCourse--competition--brings out the best--survival of the\nfittest--but--But I mean: Take all these fellows we know, the kind\nright here in the club now, that seem to be perfectly content with their\nhome-life and their businesses, and that boost Zenith and the Chamber\nof Commerce and holler for a million population. I bet if you could\ncut into their heads you'd find that one-third of 'em are sure-enough\nsatisfied with their wives and kids and friends and their offices; and\none-third feel kind of restless but won't admit it; and one-third are\nmiserable and know it. They hate the whole peppy, boosting, go-ahead\ngame, and they're bored by their wives and think their families are\nfools--at least when they come to forty or forty-five they're bored--and\nthey hate business, and they'd go--Why do you suppose there's so many\n'mysterious' suicides? Why do you suppose so many Substantial Citizens\njumped right into the war? Think it was all patriotism?\"\n\nBabbitt snorted, \"What do you expect? Think we were sent into the world\nto have a soft time and--what is it?--'float on flowery beds of ease'?\nThink Man was just made to be happy?\"\n\n\"Why not? Though I've never discovered anybody that knew what the deuce\nMan really was made for!\"\n\n\"Well we know--not just in the Bible alone, but it stands to reason--a\nman who doesn't buckle down and do his duty, even if it does bore him\nsometimes, is nothing but a--well, he's simply a weakling. Mollycoddle,\nin fact! And what do you advocate? Come down to cases! If a man is bored\nby his wife, do you seriously mean he has a right to chuck her and take\na sneak, or even kill himself?\"\n\n\"Good Lord, I don't know what 'rights' a man has! And I don't know the\nsolution of boredom. If I did, I'd be the one philosopher that had the\ncure for living. But I do know that about ten times as many people find\ntheir lives dull, and unnecessarily dull, as ever admit it; and I do\nbelieve that if we busted out and admitted it sometimes, instead of\nbeing nice and patient and loyal for sixty years, and then nice and\npatient and dead for the rest of eternity, why, maybe, possibly, we\nmight make life more fun.\"\n\nThey drifted into a maze of speculation. Babbitt was elephantishly\nuneasy. Paul was bold, but not quite sure about what he was being bold.\nNow and then Babbitt suddenly agreed with Paul in an admission which\ncontradicted all his defense of duty and Christian patience, and at each\nadmission he had a curious reckless joy. He said at last:\n\n\"Look here, old Paul, you do a lot of talking about kicking things in\nthe face, but you never kick. Why don't you?\"\n\n\"Nobody does. Habit too strong. But--Georgie, I've been thinking of one\nmild bat--oh, don't worry, old pillar of monogamy; it's highly proper.\nIt seems to be settled now, isn't it--though of course Zilla keeps\nrooting for a nice expensive vacation in New York and Atlantic City,\nwith the bright lights and the bootlegged cocktails and a bunch of\nlounge-lizards to dance with--but the Babbitts and the Rieslings are\nsure-enough going to Lake Sunasquam, aren't we? Why couldn't you and I\nmake some excuse--say business in New York--and get up to Maine four or\nfive days before they do, and just loaf by ourselves and smoke and cuss\nand be natural?\"\n\n\"Great! Great idea!\" Babbitt admired.\n\nNot for fourteen years had he taken a holiday without his wife, and\nneither of them quite believed they could commit this audacity. Many\nmembers of the Athletic Club did go camping without their wives, but\nthey were officially dedicated to fishing and hunting, whereas the\nsacred and unchangeable sports of Babbitt and Paul Riesling were\ngolfing, motoring, and bridge. For either the fishermen or the golfers\nto have changed their habits would have been an infraction of their\nself-imposed discipline which would have shocked all right-thinking and\nregularized citizens.\n\nBabbitt blustered, \"Why don't we just put our foot down and say, 'We're\ngoing on ahead of you, and that's all there is to it!' Nothing criminal\nin it. Simply say to Zilla--\"\n\n\"You don't say anything to Zilla simply. Why, Georgie, she's almost as\nmuch of a moralist as you are, and if I told her the truth she'd believe\nwe were going to meet some dames in New York. And even Myra--she never\nnags you, the way Zilla does, but she'd worry. She'd say, 'Don't you\nWANT me to go to Maine with you? I shouldn't dream of going unless you\nwanted me;' and you'd give in to save her feelings. Oh, the devil! Let's\nhave a shot at duck-pins.\"\n\nDuring the game of duck-pins, a juvenile form of bowling, Paul was\nsilent. As they came down the steps of the club, not more than half an\nhour after the time at which Babbitt had sternly told Miss McGoun he\nwould be back, Paul sighed, \"Look here, old man, oughtn't to talked\nabout Zilla way I did.\"\n\n\"Rats, old man, it lets off steam.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know! After spending all noon sneering at the conventional stuff,\nI'm conventional enough to be ashamed of saving my life by busting out\nwith my fool troubles!\"\n\n\"Old Paul, your nerves are kind of on the bum. I'm going to take you\naway. I'm going to rig this thing. I'm going to have an important deal\nin New York and--and sure, of course!--I'll need you to advise me on the\nroof of the building! And the ole deal will fall through, and there'll\nbe nothing for us but to go on ahead to Maine. I--Paul, when it comes\nright down to it, I don't care whether you bust loose or not. I do like\nhaving a rep for being one of the Bunch, but if you ever needed me\nI'd chuck it and come out for you every time! Not of course but what\nyou're--course I don't mean you'd ever do anything that would put--that\nwould put a decent position on the fritz but--See how I mean? I'm kind\nof a clumsy old codger, and I need your fine Eyetalian hand. We--Oh,\nhell, I can't stand here gassing all day! On the job! S' long! Don't\ntake any wooden money, Paulibus! See you soon! S' long!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nI\n\nHE forgot Paul Riesling in an afternoon of not unagreeable details.\nAfter a return to his office, which seemed to have staggered on without\nhim, he drove a \"prospect\" out to view a four-flat tenement in the\nLinton district. He was inspired by the customer's admiration of the new\ncigar-lighter. Thrice its novelty made him use it, and thrice he hurled\nhalf-smoked cigarettes from the car, protesting, \"I GOT to quit smoking\nso blame much!\"\n\nTheir ample discussion of every detail of the cigar-lighter led them\nto speak of electric flat-irons and bed-warmers. Babbitt apologized for\nbeing so shabbily old-fashioned as still to use a hot-water bottle, and\nhe announced that he would have the sleeping-porch wired at once. He had\nenormous and poetic admiration, though very little understanding, of all\nmechanical devices. They were his symbols of truth and beauty. Regarding\neach new intricate mechanism--metal lathe, two-jet carburetor, machine\ngun, oxyacetylene welder--he learned one good realistic-sounding phrase,\nand used it over and over, with a delightful feeling of being technical\nand initiated.\n\nThe customer joined him in the worship of machinery, and they came\nbuoyantly up to the tenement and began that examination of plastic slate\nroof, kalamein doors, and seven-eighths-inch blind-nailed flooring,\nbegan those diplomacies of hurt surprise and readiness to be persuaded\nto do something they had already decided to do, which would some day\nresult in a sale.\n\nOn the way back Babbitt picked up his partner and father-in-law, Henry\nT. Thompson, at his kitchen-cabinet works, and they drove through South\nZenith, a high-colored, banging, exciting region: new factories of\nhollow tile with gigantic wire-glass windows, surly old red-brick\nfactories stained with tar, high-perched water-tanks, big red trucks\nlike locomotives, and, on a score of hectic side-tracks, far-wandering\nfreight-cars from the New York Central and apple orchards, the Great\nNorthern and wheat-plateaus, the Southern Pacific and orange groves.\n\nThey talked to the secretary of the Zenith Foundry Company about\nan interesting artistic project--a cast-iron fence for Linden Lane\nCemetery. They drove on to the Zeeco Motor Company and interviewed\nthe sales-manager, Noel Ryland, about a discount on a Zeeco car for\nThompson. Babbitt and Ryland were fellow-members of the Boosters' Club,\nand no Booster felt right if he bought anything from another Booster\nwithout receiving a discount. But Henry Thompson growled, \"Oh, t' hell\nwith 'em! I'm not going to crawl around mooching discounts, not\nfrom nobody.\" It was one of the differences between Thompson, the\nold-fashioned, lean Yankee, rugged, traditional, stage type of\nAmerican business man, and Babbitt, the plump, smooth, efficient,\nup-to-the-minute and otherwise perfected modern. Whenever Thompson\ntwanged, \"Put your John Hancock on that line,\" Babbitt was as much\namused by the antiquated provincialism as any proper Englishman by any\nAmerican. He knew himself to be of a breeding altogether more esthetic\nand sensitive than Thompson's. He was a college graduate, he played\ngolf, he often smoked cigarettes instead of cigars, and when he went\nto Chicago he took a room with a private bath. \"The whole thing is,\" he\nexplained to Paul Riesling, \"these old codgers lack the subtlety that\nyou got to have to-day.\"\n\nThis advance in civilization could be carried too far, Babbitt\nperceived. Noel Ryland, sales-manager of the Zeeco, was a frivolous\ngraduate of Princeton, while Babbitt was a sound and standard ware from\nthat great department-store, the State University. Ryland wore spats,\nhe wrote long letters about City Planning and Community Singing, and,\nthough he was a Booster, he was known to carry in his pocket small\nvolumes of poetry in a foreign language. All this was going too far.\nHenry Thompson was the extreme of insularity, and Noel Ryland the\nextreme of frothiness, while between them, supporting the state,\ndefending the evangelical churches and domestic brightness and sound\nbusiness, were Babbitt and his friends.\n\nWith this just estimate of himself--and with the promise of a discount\non Thompson's car--he returned to his office in triumph.\n\nBut as he went through the corridor of the Reeves Building he sighed,\n\"Poor old Paul! I got to--Oh, damn Noel Ryland! Damn Charley McKelvey!\nJust because they make more money than I do, they think they're so\nsuperior. I wouldn't be found dead in their stuffy old Union Club!\nI--Somehow, to-day, I don't feel like going back to work. Oh well--\"\n\n\nII\n\nHe answered telephone calls, he read the four o'clock mail, he signed\nhis morning's letters, he talked to a tenant about repairs, he fought\nwith Stanley Graff.\n\nYoung Graff, the outside salesman, was always hinting that he deserved\nan increase of commission, and to-day he complained, \"I think I ought\nto get a bonus if I put through the Heiler sale. I'm chasing around and\nworking on it every single evening, almost.\"\n\nBabbitt frequently remarked to his wife that it was better to \"con your\noffice-help along and keep 'em happy 'stead of jumping on 'em and poking\n'em up--get more work out of 'em that way,\" but this unexampled lack of\nappreciation hurt him, and he turned on Graff:\n\n\"Look here, Stan; let's get this clear. You've got an idea somehow that\nit's you that do all the selling. Where d' you get that stuff? Where\nd' you think you'd be if it wasn't for our capital behind you, and our\nlists of properties, and all the prospects we find for you? All you got\nto do is follow up our tips and close the deal. The hall-porter could\nsell Babbitt-Thompson listings! You say you're engaged to a girl, but\nhave to put in your evenings chasing after buyers. Well, why the devil\nshouldn't you? What do you want to do? Sit around holding her hand? Let\nme tell you, Stan, if your girl is worth her salt, she'll be glad to\nknow you're out hustling, making some money to furnish the home-nest,\ninstead of doing the lovey-dovey. The kind of fellow that kicks about\nworking overtime, that wants to spend his evenings reading trashy novels\nor spooning and exchanging a lot of nonsense and foolishness with some\ngirl, he ain't the kind of upstanding, energetic young man, with a\nfuture--and with Vision!--that we want here. How about it? What's your\nIdeal, anyway? Do you want to make money and be a responsible member\nof the community, or do you want to be a loafer, with no Inspiration or\nPep?\"\n\nGraff was not so amenable to Vision and Ideals as usual. \"You bet I\nwant to make money! That's why I want that bonus! Honest, Mr. Babbitt,\nI don't want to get fresh, but this Heiler house is a terror. Nobody'll\nfall for it. The flooring is rotten and the walls are full of cracks.\"\n\n\"That's exactly what I mean! To a salesman with a love for his\nprofession, it's hard problems like that that inspire him to do his\nbest. Besides, Stan--Matter o' fact, Thompson and I are against bonuses,\nas a matter of principle. We like you, and we want to help you so you\ncan get married, but we can't be unfair to the others on the staff.\nIf we start giving you bonuses, don't you see we're going to hurt\nthe feeling and be unjust to Penniman and Laylock? Right's right, and\ndiscrimination is unfair, and there ain't going to be any of it in this\noffice! Don't get the idea, Stan, that because during the war salesmen\nwere hard to hire, now, when there's a lot of men out of work, there\naren't a slew of bright young fellows that would be glad to step in\nand enjoy your opportunities, and not act as if Thompson and I were his\nenemies and not do any work except for bonuses. How about it, heh? How\nabout it?\"\n\n\"Oh--well--gee--of course--\" sighed Graff, as he went out, crabwise.\n\nBabbitt did not often squabble with his employees. He liked to like the\npeople about him; he was dismayed when they did not like him. It was\nonly when they attacked the sacred purse that he was frightened into\nfury, but then, being a man given to oratory and high principles,\nhe enjoyed the sound of his own vocabulary and the warmth of his own\nvirtue. Today he had so passionately indulged in self-approval that he\nwondered whether he had been entirely just:\n\n\"After all, Stan isn't a boy any more. Oughtn't to call him so hard. But\nrats, got to haul folks over the coals now and then for their own good.\nUnpleasant duty, but--I wonder if Stan is sore? What's he saying to\nMcGoun out there?\"\n\nSo chill a wind of hatred blew from the outer office that the normal\ncomfort of his evening home-going was ruined. He was distressed by\nlosing that approval of his employees to which an executive is always\nslave. Ordinarily he left the office with a thousand enjoyable fussy\ndirections to the effect that there would undoubtedly be important tasks\nto-morrow, and Miss McGoun and Miss Bannigan would do well to be there\nearly, and for heaven's sake remind him to call up Conrad Lyte soon 's\nhe came in. To-night he departed with feigned and apologetic liveliness.\nHe was as afraid of his still-faced clerks--of the eyes focused on him,\nMiss McGoun staring with head lifted from her typing, Miss Bannigan\nlooking over her ledger, Mat Penniman craning around at his desk in the\ndark alcove, Stanley Graff sullenly expressionless--as a parvenu before\nthe bleak propriety of his butler. He hated to expose his back to their\nlaughter, and in his effort to be casually merry he stammered and was\nraucously friendly and oozed wretchedly out of the door.\n\nBut he forgot his misery when he saw from Smith Street the charms of\nFloral Heights; the roofs of red tile and green slate, the shining new\nsun-parlors, and the stainless walls.\n\n\nIII\n\nHe stopped to inform Howard Littlefield, his scholarly neighbor, that\nthough the day had been springlike the evening might be cold. He went in\nto shout \"Where are you?\" at his wife, with no very definite desire to\nknow where she was. He examined the lawn to see whether the furnace-man\nhad raked it properly. With some satisfaction and a good deal of\ndiscussion of the matter with Mrs. Babbitt, Ted, and Howard Littlefield,\nhe concluded that the furnace-man had not raked it properly. He cut two\ntufts of wild grass with his wife's largest dressmaking-scissors; he\ninformed Ted that it was all nonsense having a furnace-man--\"big\nhusky fellow like you ought to do all the work around the house;\" and\nprivately he meditated that it was agreeable to have it known throughout\nthe neighborhood that he was so prosperous that his son never worked\naround the house.\n\nHe stood on the sleeping-porch and did his day's exercises: arms out\nsidewise for two minutes, up for two minutes, while he muttered, \"Ought\ntake more exercise; keep in shape;\" then went in to see whether his\ncollar needed changing before dinner. As usual it apparently did not.\n\nThe Lettish-Croat maid, a powerful woman, beat the dinner-gong.\n\n\nThe roast of beef, roasted potatoes, and string beans were excellent\nthis evening and, after an adequate sketch of the day's progressive\nweather-states, his four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar fee, his lunch with\nPaul Riesling, and the proven merits of the new cigar-lighter, he was\nmoved to a benign, \"Sort o' thinking about buyin, a new car. Don't\nbelieve we'll get one till next year, but still we might.\"\n\nVerona, the older daughter, cried, \"Oh, Dad, if you do, why don't you\nget a sedan? That would be perfectly slick! A closed car is so much more\ncomfy than an open one.\"\n\n\"Well now, I don't know about that. I kind of like an open car. You get\nmore fresh air that way.\"\n\n\"Oh, shoot, that's just because you never tried a sedan. Let's get one.\nIt's got a lot more class,\" said Ted.\n\n\"A closed car does keep the clothes nicer,\" from Mrs. Babbitt; \"You\ndon't get your hair blown all to pieces,\" from Verona; \"It's a lot\nsportier,\" from Ted; and from Tinka, the youngest, \"Oh, let's have a\nsedan! Mary Ellen's father has got one.\" Ted wound up, \"Oh, everybody's\ngot a closed car now, except us!\"\n\nBabbitt faced them: \"I guess you got nothing very terrible to complain\nabout! Anyway, I don't keep a car just to enable you children to look\nlike millionaires! And I like an open car, so you can put the top down\non summer evenings and go out for a drive and get some good fresh air.\nBesides--A closed car costs more money.\"\n\n\"Aw, gee whiz, if the Doppelbraus can afford a closed car, I guess we\ncan!\" prodded Ted.\n\n\"Humph! I make eight thousand a year to his seven! But I don't blow it\nall in and waste it and throw it around, the way he does! Don't believe\nin this business of going and spending a whole lot of money to show off\nand--\"\n\nThey went, with ardor and some thoroughness, into the matters of\nstreamline bodies, hill-climbing power, wire wheels, chrome steel,\nignition systems, and body colors. It was much more than a study of\ntransportation. It was an aspiration for knightly rank. In the city of\nZenith, in the barbarous twentieth century, a family's motor indicated\nits social rank as precisely as the grades of the peerage determined\nthe rank of an English family--indeed, more precisely, considering the\nopinion of old county families upon newly created brewery barons and\nwoolen-mill viscounts. The details of precedence were never officially\ndetermined. There was no court to decide whether the second son of a\nPierce Arrow limousine should go in to dinner before the first son of a\nBuick roadster, but of their respective social importance there was no\ndoubt; and where Babbitt as a boy had aspired to the presidency, his\nson Ted aspired to a Packard twin-six and an established position in the\nmotored gentry.\n\nThe favor which Babbitt had won from his family by speaking of a new car\nevaporated as they realized that he didn't intend to buy one this year.\nTed lamented, \"Oh, punk! The old boat looks as if it'd had fleas and\nbeen scratching its varnish off.\" Mrs. Babbitt said abstractedly,\n\"Snoway talkcher father.\" Babbitt raged, \"If you're too much of a\nhigh-class gentleman, and you belong to the bon ton and so on, why, you\nneedn't take the car out this evening.\" Ted explained, \"I didn't mean--\"\nand dinner dragged on with normal domestic delight to the inevitable\npoint at which Babbitt protested, \"Come, come now, we can't sit here all\nevening. Give the girl a chance to clear away the table.\"\n\nHe was fretting, \"What a family! I don't know how we all get to\nscrapping this way. Like to go off some place and be able to hear myself\nthink.... Paul ... Maine ... Wear old pants, and loaf, and cuss.\" He\nsaid cautiously to his wife, \"I've been in correspondence with a man in\nNew York--wants me to see him about a real-estate trade--may not come\noff till summer. Hope it doesn't break just when we and the Rieslings\nget ready to go to Maine. Be a shame if we couldn't make the trip there\ntogether. Well, no use worrying now.\"\n\nVerona escaped, immediately after dinner, with no discussion save an\nautomatic \"Why don't you ever stay home?\" from Babbitt.\n\nIn the living-room, in a corner of the davenport, Ted settled down to\nhis Home Study; plain geometry, Cicero, and the agonizing metaphors of\nComus.\n\n\"I don't see why they give us this old-fashioned junk by Milton and\nShakespeare and Wordsworth and all these has-beens,\" he protested. \"Oh,\nI guess I could stand it to see a show by Shakespeare, if they had swell\nscenery and put on a lot of dog, but to sit down in cold blood and READ\n'em--These teachers--how do they get that way?\"\n\nMrs. Babbitt, darning socks, speculated, \"Yes, I wonder why. Of course I\ndon't want to fly in the face of the professors and everybody, but I do\nthink there's things in Shakespeare--not that I read him much, but when\nI was young the girls used to show me passages that weren't, really,\nthey weren't at all nice.\"\n\nBabbitt looked up irritably from the comic strips in the Evening\nAdvocate. They composed his favorite literature and art, these\nillustrated chronicles in which Mr. Mutt hit Mr. Jeff with a rotten egg,\nand Mother corrected Father's vulgarisms by means of a rolling-pin. With\nthe solemn face of a devotee, breathing heavily through his open\nmouth, he plodded nightly through every picture, and during the rite\nhe detested interruptions. Furthermore, he felt that on the subject of\nShakespeare he wasn't really an authority. Neither the Advocate-Times,\nthe Evening Advocate, nor the Bulletin of the Zenith Chamber of Commerce\nhad ever had an editorial on the matter, and until one of them had\nspoken he found it hard to form an original opinion. But even at risk\nof floundering in strange bogs, he could not keep out of an open\ncontroversy.\n\n\"I'll tell you why you have to study Shakespeare and those. It's because\nthey're required for college entrance, and that's all there is to it!\nPersonally, I don't see myself why they stuck 'em into an up-to-date\nhigh-school system like we have in this state. Be a good deal better if\nyou took Business English, and learned how to write an ad, or letters\nthat would pull. But there it is, and there's no tall, argument, or\ndiscussion about it! Trouble with you, Ted, is you always want to do\nsomething different! If you're going to law-school--and you are!--I\nnever had a chance to, but I'll see that you do--why, you'll want to lay\nin all the English and Latin you can get.\"\n\n\"Oh punk. I don't see what's the use of law-school--or even finishing\nhigh school. I don't want to go to college 'specially. Honest, there's\nlot of fellows that have graduated from colleges that don't begin\nto make as much money as fellows that went to work early. Old Shimmy\nPeters, that teaches Latin in the High, he's a what-is-it from Columbia\nand he sits up all night reading a lot of greasy books and he's always\nspieling about the 'value of languages,' and the poor soak doesn't make\nbut eighteen hundred a year, and no traveling salesman would think of\nworking for that. I know what I'd like to do. I'd like to be an aviator,\nor own a corking big garage, or else--a fellow was telling me about it\nyesterday--I'd like to be one of these fellows that the Standard Oil\nCompany sends out to China, and you live in a compound and don't have to\ndo any work, and you get to see the world and pagodas and the ocean and\neverything! And then I could take up correspondence-courses. That's\nthe real stuff! You don't have to recite to some frosty-faced old\ndame that's trying to show off to the principal, and you can study any\nsubject you want to. Just listen to these! I clipped out the ads of some\nswell courses.\"\n\nHe snatched from the back of his geometry half a hundred advertisements\nof those home-study courses which the energy and foresight of American\ncommerce have contributed to the science of education. The first\ndisplayed the portrait of a young man with a pure brow, an iron jaw,\nsilk socks, and hair like patent leather. Standing with one hand in his\ntrousers-pocket and the other extended with chiding forefinger, he was\nbewitching an audience of men with gray beards, paunches, bald heads,\nand every other sign of wisdom and prosperity. Above the picture was\nan inspiring educational symbol--no antiquated lamp or torch or owl of\nMinerva, but a row of dollar signs. The text ran:\n\n     $   $   $   $   $   $   $   $   $\n     POWER AND PROSPERITY IN PUBLIC SPEAKING\n\n     A Yarn Told at the Club\n\nWho do you think I ran into the other evening at the De Luxe Restaurant?\nWhy, old Freddy Durkee, that used to be a dead or-alive shipping clerk\nin my old place--Mr. Mouse-Man we used to laughingly call the dear\nfellow. One time he was so timid he was plumb scared of the Super, and\nnever got credit for the dandy work he did. Him at the De Luxe! And if\nhe wasn't ordering a tony feed with all the \"fixings\" from celery to\nnuts! And instead of being embarrassed by the waiters, like he used to\nbe at the little dump where we lunched in Old Lang Syne, he was bossing\nthem around like he was a millionaire!\n\nI cautiously asked him what he was doing. Freddy laughed and said, \"Say,\nold chum, I guess you're wondering what's come over me. You'll be glad\nto know I'm now Assistant Super at the old shop, and right on the High\nRoad to Prosperity and Domination, and I look forward with confidence\nto a twelve-cylinder car, and the wife is making things hum in the best\nsociety and the kiddies getting a first-class education.\"\n\n------------------------ WHAT WE TEACH YOU\n\nHow to address your lodge.\n\nHow to give toasts.\n\nHow to tell dialect stories.\n\nHow to propose to a lady.\n\nHow to entertain banquets.\n\nHow to make convincing selling-talks.\n\nHow to build big vocabulary.\n\nHow to create a strong personality.\n\nHow to become a rational, powerful and original thinker.\n\nHow to be a MASTER MAN!\n\n--------------------------------\n------------------------ PROF. W. F. PEET\n\nauthor of the Shortcut Course in Public-Speaking, is easily the foremost\nfigure in practical literature, psychology & oratory. A graduate of some\nof our leading universities, lecturer, extensive traveler, author of\nbooks, poetry, etc., a man with the unique PERSONALITY OF THE MASTER\nMINDS, he is ready to give YOU all the secrets of his culture and\nhammering Force, in a few easy lessons that will not interfere with\nother occupations. --------------------------------\n\n\"Here's how it happened. I ran across an ad of a course that claimed\nto teach people how to talk easily and on their feet, how to answer\ncomplaints, how to lay a proposition before the Boss, how to hit a\nbank for a loan, how to hold a big audience spellbound with wit, humor,\nanecdote, inspiration, etc. It was compiled by the Master Orator, Prof.\nWaldo F. Peet. I was skeptical, too, but I wrote (JUST ON A POSTCARD,\nwith name and address) to the publisher for the lessons--sent On Trial,\nmoney back if you are not absolutely satisfied. There were eight simple\nlessons in plain language anybody could understand, and I studied them\njust a few hours a night, then started practising on the wife. Soon\nfound I could talk right up to the Super and get due credit for all the\ngood work I did. They began to appreciate me and advance me fast, and\nsay, old doggo, what do you think they're paying me now? $6,500 per\nyear! And say, I find I can keep a big audience fascinated, speaking on\nany topic. As a friend, old boy, I advise you to send for circular (no\nobligation) and valuable free Art Picture to:--\n\n     SHORTCUT EDUCATIONAL PUB. CO.\n     Desk WA        Sandpit, Iowa.\n\n     ARE YOU A 100 PERCENTER OR A 10 PERCENTER?\"\n\nBabbitt was again without a canon which would enable him to speak with\nauthority. Nothing in motoring or real estate had indicated what a Solid\nCitizen and Regular Fellow ought to think about culture by mail. He\nbegan with hesitation:\n\n\"Well--sounds as if it covered the ground. It certainly is a fine thing\nto be able to orate. I've sometimes thought I had a little talent that\nway myself, and I know darn well that one reason why a fourflushing old\nback-number like Chan Mott can get away with it in real estate is just\nbecause he can make a good talk, even when he hasn't got a doggone thing\nto say! And it certainly is pretty cute the way they get out all these\ncourses on various topics and subjects nowadays. I'll tell you, though:\nNo need to blow in a lot of good money on this stuff when you can get\na first-rate course in eloquence and English and all that right in\nyour own school--and one of the biggest school buildings in the entire\ncountry!\"\n\n\"That's so,\" said Mrs. Babbitt comfortably, while Ted complained:\n\n\"Yuh, but Dad, they just teach a lot of old junk that isn't any\npractical use--except the manual training and typewriting and basketball\nand dancing--and in these correspondence-courses, gee, you can get all\nkinds of stuff that would come in handy. Say, listen to this one:\n\n'CAN YOU PLAY A MAN'S PART?\n\n'If you are walking with your mother, sister or best girl and some\none passes a slighting remark or uses improper language, won't you be\nashamed if you can't take her part? Well, can you?\n\n'We teach boxing and self-defense by mail. Many pupils have written\nsaying that after a few lessons they've outboxed bigger and heavier\nopponents. The lessons start with simple movements practised before your\nmirror--holding out your hand for a coin, the breast-stroke in swimming,\netc. Before you realize it you are striking scientifically, ducking,\nguarding and feinting, just as if you had a real opponent before you.'\"\n\n\n\"Oh, baby, maybe I wouldn't like that!\" Ted chanted. \"I'll tell the\nworld! Gosh, I'd like to take one fellow I know in school that's always\nshooting off his mouth, and catch him alone--\"\n\n\"Nonsense! The idea! Most useless thing I ever heard of!\" Babbitt\nfulminated.\n\n\"Well, just suppose I was walking with Mama or Rone, and somebody passed\na slighting remark or used improper language. What would I do?\"\n\n\"Why, you'd probably bust the record for the hundred-yard dash!\"\n\n\"I WOULD not! I'd stand right up to any mucker that passed a slighting\nremark on MY sister and I'd show him--\"\n\n\"Look here, young Dempsey! If I ever catch you fighting I'll whale the\neverlasting daylights out of you--and I'll do it without practising\nholding out my hand for a coin before the mirror, too!\"\n\n\"Why, Ted dear,\" Mrs. Babbitt said placidly, \"it's not at all nice, your\ntalking of fighting this way!\"\n\n\"Well, gosh almighty, that's a fine way to appreciate--And then suppose\nI was walking with YOU, Ma, and somebody passed a slighting remark--\"\n\n\"Nobody's going to pass no slighting remarks on nobody,\" Babbitt\nobserved, \"not if they stay home and study their geometry and mind\ntheir own affairs instead of hanging around a lot of poolrooms and\nsoda-fountains and places where nobody's got any business to be!\"\n\n\"But gooooooosh, Dad, if they DID!\"\n\nMrs. Babbitt chirped, \"Well, if they did, I wouldn't do them the honor\nof paying any attention to them! Besides, they never do. You always hear\nabout these women that get followed and insulted and all, but I don't\nbelieve a word of it, or it's their own fault, the way some women look\nat a person. I certainly never 've been insulted by--\"\n\n\"Aw shoot. Mother, just suppose you WERE sometime! Just SUPPOSE! Can't\nyou suppose something? Can't you imagine things?\"\n\n\"Certainly I can imagine things! The idea!\"\n\n\"Certainly your mother can imagine things--and suppose things! Think\nyou're the only member of this household that's got an imagination?\"\nBabbitt demanded. \"But what's the use of a lot of supposing? Supposing\nnever gets you anywhere. No sense supposing when there's a lot of real\nfacts to take into considera--\"\n\n\"Look here, Dad. Suppose--I mean, just--just suppose you were in your\noffice and some rival real-estate man--\"\n\n\"Realtor!\"\n\n\"--some realtor that you hated came in--\"\n\n\"I don't hate any realtor.\"\n\n\"But suppose you DID!\"\n\n\"I don't intend to suppose anything of the kind! There's plenty of\nfellows in my profession that stoop and hate their competitors, but if\nyou were a little older and understood business, instead of always going\nto the movies and running around with a lot of fool girls with their\ndresses up to their knees and powdered and painted and rouged and God\nknows what all as if they were chorus-girls, then you'd know--and\nyou'd suppose--that if there's any one thing that I stand for in the\nreal-estate circles of Zenith, it is that we ought to always speak\nof each other only in the friendliest terms and institute a spirit of\nbrotherhood and cooperation, and so I certainly can't suppose and I\ncan't imagine my hating any realtor, not even that dirty, fourflushing\nsociety sneak, Cecil Rountree!\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"And there's no If, And or But about it! But if I WERE going to lambaste\nsomebody, I wouldn't require any fancy ducks or swimming-strokes before\na mirror, or any of these doodads and flipflops! Suppose you were out\nsome place and a fellow called you vile names. Think you'd want to box\nand jump around like a dancing-master? You'd just lay him out cold (at\nleast I certainly hope any son of mine would!) and then you'd dust off\nyour hands and go on about your business, and that's all there is to it,\nand you aren't going to have any boxing-lessons by mail, either!\"\n\n\"Well but--Yes--I just wanted to show how many different kinds of\ncorrespondence-courses there are, instead of all the camembert they\nteach us in the High.\"\n\n\"But I thought they taught boxing in the school gymnasium.\"\n\n\"That's different. They stick you up there and some big stiff amuses\nhimself pounding the stuffin's out of you before you have a chance to\nlearn. Hunka! Not any! But anyway--Listen to some of these others.\"\n\nThe advertisements were truly philanthropic. One of them bore the\nrousing headline: \"Money! Money!! Money!!!\" The second announced that\n\"Mr. P. R., formerly making only eighteen a week in a barber shop,\nwrites to us that since taking our course he is now pulling down $5,000\nas an Osteo-vitalic Physician;\" and the third that \"Miss J. L., recently\na wrapper in a store, is now getting Ten Real Dollars a day teaching our\nHindu System of Vibratory Breathing and Mental Control.\"\n\nTed had collected fifty or sixty announcements, from annual\nreference-books, from Sunday School periodicals, fiction-magazines,\nand journals of discussion. One benefactor implored, \"Don't be a\nWallflower--Be More Popular and Make More Money--YOU Can Ukulele or Sing\nYourself into Society! By the secret principles of a Newly Discovered\nSystem of Music Teaching, any one--man, lady or child--can, without\ntiresome exercises, special training or long drawn out study, and\nwithout waste of time, money or energy, learn to play by note,\npiano, banjo, cornet, clarinet, saxophone, violin or drum, and learn\nsight-singing.\"\n\nThe next, under the wistful appeal \"Finger Print Detectives Wanted--Big\nIncomes!\" confided: \"YOU red-blooded men and women--this is the\nPROFESSION you have been looking for. There's MONEY in it, BIG money,\nand that rapid change of scene, that entrancing and compelling interest\nand fascination, which your active mind and adventurous spirit crave.\nThink of being the chief figure and directing factor in solving strange\nmysteries and baffling crimes. This wonderful profession brings you into\ncontact with influential men on the basis of equality, and often calls\nupon you to travel everywhere, maybe to distant lands--all expenses\npaid. NO SPECIAL EDUCATION REQUIRED.\"\n\n\"Oh, boy! I guess that wins the fire-brick necklace! Wouldn't it be\nswell to travel everywhere and nab some famous crook!\" whooped Ted.\n\n\"Well, I don't think much of that. Doggone likely to get hurt. Still,\nthat music-study stunt might be pretty fair, though. There's no reason\nwhy, if efficiency-experts put their minds to it the way they have to\nrouting products in a factory, they couldn't figure out some scheme so\na person wouldn't have to monkey with all this practising and exercises\nthat you get in music.\" Babbitt was impressed, and he had a delightful\nparental feeling that they two, the men of the family, understood each\nother.\n\nHe listened to the notices of mail-box universities which taught\nShort-story Writing and Improving the Memory, Motion-picture-acting\nand Developing the Soul-power, Banking and Spanish, Chiropody and\nPhotography, Electrical Engineering and Window-trimming, Poultry-raising\nand Chemistry.\n\n\"Well--well--\" Babbitt sought for adequate expression of his admiration.\n\"I'm a son of a gun! I knew this correspondence-school business had\nbecome a mighty profitable game--makes suburban real-estate look\nlike two cents!--but I didn't realize it'd got to be such a reg'lar\nkey-industry! Must rank right up with groceries and movies. Always\nfigured somebody'd come along with the brains to not leave education to\na lot of bookworms and impractical theorists but make a big thing out of\nit. Yes, I can see how a lot of these courses might interest you. I must\nask the fellows at the Athletic if they ever realized--But same time,\nTed, you know how advertisers, I means some advertisers, exaggerate. I\ndon't know as they'd be able to jam you through these courses as fast as\nthey claim they can.\"\n\n\"Oh sure, Dad; of course.\" Ted had the immense and joyful maturity of a\nboy who is respectfully listened to by his elders. Babbitt concentrated\non him with grateful affection:\n\n\"I can see what an influence these courses might have on the whole\neducational works. Course I'd never admit it publicly--fellow like\nmyself, a State U. graduate, it's only decent and patriotic for him to\nblow his horn and boost the Alma Mater--but smatter of fact, there's\na whole lot of valuable time lost even at the U., studying poetry and\nFrench and subjects that never brought in anybody a cent. I don't know\nbut what maybe these correspondence-courses might prove to be one of the\nmost important American inventions.\n\n\"Trouble with a lot of folks is: they're so blame material; they don't\nsee the spiritual and mental side of American supremacy; they think that\ninventions like the telephone and the areoplane and wireless--no,\nthat was a Wop invention, but anyway: they think these mechanical\nimprovements are all that we stand for; whereas to a real thinker, he\nsees that spiritual and, uh, dominating movements like Efficiency, and\nRotarianism, and Prohibition, and Democracy are what compose our deepest\nand truest wealth. And maybe this new principle in education-at-home may\nbe another--may be another factor. I tell you, Ted, we've got to have\nVision--\"\n\n\"I think those correspondence-courses are terrible!\"\n\nThe philosophers gasped. It was Mrs. Babbitt who had made this discord\nin their spiritual harmony, and one of Mrs. Babbitt's virtues was that,\nexcept during dinner-parties, when she was transformed into a raging\nhostess, she took care of the house and didn't bother the males by\nthinking. She went on firmly:\n\n\"It sounds awful to me, the way they coax those poor young folks\nto think they're learning something, and nobody 'round to help them\nand--You two learn so quick, but me, I always was slow. But just the\nsame--\"\n\nBabbitt attended to her: \"Nonsense! Get just as much, studying at\nhome. You don't think a fellow learns any more because he blows in his\nfather's hard-earned money and sits around in Morris chairs in a swell\nHarvard dormitory with pictures and shields and table-covers and those\ndoodads, do you? I tell you, I'm a college man--I KNOW! There is one\nobjection you might make though. I certainly do protest against any\neffort to get a lot of fellows out of barber shops and factories into\nthe professions. They're too crowded already, and what'll we do for\nworkmen if all those fellows go and get educated?\"\n\nTed was leaning back, smoking a cigarette without reproof. He was, for\nthe moment, sharing the high thin air of Babbitt's speculation as though\nhe were Paul Riesling or even Dr. Howard Littlefield. He hinted:\n\n\"Well, what do you think then, Dad? Wouldn't it be a good idea if I\ncould go off to China or some peppy place, and study engineering or\nsomething by mail?\"\n\n\"No, and I'll tell you why, son. I've found out it's a mighty nice thing\nto be able to say you're a B.A. Some client that doesn't know what you\nare and thinks you're just a plug business man, he gets to shooting off\nhis mouth about economics or literature or foreign trade conditions, and\nyou just ease in something like, 'When I was in college--course I got\nmy B.A. in sociology and all that junk--' Oh, it puts an awful crimp in\ntheir style! But there wouldn't be any class to saying 'I got the degree\nof Stamp-licker from the Bezuzus Mail-order University!' You see--My\ndad was a pretty good old coot, but he never had much style to him, and\nI had to work darn hard to earn my way through college. Well, it's been\nworth it, to be able to associate with the finest gentlemen in Zenith,\nat the clubs and so on, and I wouldn't want you to drop out of the\ngentlemen class--the class that are just as red-blooded as the Common\nPeople but still have power and personality. It would kind of hurt me if\nyou did that, old man!\"\n\n\"I know, Dad! Sure! All right. I'll stick to it. Say! Gosh! Gee whiz! I\nforgot all about those kids I was going to take to the chorus rehearsal.\nI'll have to duck!\"\n\n\"But you haven't done all your home-work.\"\n\n\"Do it first thing in the morning.\"\n\n\"Well--\"\n\nSix times in the past sixty days Babbitt had stormed, \"You will not 'do\nit first thing in the morning'! You'll do it right now!\" but to-night he\nsaid, \"Well, better hustle,\" and his smile was the rare shy radiance he\nkept for Paul Riesling.\n\n\nIV\n\n\"Ted's a good boy,\" he said to Mrs. Babbitt.\n\n\"Oh, he is!\"\n\n\"Who's these girls he's going to pick up? Are they nice decent girls?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Oh dear, Ted never tells me anything any more. I don't\nunderstand what's come over the children of this generation. I used\nto have to tell Papa and Mama everything, but seems like the children\nto-day have just slipped away from all control.\"\n\n\"I hope they're decent girls. Course Ted's no longer a kid, and I\nwouldn't want him to, uh, get mixed up and everything.\"\n\n\"George: I wonder if you oughtn't to take him aside and tell him\nabout--Things!\" She blushed and lowered her eyes.\n\n\"Well, I don't know. Way I figure it, Myra, no sense suggesting a lot\nof Things to a boy's mind. Think up enough devilment by himself. But\nI wonder--It's kind of a hard question. Wonder what Littlefield thinks\nabout it?\"\n\n\"Course Papa agrees with you. He says all this--Instruction is--He says\n'tisn't decent.\"\n\n\"Oh, he does, does he! Well, let me tell you that whatever Henry T.\nThompson thinks--about morals, I mean, though course you can't beat the\nold duffer--\"\n\n\"Why, what a way to talk of Papa!\"\n\n\"--simply can't beat him at getting in on the ground floor of a deal,\nbut let me tell you whenever he springs any ideas about higher things\nand education, then I know I think just the opposite. You may not regard\nme as any great brain-shark, but believe me, I'm a regular college\npresident, compared with Henry T.! Yes sir, by golly, I'm going to take\nTed aside and tell him why I lead a strictly moral life.\"\n\n\"Oh, will you? When?\"\n\n\"When? When? What's the use of trying to pin me down to When and Why and\nWhere and How and When? That's the trouble with women, that's why they\ndon't make high-class executives; they haven't any sense of diplomacy.\nWhen the proper opportunity and occasion arises so it just comes\nin natural, why then I'll have a friendly little talk with him\nand--and--Was that Tinka hollering up-stairs? She ought to been asleep,\nlong ago.\"\n\nHe prowled through the living-room, and stood in the sun-parlor, that\nglass-walled room of wicker chairs and swinging couch in which they\nloafed on Sunday afternoons. Outside only the lights of Doppelbrau's\nhouse and the dim presence of Babbitt's favorite elm broke the softness\nof April night.\n\n\"Good visit with the boy. Getting over feeling cranky, way I did this\nmorning. And restless. Though, by golly, I will have a few days alone\nwith Paul in Maine! . . . That devil Zilla! . . . But . . . Ted's all\nright. Whole family all right. And good business. Not many fellows make\nfour hundred and fifty bucks, practically half of a thousand dollars\neasy as I did to-day! Maybe when we all get to rowing it's just as much\nmy fault as it is theirs. Oughtn't to get grouchy like I do. But--Wish\nI'd been a pioneer, same as my grand-dad. But then, wouldn't have a\nhouse like this. I--Oh, gosh, I DON'T KNOW!\"\n\nHe thought moodily of Paul Riesling, of their youth together, of the\ngirls they had known.\n\nWhen Babbitt had graduated from the State University, twenty-four years\nago, he had intended to be a lawyer. He had been a ponderous debater in\ncollege; he felt that he was an orator; he saw himself becoming governor\nof the state. While he read law he worked as a real-estate salesman. He\nsaved money, lived in a boarding-house, supped on poached egg on hash.\nThe lively Paul Riesling (who was certainly going off to Europe to study\nviolin, next month or next year) was his refuge till Paul was bespelled\nby Zilla Colbeck, who laughed and danced and drew men after her plump\nand gaily wagging finger.\n\nBabbitt's evenings were barren then, and he found comfort only in Paul's\nsecond cousin, Myra Thompson, a sleek and gentle girl who showed her\ncapacity by agreeing with the ardent young Babbitt that of course he was\ngoing to be governor some day. Where Zilla mocked him as a country boy,\nMyra said indignantly that he was ever so much solider than the young\ndandies who had been born in the great city of Zenith--an ancient\nsettlement in 1897, one hundred and five years old, with two hundred\nthousand population, the queen and wonder of all the state and, to the\nCatawba boy, George Babbitt, so vast and thunderous and luxurious that\nhe was flattered to know a girl ennobled by birth in Zenith.\n\nOf love there was no talk between them. He knew that if he was to\nstudy law he could not marry for years; and Myra was distinctly a Nice\nGirl--one didn't kiss her, one didn't \"think about her that way at all\"\nunless one was going to marry her. But she was a dependable companion.\nShe was always ready to go skating, walking; always content to hear his\ndiscourses on the great things he was going to do, the distressed poor\nwhom he would defend against the Unjust Rich, the speeches he would\nmake at Banquets, the inexactitudes of popular thought which he would\ncorrect.\n\nOne evening when he was weary and soft-minded, he saw that she had been\nweeping. She had been left out of a party given by Zilla. Somehow her\nhead was on his shoulder and he was kissing away the tears--and she\nraised her head to say trustingly, \"Now that we're engaged, shall we be\nmarried soon or shall we wait?\"\n\nEngaged? It was his first hint of it. His affection for this brown\ntender woman thing went cold and fearful, but he could not hurt her,\ncould not abuse her trust. He mumbled something about waiting, and\nescaped. He walked for an hour, trying to find a way of telling her that\nit was a mistake. Often, in the month after, he got near to telling her,\nbut it was pleasant to have a girl in his arms, and less and less could\nhe insult her by blurting that he didn't love her. He himself had no\ndoubt. The evening before his marriage was an agony, and the morning\nwild with the desire to flee.\n\nShe made him what is known as a Good Wife. She was loyal, industrious,\nand at rare times merry. She passed from a feeble disgust at their\ncloser relations into what promised to be ardent affection, but it\ndrooped into bored routine. Yet she existed only for him and for the\nchildren, and she was as sorry, as worried as himself, when he gave up\nthe law and trudged on in a rut of listing real estate.\n\n\"Poor kid, she hasn't had much better time than I have,\" Babbitt\nreflected, standing in the dark sun-parlor. \"But--I wish I could 've had\na whirl at law and politics. Seen what I could do. Well--Maybe I've made\nmore money as it is.\"\n\nHe returned to the living-room but before he settled down he smoothed\nhis wife's hair, and she glanced up, happy and somewhat surprised.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nI\n\nHE solemnly finished the last copy of the American Magazine, while his\nwife sighed, laid away her darning, and looked enviously at the lingerie\ndesigns in a women's magazine. The room was very still.\n\nIt was a room which observed the best Floral Heights standards. The gray\nwalls were divided into artificial paneling by strips of white-enameled\npine. From the Babbitts' former house had come two much-carved\nrocking-chairs, but the other chairs were new, very deep and restful,\nupholstered in blue and gold-striped velvet. A blue velvet davenport\nfaced the fireplace, and behind it was a cherrywood table and a tall\npiano-lamp with a shade of golden silk. (Two out of every three houses\nin Floral Heights had before the fireplace a davenport, a mahogany table\nreal or imitation, and a piano-lamp or a reading-lamp with a shade of\nyellow or rose silk.)\n\nOn the table was a runner of gold-threaded Chinese fabric, four\nmagazines, a silver box containing cigarette-crumbs, and three\n\"gift-books\"--large, expensive editions of fairy-tales illustrated by\nEnglish artists and as yet unread by any Babbitt save Tinka.\n\nIn a corner by the front windows was a large cabinet Victrola. (Eight\nout of every nine Floral Heights houses had a cabinet phonograph.)\n\nAmong the pictures, hung in the exact center of each gray panel, were\na red and black imitation English hunting-print, an anemic imitation\nboudoir-print with a French caption of whose morality Babbitt had always\nbeen rather suspicious, and a \"hand-colored\" photograph of a Colonial\nroom--rag rug, maiden spinning, cat demure before a white fireplace.\n(Nineteen out of every twenty houses in Floral Heights had either a\nhunting-print, a Madame Feit la Toilette print, a colored photograph of\na New England house, a photograph of a Rocky Mountain, or all four.)\n\nIt was a room as superior in comfort to the \"parlor\" of Babbitt's\nboyhood as his motor was superior to his father's buggy. Though there\nwas nothing in the room that was interesting, there was nothing that\nwas offensive. It was as neat, and as negative, as a block of artificial\nice. The fireplace was unsoftened by downy ashes or by sooty brick; the\nbrass fire-irons were of immaculate polish; and the grenadier andirons\nwere like samples in a shop, desolate, unwanted, lifeless things of\ncommerce.\n\nAgainst the wall was a piano, with another piano-lamp, but no one used\nit save Tinka. The hard briskness of the phonograph contented them;\ntheir store of jazz records made them feel wealthy and cultured; and all\nthey knew of creating music was the nice adjustment of a bamboo needle.\nThe books on the table were unspotted and laid in rigid parallels;\nnot one corner of the carpet-rug was curled; and nowhere was there\na hockey-stick, a torn picture-book, an old cap, or a gregarious and\ndisorganizing dog.\n\n\nII\n\nAt home, Babbitt never read with absorption. He was concentrated enough\nat the office but here he crossed his legs and fidgeted. When his story\nwas interesting he read the best, that is the funniest, paragraphs to\nhis wife; when it did not hold him he coughed, scratched his ankles and\nhis right ear, thrust his left thumb into his vest pocket, jingled his\nsilver, whirled the cigar-cutter and the keys on one end of his watch\nchain, yawned, rubbed his nose, and found errands to do. He went\nupstairs to put on his slippers--his elegant slippers of seal-brown,\nshaped like medieval shoes. He brought up an apple from the barrel which\nstood by the trunk-closet in the basement.\n\n\"An apple a day keeps the doctor away,\" he enlightened Mrs. Babbitt, for\nquite the first time in fourteen hours.\n\n\"That's so.\"\n\n\"An apple is Nature's best regulator.\"\n\n\"Yes, it--\"\n\n\"Trouble with women is, they never have sense enough to form regular\nhabits.\"\n\n\"Well, I--\"\n\n\"Always nibbling and eating between meals.\"\n\n\"George!\" She looked up from her reading. \"Did you have a light lunch\nto-day, like you were going to? I did!\"\n\nThis malicious and unprovoked attack astounded him. \"Well, maybe it\nwasn't as light as--Went to lunch with Paul and didn't have much chance\nto diet. Oh, you needn't to grin like a chessy cat! If it wasn't for me\nwatching out and keeping an eye on our diet--I'm the only member of this\nfamily that appreciates the value of oatmeal for breakfast. I--\"\n\nShe stooped over her story while he piously sliced and gulped down the\napple, discoursing:\n\n\"One thing I've done: cut down my smoking.\n\n\"Had kind of a run-in with Graff in the office. He's getting too darn\nfresh. I'll stand for a good deal, but once in a while I got to assert\nmy authority, and I jumped him. 'Stan,' I said--Well, I told him just\nexactly where he got off.\n\n\"Funny kind of a day. Makes you feel restless.\n\n\"Wellllllllll, uh--\" That sleepiest sound in the world, the terminal\nyawn. Mrs. Babbitt yawned with it, and looked grateful as he droned,\n\"How about going to bed, eh? Don't suppose Rone and Ted will be in till\nall hours. Yep, funny kind of a day; not terribly warm but yet--Gosh,\nI'd like--Some day I'm going to take a long motor trip.\"\n\n\"Yes, we'd enjoy that,\" she yawned.\n\nHe looked away from her as he realized that he did not wish to have\nher go with him. As he locked doors and tried windows and set the heat\nregulator so that the furnace-drafts would open automatically in the\nmorning, he sighed a little, heavy with a lonely feeling which perplexed\nand frightened him. So absent-minded was he that he could not remember\nwhich window-catches he had inspected, and through the darkness,\nfumbling at unseen perilous chairs, he crept back to try them all over\nagain. His feet were loud on the steps as he clumped upstairs at the end\nof this great and treacherous day of veiled rebellions.\n\n\nIII\n\nBefore breakfast he always reverted to up-state village boyhood, and\nshrank from the complex urban demands of shaving, bathing, deciding\nwhether the current shirt was clean enough for another day. Whenever he\nstayed home in the evening he went to bed early, and thriftily got\nahead in those dismal duties. It was his luxurious custom to shave while\nsitting snugly in a tubful of hot water. He may be viewed to-night as a\nplump, smooth, pink, baldish, podgy goodman, robbed of the importance of\nspectacles, squatting in breast-high water, scraping his lather-smeared\ncheeks with a safety-razor like a tiny lawn-mower, and with melancholy\ndignity clawing through the water to recover a slippery and active piece\nof soap.\n\nHe was lulled to dreaming by the caressing warmth. The light fell on the\ninner surface of the tub in a pattern of delicate wrinkled lines which\nslipped with a green sparkle over the curving porcelain as the clear\nwater trembled. Babbitt lazily watched it; noted that along the\nsilhouette of his legs against the radiance on the bottom of the tub,\nthe shadows of the air-bubbles clinging to the hairs were reproduced\nas strange jungle mosses. He patted the water, and the reflected light\ncapsized and leaped and volleyed. He was content and childish. He\nplayed. He shaved a swath down the calf of one plump leg.\n\nThe drain-pipe was dripping, a dulcet and lively song: drippety drip\ndrip dribble, drippety drip drip drip. He was enchanted by it. He looked\nat the solid tub, the beautiful nickel taps, the tiled walls of the\nroom, and felt virtuous in the possession of this splendor.\n\nHe roused himself and spoke gruffly to his bath-things. \"Come here!\nYou've done enough fooling!\" he reproved the treacherous soap, and\ndefied the scratchy nail-brush with \"Oh, you would, would you!\" He\nsoaped himself, and rinsed himself, and austerely rubbed himself; he\nnoted a hole in the Turkish towel, and meditatively thrust a finger\nthrough it, and marched back to the bedroom, a grave and unbending\ncitizen.\n\nThere was a moment of gorgeous abandon, a flash of melodrama such as he\nfound in traffic-driving, when he laid out a clean collar, discovered\nthat it was frayed in front, and tore it up with a magnificent yeeeeeing\nsound.\n\nMost important of all was the preparation of his bed and the\nsleeping-porch.\n\nIt is not known whether he enjoyed his sleeping-porch because of the\nfresh air or because it was the standard thing to have a sleeping-porch.\n\nJust as he was an Elk, a Booster, and a member of the Chamber of\nCommerce, just as the priests of the Presbyterian Church determined his\nevery religious belief and the senators who controlled the Republican\nParty decided in little smoky rooms in Washington what he should think\nabout disarmament, tariff, and Germany, so did the large national\nadvertisers fix the surface of his life, fix what he believed to be\nhis individuality. These standard advertised wares--toothpastes, socks,\ntires, cameras, instantaneous hot-water heaters--were his symbols and\nproofs of excellence; at first the signs, then the substitutes, for joy\nand passion and wisdom.\n\nBut none of these advertised tokens of financial and social success was\nmore significant than a sleeping-porch with a sun-parlor below.\n\nThe rites of preparing for bed were elaborate and unchanging. The\nblankets had to be tucked in at the foot of his cot. (Also, the reason\nwhy the maid hadn't tucked in the blankets had to be discussed with Mrs.\nBabbitt.) The rag rug was adjusted so that his bare feet would strike it\nwhen he arose in the morning. The alarm clock was wound. The hot-water\nbottle was filled and placed precisely two feet from the bottom of the\ncot.\n\nThese tremendous undertakings yielded to his determination; one by\none they were announced to Mrs. Babbitt and smashed through to\naccomplishment. At last his brow cleared, and in his \"Gnight!\" rang\nvirile power. But there was yet need of courage. As he sank into sleep,\njust at the first exquisite relaxation, the Doppelbrau car came home.\nHe bounced into wakefulness, lamenting, \"Why the devil can't some people\nnever get to bed at a reasonable hour?\" So familiar was he with the\nprocess of putting up his own car that he awaited each step like an able\nexecutioner condemned to his own rack.\n\nThe car insultingly cheerful on the driveway. The car door opened and\nbanged shut, then the garage door slid open, grating on the sill, and\nthe car door again. The motor raced for the climb up into the garage and\nraced once more, explosively, before it was shut off. A final opening\nand slamming of the car door. Silence then, a horrible silence filled\nwith waiting, till the leisurely Mr. Doppelbrau had examined the state\nof his tires and had at last shut the garage door. Instantly, for\nBabbitt, a blessed state of oblivion.\n\n\nIV\n\nAt that moment In the city of Zenith, Horace Updike was making love to\nLucile McKelvey in her mauve drawing-room on Royal Ridge, after their\nreturn from a lecture by an eminent English novelist. Updike was\nZenith's professional bachelor; a slim-waisted man of forty-six with\nan effeminate voice and taste in flowers, cretonnes, and flappers. Mrs.\nMcKelvey was red-haired, creamy, discontented, exquisite, rude, and\nhonest. Updike tried his invariable first maneuver--touching her nervous\nwrist.\n\n\"Don't be an idiot!\" she said.\n\n\"Do you mind awfully?\"\n\n\"No! That's what I mind!\"\n\nHe changed to conversation. He was famous at conversation. He spoke\nreasonably of psychoanalysis, Long Island polo, and the Ming platter\nhe had found in Vancouver. She promised to meet him in Deauville, the\ncoming summer, \"though,\" she sighed, \"it's becoming too dreadfully\nbanal; nothing but Americans and frowsy English baronesses.\"\n\nAnd at that moment in Zenith, a cocaine-runner and a prostitute were\ndrinking cocktails in Healey Hanson's saloon on Front Street. Since\nnational prohibition was now in force, and since Zenith was notoriously\nlaw-abiding, they were compelled to keep the cocktails innocent\nby drinking them out of tea-cups. The lady threw her cup at the\ncocaine-runner's head. He worked his revolver out of the pocket in his\nsleeve, and casually murdered her.\n\nAt that moment in Zenith, two men sat in a laboratory. For thirty-seven\nhours now they had been working on a report of their investigations of\nsynthetic rubber.\n\nAt that moment in Zenith, there was a conference of four union officials\nas to whether the twelve thousand coal-miners within a hundred miles\nof the city should strike. Of these men one resembled a testy and\nprosperous grocer, one a Yankee carpenter, one a soda-clerk, and one\na Russian Jewish actor The Russian Jew quoted Kautsky, Gene Debs, and\nAbraham Lincoln.\n\nAt that moment a G. A. R. veteran was dying. He had come from the\nCivil War straight to a farm which, though it was officially within\nthe city-limits of Zenith, was primitive as the backwoods. He had never\nridden in a motor car, never seen a bath-tub, never read any book save\nthe Bible, McGuffey's readers, and religious tracts; and he believed\nthat the earth is flat, that the English are the Lost Ten Tribes of\nIsrael, and that the United States is a democracy.\n\nAt that moment the steel and cement town which composed the factory of\nthe Pullmore Tractor Company of Zenith was running on night shift to\nfill an order of tractors for the Polish army. It hummed like a million\nbees, glared through its wide windows like a volcano. Along the high\nwire fences, searchlights played on cinder-lined yards, switch-tracks,\nand armed guards on patrol.\n\nAt that moment Mike Monday was finishing a meeting. Mr. Monday, the\ndistinguished evangelist, the best-known Protestant pontiff in America,\nhad once been a prize-fighter. Satan had not dealt justly with him. As\na prize-fighter he gained nothing but his crooked nose, his celebrated\nvocabulary, and his stage-presence. The service of the Lord had been\nmore profitable. He was about to retire with a fortune. It had been well\nearned, for, to quote his last report, \"Rev. Mr. Monday, the Prophet\nwith a Punch, has shown that he is the world's greatest salesman of\nsalvation, and that by efficient organization the overhead of spiritual\nregeneration may be kept down to an unprecedented rock-bottom basis. He\nhas converted over two hundred thousand lost and priceless souls at an\naverage cost of less than ten dollars a head.\"\n\nOf the larger cities of the land, only Zenith had hesitated to submit\nits vices to Mike Monday and his expert reclamation corps. The more\nenterprising organizations of the city had voted to invite him--Mr.\nGeorge F. Babbitt had once praised him in a speech at the Boosters'\nClub. But there was opposition from certain Episcopalian and\nCongregationalist ministers, those renegades whom Mr. Monday so finely\ncalled \"a bunch of gospel-pushers with dish-water instead of blood, a\ngang of squealers that need more dust on the knees of their pants and\nmore hair on their skinny old chests.\" This opposition had been\ncrushed when the secretary of the Chamber of Commerce had reported to a\ncommittee of manufacturers that in every city where he had appeared, Mr.\nMonday had turned the minds of workmen from wages and hours to higher\nthings, and thus averted strikes. He was immediately invited.\n\nAn expense fund of forty thousand dollars had been underwritten; out on\nthe County Fair Grounds a Mike Monday Tabernacle had been erected,\nto seat fifteen thousand people. In it the prophet was at this moment\nconcluding his message:\n\n\"There's a lot of smart college professors and tea-guzzling slobs in\nthis burg that say I'm a roughneck and a never-wuzzer and my knowledge\nof history is not-yet. Oh, there's a gang of woolly-whiskered book-lice\nthat think they know more than Almighty God, and prefer a lot of Hun\nscience and smutty German criticism to the straight and simple Word\nof God. Oh, there's a swell bunch of Lizzie boys and lemon-suckers and\npie-faces and infidels and beer-bloated scribblers that love to fire off\ntheir filthy mouths and yip that Mike Monday is vulgar and full of mush.\nThose pups are saying now that I hog the gospel-show, that I'm in it\nfor the coin. Well, now listen, folks! I'm going to give those birds a\nchance! They can stand right up here and tell me to my face that I'm a\ngaloot and a liar and a hick! Only if they do--if they do!--don't faint\nwith surprise if some of those rum-dumm liars get one good swift poke\nfrom Mike, with all the kick of God's Flaming Righteousness behind the\nwallop! Well, come on, folks! Who says it? Who says Mike Monday is a\nfourflush and a yahoo? Huh? Don't I see anybody standing up? Well, there\nyou are! Now I guess the folks in this man's town will quit listening to\nall this kyoodling from behind the fence; I guess you'll quit listening\nto the guys that pan and roast and kick and beef, and vomit out filthy\natheism; and all of you 'll come in, with every grain of pep and\nreverence you got, and boost all together for Jesus Christ and his\neverlasting mercy and tenderness!\"\n\nAt that moment Seneca Doane, the radical lawyer, and Dr. Kurt Yavitch,\nthe histologist (whose report on the destruction of epithelial cells\nunder radium had made the name of Zenith known in Munich, Prague, and\nRome), were talking in Doane's library.\n\n\"Zenith's a city with gigantic power--gigantic buildings, gigantic\nmachines, gigantic transportation,\" meditated Doane.\n\n\"I hate your city. It has standardized all the beauty out of life. It\nis one big railroad station--with all the people taking tickets for the\nbest cemeteries,\" Dr. Yavitch said placidly.\n\nDoane roused. \"I'm hanged if it is! You make me sick, Kurt, with your\nperpetual whine about 'standardization.' Don't you suppose any other\nnation is 'standardized?' Is anything more standardized than England,\nwith every house that can afford it having the same muffins at the same\ntea-hour, and every retired general going to exactly the same evensong\nat the same gray stone church with a square tower, and every golfing\nprig in Harris tweeds saying 'Right you are!' to every other prosperous\nass? Yet I love England. And for standardization--just look at the\nsidewalk cafes in France and the love-making in Italy!\n\n\"Standardization is excellent, per se. When I buy an Ingersoll watch or\na Ford, I get a better tool for less money, and I know precisely what\nI'm getting, and that leaves me more time and energy to be individual\nin. And--I remember once in London I saw a picture of an American\nsuburb, in a toothpaste ad on the back of the Saturday Evening Post--an\nelm-lined snowy street of these new houses, Georgian some of 'em, or\nwith low raking roofs and--The kind of street you'd find here in Zenith,\nsay in Floral Heights. Open. Trees. Grass. And I was homesick! There's\nno other country in the world that has such pleasant houses. And I don't\ncare if they ARE standardized. It's a corking standard!\n\n\"No, what I fight in Zenith is standardization of thought, and, of\ncourse, the traditions of competition. The real villains of the piece\nare the clean, kind, industrious Family Men who use every known brand of\ntrickery and cruelty to insure the prosperity of their cubs. The worst\nthing about these fellows is that they're so good and, in their work\nat least, so intelligent. You can't hate them properly, and yet their\nstandardized minds are the enemy.\n\n\"Then this boosting--Sneakingly I have a notion that Zenith is a better\nplace to live in than Manchester or Glasgow or Lyons or Berlin or\nTurin--\"\n\n\"It is not, and I have lift in most of them,\" murmured Dr. Yavitch.\n\n\"Well, matter of taste. Personally, I prefer a city with a future so\nunknown that it excites my imagination. But what I particularly want--\"\n\n\"You,\" said Dr. Yavitch, \"are a middle-road liberal, and you haven't\nthe slightest idea what you want. I, being a revolutionist, know exactly\nwhat I want--and what I want now is a drink.\"\n\n\nVI\n\nAt that moment in Zenith, Jake Offutt, the politician, and Henry T.\nThompson were in conference. Offutt suggested, \"The thing to do is to\nget your fool son-in-law, Babbitt, to put it over. He's one of these\npatriotic guys. When he grabs a piece of property for the gang, he makes\nit look like we were dyin' of love for the dear peepul, and I do love to\nbuy respectability--reasonable. Wonder how long we can keep it up, Hank?\nWe're safe as long as the good little boys like George Babbitt and all\nthe nice respectable labor-leaders think you and me are rugged patriots.\nThere's swell pickings for an honest politician here, Hank: a whole city\nworking to provide cigars and fried chicken and dry martinis for us,\nand rallying to our banner with indignation, oh, fierce indignation,\nwhenever some squealer like this fellow Seneca Doane comes along!\nHonest, Hank, a smart codger like me ought to be ashamed of himself if\nhe didn't milk cattle like them, when they come around mooing for it!\nBut the Traction gang can't get away with grand larceny like it used\nto. I wonder when--Hank, I wish we could fix some way to run this fellow\nSeneca Doane out of town. It's him or us!\"\n\nAt that moment in Zenith, three hundred and forty or fifty thousand\nOrdinary People were asleep, a vast unpenetrated shadow. In the slum\nbeyond the railroad tracks, a young man who for six months had sought\nwork turned on the gas and killed himself and his wife.\n\nAt that moment Lloyd Mallam, the poet, owner of the Hafiz Book Shop,\nwas finishing a rondeau to show how diverting was life amid the feuds of\nmedieval Florence, but how dull it was in so obvious a place as Zenith.\n\nAnd at that moment George F. Babbitt turned ponderously in bed--the\nlast turn, signifying that he'd had enough of this worried business of\nfalling asleep and was about it in earnest.\n\nInstantly he was in the magic dream. He was somewhere among unknown\npeople who laughed at him. He slipped away, ran down the paths of a\nmidnight garden, and at the gate the fairy child was waiting. Her\ndear and tranquil hand caressed his cheek. He was gallant and wise and\nwell-beloved; warm ivory were her arms; and beyond perilous moors the\nbrave sea glittered.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nI\n\nTHE great events of Babbitt's spring were the secret buying of\nreal-estate options in Linton for certain street-traction officials,\nbefore the public announcement that the Linton Avenue Car Line would be\nextended, and a dinner which was, as he rejoiced to his wife, not only\n\"a regular society spread but a real sure-enough highbrow affair, with\nsome of the keenest intellects and the brightest bunch of little women\nin town.\" It was so absorbing an occasion that he almost forgot his\ndesire to run off to Maine with Paul Riesling.\n\nThough he had been born in the village of Catawba, Babbitt had risen\nto that metropolitan social plane on which hosts have as many as four\npeople at dinner without planning it for more than an evening or two.\nBut a dinner of twelve, with flowers from the florist's and all the\ncut-glass out, staggered even the Babbitts.\n\nFor two weeks they studied, debated, and arbitrated the list of guests.\n\nBabbitt marveled, \"Of course we're up-to-date ourselves, but still,\nthink of us entertaining a famous poet like Chum Frink, a fellow that on\nnothing but a poem or so every day and just writing a few advertisements\npulls down fifteen thousand berries a year!\"\n\n\"Yes, and Howard Littlefield. Do you know, the other evening Eunice told\nme her papa speaks three languages!\" said Mrs. Babbitt.\n\n\"Huh! That's nothing! So do I--American, baseball, and poker!\"\n\n\"I don't think it's nice to be funny about a matter like that. Think how\nwonderful it must be to speak three languages, and so useful and--And\nwith people like that, I don't see why we invite the Orville Joneses.\"\n\n\"Well now, Orville is a mighty up-and-coming fellow!\"\n\n\"Yes, I know, but--A laundry!\"\n\n\"I'll admit a laundry hasn't got the class of poetry or real estate,\nbut just the same, Orvy is mighty deep. Ever start him spieling about\ngardening? Say, that fellow can tell you the name of every kind of tree,\nand some of their Greek and Latin names too! Besides, we owe the Joneses\na dinner. Besides, gosh, we got to have some boob for audience, when a\nbunch of hot-air artists like Frink and Littlefield get going.\"\n\n\"Well, dear--I meant to speak of this--I do think that as host you ought\nto sit back and listen, and let your guests have a chance to talk once\nin a while!\"\n\n\"Oh, you do, do you! Sure! I talk all the time! And I'm just a business\nman--oh sure!--I'm no Ph.D. like Littlefield, and no poet, and I haven't\nanything to spring! Well, let me tell you, just the other day your darn\nChum Frink comes up to me at the club begging to know what I thought\nabout the Springfield school-bond issue. And who told him? I did! You\nbet your life I told him! Little me! I certainly did! He came up and\nasked me, and I told him all about it! You bet! And he was darn glad to\nlisten to me and--Duty as a host! I guess I know my duty as a host and\nlet me tell you--\"\n\nIn fact, the Orville Joneses were invited.\n\n\nII\n\nOn the morning of the dinner, Mrs. Babbitt was restive.\n\n\"Now, George, I want you to be sure and be home early tonight. Remember,\nyou have to dress.\"\n\n\"Uh-huh. I see by the Advocate that the Presbyterian General Assembly\nhas voted to quit the Interchurch World Movement. That--\"\n\n\"George! Did you hear what I said? You must be home in time to dress\nto-night.\"\n\n\"Dress? Hell! I'm dressed now! Think I'm going down to the office in my\nB.V.D.'s?\"\n\n\"I will not have you talking indecently before the children! And you do\nhave to put on your dinner-jacket!\"\n\n\"I guess you mean my Tux. I tell you, of all the doggone nonsensical\nnuisances that was ever invented--\"\n\nThree minutes later, after Babbitt had wailed, \"Well, I don't know\nwhether I'm going to dress or NOT\" in a manner which showed that he was\ngoing to dress, the discussion moved on.\n\n\"Now, George, you mustn't forget to call in at Vecchia's on the way home\nand get the ice cream. Their delivery-wagon is broken down, and I don't\nwant to trust them to send it by--\"\n\n\"All right! You told me that before breakfast!\"\n\n\"Well, I don't want you to forget. I'll be working my head off all day\nlong, training the girl that's to help with the dinner--\"\n\n\"All nonsense, anyway, hiring an extra girl for the feed. Matilda could\nperfectly well--\"\n\n\"--and I have to go out and buy the flowers, and fix them, and set\nthe table, and order the salted almonds, and look at the chickens, and\narrange for the children to have their supper upstairs and--And I simply\nmust depend on you to go to Vecchia's for the ice cream.\"\n\n\"All riiiiiight! Gosh, I'm going to get it!\"\n\n\"All you have to do is to go in and say you want the ice cream that Mrs.\nBabbitt ordered yesterday by 'phone, and it will be all ready for you.\"\n\nAt ten-thirty she telephoned to him not to forget the ice cream from\nVecchia's.\n\nHe was surprised and blasted then by a thought. He wondered whether\nFloral Heights dinners were worth the hideous toil involved. But he\nrepented the sacrilege in the excitement of buying the materials for\ncocktails.\n\nNow this was the manner of obtaining alcohol under the reign of\nrighteousness and prohibition:\n\nHe drove from the severe rectangular streets of the modern business\ncenter into the tangled byways of Old Town--jagged blocks filled with\nsooty warehouses and lofts; on into The Arbor, once a pleasant orchard\nbut now a morass of lodging-houses, tenements, and brothels. Exquisite\nshivers chilled his spine and stomach, and he looked at every policeman\nwith intense innocence, as one who loved the law, and admired the Force,\nand longed to stop and play with them. He parked his car a block from\nHealey Hanson's saloon, worrying, \"Well, rats, if anybody did see me,\nthey'd think I was here on business.\"\n\nHe entered a place curiously like the saloons of ante-prohibition days,\nwith a long greasy bar with sawdust in front and streaky mirror behind,\na pine table at which a dirty old man dreamed over a glass of something\nwhich resembled whisky, and with two men at the bar, drinking something\nwhich resembled beer, and giving that impression of forming a large\ncrowd which two men always give in a saloon. The bartender, a tall pale\nSwede with a diamond in his lilac scarf, stared at Babbitt as he stalked\nplumply up to the bar and whispered, \"I'd, uh--Friend of Hanson's sent\nme here. Like to get some gin.\"\n\nThe bartender gazed down on him in the manner of an outraged bishop.\n\"I guess you got the wrong place, my friend. We sell nothing but soft\ndrinks here.\" He cleaned the bar with a rag which would itself have done\nwith a little cleaning, and glared across his mechanically moving elbow.\n\nThe old dreamer at the table petitioned the bartender, \"Say, Oscar,\nlisten.\"\n\nOscar did not listen.\n\n\"Aw, say, Oscar, listen, will yuh? Say, lis-sen!\"\n\nThe decayed and drowsy voice of the loafer, the agreeable stink of\nbeer-dregs, threw a spell of inanition over Babbitt. The bartender moved\ngrimly toward the crowd of two men. Babbitt followed him as delicately\nas a cat, and wheedled, \"Say, Oscar, I want to speak to Mr. Hanson.\"\n\n\"Whajuh wanta see him for?\"\n\n\"I just want to talk to him. Here's my card.\"\n\nIt was a beautiful card, an engraved card, a card in the blackest black\nand the sharpest red, announcing that Mr. George F. Babbitt was Estates,\nInsurance, Rents. The bartender held it as though it weighed ten pounds,\nand read it as though it were a hundred words long. He did not bend from\nhis episcopal dignity, but he growled, \"I'll see if he's around.\"\n\nFrom the back room he brought an immensely old young man, a quiet\nsharp-eyed man, in tan silk shirt, checked vest hanging open, and\nburning brown trousers--Mr. Healey Hanson. Mr. Hanson said only \"Yuh?\"\nbut his implacable and contemptuous eyes queried Babbitt's soul, and he\nseemed not at all impressed by the new dark-gray suit for which (as he\nhad admitted to every acquaintance at the Athletic Club) Babbitt had\npaid a hundred and twenty-five dollars.\n\n\"Glad meet you, Mr. Hanson. Say, uh--I'm George Babbitt of the\nBabbitt-Thompson Realty Company. I'm a great friend of Jake Offutt's.\"\n\n\"Well, what of it?\"\n\n\"Say, uh, I'm going to have a party, and Jake told me you'd be able to\nfix me up with a little gin.\" In alarm, in obsequiousness, as Hanson's\neyes grew more bored, \"You telephone to Jake about me, if you want to.\"\n\nHanson answered by jerking his head to indicate the entrance to the\nback room, and strolled away. Babbitt melodramatically crept into\nan apartment containing four round tables, eleven chairs, a brewery\ncalendar, and a smell. He waited. Thrice he saw Healey Hanson saunter\nthrough, humming, hands in pockets, ignoring him.\n\nBy this time Babbitt had modified his valiant morning vow, \"I won't pay\none cent over seven dollars a quart\" to \"I might pay ten.\" On Hanson's\nnext weary entrance he besought \"Could you fix that up?\" Hanson scowled,\nand grated, \"Just a minute--Pete's sake--just a min-ute!\" In growing\nmeekness Babbitt went on waiting till Hanson casually reappeared with\na quart of gin--what is euphemistically known as a quart--in his\ndisdainful long white hands.\n\n\"Twelve bucks,\" he snapped.\n\n\"Say, uh, but say, cap'n, Jake thought you'd be able to fix me up for\neight or nine a bottle.\"\n\n\"Nup. Twelve. This is the real stuff, smuggled from Canada. This is\nnone o' your neutral spirits with a drop of juniper extract,\" the honest\nmerchant said virtuously. \"Twelve bones--if you want it. Course y'\nunderstand I'm just doing this anyway as a friend of Jake's.\"\n\n\"Sure! Sure! I understand!\" Babbitt gratefully held out twelve dollars.\nHe felt honored by contact with greatness as Hanson yawned, stuffed the\nbills, uncounted, into his radiant vest, and swaggered away.\n\nHe had a number of titillations out of concealing the gin-bottle under\nhis coat and out of hiding it in his desk. All afternoon he snorted and\nchuckled and gurgled over his ability to \"give the Boys a real shot in\nthe arm to-night.\" He was, in fact, so exhilarated that he was within a\nblock of his house before he remembered that there was a certain\nmatter, mentioned by his wife, of fetching ice cream from Vecchia's. He\nexplained, \"Well, darn it--\" and drove back.\n\nVecchia was not a caterer, he was The Caterer of Zenith. Most coming-out\nparties were held in the white and gold ballroom of the Maison Vecchia;\nat all nice teas the guests recognized the five kinds of Vecchia\nsandwiches and the seven kinds of Vecchia cakes; and all really smart\ndinners ended, as on a resolving chord, in Vecchia Neapolitan ice cream\nin one of the three reliable molds--the melon mold, the round mold like\na layer cake, and the long brick.\n\nVecchia's shop had pale blue woodwork, tracery of plaster roses,\nattendants in frilled aprons, and glass shelves of \"kisses\" with all the\nrefinement that inheres in whites of eggs. Babbitt felt heavy and thick\namid this professional daintiness, and as he waited for the ice cream he\ndecided, with hot prickles at the back of his neck, that a girl customer\nwas giggling at him. He went home in a touchy temper. The first thing he\nheard was his wife's agitated:\n\n\"George! DID you remember to go to Vecchia's and get the ice cream?\"\n\n\"Say! Look here! Do I ever forget to do things?\"\n\n\"Yes! Often!\"\n\n\"Well now, it's darn seldom I do, and it certainly makes me tired, after\ngoing into a pink-tea joint like Vecchia's and having to stand around\nlooking at a lot of half-naked young girls, all rouged up like they were\nsixty and eating a lot of stuff that simply ruins their stomachs--\"\n\n\"Oh, it's too bad about you! I've noticed how you hate to look at pretty\ngirls!\"\n\nWith a jar Babbitt realized that his wife was too busy to be impressed\nby that moral indignation with which males rule the world, and he\nwent humbly up-stairs to dress. He had an impression of a glorified\ndining-room, of cut-glass, candles, polished wood, lace, silver, roses.\nWith the awed swelling of the heart suitable to so grave a business as\ngiving a dinner, he slew the temptation to wear his plaited dress-shirt\nfor a fourth time, took out an entirely fresh one, tightened his black\nbow, and rubbed his patent-leather pumps with a handkerchief. He glanced\nwith pleasure at his garnet and silver studs. He smoothed and patted\nhis ankles, transformed by silk socks from the sturdy shanks of George\nBabbitt to the elegant limbs of what is called a Clubman. He stood\nbefore the pier-glass, viewing his trim dinner-coat, his beautiful\ntriple-braided trousers; and murmured in lyric beatitude, \"By golly,\nI don't look so bad. I certainly don't look like Catawba. If the hicks\nback home could see me in this rig, they'd have a fit!\"\n\nHe moved majestically down to mix the cocktails. As he chipped ice, as\nhe squeezed oranges, as he collected vast stores of bottles, glasses,\nand spoons at the sink in the pantry, he felt as authoritative as the\nbartender at Healey Hanson's saloon. True, Mrs. Babbitt said he was\nunder foot, and Matilda and the maid hired for the evening brushed by\nhim, elbowed him, shrieked \"Pleasopn door,\" as they tottered through\nwith trays, but in this high moment he ignored them.\n\nBesides the new bottle of gin, his cellar consisted of one half-bottle\nof Bourbon whisky, a quarter of a bottle of Italian vermouth, and\napproximately one hundred drops of orange bitters. He did not possess\na cocktail-shaker. A shaker was proof of dissipation, the symbol of a\nDrinker, and Babbitt disliked being known as a Drinker even more than\nhe liked a Drink. He mixed by pouring from an ancient gravy-boat into a\nhandleless pitcher; he poured with a noble dignity, holding his alembics\nhigh beneath the powerful Mazda globe, his face hot, his shirt-front a\nglaring white, the copper sink a scoured red-gold.\n\nHe tasted the sacred essence. \"Now, by golly, if that isn't pretty\nnear one fine old cocktail! Kind of a Bronx, and yet like a Manhattan.\nUmmmmmm! Hey, Myra, want a little nip before the folks come?\"\n\nBustling into the dining-room, moving each glass a quarter of an\ninch, rushing back with resolution implacable on her face her gray and\nsilver-lace party frock protected by a denim towel, Mrs. Babbitt glared\nat him, and rebuked him, \"Certainly not!\"\n\n\"Well,\" in a loose, jocose manner, \"I think the old man will!\"\n\nThe cocktail filled him with a whirling exhilaration behind which he\nwas aware of devastating desires--to rush places in fast motors, to kiss\ngirls, to sing, to be witty. He sought to regain his lost dignity by\nannouncing to Matilda:\n\n\"I'm going to stick this pitcher of cocktails in the refrigerator. Be\nsure you don't upset any of 'em.\"\n\n\"Yeh.\"\n\n\"Well, be sure now. Don't go putting anything on this top shelf.\"\n\n\"Yeh.\"\n\n\"Well, be--\" He was dizzy. His voice was thin and distant. \"Whee!\" With\nenormous impressiveness he commanded, \"Well, be sure now,\" and minced\ninto the safety of the living-room. He wondered whether he could\npersuade \"as slow a bunch as Myra and the Littlefields to go some place\naft' dinner and raise Cain and maybe dig up smore booze.\" He perceived\nthat he had gifts of profligacy which had been neglected.\n\nBy the time the guests had come, including the inevitable late couple\nfor whom the others waited with painful amiability, a great gray\nemptiness had replaced the purple swirling in Babbitt's head, and he had\nto force the tumultuous greetings suitable to a host on Floral Heights.\n\nThe guests were Howard Littlefield, the doctor of philosophy who\nfurnished publicity and comforting economics to the Street Traction\nCompany; Vergil Gunch, the coal-dealer, equally powerful in the Elks\nand in the Boosters' Club; Eddie Swanson the agent for the Javelin Motor\nCar, who lived across the street; and Orville Jones, owner of the Lily\nWhite Laundry, which justly announced itself \"the biggest, busiest,\nbulliest cleanerie shoppe in Zenith.\" But, naturally, the most\ndistinguished of all was T. Cholmondeley Frink, who was not only the\nauthor of \"Poemulations,\" which, syndicated daily in sixty-seven leading\nnewspapers, gave him one of the largest audiences of any poet in the\nworld, but also an optimistic lecturer and the creator of \"Ads that\nAdd.\" Despite the searching philosophy and high morality of his verses,\nthey were humorous and easily understood by any child of twelve; and it\nadded a neat air of pleasantry to them that they were set not as verse\nbut as prose. Mr. Frink was known from Coast to Coast as \"Chum.\"\n\nWith them were six wives, more or less--it was hard to tell, so early in\nthe evening, as at first glance they all looked alike, and as they all\nsaid, \"Oh, ISN'T this nice!\" in the same tone of determined liveliness.\nTo the eye, the men were less similar: Littlefield, a hedge-scholar,\ntall and horse-faced; Chum Frink, a trifle of a man with soft and\nmouse-like hair, advertising his profession as poet by a silk cord on\nhis eye-glasses; Vergil Gunch, broad, with coarse black hair en brosse;\nEddie Swanson, a bald and bouncing young man who showed his taste\nfor elegance by an evening waistcoat of figured black silk with glass\nbuttons; Orville Jones, a steady-looking, stubby, not very memorable\nperson, with a hemp-colored toothbrush mustache. Yet they were all so\nwell fed and clean, they all shouted \"'Evenin', Georgie!\" with such\nrobustness, that they seemed to be cousins, and the strange thing is\nthat the longer one knew the women, the less alike they seemed;\nwhile the longer one knew the men, the more alike their bold patterns\nappeared.\n\nThe drinking of the cocktails was as canonical a rite as the mixing. The\ncompany waited, uneasily, hopefully, agreeing in a strained manner that\nthe weather had been rather warm and slightly cold, but still Babbitt\nsaid nothing about drinks. They became despondent. But when the late\ncouple (the Swansons) had arrived, Babbitt hinted, \"Well, folks, do you\nthink you could stand breaking the law a little?\"\n\nThey looked at Chum Frink, the recognized lord of language. Frink pulled\nat his eye-glass cord as at a bell-rope, he cleared his throat and said\nthat which was the custom:\n\n\"I'll tell you, George: I'm a law-abiding man, but they do say Verg\nGunch is a regular yegg, and of course he's bigger 'n I am, and I just\ncan't figure out what I'd do if he tried to force me into anything\ncriminal!\"\n\nGunch was roaring, \"Well, I'll take a chance--\" when Frink held up his\nhand and went on, \"So if Verg and you insist, Georgie, I'll park my car\non the wrong side of the street, because I take it for granted that's\nthe crime you're hinting at!\"\n\nThere was a great deal of laughter. Mrs. Jones asserted, \"Mr. Frink is\nsimply too killing! You'd think he was so innocent!\"\n\nBabbitt clamored, \"How did you guess it, Chum? Well, you-all just wait\na moment while I go out and get the--keys to your cars!\" Through a froth\nof merriment he brought the shining promise, the mighty tray of glasses\nwith the cloudy yellow cocktails in the glass pitcher in the center. The\nmen babbled, \"Oh, gosh, have a look!\" and \"This gets me right where I\nlive!\" and \"Let me at it!\" But Chum Frink, a traveled man and not unused\nto woes, was stricken by the thought that the potion might be merely\nfruit-juice with a little neutral spirits. He looked timorous as\nBabbitt, a moist and ecstatic almoner, held out a glass, but as he\ntasted it he piped, \"Oh, man, let me dream on! It ain't true, but don't\nwaken me! Jus' lemme slumber!\"\n\nTwo hours before, Frink had completed a newspaper lyric beginning:\n\n\"I sat alone and groused and thunk, and scratched my head and sighed\nand wunk, and groaned, There still are boobs, alack, who'd like the\nold-time gin-mill back; that den that makes a sage a loon, the vile and\nsmelly old saloon! I'll never miss their poison booze, whilst I the\nbubbling spring can use, that leaves my head at merry morn as clear as\nany babe new-born!\"\n\nBabbitt drank with the others; his moment's depression was gone; he\nperceived that these were the best fellows in the world; he wanted to\ngive them a thousand cocktails. \"Think you could stand another?\" he\ncried. The wives refused, with giggles, but the men, speaking in a wide,\nelaborate, enjoyable manner, gloated, \"Well, sooner than have you get\nsore at me, Georgie--\"\n\n\"You got a little dividend coming,\" said Babbitt to each of them, and\neach intoned, \"Squeeze it, Georgie, squeeze it!\"\n\nWhen, beyond hope, the pitcher was empty, they stood and talked about\nprohibition. The men leaned back on their heels, put their hands in\ntheir trousers-pockets, and proclaimed their views with the booming\nprofundity of a prosperous male repeating a thoroughly hackneyed\nstatement about a matter of which he knows nothing whatever.\n\n\"Now, I'll tell you,\" said Vergil Gunch; \"way I figure it is this, and\nI can speak by the book, because I've talked to a lot of doctors and\nfellows that ought to know, and the way I see it is that it's a good\nthing to get rid of the saloon, but they ought to let a fellow have beer\nand light wines.\"\n\nHoward Littlefield observed, \"What isn't generally realized is that it's\na dangerous prop'sition to invade the rights of personal liberty.\nNow, take this for instance: The King of--Bavaria? I think it was\nBavaria--yes, Bavaria, it was--in 1862, March, 1862, he issued a\nproclamation against public grazing of live-stock. The peasantry had\nstood for overtaxation without the slightest complaint, but when this\nproclamation came out, they rebelled. Or it may have been Saxony. But\nit just goes to show the dangers of invading the rights of personal\nliberty.\"\n\n\"That's it--no one got a right to invade personal liberty,\" said Orville\nJones.\n\n\"Just the same, you don't want to forget prohibition is a mighty good\nthing for the working-classes. Keeps 'em from wasting their money and\nlowering their productiveness,\" said Vergil Gunch.\n\n\"Yes, that's so. But the trouble is the manner of enforcement,\" insisted\nHoward Littlefield. \"Congress didn't understand the right system. Now,\nif I'd been running the thing, I'd have arranged it so that the drinker\nhimself was licensed, and then we could have taken care of the shiftless\nworkman--kept him from drinking--and yet not 've interfered with the\nrights--with the personal liberty--of fellows like ourselves.\"\n\nThey bobbed their heads, looked admiringly at one another, and stated,\n\"That's so, that would be the stunt.\"\n\n\"The thing that worries me is that a lot of these guys will take to\ncocaine,\" sighed Eddie Swanson.\n\nThey bobbed more violently, and groaned, \"That's so, there is a danger\nof that.\"\n\nChum Frink chanted, \"Oh, say, I got hold of a swell new receipt for\nhome-made beer the other day. You take--\"\n\nGunch interrupted, \"Wait! Let me tell you mine!\" Littlefield snorted,\n\"Beer! Rats! Thing to do is to ferment cider!\" Jones insisted, \"I've\ngot the receipt that does the business!\" Swanson begged, \"Oh, say, lemme\ntell you the story--\" But Frink went on resolutely, \"You take and save\nthe shells from peas, and pour six gallons of water on a bushel of\nshells and boil the mixture till--\"\n\nMrs. Babbitt turned toward them with yearning sweetness; Frink hastened\nto finish even his best beer-recipe; and she said gaily, \"Dinner is\nserved.\"\n\nThere was a good deal of friendly argument among the men as to which\nshould go in last, and while they were crossing the hall from the\nliving-room to the dining-room Vergil Gunch made them laugh by\nthundering, \"If I can't sit next to Myra Babbitt and hold her hand under\nthe table, I won't play--I'm goin' home.\" In the dining-room they stood\nembarrassed while Mrs. Babbitt fluttered, \"Now, let me see--Oh, I was\ngoing to have some nice hand-painted place-cards for you but--Oh, let me\nsee; Mr. Frink, you sit there.\"\n\nThe dinner was in the best style of women's-magazine art, whereby the\nsalad was served in hollowed apples, and everything but the invincible\nfried chicken resembled something else. Ordinarily the men found it hard\nto talk to the women; flirtation was an art unknown on Floral Heights,\nand the realms of offices and of kitchens had no alliances. But under\nthe inspiration of the cocktails, conversation was violent. Each of the\nmen still had a number of important things to say about prohibition, and\nnow that each had a loyal listener in his dinner-partner he burst out:\n\n\"I found a place where I can get all the hootch I want at eight a\nquart--\"\n\n\"Did you read about this fellow that went and paid a thousand dollars\nfor ten cases of red-eye that proved to be nothing but water? Seems this\nfellow was standing on the corner and fellow comes up to him--\"\n\n\"They say there's a whole raft of stuff being smuggled across at\nDetroit--\"\n\n\"What I always say is--what a lot of folks don't realize about\nprohibition--\"\n\n\"And then you get all this awful poison stuff--wood alcohol and\neverything--\"\n\n\"Course I believe in it on principle, but I don't propose to have\nanybody telling me what I got to think and do. No American 'll ever\nstand for that!\"\n\nBut they all felt that it was rather in bad taste for Orville Jones--and\nhe not recognized as one of the wits of the occasion anyway--to say, \"In\nfact, the whole thing about prohibition is this: it isn't the initial\ncost, it's the humidity.\"\n\nNot till the one required topic had been dealt with did the conversation\nbecome general.\n\nIt was often and admiringly said of Vergil Gunch, \"Gee, that fellow can\nget away with murder! Why, he can pull a Raw One in mixed company and\nall the ladies 'll laugh their heads off, but me, gosh, if I crack\nanything that's just the least bit off color I get the razz for fair!\"\nNow Gunch delighted them by crying to Mrs. Eddie Swanson, youngest\nof the women, \"Louetta! I managed to pinch Eddie's doorkey out of his\npocket, and what say you and me sneak across the street when the folks\naren't looking? Got something,\" with a gorgeous leer, \"awful important\nto tell you!\"\n\nThe women wriggled, and Babbitt was stirred to like naughtiness. \"Say,\nfolks, I wished I dared show you a book I borrowed from Doc Patten!\"\n\n\"Now, George! The idea!\" Mrs. Babbitt warned him.\n\n\"This book--racy isn't the word! It's some kind of an anthropological\nreport about--about Customs, in the South Seas, and what it doesn't SAY!\nIt's a book you can't buy. Verg, I'll lend it to you.\"\n\n\"Me first!\" insisted Eddie Swanson. \"Sounds spicy!\"\n\nOrville Jones announced, \"Say, I heard a Good One the other day about\na coupla Swedes and their wives,\" and, in the best Jewish accent, he\nresolutely carried the Good One to a slightly disinfected ending.\nGunch capped it. But the cocktails waned, the seekers dropped back into\ncautious reality.\n\nChum Frink had recently been on a lecture-tour among the small towns,\nand he chuckled, \"Awful good to get back to civilization! I certainly\nbeen seeing some hick towns! I mean--Course the folks there are the\nbest on earth, but, gee whiz, those Main Street burgs are slow, and you\nfellows can't hardly appreciate what it means to be here with a bunch of\nlive ones!\"\n\n\"You bet!\" exulted Orville Jones. \"They're the best folks on earth,\nthose small-town folks, but, oh, mama! what conversation! Why, say,\nthey can't talk about anything but the weather and the ne-oo Ford, by\nheckalorum!\"\n\n\"That's right. They all talk about just the same things,\" said Eddie\nSwanson.\n\n\"Don't they, though! They just say the same things over and over,\" said\nVergil Gunch.\n\n\"Yes, it's really remarkable. They seem to lack all power of looking at\nthings impersonally. They simply go over and over the same talk about\nFords and the weather and so on.\" said Howard Littlefield.\n\n\"Still, at that, you can't blame 'em. They haven't got any intellectual\nstimulus such as you get up here in the city,\" said Chum Frink.\n\n\"Gosh, that's right,\" said Babbitt. \"I don't want you highbrows to get\nstuck on yourselves but I must say it keeps a fellow right up on his\ntoes to sit in with a poet and with Howard, the guy that put the con\nin economics! But these small-town boobs, with nobody but each other to\ntalk to, no wonder they get so sloppy and uncultured in their speech,\nand so balled-up in their thinking!\"\n\nOrville Jones commented, \"And, then take our other advantages--the\nmovies, frinstance. These Yapville sports think they're all-get-out if\nthey have one change of bill a week, where here in the city you got your\nchoice of a dozen diff'rent movies any evening you want to name!\"\n\n\"Sure, and the inspiration we get from rubbing up against high-class\nhustlers every day and getting jam full of ginger,\" said Eddie Swanson.\n\n\"Same time,\" said Babbitt, \"no sense excusing these rube burgs too easy.\nFellow's own fault if he doesn't show the initiative to up and beat it\nto the city, like we done--did. And, just speaking in confidence among\nfriends, they're jealous as the devil of a city man. Every time I go up\nto Catawba I have to go around apologizing to the fellows I was brought\nup with because I've more or less succeeded and they haven't. And if you\ntalk natural to 'em, way we do here, and show finesse and what you might\ncall a broad point of view, why, they think you're putting on side.\nThere's my own half-brother Martin--runs the little ole general store my\nDad used to keep. Say, I'll bet he don't know there is such a thing as\na Tux--as a dinner-jacket. If he was to come in here now, he'd think we\nwere a bunch of--of--Why, gosh, I swear, he wouldn't know what to think!\nYes, sir, they're jealous!\"\n\nChum Frink agreed, \"That's so. But what I mind is their lack of culture\nand appreciation of the Beautiful--if you'll excuse me for being\nhighbrow. Now, I like to give a high-class lecture, and read some of my\nbest poetry--not the newspaper stuff but the magazine things. But say,\nwhen I get out in the tall grass, there's nothing will take but a lot of\ncheesy old stories and slang and junk that if any of us were to indulge\nin it here, he'd get the gate so fast it would make his head swim.\"\n\nVergil Gunch summed it up: \"Fact is, we're mighty lucky to be living\namong a bunch of city-folks, that recognize artistic things and\nbusiness-punch equally. We'd feel pretty glum if we got stuck in some\nMain Street burg and tried to wise up the old codgers to the kind of\nlife we're used to here. But, by golly, there's this you got to say for\n'em: Every small American town is trying to get population and modern\nideals. And darn if a lot of 'em don't put it across! Somebody starts\npanning a rube crossroads, telling how he was there in 1900 and it\nconsisted of one muddy street, count 'em, one, and nine hundred human\nclams. Well, you go back there in 1920, and you find pavements and a\nswell little hotel and a first-class ladies' ready-to-wear shop-real\nperfection, in fact! You don't want to just look at what these small\ntowns are, you want to look at what they're aiming to become, and they\nall got an ambition that in the long run is going to make 'em the finest\nspots on earth--they all want to be just like Zenith!\"\n\n\nIII\n\nHowever intimate they might be with T. Cholmondeley Frink as a neighbor,\nas a borrower of lawn-mowers and monkey-wrenches, they knew that he was\nalso a Famous Poet and a distinguished advertising-agent; that behind\nhis easiness were sultry literary mysteries which they could not\npenetrate. But to-night, in the gin-evolved confidence, he admitted them\nto the arcanum:\n\n\"I've got a literary problem that's worrying me to death. I'm doing a\nseries of ads for the Zeeco Car and I want to make each of 'em a real\nlittle gem--reg'lar stylistic stuff. I'm all for this theory that\nperfection is the stunt, or nothing at all, and these are as tough\nthings as I ever tackled. You might think it'd be harder to do my\npoems--all these Heart Topics: home and fireside and happiness--but\nthey're cinches. You can't go wrong on 'em; you know what sentiments\nany decent go-ahead fellow must have if he plays the game, and you stick\nright to 'em. But the poetry of industrialism, now there's a literary\nline where you got to open up new territory. Do you know the fellow\nwho's really THE American genius? The fellow who you don't know his\nname and I don't either, but his work ought to be preserved so's future\ngenerations can judge our American thought and originality to-day? Why,\nthe fellow that writes the Prince Albert Tobacco ads! Just listen to\nthis:\n\nIt's P.A. that jams such joy in jimmy pipes. Say--bet you've often\nbent-an-ear to that spill-of-speech about hopping from five to\nf-i-f-t-y p-e-r by \"stepping on her a bit!\" Guess that's going some, all\nright--BUT just among ourselves, you better start a rapidwhiz system\nto keep tabs as to how fast you'll buzz from low smoke spirits to\nTIP-TOP-HIGH--once you line up behind a jimmy pipe that's all aglow with\nthat peach-of-a-pal, Prince Albert.\n\nPrince Albert is john-on-the-job--always joy'usly more-ISH in flavor;\nalways delightfully cool and fragrant! For a fact, you never hooked such\ndouble-decked, copper-riveted, two-fisted smoke enjoyment!\n\nGo to a pipe--speed-o-quick like you light on a good thing! Why--packed\nwith Prince Albert you can play a joy'us jimmy straight across the\nboards! AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!\"\n\n\n\"Now that,\" caroled the motor agent, Eddie Swanson, \"that's what I call\nhe-literature! That Prince Albert fellow--though, gosh, there can't\nbe just one fellow that writes 'em; must be a big board of classy\nink-slingers in conference, but anyway: now, him, he doesn't write for\nlong-haired pikers, he writes for Regular Guys, he writes for ME, and I\ntip my benny to him! The only thing is: I wonder if it sells the goods?\nCourse, like all these poets, this Prince Albert fellow lets his idea\nrun away with him. It makes elegant reading, but it don't say nothing.\nI'd never go out and buy Prince Albert Tobacco after reading it, because\nit doesn't tell me anything about the stuff. It's just a bunch of\nfluff.\"\n\nFrink faced him: \"Oh, you're crazy! Have I got to sell you the idea of\nStyle? Anyway that's the kind of stuff I'd like to do for the Zeeco. But\nI simply can't. So I decided to stick to the straight poetic, and I took\na shot at a highbrow ad for the Zeeco. How do you like this:\n\nThe long white trail is calling--calling-and it's over the hills and far\naway for every man or woman that has red blood in his veins and on his\nlips the ancient song of the buccaneers. It's away with dull drudging,\nand a fig for care. Speed--glorious Speed--it's more than just a\nmoment's exhilaration--it's Life for you and me! This great new truth\nthe makers of the Zeeco Car have considered as much as price and style.\nIt's fleet as the antelope, smooth as the glide of a swallow, yet\npowerful as the charge of a bull-elephant. Class breathes in every line.\nListen, brother! You'll never know what the high art of hiking is till\nyou TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST--THE ZEECO!\"\n\n\n\"Yes,\" Frink mused, \"that's got an elegant color to it, if I do say\nso, but it ain't got the originality of 'spill-of-speech!'\" The whole\ncompany sighed with sympathy and admiration.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nI\n\nBABBITT was fond of his friends, he loved the importance of being host\nand shouting, \"Certainly, you're going to have smore chicken--the idea!\"\nand he appreciated the genius of T. Cholmondeley Frink, but the vigor\nof the cocktails was gone, and the more he ate the less joyful he\nfelt. Then the amity of the dinner was destroyed by the nagging of the\nSwansons.\n\nIn Floral Heights and the other prosperous sections of Zenith,\nespecially in the \"young married set,\" there were many women who had\nnothing to do. Though they had few servants, yet with gas stoves,\nelectric ranges and dish-washers and vacuum cleaners, and tiled kitchen\nwalls, their houses were so convenient that they had little housework,\nand much of their food came from bakeries and delicatessens. They had\nbut two, one, or no children; and despite the myth that the Great War\nhad made work respectable, their husbands objected to their \"wasting\ntime and getting a lot of crank ideas\" in unpaid social work, and still\nmore to their causing a rumor, by earning money, that they were not\nadequately supported. They worked perhaps two hours a day, and the\nrest of the time they ate chocolates, went to the motion-pictures, went\nwindow-shopping, went in gossiping twos and threes to card-parties,\nread magazines, thought timorously of the lovers who never appeared,\nand accumulated a splendid restlessness which they got rid of by nagging\ntheir husbands. The husbands nagged back.\n\nOf these naggers the Swansons were perfect specimens.\n\nThroughout the dinner Eddie Swanson had been complaining, publicly,\nabout his wife's new frock. It was, he submitted, too short, too low,\ntoo immodestly thin, and much too expensive. He appealed to Babbitt:\n\n\"Honest, George, what do you think of that rag Louetta went and bought?\nDon't you think it's the limit?\"\n\n\"What's eating you, Eddie? I call it a swell little dress.\"\n\n\"Oh, it is, Mr. Swanson. It's a sweet frock,\" Mrs. Babbitt protested.\n\n\"There now, do you see, smarty! You're such an authority on clothes!\"\nLouetta raged, while the guests ruminated and peeped at her shoulders.\n\n\"That's all right now,\" said Swanson. \"I'm authority enough so I know it\nwas a waste of money, and it makes me tired to see you not wearing out a\nwhole closetful of clothes you got already. I've expressed my idea about\nthis before, and you know good and well you didn't pay the least bit of\nattention. I have to camp on your trail to get you to do anything--\"\n\nThere was much more of it, and they all assisted, all but Babbitt.\nEverything about him was dim except his stomach, and that was a bright\nscarlet disturbance. \"Had too much grub; oughtn't to eat this stuff,\"\nhe groaned--while he went on eating, while he gulped down a chill and\nglutinous slice of the ice-cream brick, and cocoanut cake as oozy as\nshaving-cream. He felt as though he had been stuffed with clay; his body\nwas bursting, his throat was bursting, his brain was hot mud; and only\nwith agony did he continue to smile and shout as became a host on Floral\nHeights.\n\nHe would, except for his guests, have fled outdoors and walked off the\nintoxication of food, but in the haze which filled the room they sat\nforever, talking, talking, while he agonized, \"Darn fool to be eating\nall this--not 'nother mouthful,\" and discovered that he was again\ntasting the sickly welter of melted ice cream on his plate. There was\nno magic in his friends; he was not uplifted when Howard Littlefield\nproduced from his treasure-house of scholarship the information that the\nchemical symbol for raw rubber is C10H16, which turns into isoprene,\nor 2C5H8. Suddenly, without precedent, Babbitt was not merely bored but\nadmitting that he was bored. It was ecstasy to escape from the table,\nfrom the torture of a straight chair, and loll on the davenport in the\nliving-room.\n\nThe others, from their fitful unconvincing talk, their expressions of\nbeing slowly and painfully smothered, seemed to be suffering from the\ntoil of social life and the horror of good food as much as himself. All\nof them accepted with relief the suggestion of bridge.\n\nBabbitt recovered from the feeling of being boiled. He won at bridge.\nHe was again able to endure Vergil Gunch's inexorable heartiness. But\nhe pictured loafing with Paul Riesling beside a lake in Maine. It was as\noverpowering and imaginative as homesickness. He had never seen Maine,\nyet he beheld the shrouded mountains, the tranquil lake of evening.\n\"That boy Paul's worth all these ballyhooing highbrows put together,\" he\nmuttered; and, \"I'd like to get away from--everything.\"\n\nEven Louetta Swanson did not rouse him.\n\nMrs. Swanson was pretty and pliant. Babbitt was not an analyst of women,\nexcept as to their tastes in Furnished Houses to Rent. He divided them\ninto Real Ladies, Working Women, Old Cranks, and Fly Chickens. He mooned\nover their charms but he was of opinion that all of them (save the women\nof his own family) were \"different\" and \"mysterious.\" Yet he had known\nby instinct that Louetta Swanson could be approached. Her eyes and lips\nwere moist. Her face tapered from a broad forehead to a pointed chin,\nher mouth was thin but strong and avid, and between her brows were two\noutcurving and passionate wrinkles. She was thirty, perhaps, or younger.\nGossip had never touched her, but every man naturally and instantly rose\nto flirtatiousness when he spoke to her, and every woman watched her\nwith stilled blankness.\n\nBetween games, sitting on the davenport, Babbitt spoke to her with the\nrequisite gallantry, that sonorous Floral Heights gallantry which is not\nflirtation but a terrified flight from it: \"You're looking like a new\nsoda-fountain to night, Louetta.\"\n\n\"Am I?\"\n\n\"Ole Eddie kind of on the rampage.\"\n\n\"Yes. I get so sick of it.\"\n\n\"Well, when you get tired of hubby, you can run off with Uncle George.\"\n\n\"If I ran away--Oh, well--\"\n\n\"Anybody ever tell you your hands are awful pretty?\"\n\nShe looked down at them, she pulled the lace of her sleeves over\nthem, but otherwise she did not heed him. She was lost in unexpressed\nimaginings.\n\nBabbitt was too languid this evening to pursue his duty of being\na captivating (though strictly moral) male. He ambled back to the\nbridge-tables. He was not much thrilled when Mrs. Frink, a small\ntwittering woman, proposed that they \"try and do some spiritualism and\ntable-tipping--you know Chum can make the spirits come--honest, he just\nscares me!\"\n\nThe ladies of the party had not emerged all evening, but now, as the sex\ngiven to things of the spirit while the men warred against base things\nmaterial, they took command and cried, \"Oh, let's!\" In the dimness\nthe men were rather solemn and foolish, but the goodwives quivered and\nadored as they sat about the table. They laughed, \"Now, you be good or\nI'll tell!\" when the men took their hands in the circle.\n\nBabbitt tingled with a slight return of interest in life as Louetta\nSwanson's hand closed on his with quiet firmness.\n\nAll of them hunched over, intent. They startled as some one drew a\nstrained breath. In the dusty light from the hall they looked unreal,\nthey felt disembodied. Mrs. Gunch squeaked, and they jumped with\nunnatural jocularity, but at Frink's hiss they sank into subdued awe.\nSuddenly, incredibly, they heard a knocking. They stared at Frink's\nhalf-revealed hands and found them lying still. They wriggled, and\npretended not to be impressed.\n\nFrink spoke with gravity: \"Is some one there?\" A thud. \"Is one knock to\nbe the sign for 'yes'?\" A thud. \"And two for 'no'?\" A thud.\n\n\"Now, ladies and gentlemen, shall we ask the guide to put us into\ncommunication with the spirit of some great one passed over?\" Frink\nmumbled.\n\nMrs Orville Jones begged, \"Oh, let's talk to Dante! We studied him at\nthe Reading Circle. You know who he was, Orvy.\"\n\n\"Certainly I know who he was! The Wop poet. Where do you think I was\nraised?\" from her insulted husband.\n\n\"Sure--the fellow that took the Cook's Tour to Hell. I've never waded\nthrough his po'try, but we learned about him in the U.,\" said Babbitt.\n\n\"Page Mr. Dannnnnty!\" intoned Eddie Swanson.\n\n\"You ought to get him easy, Mr. Frink, you and he being fellow-poets,\"\nsaid Louetta Swanson.\n\n\"Fellow-poets, rats! Where d' you get that stuff?\" protested Vergil\nGunch. \"I suppose Dante showed a lot of speed for an old-timer--not that\nI've actually read him, of course--but to come right down to hard facts,\nhe wouldn't stand one-two-three if he had to buckle down to practical\nliterature and turn out a poem for the newspaper-syndicate every day,\nlike Chum does!\"\n\n\"That's so,\" from Eddie Swanson. \"Those old birds could take their time.\nJudas Priest, I could write poetry myself if I had a whole year for it,\nand just wrote about that old-fashioned junk like Dante wrote about.\"\n\nFrink demanded, \"Hush, now! I'll call him. . . O, Laughing Eyes, emerge\nforth into the, uh, the ultimates and bring hither the spirit of Dante,\nthat we mortals may list to his words of wisdom.\"\n\n\"You forgot to give um the address: 1658 Brimstone Avenue, Fiery\nHeights, Hell,\" Gunch chuckled, but the others felt that this was\nirreligious. And besides--\"probably it was just Chum making the knocks,\nbut still, if there did happen to be something to all this, be exciting\nto talk to an old fellow belonging to--way back in early times--\"\n\nA thud. The spirit of Dante had come to the parlor of George F. Babbitt.\n\nHe was, it seemed, quite ready to answer their questions. He was \"glad\nto be with them, this evening.\"\n\nFrink spelled out the messages by running through the alphabet till the\nspirit interpreter knocked at the right letter.\n\nLittlefield asked, in a learned tone, \"Do you like it in the Paradiso,\nMessire?\"\n\n\"We are very happy on the higher plane, Signor. We are glad that you are\nstudying this great truth of spiritualism,\" Dante replied.\n\nThe circle moved with an awed creaking of stays and shirt-fronts.\n\"Suppose--suppose there were something to this?\"\n\nBabbitt had a different worry. \"Suppose Chum Frink was really one of\nthese spiritualists! Chum had, for a literary fellow, always seemed to\nbe a Regular Guy; he belonged to the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church\nand went to the Boosters' lunches and liked cigars and motors and racy\nstories. But suppose that secretly--After all, you never could tell\nabout these darn highbrows; and to be an out-and-out spiritualist would\nbe almost like being a socialist!\"\n\nNo one could long be serious in the presence of Vergil Gunch. \"Ask Dant'\nhow Jack Shakespeare and old Verg'--the guy they named after me--are\ngettin' along, and don't they wish they could get into the movie game!\"\nhe blared, and instantly all was mirth. Mrs. Jones shrieked, and Eddie\nSwanson desired to know whether Dante didn't catch cold with nothing on\nbut his wreath.\n\nThe pleased Dante made humble answer.\n\nBut Babbitt--the curst discontent was torturing him again, and heavily,\nin the impersonal darkness, he pondered, \"I don't--We're all so flip and\nthink we're so smart. There'd be--A fellow like Dante--I wish I'd read\nsome of his pieces. I don't suppose I ever will, now.\"\n\nHe had, without explanation, the impression of a slaggy cliff and on it,\nin silhouette against menacing clouds, a lone and austere figure. He was\ndismayed by a sudden contempt for his surest friends. He grasped Louetta\nSwanson's hand, and found the comfort of human warmth. Habit came, a\nveteran warrior; and he shook himself. \"What the deuce is the matter\nwith me, this evening?\"\n\nHe patted Louetta's hand, to indicate that he hadn't meant anything\nimproper by squeezing it, and demanded of Frink, \"Say, see if you can\nget old Dant' to spiel us some of his poetry. Talk up to him. Tell him,\n'Buena giorna, senor, com sa va, wie geht's? Keskersaykersa a little\npome, senor?'\"\n\n\nII\n\nThe lights were switched on; the women sat on the fronts of their chairs\nin that determined suspense whereby a wife indicates that as soon as\nthe present speaker has finished, she is going to remark brightly to\nher husband, \"Well, dear, I think per-HAPS it's about time for us to\nbe saying good-night.\" For once Babbitt did not break out in blustering\nefforts to keep the party going. He had--there was something he wished\nto think out--But the psychical research had started them off again.\n(\"Why didn't they go home! Why didn't they go home!\") Though he\nwas impressed by the profundity of the statement, he was only\nhalf-enthusiastic when Howard Littlefield lectured, \"The United States\nis the only nation in which the government is a Moral Ideal and not just\na social arrangement.\" (\"True--true--weren't they EVER going home?\") He\nwas usually delighted to have an \"inside view\" of the momentous world of\nmotors but to-night he scarcely listened to Eddie Swanson's revelation:\n\"If you want to go above the Javelin class, the Zeeco is a mighty good\nbuy. Couple weeks ago, and mind you, this was a fair, square test, they\ntook a Zeeco stock touring-car and they slid up the Tonawanda hill on\nhigh, and fellow told me--\" (\"Zeeco good boat but--Were they planning to\nstay all night?\")\n\nThey really were going, with a flutter of \"We did have the best time!\"\n\nMost aggressively friendly of all was Babbitt, yet as he burbled he was\nreflecting, \"I got through it, but for a while there I didn't hardly\nthink I'd last out.\" He prepared to taste that most delicate pleasure of\nthe host: making fun of his guests in the relaxation of midnight. As the\ndoor closed he yawned voluptuously, chest out, shoulders wriggling, and\nturned cynically to his wife.\n\nShe was beaming. \"Oh, it was nice, wasn't it! I know they enjoyed every\nminute of it. Don't you think so?\"\n\nHe couldn't do it. He couldn't mock. It would have been like sneering at\na happy child. He lied ponderously: \"You bet! Best party this year, by a\nlong shot.\"\n\n\"Wasn't the dinner good! And honestly I thought the fried chicken was\ndelicious!\"\n\n\"You bet! Fried to the Queen's taste. Best fried chicken I've tasted for\na coon's age.\"\n\n\"Didn't Matilda fry it beautifully! And don't you think the soup was\nsimply delicious?\"\n\n\"It certainly was! It was corking! Best soup I've tasted since Heck was\na pup!\" But his voice was seeping away. They stood in the hall, under\nthe electric light in its square box-like shade of red glass bound with\nnickel. She stared at him.\n\n\"Why, George, you don't sound--you sound as if you hadn't really enjoyed\nit.\"\n\n\"Sure I did! Course I did!\"\n\n\"George! What is it?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm kind of tired, I guess. Been pounding pretty hard at the\noffice. Need to get away and rest up a little.\"\n\n\"Well, we're going to Maine in just a few weeks now, dear.\" \"Yuh--\" Then\nhe was pouring it out nakedly, robbed of reticence. \"Myra: I think it'd\nbe a good thing for me to get up there early.\"\n\n\"But you have this man you have to meet in New York about business.\"\n\n\"What man? Oh, sure. Him. Oh, that's all off. But I want to hit Maine\nearly--get in a little fishing, catch me a big trout, by golly!\" A\nnervous, artificial laugh.\n\n\"Well, why don't we do it? Verona and Matilda can run the house between\nthem, and you and I can go any time, if you think we can afford it.\"\n\n\"But that's--I've been feeling so jumpy lately, I thought maybe it might\nbe a good thing if I kind of got off by myself and sweat it out of me.\"\n\n\"George! Don't you WANT me to go along?\" She was too wretchedly in\nearnest to be tragic, or gloriously insulted, or anything save dumpy and\ndefenseless and flushed to the red steaminess of a boiled beet.\n\n\"Of course I do! I just meant--\" Remembering that Paul Riesling had\npredicted this, he was as desperate as she. \"I mean, sometimes it's a\ngood thing for an old grouch like me to go off and get it out of\nhis system.\" He tried to sound paternal. \"Then when you and the kids\narrive--I figured maybe I might skip up to Maine just a few days ahead\nof you--I'd be ready for a real bat, see how I mean?\" He coaxed her\nwith large booming sounds, with affable smiles, like a popular preacher\nblessing an Easter congregation, like a humorous lecturer completing his\nstint of eloquence, like all perpetrators of masculine wiles.\n\nShe stared at him, the joy of festival drained from her face. \"Do I\nbother you when we go on vacations? Don't I add anything to your fun?\"\n\nHe broke. Suddenly, dreadfully, he was hysterical, he was a yelping\nbaby. \"Yes, yes, yes! Hell, yes! But can't you understand I'm shot to\npieces? I'm all in! I got to take care of myself! I tell you, I got\nto--I'm sick of everything and everybody! I got to--\"\n\nIt was she who was mature and protective now. \"Why, of course! You shall\nrun off by yourself! Why don't you get Paul to go along, and you boys\njust fish and have a good time?\" She patted his shoulder--reaching up to\nit--while he shook with palsied helplessness, and in that moment was not\nmerely by habit fond of her but clung to her strength.\n\nShe cried cheerily, \"Now up-stairs you go, and pop into bed. We'll fix\nit all up. I'll see to the doors. Now skip!\"\n\nFor many minutes, for many hours, for a bleak eternity, he lay awake,\nshivering, reduced to primitive terror, comprehending that he had won\nfreedom, and wondering what he could do with anything so unknown and so\nembarrassing as freedom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nNo apartment-house in Zenith had more resolutely experimented in\ncondensation than the Revelstoke Arms, in which Paul and Zilla Riesling\nhad a flat. By sliding the beds into low closets the bedrooms were\nconverted into living-rooms. The kitchens were cupboards each containing\nan electric range, a copper sink, a glass refrigerator, and, very\nintermittently, a Balkan maid. Everything about the Arms was excessively\nmodern, and everything was compressed--except the garages.\n\nThe Babbitts were calling on the Rieslings at the Arms. It was a\nspeculative venture to call on the Rieslings; interesting and sometimes\ndisconcerting. Zilla was an active, strident, full-blown, high-bosomed\nblonde. When she condescended to be good-humored she was nervously\namusing. Her comments on people were saltily satiric and penetrative of\naccepted hypocrisies. \"That's so!\" you said, and looked sheepish. She\ndanced wildly, and called on the world to be merry, but in the midst of\nit she would turn indignant. She was always becoming indignant. Life was\na plot against her and she exposed it furiously.\n\nShe was affable to-night. She merely hinted that Orville Jones wore a\ntoupe, that Mrs. T. Cholmondeley Frink's singing resembled a Ford going\ninto high, and that the Hon. Otis Deeble, mayor of Zenith and candidate\nfor Congress, was a flatulent fool (which was quite true). The Babbitts\nand Rieslings sat doubtfully on stone-hard brocade chairs in the small\nliving-room of the flat, with its mantel unprovided with a fireplace,\nand its strip of heavy gilt fabric upon a glaring new player-piano, till\nMrs. Riesling shrieked, \"Come on! Let's put some pep in it! Get out your\nfiddle, Paul, and I'll try to make Georgie dance decently.\"\n\nThe Babbitts were in earnest. They were plotting for the escape to\nMaine. But when Mrs. Babbitt hinted with plump smilingness, \"Does\nPaul get as tired after the winter's work as Georgie does?\" then Zilla\nremembered an injury; and when Zilla Riesling remembered an injury the\nworld stopped till something had been done about it.\n\n\"Does he get tired? No, he doesn't get tired, he just goes crazy, that's\nall! You think Paul is so reasonable, oh, yes, and he loves to make out\nhe's a little lamb, but he's stubborn as a mule. Oh, if you had to live\nwith him--! You'd find out how sweet he is! He just pretends to be\nmeek so he can have his own way. And me, I get the credit for being\na terrible old crank, but if I didn't blow up once in a while and get\nsomething started, we'd die of dry-rot. He never wants to go any place\nand--Why, last evening, just because the car was out of order--and\nthat was his fault, too, because he ought to have taken it to the\nservice-station and had the battery looked at--and he didn't want to go\ndown to the movies on the trolley. But we went, and then there was one\nof those impudent conductors, and Paul wouldn't do a thing.\n\n\"I was standing on the platform waiting for the people to let me into\nthe car, and this beast, this conductor, hollered at me, 'Come on, you,\nmove up!' Why, I've never had anybody speak to me that way in all my\nlife! I was so astonished I just turned to him and said--I thought there\nmust be some mistake, and so I said to him, perfectly pleasant, 'Were\nyou speaking to me?' and he went on and bellowed at me, 'Yes, I was!\nYou're keeping the whole car from starting!' he said, and then I saw he\nwas one of these dirty ill-bred hogs that kindness is wasted on, and so\nI stopped and looked right at him, and I said, 'I--beg--your--pardon,\nI am not doing anything of the kind,' I said, 'it's the people ahead of\nme, who won't move up,' I said, 'and furthermore, let me tell you, young\nman, that you're a low-down, foul-mouthed, impertinent skunk,' I said,\n'and you're no gentleman! I certainly intend to report you, and we'll\nsee,' I said, 'whether a lady is to be insulted by any drunken bum that\nchooses to put on a ragged uniform, and I'd thank you,' I said, 'to keep\nyour filthy abuse to yourself.' And then I waited for Paul to show\nhe was half a man and come to my defense, and he just stood there\nand pretended he hadn't heard a word, and so I said to him, 'Well,' I\nsaid--\"\n\n\"Oh, cut it, cut it, Zill!\" Paul groaned. \"We all know I'm a\nmollycoddle, and you're a tender bud, and let's let it go at that.\"\n\n\"Let it go?\" Zilla's face was wrinkled like the Medusa, her voice was a\ndagger of corroded brass. She was full of the joy of righteousness and\nbad temper. She was a crusader and, like every crusader, she exulted\nin the opportunity to be vicious in the name of virtue. \"Let it go? If\npeople knew how many things I've let go--\"\n\n\"Oh, quit being such a bully.\"\n\n\"Yes, a fine figure you'd cut if I didn't bully you! You'd lie abed till\nnoon and play your idiotic fiddle till midnight! You're born lazy, and\nyou're born shiftless, and you're born cowardly, Paul Riesling--\"\n\n\"Oh, now, don't say that, Zilla; you don't mean a word of it!\" protested\nMrs. Babbitt.\n\n\"I will say that, and I mean every single last word of it!\"\n\n\"Oh, now, Zilla, the idea!\" Mrs. Babbitt was maternal and fussy. She\nwas no older than Zilla, but she seemed so--at first. She was placid\nand puffy and mature, where Zilla, at forty-five, was so bleached and\ntight-corseted that you knew only that she was older than she looked.\n\"The idea of talking to poor Paul like that!\"\n\n\"Poor Paul is right! We'd both be poor, we'd be in the poorhouse, if I\ndidn't jazz him up!\"\n\n\"Why, now, Zilla, Georgie and I were just saying how hard Paul's been\nworking all year, and we were thinking it would be lovely if the Boys\ncould run off by themselves. I've been coaxing George to go up to Maine\nahead of the rest of us, and get the tired out of his system before we\ncome, and I think it would be lovely if Paul could manage to get away\nand join him.\"\n\nAt this exposure of his plot to escape, Paul was startled out of\nimpassivity. He rubbed his fingers. His hands twitched.\n\nZilla bayed, \"Yes! You're lucky! You can let George go, and not have to\nwatch him. Fat old Georgie! Never peeps at another woman! Hasn't got the\nspunk!\"\n\n\"The hell I haven't!\" Babbitt was fervently defending his priceless\nimmorality when Paul interrupted him--and Paul looked dangerous. He rose\nquickly; he said gently to Zilla:\n\n\"I suppose you imply I have a lot of sweethearts.\"\n\n\"Yes, I do!\"\n\n\"Well, then, my dear, since you ask for it--There hasn't been a time in\nthe last ten years when I haven't found some nice little girl to\ncomfort me, and as long as you continue your amiability I shall probably\ncontinue to deceive you. It isn't hard. You're so stupid.\"\n\nZilla gibbered; she howled; words could not be distinguished in her\nslaver of abuse.\n\nThen the bland George F. Babbitt was transformed. If Paul was dangerous,\nif Zilla was a snake-locked fury, if the neat emotions suitable to the\nRevelstoke Arms had been slashed into raw hatreds, it was Babbitt who\nwas the most formidable. He leaped up. He seemed very large. He seized\nZilla's shoulder. The cautions of the broker were wiped from his face,\nand his voice was cruel:\n\n\"I've had enough of all this damn nonsense! I've known you for\ntwenty-five years, Zil, and I never knew you to miss a chance to take\nyour disappointments out on Paul. You're not wicked. You're worse.\nYou're a fool. And let me tell you that Paul is the finest boy God ever\nmade. Every decent person is sick and tired of your taking advantage of\nbeing a woman and springing every mean innuendo you can think of.\nWho the hell are you that a person like Paul should have to ask your\nPERMISSION to go with me? You act like you were a combination of Queen\nVictoria and Cleopatra. You fool, can't you see how people snicker at\nyou, and sneer at you?\"\n\nZilla was sobbing, \"I've never--I've never--nobody ever talked to me\nlike this in all my life!\"\n\n\"No, but that's the way they talk behind your back! Always! They say\nyou're a scolding old woman. Old, by God!\"\n\nThat cowardly attack broke her. Her eyes were blank. She wept. But\nBabbitt glared stolidly. He felt that he was the all-powerful official\nin charge; that Paul and Mrs. Babbitt looked on him with awe; that he\nalone could handle this case.\n\nZilla writhed. She begged, \"Oh, they don't!\"\n\n\"They certainly do!\"\n\n\"I've been a bad woman! I'm terribly sorry! I'll kill myself! I'll do\nanything. Oh, I'll--What do you want?\"\n\nShe abased herself completely. Also, she enjoyed it. To the connoisseur\nof scenes, nothing is more enjoyable than a thorough, melodramatic,\negoistic humility.\n\n\"I want you to let Paul beat it off to Maine with me,\" Babbitt demanded.\n\n\"How can I help his going? You've just said I was an idiot and nobody\npaid any attention to me.\"\n\n\"Oh, you can help it, all right, all right! What you got to do is to cut\nout hinting that the minute he gets out of your sight, he'll go chasing\nafter some petticoat. Matter fact, that's the way you start the boy off\nwrong. You ought to have more sense--\"\n\n\"Oh, I will, honestly, I will, George. I know I was bad. Oh, forgive me,\nall of you, forgive me--\"\n\nShe enjoyed it.\n\nSo did Babbitt. He condemned magnificently and forgave piously, and as\nhe went parading out with his wife he was grandly explanatory to her:\n\n\"Kind of a shame to bully Zilla, but course it was the only way to\nhandle her. Gosh, I certainly did have her crawling!\"\n\nShe said calmly, \"Yes. You were horrid. You were showing off. You were\nhaving a lovely time thinking what a great fine person you were!\"\n\n\"Well, by golly! Can you beat it! Of course I might of expected you to\nnot stand by me! I might of expected you'd stick up for your own sex!\"\n\n\"Yes. Poor Zilla, she's so unhappy. She takes it out on Paul. She hasn't\na single thing to do, in that little flat. And she broods too much. And\nshe used to be so pretty and gay, and she resents losing it. And you\nwere just as nasty and mean as you could be. I'm not a bit proud of\nyou--or of Paul, boasting about his horrid love-affairs!\"\n\nHe was sulkily silent; he maintained his bad temper at a high level of\noutraged nobility all the four blocks home. At the door he left her, in\nself-approving haughtiness, and tramped the lawn.\n\nWith a shock it was revealed to him: \"Gosh, I wonder if she was\nright--if she was partly right?\" Overwork must have flayed him to\nabnormal sensitiveness; it was one of the few times in his life when he\nhad queried his eternal excellence; and he perceived the summer night,\nsmelled the wet grass. Then: \"I don't care! I've pulled it off. We're\ngoing to have our spree. And for Paul, I'd do anything.\"\n\n\nII\n\nThey were buying their Maine tackle at Ijams Brothers', the Sporting\nGoods Mart, with the help of Willis Ijams, fellow member of the\nBoosters' Club. Babbitt was completely mad. He trumpeted and danced. He\nmuttered to Paul, \"Say, this is pretty good, eh? To be buying the stuff,\neh? And good old Willis Ijams himself coming down on the floor to wait\non us! Say, if those fellows that are getting their kit for the North\nLakes knew we were going clear up to Maine, they'd have a fit, eh? . . .\nWell, come on, Brother Ijams--Willis, I mean. Here's your chance! We're\na couple of easy marks! Whee! Let me at it! I'm going to buy out the\nstore!\"\n\nHe gloated on fly-rods and gorgeous rubber hip-boots, on tents with\ncelluloid windows and folding chairs and ice-boxes. He simple-heartedly\nwanted to buy all of them. It was the Paul whom he was always vaguely\nprotecting who kept him from his drunken desires.\n\nBut even Paul lightened when Willis Ijams, a salesman with poetry and\ndiplomacy, discussed flies. \"Now, of course, you boys know.\" he said,\n\"the great scrap is between dry flies and wet flies. Personally, I'm for\ndry flies. More sporting.\"\n\n\"That's so. Lots more sporting,\" fulminated Babbitt, who knew very\nlittle about flies either wet or dry.\n\n\"Now if you'll take my advice, Georgie, you'll stock up well on these\npale evening dims, and silver sedges, and red ants. Oh, boy, there's a\nfly, that red ant!\"\n\n\"You bet! That's what it is--a fly!\" rejoiced Babbitt.\n\n\"Yes, sir, that red ant,\" said Ijams, \"is a real honest-to-God FLY!\"\n\n\"Oh, I guess ole Mr. Trout won't come a-hustling when I drop one of\nthose red ants on the water!\" asserted Babbitt, and his thick wrists\nmade a rapturous motion of casting.\n\n\"Yes, and the landlocked salmon will take it, too,\" said Ijams, who had\nnever seen a landlocked salmon.\n\n\"Salmon! Trout! Say, Paul, can you see Uncle George with his khaki pants\non haulin' 'em in, some morning 'bout seven? Whee!\"\n\n\nIII\n\nThey were on the New York express, incredibly bound for Maine,\nincredibly without their families. They were free, in a man's world, in\nthe smoking-compartment of the Pullman.\n\nOutside the car window was a glaze of darkness stippled with the gold\nof infrequent mysterious lights. Babbitt was immensely conscious, in\nthe sway and authoritative clatter of the train, of going, of going on.\nLeaning toward Paul he grunted, \"Gosh, pretty nice to be hiking, eh?\"\n\nThe small room, with its walls of ocher-colored steel, was filled mostly\nwith the sort of men he classified as the Best Fellows You'll Ever\nMeet--Real Good Mixers. There were four of them on the long seat; a fat\nman with a shrewd fat face, a knife-edged man in a green velour hat,\na very young young man with an imitation amber cigarette-holder, and\nBabbitt. Facing them, on two movable leather chairs, were Paul and a\nlanky, old-fashioned man, very cunning, with wrinkles bracketing\nhis mouth. They all read newspapers or trade journals, boot-and-shoe\njournals, crockery journals, and waited for the joys of conversation.\nIt was the very young man, now making his first journey by Pullman, who\nbegan it.\n\n\"Say, gee, I had a wild old time in Zenith!\" he gloried. \"Say, if a\nfellow knows the ropes there he can have as wild a time as he can in New\nYork!\"\n\n\"Yuh, I bet you simply raised the old Ned. I figured you were a bad man\nwhen I saw you get on the train!\" chuckled the fat one.\n\nThe others delightedly laid down their papers.\n\n\"Well, that's all right now! I guess I seen some things in the Arbor you\nnever seen!\" complained the boy.\n\n\"Oh, I'll bet you did! I bet you lapped up the malted milk like a\nreg'lar little devil!\"\n\nThen, the boy having served as introduction, they ignored him and\ncharged into real talk. Only Paul, sitting by himself, reading at a\nserial story in a newspaper, failed to join them and all but Babbitt\nregarded him as a snob, an eccentric, a person of no spirit.\n\nWhich of them said which has never been determined, and does not matter,\nsince they all had the same ideas and expressed them always with the\nsame ponderous and brassy assurance. If it was not Babbitt who was\ndelivering any given verdict, at least he was beaming on the chancellor\nwho did deliver it.\n\n\"At that, though,\" announced the first \"they're selling quite some booze\nin Zenith. Guess they are everywhere. I don't know how you fellows\nfeel about prohibition, but the way it strikes me is that it's a mighty\nbeneficial thing for the poor zob that hasn't got any will-power but for\nfellows like us, it's an infringement of personal liberty.\"\n\n\"That's a fact. Congress has got no right to interfere with a fellow's\npersonal liberty,\" contended the second.\n\nA man came in from the car, but as all the seats were full he stood up\nwhile he smoked his cigarette. He was an Outsider; he was not one of the\nOld Families of the smoking-compartment. They looked upon him bleakly\nand, after trying to appear at ease by examining his chin in the mirror,\nhe gave it up and went out in silence.\n\n\"Just been making a trip through the South. Business conditions not very\ngood down there,\" said one of the council.\n\n\"Is that a fact! Not very good, eh?\"\n\n\"No, didn't strike me they were up to normal.\"\n\n\"Not up to normal, eh?\"\n\n\"No, I wouldn't hardly say they were.\"\n\nThe whole council nodded sagely and decided, \"Yump, not hardly up to\nsnuff.\"\n\n\"Well, business conditions ain't what they ought to be out West,\nneither, not by a long shot.\"\n\n\"That's a fact. And I guess the hotel business feels it. That's one good\nthing, though: these hotels that've been charging five bucks a day--yes,\nand maybe six--seven!--for a rotten room are going to be darn glad to\nget four, and maybe give you a little service.\"\n\n\"That's a fact. Say, uh, speaknubout hotels, I hit the St. Francis at\nSan Francisco for the first time, the other day, and, say, it certainly\nis a first-class place.\"\n\n\"You're right, brother! The St. Francis is a swell place--absolutely\nA1.\"\n\n\"That's a fact. I'm right with you. It's a first-class place.\"\n\n\"Yuh, but say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Rippleton, in\nChicago? I don't want to knock--I believe in boosting wherever you\ncan--but say, of all the rotten dumps that pass 'emselves off as\nfirst-class hotels, that's the worst. I'm going to get those guys, one\nof these days, and I told 'em so. You know how I am--well, maybe you\ndon't know, but I'm accustomed to first-class accommodations, and I'm\nperfectly willing to pay a reasonable price. I got into Chicago late the\nother night, and the Rippleton's near the station--I'd never been there\nbefore, but I says to the taxi-driver--I always believe in taking a\ntaxi when you get in late; may cost a little more money, but, gosh, it's\nworth it when you got to be up early next morning and out selling a lot\nof crabs--and I said to him, 'Oh, just drive me over to the Rippleton.'\n\n\"Well, we got there, and I breezed up to the desk and said to the clerk,\n'Well, brother, got a nice room with bath for Cousin Bill?' Saaaay!\nYou'd 'a' thought I'd sold him a second, or asked him to work on Yom\nKippur! He hands me the cold-boiled stare and yaps, 'I dunno, friend,\nI'll see,' and he ducks behind the rigamajig they keep track of the\nrooms on. Well, I guess he called up the Credit Association and the\nAmerican Security League to see if I was all right--he certainly took\nlong enough--or maybe he just went to sleep; but finally he comes out\nand looks at me like it hurts him, and croaks, 'I think I can let\nyou have a room with bath.' 'Well, that's awful nice of you--sorry to\ntrouble you--how much 'll it set me back?' I says, real sweet. 'It'll\ncost you seven bucks a day, friend,' he says.\n\n\"Well, it was late, and anyway, it went down on my\nexpense-account--gosh, if I'd been paying it instead of the firm, I'd\n'a' tramped the streets all night before I'd 'a' let any hick tavern\nstick me seven great big round dollars, believe me! So I lets it go at\nthat. Well, the clerk wakes a nice young bell hop--fine lad--not a day\nover seventy-nine years old--fought at the Battle of Gettysburg and\ndoesn't know it's over yet--thought I was one of the Confederates, I\nguess, from the way he looked at me--and Rip van Winkle took me up to\nsomething--I found out afterwards they called it a room, but first I\nthought there'd been some mistake--I thought they were putting me in the\nSalvation Army collection-box! At seven per each and every diem! Gosh!\"\n\n\"Yuh, I've heard the Rippleton was pretty cheesy. Now, when I go to\nChicago I always stay at the Blackstone or the La Salle--first-class\nplaces.\"\n\n\"Say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Birchdale at Terre Haute? How\nis it?\"\n\n\"Oh, the Birchdale is a first-class hotel.\"\n\n(Twelve minutes of conference on the state of hotels in South Bend,\nFlint, Dayton, Tulsa, Wichita, Fort Worth, Winona, Erie, Fargo, and\nMoose Jaw.)\n\n\"Speaknubout prices,\" the man in the velour hat observed, fingering the\nelk-tooth on his heavy watch-chain, \"I'd like to know where they get\nthis stuff about clothes coming down. Now, you take this suit I got on.\"\nHe pinched his trousers-leg. \"Four years ago I paid forty-two fifty for\nit, and it was real sure-'nough value. Well, here the other day I went\ninto a store back home and asked to see a suit, and the fellow yanks out\nsome hand-me-downs that, honest, I wouldn't put on a hired man. Just out\nof curiosity I asks him, 'What you charging for that junk?' 'Junk,' he\nsays, 'what d' you mean junk? That's a swell piece of goods, all wool--'\nLike hell! It was nice vegetable wool, right off the Ole Plantation!\n'It's all wool,' he says, 'and we get sixty-seven ninety for it.' 'Oh,\nyou do, do you!' I says. 'Not from me you don't,' I says, and I walks\nright out on him. You bet! I says to the wife, 'Well,' I said, 'as long\nas your strength holds out and you can go on putting a few more patches\non papa's pants, we'll just pass up buying clothes.\"'\n\n\"That's right, brother. And just look at collars, frinstance--\"\n\n\"Hey! Wait!\" the fat man protested. \"What's the matter with collars? I'm\nselling collars! D' you realize the cost of labor on collars is still\ntwo hundred and seven per cent. above--\"\n\nThey voted that if their old friend the fat man sold collars, then the\nprice of collars was exactly what it should be; but all other clothing\nwas tragically too expensive. They admired and loved one another now.\nThey went profoundly into the science of business, and indicated that\nthe purpose of manufacturing a plow or a brick was so that it might be\nsold. To them, the Romantic Hero was no longer the knight, the wandering\npoet, the cowpuncher, the aviator, nor the brave young district\nattorney, but the great sales-manager, who had an Analysis of\nMerchandizing Problems on his glass-topped desk, whose title of nobility\nwas \"Go-getter,\" and who devoted himself and all his young samurai to\nthe cosmic purpose of Selling--not of selling anything in particular,\nfor or to anybody in particular, but pure Selling.\n\nThe shop-talk roused Paul Riesling. Though he was a player of violins\nand an interestingly unhappy husband, he was also a very able salesman\nof tar-roofing. He listened to the fat man's remarks on \"the value of\nhouse-organs and bulletins as a method of jazzing-up the Boys out on the\nroad;\" and he himself offered one or two excellent thoughts on the use\nof two-cent stamps on circulars. Then he committed an offense against\nthe holy law of the Clan of Good Fellows. He became highbrow.\n\nThey were entering a city. On the outskirts they passed a steel-mill\nwhich flared in scarlet and orange flame that licked at the cadaverous\nstacks, at the iron-sheathed walls and sullen converters.\n\n\"My Lord, look at that--beautiful!\" said Paul.\n\n\"You bet it's beautiful, friend. That's the Shelling-Horton Steel Plant,\nand they tell me old John Shelling made a good three million bones\nout of munitions during the war!\" the man with the velour hat said\nreverently.\n\n\"I didn't mean--I mean it's lovely the way the light pulls that\npicturesque yard, all littered with junk, right out of the darkness,\"\nsaid Paul.\n\nThey stared at him, while Babbitt crowed, \"Paul there has certainly got\none great little eye for picturesque places and quaint sights and all\nthat stuff. 'D of been an author or something if he hadn't gone into the\nroofing line.\"\n\nPaul looked annoyed. (Babbitt sometimes wondered if Paul appreciated his\nloyal boosting.) The man in the velour hat grunted, \"Well, personally,\nI think Shelling-Horton keep their works awful dirty. Bum routing. But\nI don't suppose there's any law against calling 'em 'picturesque' if it\ngets you that way!\"\n\nPaul sulkily returned to his newspaper and the conversation logically\nmoved on to trains.\n\n\"What time do we get into Pittsburg?\" asked Babbitt.\n\n\"Pittsburg? I think we get in at--no, that was last year's\nschedule--wait a minute--let's see--got a time-table right here.\"\n\n\"I wonder if we're on time?\"\n\n\"Yuh, sure, we must be just about on time.\"\n\n\"No, we aren't--we were seven minutes late, last station.\"\n\n\"Were we? Straight? Why, gosh, I thought we were right on time.\"\n\n\"No, we're about seven minutes late.\"\n\n\"Yuh, that's right; seven minutes late.\"\n\nThe porter entered--a negro in white jacket with brass buttons.\n\n\"How late are we, George?\" growled the fat man.\n\n\"'Deed, I don't know, sir. I think we're about on time,\" said the\nporter, folding towels and deftly tossing them up on the rack above the\nwashbowls. The council stared at him gloomily and when he was gone they\nwailed:\n\n\"I don't know what's come over these niggers, nowadays. They never give\nyou a civil answer.\"\n\n\"That's a fact. They're getting so they don't have a single bit of\nrespect for you. The old-fashioned coon was a fine old cuss--he knew\nhis place--but these young dinges don't want to be porters or\ncotton-pickers. Oh, no! They got to be lawyers and professors and Lord\nknows what all! I tell you, it's becoming a pretty serious problem. We\nought to get together and show the black man, yes, and the yellow man,\nhis place. Now, I haven't got one particle of race-prejudice. I'm the\nfirst to be glad when a nigger succeeds--so long as he stays where he\nbelongs and doesn't try to usurp the rightful authority and business\nability of the white man.\"\n\n\"That's the i.! And another thing we got to do,\" said the man with the\nvelour hat (whose name was Koplinsky), \"is to keep these damn\nforeigners out of the country. Thank the Lord, we're putting a limit on\nimmigration. These Dagoes and Hunkies have got to learn that this is a\nwhite man's country, and they ain't wanted here. When we've assimilated\nthe foreigners we got here now and learned 'em the principles of\nAmericanism and turned 'em into regular folks, why then maybe we'll let\nin a few more.\"\n\n\"You bet. That's a fact,\" they observed, and passed on to lighter\ntopics. They rapidly reviewed motor-car prices, tire-mileage,\noil-stocks, fishing, and the prospects for the wheat-crop in Dakota.\n\nBut the fat man was impatient at this waste of time. He was a veteran\ntraveler and free of illusions. Already he had asserted that he was\n\"an old he-one.\" He leaned forward, gathered in their attention by his\nexpression of sly humor, and grumbled, \"Oh, hell, boys, let's cut out\nthe formality and get down to the stories!\"\n\nThey became very lively and intimate.\n\nPaul and the boy vanished. The others slid forward on the long seat,\nunbuttoned their vests, thrust their feet up on the chairs, pulled the\nstately brass cuspidors nearer, and ran the green window-shade down on\nits little trolley, to shut them in from the uncomfortable strangeness\nof night. After each bark of laughter they cried, \"Say, jever hear the\none about--\" Babbitt was expansive and virile. When the train stopped\nat an important station, the four men walked up and down the cement\nplatform, under the vast smoky train-shed roof, like a stormy sky, under\nthe elevated footways, beside crates of ducks and sides of beef, in the\nmystery of an unknown city. They strolled abreast, old friends and well\ncontent. At the long-drawn \"Alllll aboarrrrrd\"--like a mountain call at\ndusk--they hastened back into the smoking-compartment, and till two of\nthe morning continued the droll tales, their eyes damp with cigar-smoke\nand laughter. When they parted they shook hands, and chuckled, \"Well,\nsir, it's been a great session. Sorry to bust it up. Mighty glad to met\nyou.\"\n\nBabbitt lay awake in the close hot tomb of his Pullman berth, shaking\nwith remembrance of the fat man's limerick about the lady who wished to\nbe wild. He raised the shade; he lay with a puffy arm tucked between his\nhead and the skimpy pillow, looking out on the sliding silhouettes of\ntrees, and village lamps like exclamation-points. He was very happy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nI\n\nTHEY had four hours in New York between trains. The one thing Babbitt\nwished to see was the Pennsylvania Hotel, which had been built since his\nlast visit. He stared up at it, muttering, \"Twenty-two hundred rooms and\ntwenty-two hundred baths! That's got everything in the world beat. Lord,\ntheir turnover must be--well, suppose price of rooms is four to eight\ndollars a day, and I suppose maybe some ten and--four times twenty-two\nhundred-say six times twenty-two hundred--well, anyway, with restaurants\nand everything, say summers between eight and fifteen thousand a day.\nEvery day! I never thought I'd see a thing like that! Some town! Of\ncourse the average fellow in Zenith has got more Individual Initiative\nthan the fourflushers here, but I got to hand it to New York. Yes, sir,\ntown, you're all right--some ways. Well, old Paulski, I guess we've\nseen everything that's worth while. How'll we kill the rest of the time?\nMovie?\"\n\nBut Paul desired to see a liner. \"Always wanted to go to Europe--and, by\nthunder, I will, too, some day before I past out,\" he sighed.\n\nFrom a rough wharf on the North River they stared at the stern of\nthe Aquitania and her stacks and wireless antenna lifted above the\ndock-house which shut her in.\n\n\"By golly,\" Babbitt droned, \"wouldn't be so bad to go over to the\nOld Country and take a squint at all these ruins, and the place where\nShakespeare was born. And think of being able to order a drink whenever\nyou wanted one! Just range up to a bar and holler out loud, 'Gimme a\ncocktail, and darn the police!' Not bad at all. What juh like to see,\nover there, Paulibus?\"\n\nPaul did not answer. Babbitt turned. Paul was standing with clenched\nfists, head drooping, staring at the liner as in terror. His thin body,\nseen against the summer-glaring planks of the wharf, was childishly\nmeager.\n\nAgain, \"What would you hit for on the other side, Paul?\"\n\nScowling at the steamer, his breast heaving, Paul whispered, \"Oh, my\nGod!\" While Babbitt watched him anxiously he snapped, \"Come on, let's\nget out of this,\" and hastened down the wharf, not looking back.\n\n\"That's funny,\" considered Babbitt. \"The boy didn't care for seeing the\nocean boats after all. I thought he'd be interested in 'em.\"\n\n\nII\n\nThough he exulted, and made sage speculations about locomotive\nhorse-power, as their train climbed the Maine mountain-ridge and from\nthe summit he looked down the shining way among the pines; though he\nremarked, \"Well, by golly!\" when he discovered that the station at\nKatadumcook, the end of the line, was an aged freight-car; Babbitt's\nmoment of impassioned release came when they sat on a tiny wharf on Lake\nSunasquam, awaiting the launch from the hotel. A raft had floated down\nthe lake; between the logs and the shore, the water was transparent,\nthin-looking, flashing with minnows. A guide in black felt hat with\ntrout-flies in the band, and flannel shirt of a peculiarly daring blue,\nsat on a log and whittled and was silent. A dog, a good country\ndog, black and woolly gray, a dog rich in leisure and in meditation,\nscratched and grunted and slept. The thick sunlight was lavish on the\nbright water, on the rim of gold-green balsam boughs, the silver birches\nand tropic ferns, and across the lake it burned on the sturdy shoulders\nof the mountains. Over everything was a holy peace.\n\nSilent, they loafed on the edge of the wharf, swinging their legs above\nthe water. The immense tenderness of the place sank into Babbitt, and\nhe murmured, \"I'd just like to sit here--the rest of my life--and\nwhittle--and sit. And never hear a typewriter. Or Stan Graff fussing in\nthe 'phone. Or Rone and Ted scrapping. Just sit. Gosh!\"\n\nHe patted Paul's shoulder. \"How does it strike you, old snoozer?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's darn good, Georgie. There's something sort of eternal about\nit.\"\n\nFor once, Babbitt understood him.\n\n\nIII\n\nTheir launch rounded the bend; at the head of the lake, under a mountain\nslope, they saw the little central dining-shack of their hotel and the\ncrescent of squat log cottages which served as bedrooms. They landed,\nand endured the critical examination of the habitues who had been at the\nhotel for a whole week. In their cottage, with its high stone fireplace,\nthey hastened, as Babbitt expressed it, to \"get into some regular\nhe-togs.\" They came out; Paul in an old gray suit and soft white shirt;\nBabbitt in khaki shirt and vast and flapping khaki trousers. It was\nexcessively new khaki; his rimless spectacles belonged to a city office;\nand his face was not tanned but a city pink. He made a discordant noise\nin the place. But with infinite satisfaction he slapped his legs and\ncrowed, \"Say, this is getting back home, eh?\"\n\nThey stood on the wharf before the hotel. He winked at Paul and drew\nfrom his back pocket a plug of chewing-tobacco, a vulgarism forbidden\nin the Babbitt home. He took a chew, beaming and wagging his head as\nhe tugged at it. \"Um! Um! Maybe I haven't been hungry for a wad of\neating-tobacco! Have some?\"\n\nThey looked at each other in a grin of understanding. Paul took the\nplug, gnawed at it. They stood quiet, their jaws working. They solemnly\nspat, one after the other, into the placid water. They stretched\nvoluptuously, with lifted arms and arched backs. From beyond the\nmountains came the shuffling sound of a far-off train. A trout leaped,\nand fell back in a silver circle. They sighed together.\n\n\nIV\n\nThey had a week before their families came. Each evening they planned to\nget up early and fish before breakfast. Each morning they lay abed till\nthe breakfast-bell, pleasantly conscious that there were no efficient\nwives to rouse them. The mornings were cold; the fire was kindly as they\ndressed.\n\nPaul was distressingly clean, but Babbitt reveled in a good sound\ndirtiness, in not having to shave till his spirit was moved to it. He\ntreasured every grease spot and fish-scale on his new khaki trousers.\n\nAll morning they fished unenergetically, or tramped the dim and\naqueous-lighted trails among rank ferns and moss sprinkled with crimson\nbells. They slept all afternoon, and till midnight played stud-poker\nwith the guides. Poker was a serious business to the guides. They did\nnot gossip; they shuffled the thick greasy cards with a deft ferocity\nmenacing to the \"sports;\" and Joe Paradise, king of guides, was\nsarcastic to loiterers who halted the game even to scratch.\n\nAt midnight, as Paul and he blundered to their cottage over the pungent\nwet grass, and pine-roots confusing in the darkness, Babbitt rejoiced\nthat he did not have to explain to his wife where he had been all\nevening.\n\nThey did not talk much. The nervous loquacity and opinionation of the\nZenith Athletic Club dropped from them. But when they did talk they\nslipped into the naive intimacy of college days. Once they drew their\ncanoe up to the bank of Sunasquam Water, a stream walled in by the dense\ngreen of the hardhack. The sun roared on the green jungle but in the\nshade was sleepy peace, and the water was golden and rippling. Babbitt\ndrew his hand through the cool flood, and mused:\n\n\"We never thought we'd come to Maine together!\"\n\n\"No. We've never done anything the way we thought we would. I expected\nto live in Germany with my granddad's people, and study the fiddle.\"\n\n\"That's so. And remember how I wanted to be a lawyer and go into\npolitics? I still think I might have made a go of it. I've kind of got\nthe gift of the gab--anyway, I can think on my feet, and make some kind\nof a spiel on most anything, and of course that's the thing you need in\npolitics. By golly, Ted's going to law-school, even if I didn't! Well--I\nguess it's worked out all right. Myra's been a fine wife. And Zilla\nmeans well, Paulibus.\"\n\n\"Yes. Up here, I figure out all sorts of plans to keep her amused. I\nkind of feel life is going to be different, now that we're getting a\ngood rest and can go back and start over again.\"\n\n\"I hope so, old boy.\" Shyly: \"Say, gosh, it's been awful nice to sit\naround and loaf and gamble and act regular, with you along, you old\nhorse-thief!\"\n\n\"Well, you know what it means to me, Georgie. Saved my life.\"\n\nThe shame of emotion overpowered them; they cursed a little, to prove\nthey were good rough fellows; and in a mellow silence, Babbitt whistling\nwhile Paul hummed, they paddled back to the hotel.\n\n\nV\n\nThough it was Paul who had seemed overwrought, Babbitt who had been the\nprotecting big brother, Paul became clear-eyed and merry, while Babbitt\nsank into irritability. He uncovered layer on layer of hidden weariness.\nAt first he had played nimble jester to Paul and for him sought\namusements; by the end of the week Paul was nurse, and Babbitt accepted\nfavors with the condescension one always shows a patient nurse.\n\nThe day before their families arrived, the women guests at the\nhotel bubbled, \"Oh, isn't it nice! You must be so excited;\" and the\nproprieties compelled Babbitt and Paul to look excited. But they went to\nbed early and grumpy.\n\nWhen Myra appeared she said at once, \"Now, we want you boys to go on\nplaying around just as if we weren't here.\"\n\nThe first evening, he stayed out for poker with the guides, and she said\nin placid merriment, \"My! You're a regular bad one!\" The second evening,\nshe groaned sleepily, \"Good heavens, are you going to be out every\nsingle night?\" The third evening, he didn't play poker.\n\nHe was tired now in every cell. \"Funny! Vacation doesn't seem to have\ndone me a bit of good,\" he lamented. \"Paul's frisky as a colt, but I\nswear, I'm crankier and nervouser than when I came up here.\"\n\nHe had three weeks of Maine. At the end of the second week he began to\nfeel calm, and interested in life. He planned an expedition to climb\nSachem Mountain, and wanted to camp overnight at Box Car Pond. He was\ncuriously weak, yet cheerful, as though he had cleansed his veins of\npoisonous energy and was filling them with wholesome blood.\n\nHe ceased to be irritated by Ted's infatuation with a waitress (his\nseventh tragic affair this year); he played catch with Ted, and with\npride taught him to cast a fly in the pine-shadowed silence of Skowtuit\nPond.\n\nAt the end he sighed, \"Hang it, I'm just beginning to enjoy my vacation.\nBut, well, I feel a lot better. And it's going to be one great year!\nMaybe the Real Estate Board will elect me president, instead of some\nfuzzy old-fashioned faker like Chan Mott.\"\n\nOn the way home, whenever he went into the smoking-compartment he felt\nguilty at deserting his wife and angry at being expected to feel guilty,\nbut each time he triumphed, \"Oh, this is going to be a great year, a\ngreat old year!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nI\n\nALL the way home from Maine, Babbitt was certain that he was a changed\nman. He was converted to serenity. He was going to cease worrying\nabout business. He was going to have more \"interests\"--theaters, public\naffairs, reading. And suddenly, as he finished an especially heavy\ncigar, he was going to stop smoking.\n\nHe invented a new and perfect method. He would buy no tobacco; he would\ndepend on borrowing it; and, of course, he would be ashamed to borrow\noften. In a spasm of righteousness he flung his cigar-case out of the\nsmoking-compartment window. He went back and was kind to his wife\nabout nothing in particular; he admired his own purity, and decided,\n\"Absolutely simple. Just a matter of will-power.\" He started a magazine\nserial about a scientific detective. Ten miles on, he was conscious that\nhe desired to smoke. He ducked his head, like a turtle going into its\nshell; he appeared uneasy; he skipped two pages in his story and didn't\nknow it. Five miles later, he leaped up and sought the porter. \"Say,\nuh, George, have you got a--\" The porter looked patient. \"Have you got a\ntime-table?\" Babbitt finished. At the next stop he went out and bought a\ncigar. Since it was to be his last before he reached Zenith, he finished\nit down to an inch stub.\n\nFour days later he again remembered that he had stopped smoking, but he\nwas too busy catching up with his office-work to keep it remembered.\n\n\nII\n\nBaseball, he determined, would be an excellent hobby. \"No sense a man's\nworking his fool head off. I'm going out to the Game three times a week.\nBesides, fellow ought to support the home team.\"\n\nHe did go and support the team, and enhance the glory of Zenith, by\nyelling \"Attaboy!\" and \"Rotten!\" He performed the rite scrupulously. He\nwore a cotton handkerchief about his collar; he became sweaty; he opened\nhis mouth in a wide loose grin; and drank lemon soda out of a bottle. He\nwent to the Game three times a week, for one week. Then he compromised\non watching the Advocate-Times bulletin-board. He stood in the thickest\nand steamiest of the crowd, and as the boy up on the lofty platform\nrecorded the achievements of Big Bill Bostwick, the pitcher, Babbitt\nremarked to complete strangers, \"Pretty nice! Good work!\" and hastened\nback to the office.\n\nHe honestly believed that he loved baseball. It is true that he hadn't,\nin twenty-five years, himself played any baseball except back-lot catch\nwith Ted--very gentle, and strictly limited to ten minutes. But the\ngame was a custom of his clan, and it gave outlet for the homicidal and\nsides-taking instincts which Babbitt called \"patriotism\" and \"love of\nsport.\"\n\nAs he approached the office he walked faster and faster, muttering,\n\"Guess better hustle.\" All about him the city was hustling, for\nhustling's sake. Men in motors were hustling to pass one another in\nthe hustling traffic. Men were hustling to catch trolleys, with another\ntrolley a minute behind, and to leap from the trolleys, to gallop across\nthe sidewalk, to hurl themselves into buildings, into hustling express\nelevators. Men in dairy lunches were hustling to gulp down the food\nwhich cooks had hustled to fry. Men in barber shops were snapping, \"Jus'\nshave me once over. Gotta hustle.\" Men were feverishly getting rid of\nvisitors in offices adorned with the signs, \"This Is My Busy Day\" and\n\"The Lord Created the World in Six Days--You Can Spiel All You Got to\nSay in Six Minutes.\" Men who had made five thousand, year before last,\nand ten thousand last year, were urging on nerve-yelping bodies and\nparched brains so that they might make twenty thousand this year;\nand the men who had broken down immediately after making their twenty\nthousand dollars were hustling to catch trains, to hustle through the\nvacations which the hustling doctors had ordered.\n\nAmong them Babbitt hustled back to his office, to sit down with\nnothing much to do except see that the staff looked as though they were\nhustling.\n\n\nIII\n\nEvery Saturday afternoon he hustled out to his country club and hustled\nthrough nine holes of golf as a rest after the week's hustle.\n\nIn Zenith it was as necessary for a Successful Man to belong to a\ncountry club as it was to wear a linen collar. Babbitt's was the Outing\nGolf and Country Club, a pleasant gray-shingled building with a broad\nporch, on a daisy-starred cliff above Lake Kennepoose. There was\nanother, the Tonawanda Country Club, to which belonged Charles McKelvey,\nHorace Updike, and the other rich men who lunched not at the Athletic\nbut at the Union Club. Babbitt explained with frequency, \"You couldn't\nhire me to join the Tonawanda, even if I did have a hundred and eighty\nbucks to throw away on the initiation fee. At the Outing we've got\na bunch of real human fellows, and the finest lot of little women in\ntown--just as good at joshing as the men--but at the Tonawanda there's\nnothing but these would-be's in New York get-ups, drinking tea! Too\nmuch dog altogether. Why, I wouldn't join the Tonawanda even if they--I\nwouldn't join it on a bet!\"\n\nWhen he had played four or five holes, he relaxed a bit, his\ntobacco-fluttering heart beat more normally, and his voice slowed to the\ndrawling of his hundred generations of peasant ancestors.\n\n\nIV\n\nAt least once a week Mr. and Mrs. Babbitt and Tinka went to the movies.\nTheir favorite motion-picture theater was the Chateau, which held three\nthousand spectators and had an orchestra of fifty pieces which played\nArrangements from the Operas and suites portraying a Day on the Farm,\nor a Four-alarm Fire. In the stone rotunda, decorated with\ncrown-embroidered velvet chairs and almost medieval tapestries,\nparrakeets sat on gilded lotos columns.\n\nWith exclamations of \"Well, by golly!\" and \"You got to go some to\nbeat this dump!\" Babbitt admired the Chateau. As he stared across the\nthousands of heads, a gray plain in the dimness, as he smelled good\nclothes and mild perfume and chewing-gum, he felt as when he had first\nseen a mountain and realized how very, very much earth and rock there\nwas in it.\n\nHe liked three kinds of films: pretty bathing girls with bare legs;\npolicemen or cowboys and an industrious shooting of revolvers; and\nfunny fat men who ate spaghetti. He chuckled with immense, moist-eyed\nsentimentality at interludes portraying puppies, kittens, and chubby\nbabies; and he wept at deathbeds and old mothers being patient in\nmortgaged cottages. Mrs. Babbitt preferred the pictures in which\nhandsome young women in elaborate frocks moved through sets ticketed as\nthe drawing-rooms of New York millionaires. As for Tinka, she preferred,\nor was believed to prefer, whatever her parents told her to.\n\nAll his relaxations--baseball, golf, movies, bridge, motoring, long\ntalks with Paul at the Athletic Club, or at the Good Red Beef and Old\nEnglish Chop House--were necessary to Babbitt, for he was entering a\nyear of such activity as he had never known.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nI\n\nIT was by accident that Babbitt had his opportunity to address the S. A.\nR. E. B.\n\nThe S. A. R. E. B., as its members called it, with the universal\npassion for mysterious and important-sounding initials, was the State\nAssociation of Real Estate Boards; the organization of brokers and\noperators. It was to hold its annual convention at Monarch, Zenith's\nchief rival among the cities of the state. Babbitt was an official\ndelegate; another was Cecil Rountree, whom Babbitt admired for his\npicaresque speculative building, and hated for his social position,\nfor being present at the smartest dances on Royal Ridge. Rountree was\nchairman of the convention program-committee.\n\nBabbitt had growled to him, \"Makes me tired the way these doctors and\nprofs and preachers put on lugs about being 'professional men.' A good\nrealtor has to have more knowledge and finesse than any of 'em.\"\n\n\"Right you are! I say: Why don't you put that into a paper, and give it\nat the S. A. R. E. B.?\" suggested Rountree.\n\n\"Well, if it would help you in making up the program--Tell you: the way\nI look at it is this: First place, we ought to insist that folks call\nus 'realtors' and not 'real-estate men.' Sounds more like a reg'lar\nprofession. Second place--What is it distinguishes a profession from a\nmere trade, business, or occupation? What is it? Why, it's the public\nservice and the skill, the trained skill, and the knowledge and, uh,\nall that, whereas a fellow that merely goes out for the jack, he never\nconsiders the-public service and trained skill and so on. Now as a\nprofessional--\"\n\n\"Rather! That's perfectly bully! Perfectly corking! Now you write it in\na paper,\" said Rountree, as he rapidly and firmly moved away.\n\n\nII\n\nHowever accustomed to the literary labors of advertisements and\ncorrespondence, Babbitt was dismayed on the evening when he sat down to\nprepare a paper which would take a whole ten minutes to read.\n\nHe laid out a new fifteen-cent school exercise-book on his wife's\ncollapsible sewing-table, set up for the event in the living-room. The\nhousehold had been bullied into silence; Verona and Ted requested to\ndisappear, and Tinka threatened with \"If I hear one sound out of you--if\nyou holler for a glass of water one single solitary time--You better\nnot, that's all!\" Mrs. Babbitt sat over by the piano, making a nightgown\nand gazing with respect while Babbitt wrote in the exercise-book, to the\nrhythmical wiggling and squeaking of the sewing-table.\n\nWhen he rose, damp and jumpy, and his throat dusty from cigarettes,\nshe marveled, \"I don't see how you can just sit down and make up things\nright out of your own head!\"\n\n\"Oh, it's the training in constructive imagination that a fellow gets in\nmodern business life.\"\n\nHe had written seven pages, whereof the first page set forth:\n\n\n{illustration omitted: consists of several doodles and \"(1) a profession\n(2) Not just a trade crossed out (3) Skill & vision (3) Shd be called\n\"realtor\" & not just real est man\"}\n\n\nThe other six pages were rather like the first.\n\nFor a week he went about looking important. Every morning, as he\ndressed, he thought aloud: \"Jever stop to consider, Myra, that before\na town can have buildings or prosperity or any of those things, some\nrealtor has got to sell 'em the land? All civilization starts with him.\nJever realize that?\" At the Athletic Club he led unwilling men aside to\ninquire, \"Say, if you had to read a paper before a big convention, would\nyou start in with the funny stories or just kind of scatter 'em all\nthrough?\" He asked Howard Littlefield for a \"set of statistics about\nreal-estate sales; something good and impressive,\" and Littlefield\nprovided something exceedingly good and impressive.\n\nBut it was to T. Cholmondeley Frink that Babbitt most often turned. He\ncaught Frink at the club every noon, and demanded, while Frink\nlooked hunted and evasive, \"Say, Chum--you're a shark on this\nwriting stuff--how would you put this sentence, see here in my\nmanuscript--manuscript now where the deuce is that?--oh, yes, here.\nWould you say 'We ought not also to alone think?' or 'We ought also not\nto think alone?' or--\"\n\nOne evening when his wife was away and he had no one to impress, Babbitt\nforgot about Style, Order, and the other mysteries, and scrawled off\nwhat he really thought about the real-estate business and about himself,\nand he found the paper written. When he read it to his wife she yearned,\n\"Why, dear, it's splendid; beautifully written, and so clear and\ninteresting, and such splendid ideas! Why, it's just--it's just\nsplendid!\"\n\nNext day he cornered Chum Frink and crowed, \"Well, old son, I finished\nit last evening! Just lammed it out! I used to think you writing-guys\nmust have a hard job making up pieces, but Lord, it's a cinch. Pretty\nsoft for you fellows; you certainly earn your money easy! Some day when\nI get ready to retire, guess I'll take to writing and show you boys how\nto do it. I always used to think I could write better stuff, and more\npunch and originality, than all this stuff you see printed, and now I'm\ndoggone sure of it!\"\n\nHe had four copies of the paper typed in black with a gorgeous red\ntitle, had them bound in pale blue manilla, and affably presented one to\nold Ira Runyon, the managing editor of the Advocate-Times, who said yes,\nindeed yes, he was very glad to have it, and he certainly would read it\nall through--as soon as he could find time.\n\nMrs. Babbitt could not go to Monarch. She had a women's-club meeting.\nBabbitt said that he was very sorry.\n\n\nIII\n\nBesides the five official delegates to the convention--Babbitt,\nRountree, W. A. Rogers, Alvin Thayer, and Elbert Wing--there were fifty\nunofficial delegates, most of them with their wives.\n\nThey met at the Union Station for the midnight train to Monarch. All\nof them, save Cecil Rountree, who was such a snob that he never wore\nbadges, displayed celluloid buttons the size of dollars and lettered \"We\nzoom for Zenith.\" The official delegates were magnificent with silver\nand magenta ribbons. Martin Lumsen's little boy Willy carried a tasseled\nbanner inscribed \"Zenith the Zip City--Zeal, Zest and Zowie--1,000,000\nin 1935.\" As the delegates arrived, not in taxicabs but in the family\nautomobile driven by the oldest son or by Cousin Fred, they formed\nimpromptu processions through the station waiting-room.\n\nIt was a new and enormous waiting-room, with marble pilasters, and\nfrescoes depicting the exploration of the Chaloosa River Valley by Pere\nEmile Fauthoux in 1740. The benches were shelves of ponderous mahogany;\nthe news-stand a marble kiosk with a brass grill. Down the echoing\nspaces of the hall the delegates paraded after Willy Lumsen's banner,\nthe men waving their cigars, the women conscious of their new frocks and\nstrings of beads, all singing to the tune of Auld Lang Syne the official\nCity Song, written by Chum Frink:\n\n     Good old Zenith,\n     Our kin and kith,\n     Wherever we may be,\n     Hats in the ring,\n     We blithely sing\n     Of thy Prosperity.\n\nWarren Whitby, the broker, who had a gift of verse for banquets and\nbirthdays, had added to Frink's City Song a special verse for the\nrealtors' convention:\n\n     Oh, here we come,\n     The fellows from\n     Zenith, the Zip Citee.\n     We wish to state\n     In real estate\n     There's none so live as we.\n\nBabbitt was stirred to hysteric patriotism. He leaped on a bench,\nshouting to the crowd:\n\n\"What's the matter with Zenith?\"\n\n\"She's all right!\"\n\n\"What's best ole town in the U. S. A.?\"\n\n\"Zeeeeeen-ith!\"\n\nThe patient poor people waiting for the midnight train stared in\nunenvious wonder--Italian women with shawls, old weary men with broken\nshoes, roving road-wise boys in suits which had been flashy when they\nwere new but which were faded now and wrinkled.\n\nBabbitt perceived that as an official delegate he must be more\ndignified. With Wing and Rogers he tramped up and down the cement\nplatform beside the waiting Pullmans. Motor-driven baggage-trucks\nand red-capped porters carrying bags sped down the platform with an\nagreeable effect of activity. Arc-lights glared and stammered overhead.\nThe glossy yellow sleeping-cars shone impressively. Babbitt made his\nvoice to be measured and lordly; he thrust out his abdomen and rumbled,\n\"We got to see to it that the convention lets the Legislature understand\njust where they get off in this matter of taxing realty transfers.\" Wing\nuttered approving grunts and Babbitt swelled--gloated.\n\nThe blind of a Pullman compartment was raised, and Babbitt looked\ninto an unfamiliar world. The occupant of the compartment was Lucile\nMcKelvey, the pretty wife of the millionaire contractor. Possibly,\nBabbitt thrilled, she was going to Europe! On the seat beside her was a\nbunch of orchids and violets, and a yellow paper-bound book which seemed\nforeign. While he stared, she picked up the book, then glanced out of\nthe window as though she was bored. She must have looked straight at\nhim, and he had met her, but she gave no sign. She languidly pulled down\nthe blind, and he stood still, a cold feeling of insignificance in his\nheart.\n\nBut on the train his pride was restored by meeting delegates from\nSparta, Pioneer, and other smaller cities of the state, who listened\nrespectfully when, as a magnifico from the metropolis of Zenith,\nhe explained politics and the value of a Good Sound Business\nAdministration. They fell joyfully into shop-talk, the purest and most\nrapturous form of conversation:\n\n\"How'd this fellow Rountree make out with this big apartment-hotel he\nwas going to put up? Whadde do? Get out bonds to finance it?\" asked a\nSparta broker.\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you,\" said Babbitt. \"Now if I'd been handling it--\"\n\n\"So,\" Elbert Wing was droning, \"I hired this shop-window for a week, and\nput up a big sign, 'Toy Town for Tiny Tots,' and stuck in a lot of doll\nhouses and some dinky little trees, and then down at the bottom, 'Baby\nLikes This Dollydale, but Papa and Mama Will Prefer Our Beautiful\nBungalows,' and you know, that certainly got folks talking, and first\nweek we sold--\"\n\nThe trucks sang \"lickety-lick, lickety-lick\" as the train ran through\nthe factory district. Furnaces spurted flame, and power-hammers were\nclanging. Red lights, green lights, furious white lights rushed past,\nand Babbitt was important again, and eager.\n\n\nIV\n\nHe did a voluptuous thing: he had his clothes pressed on the train. In\nthe morning, half an hour before they reached Monarch, the porter came\nto his berth and whispered, \"There's a drawing-room vacant, sir. I put\nyour suit in there.\" In tan autumn overcoat over his pajamas, Babbitt\nslipped down the green-curtain-lined aisle to the glory of his first\nprivate compartment. The porter indicated that he knew Babbitt was\nused to a man-servant; he held the ends of Babbitt's trousers, that the\nbeautifully sponged garment might not be soiled, filled the bowl in the\nprivate washroom, and waited with a towel.\n\nTo have a private washroom was luxurious. However enlivening a Pullman\nsmoking-compartment was by night, even to Babbitt it was depressing\nin the morning, when it was jammed with fat men in woolen undershirts,\nevery hook filled with wrinkled cottony shirts, the leather seat piled\nwith dingy toilet-kits, and the air nauseating with the smell of soap\nand toothpaste. Babbitt did not ordinarily think much of privacy, but\nnow he reveled in it, reveled in his valet, and purred with pleasure as\nhe gave the man a tip of a dollar and a half.\n\nHe rather hoped that he was being noticed as, in his newly pressed\nclothes, with the adoring porter carrying his suit-case, he disembarked\nat Monarch.\n\nHe was to share a room at the Hotel Sedgwick with W. A. Rogers, that\nshrewd, rustic-looking Zenith dealer in farm-lands. Together they had\na noble breakfast, with waffles, and coffee not in exiguous cups but\nin large pots. Babbitt grew expansive, and told Rogers about the art of\nwriting; he gave a bellboy a quarter to fetch a morning newspaper from\nthe lobby, and sent to Tinka a post-card: \"Papa wishes you were here to\nbat round with him.\"\n\n\nV\n\nThe meetings of the convention were held in the ballroom of the Allen\nHouse. In an anteroom was the office of the chairman of the executive\ncommittee. He was the busiest man in the convention; he was so busy that\nhe got nothing done whatever. He sat at a marquetry table, in a room\nlittered with crumpled paper and, all day long, town-boosters and\nlobbyists and orators who wished to lead debates came and whispered to\nhim, whereupon he looked vague, and said rapidly, \"Yes, yes, that's a\nfine idea; we'll do that,\" and instantly forgot all about it, lighted\na cigar and forgot that too, while the telephone rang mercilessly and\nabout him men kept beseeching, \"Say, Mr. Chairman--say, Mr. Chairman!\"\nwithout penetrating his exhausted hearing.\n\nIn the exhibit-room were plans of the new suburbs of Sparta, pictures\nof the new state capitol, at Galop de Vache, and large ears of corn with\nthe label, \"Nature's Gold, from Shelby County, the Garden Spot of God's\nOwn Country.\"\n\nThe real convention consisted of men muttering in hotel bedrooms or in\ngroups amid the badge-spotted crowd in the hotel-lobby, but there was a\nshow of public meetings.\n\nThe first of them opened with a welcome by the mayor of Monarch. The\npastor of the First Christian Church of Monarch, a large man with a long\ndamp frontal lock, informed God that the real-estate men were here now.\n\nThe venerable Minnemagantic realtor, Major Carlton Tuke, read a paper in\nwhich he denounced cooperative stores. William A. Larkin of Eureka gave\na comforting prognosis of \"The Prospects for Increased Construction,\"\nand reminded them that plate-glass prices were two points lower.\n\nThe convention was on.\n\nThe delegates were entertained, incessantly and firmly. The Monarch\nChamber of Commerce gave them a banquet, and the Manufacturers'\nAssociation an afternoon reception, at which a chrysanthemum was\npresented to each of the ladies, and to each of the men a leather\nbill-fold inscribed \"From Monarch the Mighty Motor Mart.\"\n\nMrs. Crosby Knowlton, wife of the manufacturer of Fleetwing Automobiles,\nopened her celebrated Italian garden and served tea. Six hundred\nreal-estate men and wives ambled down the autumnal paths. Perhaps\nthree hundred of them were quietly inconspicuous; perhaps three hundred\nvigorously exclaimed, \"This is pretty slick, eh?\" surreptitiously picked\nthe late asters and concealed them in their pockets, and tried to get\nnear enough to Mrs. Knowlton to shake her lovely hand. Without request,\nthe Zenith delegates (except Rountree) gathered round a marble dancing\nnymph and sang \"Here we come, the fellows from Zenith, the Zip Citee.\"\n\nIt chanced that all the delegates from Pioneer belonged to the Brotherly\nand Protective Order of Elks, and they produced an enormous banner\nlettered: \"B. P. O. E.--Best People on Earth--Boost Pioneer, Oh Eddie.\"\nNor was Galop de Vache, the state capital, to be slighted. The leader\nof the Galop de Vache delegation was a large, reddish, roundish man,\nbut active. He took off his coat, hurled his broad black felt hat on\nthe ground, rolled up his sleeves, climbed upon the sundial, spat, and\nbellowed:\n\n\"We'll tell the world, and the good lady who's giving the show this\nafternoon, that the bonniest burg in this man's state is Galop de Vache.\nYou boys can talk about your zip, but jus' lemme murmur that old Galop\nhas the largest proportion of home-owning citizens in the state; and\nwhen folks own their homes, they ain't starting labor-troubles, and\nthey're raising kids instead of raising hell! Galop de Vache! The\ntown for homey folks! The town that eats 'em alive oh, Bosco!\nWe'll--tell--the--world!\"\n\nThe guests drove off; the garden shivered into quiet. But Mrs. Crosby\nKnowlton sighed as she looked at a marble seat warm from five hundred\nsummers of Amalfi. On the face of a winged sphinx which supported it\nsome one had drawn a mustache in lead-pencil. Crumpled paper napkins\nwere dumped among the Michaelmas daisies. On the walk, like shredded\nlovely flesh, were the petals of the last gallant rose. Cigarette stubs\nfloated in the goldfish pool, trailing an evil stain as they swelled and\ndisintegrated, and beneath the marble seat, the fragments carefully put\ntogether, was a smashed teacup.\n\n\nVI\n\nAs he rode back to the hotel Babbitt reflected, \"Myra would have enjoyed\nall this social agony.\" For himself he cared less for the garden party\nthan for the motor tours which the Monarch Chamber of Commerce\nhad arranged. Indefatigably he viewed water-reservoirs, suburban\ntrolley-stations, and tanneries. He devoured the statistics which were\ngiven to him, and marveled to his roommate, W. A. Rogers, \"Of course\nthis town isn't a patch on Zenith; it hasn't got our outlook and\nnatural resources; but did you know--I nev' did till to-day--that they\nmanufactured seven hundred and sixty-three million feet of lumber last\nyear? What d' you think of that!\"\n\nHe was nervous as the time for reading his paper approached. When he\nstood on the low platform before the convention, he trembled and saw\nonly a purple haze. But he was in earnest, and when he had finished the\nformal paper he talked to them, his hands in his pockets, his spectacled\nface a flashing disk, like a plate set up on edge in the lamplight.\nThey shouted \"That's the stuff!\" and in the discussion afterward they\nreferred with impressiveness to \"our friend and brother, Mr. George F.\nBabbitt.\" He had in fifteen minutes changed from a minor delegate to\na personage almost as well known as that diplomat of business, Cecil\nRountree. After the meeting, delegates from all over the state said,\n\"Hower you, Brother Babbitt?\" Sixteen complete strangers called him\n\"George,\" and three men took him into corners to confide, \"Mighty glad\nyou had the courage to stand up and give the Profession a real boost.\nNow I've always maintained--\"\n\nNext morning, with tremendous casualness, Babbitt asked the girl at the\nhotel news-stand for the newspapers from Zenith. There was nothing in\nthe Press, but in the Advocate-Times, on the third page--He gasped.\nThey had printed his picture and a half-column account. The heading was\n\"Sensation at Annual Land-men's Convention. G. F. Babbitt, Prominent\nZiptown Realtor, Keynoter in Fine Address.\"\n\nHe murmured reverently, \"I guess some of the folks on Floral Heights\nwill sit up and take notice now, and pay a little attention to old\nGeorgie!\"\n\n\nVII\n\nIt was the last meeting. The delegations were presenting the claims\nof their several cities to the next year's convention. Orators were\nannouncing that \"Galop de Vache, the Capital City, the site of Kremer\nCollege and of the Upholtz Knitting Works, is the recognized center of\nculture and high-class enterprise;\" and that \"Hamburg, the Big Little\nCity with the Logical Location, where every man is open-handed and every\nwoman a heaven-born hostess, throws wide to you her hospitable gates.\"\n\nIn the midst of these more diffident invitations, the golden doors of\nthe ballroom opened with a blatting of trumpets, and a circus\nparade rolled in. It was composed of the Zenith brokers, dressed as\ncowpunchers, bareback riders, Japanese jugglers. At the head was\nbig Warren Whitby, in the bearskin and gold-and-crimson coat of a\ndrum-major. Behind him, as a clown, beating a bass drum, extraordinarily\nhappy and noisy, was Babbitt.\n\nWarren Whitby leaped on the platform, made merry play with his baton,\nand observed, \"Boyses and girlses, the time has came to get down to\ncases. A dyed-in-the-wool Zenithite sure loves his neighbors, but we've\nmade up our minds to grab this convention off our neighbor burgs like\nwe've grabbed the condensed-milk business and the paper-box business\nand--\"\n\nJ. Harry Barmhill, the convention chairman, hinted, \"We're grateful to\nyou, Mr. Uh, but you must give the other boys a chance to hand in their\nbids now.\"\n\nA fog-horn voice blared, \"In Eureka we'll promise free motor rides\nthrough the prettiest country--\"\n\nRunning down the aisle, clapping his hands, a lean bald young man cried,\n\"I'm from Sparta! Our Chamber of Commerce has wired me they've set aside\neight thousand dollars, in real money, for the entertainment of the\nconvention!\"\n\nA clerical-looking man rose to clamor, \"Money talks! Move we accept the\nbid from Sparta!\"\n\nIt was accepted.\n\n\nVIII\n\nThe Committee on Resolutions was reporting. They said that Whereas\nAlmighty God in his beneficent mercy had seen fit to remove to a sphere\nof higher usefulness some thirty-six realtors of the state the past\nyear, Therefore it was the sentiment of this convention assembled that\nthey were sorry God had done it, and the secretary should be, and hereby\nwas, instructed to spread these resolutions on the minutes, and to\nconsole the bereaved families by sending them each a copy.\n\nA second resolution authorized the president of the S.A.R.E.B. to spend\nfifteen thousand dollars in lobbying for sane tax measures in the State\nLegislature. This resolution had a good deal to say about Menaces to\nSound Business and clearing the Wheels of Progress from ill-advised and\nshortsighted obstacles.\n\nThe Committee on Committees reported, and with startled awe Babbitt\nlearned that he had been appointed a member of the Committee on Torrens\nTitles.\n\nHe rejoiced, \"I said it was going to be a great year! Georgie, old son,\nyou got big things ahead of you! You're a natural-born orator and a good\nmixer and--Zowie!\"\n\n\nIX\n\nThere was no formal entertainment provided for the last evening. Babbitt\nhad planned to go home, but that afternoon the Jered Sassburgers of\nPioneer suggested that Babbitt and W. A. Rogers have tea with them at\nthe Catalpa Inn.\n\nTeas were not unknown to Babbitt--his wife and he earnestly attended\nthem at least twice a year--but they were sufficiently exotic to make\nhim feel important. He sat at a glass-covered table in the Art Room of\nthe Inn, with its painted rabbits, mottoes lettered on birch bark, and\nwaitresses being artistic in Dutch caps; he ate insufficient lettuce\nsandwiches, and was lively and naughty with Mrs. Sassburger, who was as\nsmooth and large-eyed as a cloak-model. Sassburger and he had met two\ndays before, so they were calling each other \"Georgie\" and \"Sassy.\"\n\nSassburger said prayerfully, \"Say, boys, before you go, seeing this is\nthe last chance, I've GOT IT, up in my room, and Miriam here is the best\nlittle mixelogist in the Stati Unidos like us Italians say.\"\n\nWith wide flowing gestures, Babbitt and Rogers followed the Sassburgers\nto their room. Mrs. Sassburger shrieked, \"Oh, how terrible!\" when she\nsaw that she had left a chemise of sheer lavender crepe on the bed. She\ntucked it into a bag, while Babbitt giggled, \"Don't mind us; we're a\ncouple o' little divvils!\"\n\nSassburger telephoned for ice, and the bell-boy who brought it said,\nprosaically and unprompted, \"Highball glasses or cocktail?\" Miriam\nSassburger mixed the cocktails in one of those dismal, nakedly white\nwater-pitchers which exist only in hotels. When they had finished\nthe first round she proved by intoning \"Think you boys could stand\nanother--you got a dividend coming\" that, though she was but a woman,\nshe knew the complete and perfect rite of cocktail-drinking.\n\nOutside, Babbitt hinted to Rogers, \"Say, W. A., old rooster, it comes\nover me that I could stand it if we didn't go back to the lovin' wives,\nthis handsome ABEND, but just kind of stayed in Monarch and threw a\nparty, heh?\"\n\n\"George, you speak with the tongue of wisdom and sagashiteriferousness.\nEl Wing's wife has gone on to Pittsburg. Let's see if we can't gather\nhim in.\"\n\nAt half-past seven they sat in their room, with Elbert Wing and two\nup-state delegates. Their coats were off, their vests open, their faces\nred, their voices emphatic. They were finishing a bottle of corrosive\nbootlegged whisky and imploring the bell-boy, \"Say, son, can you get us\nsome more of this embalming fluid?\" They were smoking large cigars and\ndropping ashes and stubs on the carpet. With windy guffaws they were\ntelling stories. They were, in fact, males in a happy state of nature.\n\nBabbitt sighed, \"I don't know how it strikes you hellions, but\npersonally I like this busting loose for a change, and kicking over a\ncouple of mountains and climbing up on the North Pole and waving the\naurora borealis around.\"\n\nThe man from Sparta, a grave, intense youngster, babbled, \"Say! I guess\nI'm as good a husband as the run of the mill, but God, I do get so tired\nof going home every evening, and nothing to see but the movies. That's\nwhy I go out and drill with the National Guard. I guess I got the nicest\nlittle wife in my burg, but--Say! Know what I wanted to do as a kid?\nKnow what I wanted to do? Wanted to be a big chemist. Tha's what I\nwanted to do. But Dad chased me out on the road selling kitchenware, and\nhere I'm settled down--settled for LIFE--not a chance! Oh, who the devil\nstarted this funeral talk? How 'bout 'nother lil drink? 'And a-noth-er\ndrink wouldn' do 's 'ny harmmmmmmm.'\"\n\n\"Yea. Cut the sob-stuff,\" said W. A. Rogers genially. \"You boys know I'm\nthe village songster? Come on nowsing up:\n\n     Said the old Obadiah to the young Obadiah,\n     'I am dry, Obadiah, I am dry.'\n     Said the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah,\n     'So am I, Obadiah, so am I.'\"\n\n\nX\n\nThey had dinner in the Moorish Grillroom of the Hotel Sedgwick.\nSomewhere, somehow, they seemed to have gathered in two other comrades:\na manufacturer of fly-paper and a dentist. They all drank whisky from\ntea-cups, and they were humorous, and never listened to one another,\nexcept when W. A. Rogers \"kidded\" the Italian waiter.\n\n\"Say, Gooseppy,\" he said innocently, \"I want a couple o' fried\nelephants' ears.\"\n\n\"Sorry, sir, we haven't any.\"\n\n\"Huh? No elephants' ears? What do you know about that!\" Rogers turned to\nBabbitt. \"Pedro says the elephants' ears are all out!\"\n\n\"Well, I'll be switched!\" said the man from Sparta, with difficulty\nhiding his laughter.\n\n\"Well, in that case, Carlo, just bring me a hunk o' steak and a couple\no' bushels o' French fried potatoes and some peas,\" Rogers went on. \"I\nsuppose back in dear old sunny It' the Eyetalians get their fresh garden\npeas out of the can.\"\n\n\"No, sir, we have very nice peas in Italy.\"\n\n\"Is that a fact! Georgie, do you hear that? They get their fresh garden\npeas out of the garden, in Italy! By golly, you live and learn, don't\nyou, Antonio, you certainly do live and learn, if you live long enough\nand keep your strength. All right, Garibaldi, just shoot me in that\nsteak, with about two printers'-reams of French fried spuds on the\npromenade deck, comprehenez-vous, Michelovitch Angeloni?\"\n\nAfterward Elbert Wing admired, \"Gee, you certainly did have that poor\nDago going, W. A. He couldn't make you out at all!\"\n\nIn the Monarch Herald, Babbitt found an advertisement which he read\naloud, to applause and laughter:\n\nOld Colony Theatre\n\nShake the Old Dogs to the WROLLICKING WRENS The bonniest bevy of\nbeauteous bathing babes in burlesque. Pete Menutti and his Oh, Gee,\nKids.\n\nThis is the straight steer, Benny, the painless chicklets of the\nWrollicking Wrens are the cuddlingest bunch that ever hit town. Steer\nthe feet, get the card board, and twist the pupils to the PDQest show\never. You will get 111% on your kale in this fun-fest. The Calroza\nSisters are sure some lookers and will give you a run for your gelt.\nJock Silbersteen is one of the pepper lads and slips you a dose of\nreal laughter. Shoot the up and down to Jackson and West for graceful\ntappers. They run 1-2 under the wire. Provin and Adams will blow the\nblues in their laugh skit \"Hootch Mon!\" Something doing, boys. Listen to\nwhat the Hep Bird twitters.\n\n\n\"Sounds like a juicy show to me. Let's all take it in,\" said Babbitt.\n\nBut they put off departure as long as they could. They were safe while\nthey sat here, legs firmly crossed under the table, but they felt\nunsteady; they were afraid of navigating the long and slippery floor of\nthe grillroom under the eyes of the other guests and the too-attentive\nwaiters.\n\nWhen they did venture, tables got in their way, and they sought to cover\nembarrassment by heavy jocularity at the coatroom. As the girl handed\nout their hats, they smiled at her, and hoped that she, a cool and\nexpert judge, would feel that they were gentlemen. They croaked at one\nanother, \"Who owns the bum lid?\" and \"You take a good one, George; I'll\ntake what's left,\" and to the check-girl they stammered, \"Better come\nalong, sister! High, wide, and fancy evening ahead!\" All of them tried\nto tip her, urging one another, \"No! Wait! Here! I got it right here!\"\nAmong them, they gave her three dollars.\n\n\nXI\n\nFlamboyantly smoking cigars they sat in a box at the burlesque show,\ntheir feet up on the rail, while a chorus of twenty daubed, worried,\nand inextinguishably respectable grandams swung their legs in the more\nelementary chorus-evolutions, and a Jewish comedian made vicious fun of\nJews. In the entr'actes they met other lone delegates. A dozen of them\nwent in taxicabs out to Bright Blossom Inn, where the blossoms were\nmade of dusty paper festooned along a room low and stinking, like a\ncow-stable no longer wisely used.\n\nHere, whisky was served openly, in glasses. Two or three clerks, who\non pay-day longed to be taken for millionaires, sheepishly danced with\ntelephone-girls and manicure-girls in the narrow space between the\ntables. Fantastically whirled the professionals, a young man in sleek\nevening-clothes and a slim mad girl in emerald silk, with amber hair\nflung up as jaggedly as flames. Babbitt tried to dance with her. He\nshuffled along the floor, too bulky to be guided, his steps unrelated\nto the rhythm of the jungle music, and in his staggering he would have\nfallen, had she not held him with supple kindly strength. He was blind\nand deaf from prohibition-era alcohol; he could not see the tables, the\nfaces. But he was overwhelmed by the girl and her young pliant warmth.\n\nWhen she had firmly returned him to his group, he remembered, by a\nconnection quite untraceable, that his mother's mother had been Scotch,\nand with head thrown back, eyes closed, wide mouth indicating ecstasy,\nhe sang, very slowly and richly, \"Loch Lomond.\"\n\nBut that was the last of his mellowness and jolly companionship. The\nman from Sparta said he was a \"bum singer,\" and for ten minutes Babbitt\nquarreled with him, in a loud, unsteady, heroic indignation. They called\nfor drinks till the manager insisted that the place was closed. All the\nwhile Babbitt felt a hot raw desire for more brutal amusements. When\nW. A. Rogers drawled, \"What say we go down the line and look over the\ngirls?\" he agreed savagely. Before they went, three of them secretly\nmade appointments with the professional dancing girl, who agreed \"Yes,\nyes, sure, darling\" to everything they said, and amiably forgot them.\n\nAs they drove back through the outskirts of Monarch, down streets of\nsmall brown wooden cottages of workmen, characterless as cells, as they\nrattled across warehouse-districts which by drunken night seemed vast\nand perilous, as they were borne toward the red lights and violent\nautomatic pianos and the stocky women who simpered, Babbitt was\nfrightened. He wanted to leap from the taxicab, but all his body was a\nmurky fire, and he groaned, \"Too late to quit now,\" and knew that he did\nnot want to quit.\n\nThere was, they felt, one very humorous incident on the way. A broker\nfrom Minnemagantic said, \"Monarch is a lot sportier than Zenith. You\nZenith tightwads haven't got any joints like these here.\" Babbitt raged,\n\"That's a dirty lie! Snothin' you can't find in Zenith. Believe me, we\ngot more houses and hootch-parlors an' all kinds o' dives than any burg\nin the state.\"\n\nHe realized they were laughing at him; he desired to fight; and forgot\nit in such musty unsatisfying experiments as he had not known since\ncollege.\n\nIn the morning, when he returned to Zenith, his desire for rebellion was\npartly satisfied. He had retrograded to a shamefaced contentment. He was\nirritable. He did not smile when W. A. Rogers complained, \"Ow, what a\nhead! I certainly do feel like the wrath of God this morning. Say! I\nknow what was the trouble! Somebody went and put alcohol in my booze\nlast night.\"\n\nBabbitt's excursion was never known to his family, nor to any one in\nZenith save Rogers and Wing. It was not officially recognized even by\nhimself. If it had any consequences, they have not been discovered.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHIS autumn a Mr. W. G. Harding, of Marion, Ohio, was appointed\nPresident of the United States, but Zenith was less interested in the\nnational campaign than in the local election. Seneca Doane, though he\nwas a lawyer and a graduate of the State University, was candidate for\nmayor of Zenith on an alarming labor ticket. To oppose him the Democrats\nand Republicans united on Lucas Prout, a mattress-manufacturer with a\nperfect record for sanity. Mr. Prout was supported by the banks, the\nChamber of Commerce, all the decent newspapers, and George F. Babbitt.\n\nBabbitt was precinct-leader on Floral Heights, but his district was safe\nand he longed for stouter battling. His convention paper had given him\nthe beginning of a reputation for oratory, so the Republican-Democratic\nCentral Committee sent him to the Seventh Ward and South Zenith, to\naddress small audiences of workmen and clerks, and wives uneasy with\ntheir new votes. He acquired a fame enduring for weeks. Now and then a\nreporter was present at one of his meetings, and the headlines (though\nthey were not very large) indicated that George F. Babbitt had addressed\nCheering Throng, and Distinguished Man of Affairs had pointed out the\nFallacies of Doane. Once, in the rotogravure section of the Sunday\nAdvocate-Times, there was a photograph of Babbitt and a dozen other\nbusiness men, with the caption \"Leaders of Zenith Finance and Commerce\nWho Back Prout.\"\n\nHe deserved his glory. He was an excellent campaigner. He had faith; he\nwas certain that if Lincoln were alive, he would be electioneering for\nMr. W. G. Harding--unless he came to Zenith and electioneered for\nLucas Prout. He did not confuse audiences by silly subtleties; Prout\nrepresented honest industry, Seneca Doane represented whining laziness,\nand you could take your choice. With his broad shoulders and vigorous\nvoice, he was obviously a Good Fellow; and, rarest of all, he really\nliked people. He almost liked common workmen. He wanted them to be well\npaid, and able to afford high rents--though, naturally, they must\nnot interfere with the reasonable profits of stockholders. Thus nobly\nendowed, and keyed high by the discovery that he was a natural orator,\nhe was popular with audiences, and he raged through the campaign,\nrenowned not only in the Seventh and Eighth Wards but even in parts of\nthe Sixteenth.\n\n\nII\n\nCrowded in his car, they came driving up to Turnverein Hall, South\nZenith--Babbitt, his wife, Verona, Ted, and Paul and Zilla Riesling. The\nhall was over a delicatessen shop, in a street banging with trolleys and\nsmelling of onions and gasoline and fried fish. A new appreciation of\nBabbitt filled all of them, including Babbitt.\n\n\"Don't know how you keep it up, talking to three bunches in one evening.\nWish I had your strength,\" said Paul; and Ted exclaimed to Verona, \"The\nold man certainly does know how to kid these roughnecks along!\"\n\nMen in black sateen shirts, their faces new-washed but with a hint of\ngrime under their eyes, were loitering on the broad stairs up to\nthe hall. Babbitt's party politely edged through them and into the\nwhitewashed room, at the front of which was a dais with a red-plush\nthrone and a pine altar painted watery blue, as used nightly by the\nGrand Masters and Supreme Potentates of innumerable lodges. The hall\nwas full. As Babbitt pushed through the fringe standing at the back, he\nheard the precious tribute, \"That's him!\" The chairman bustled down the\ncenter aisle with an impressive, \"The speaker? All ready, sir! Uh--let's\nsee--what was the name, sir?\"\n\nThen Babbitt slid into a sea of eloquence:\n\n\"Ladies and gentlemen of the Sixteenth Ward, there is one who cannot be\nwith us here to-night, a man than whom there is no more stalwart Trojan\nin all the political arena--I refer to our leader, the Honorable Lucas\nProut, standard-bearer of the city and county of Zenith. Since he is not\nhere, I trust that you will bear with me if, as a friend and neighbor,\nas one who is proud to share with you the common blessing of being a\nresident of the great city of Zenith, I tell you in all candor, honesty,\nand sincerity how the issues of this critical campaign appear to one\nplain man of business--to one who, brought up to the blessings of\npoverty and of manual labor, has, even when Fate condemned him to sit\nat a desk, yet never forgotten how it feels, by heck, to be up at\nfive-thirty and at the factory with the ole dinner-pail in his hardened\nmitt when the whistle blew at seven, unless the owner sneaked in ten\nminutes on us and blew it early! (Laughter.) To come down to the basic\nand fundamental issues of this campaign, the great error, insincerely\npromulgated by Seneca Doane--\"\n\nThere were workmen who jeered--young cynical workmen, for the most part\nforeigners, Jews, Swedes, Irishmen, Italians--but the older men, the\npatient, bleached, stooped carpenters and mechanics, cheered him; and\nwhen he worked up to his anecdote of Lincoln their eyes were wet.\n\nModestly, busily, he hurried out of the hall on delicious applause, and\nsped off to his third audience of the evening. \"Ted, you better drive,\"\nhe said. \"Kind of all in after that spiel. Well, Paul, how'd it go? Did\nI get 'em?\"\n\n\"Bully! Corking! You had a lot of pep.\"\n\nMrs. Babbitt worshiped, \"Oh, it was fine! So clear and interesting, and\nsuch nice ideas. When I hear you orating I realize I don't appreciate\nhow profoundly you think and what a splendid brain and vocabulary you\nhave. Just--splendid.\" But Verona was irritating. \"Dad,\" she worried,\n\"how do you know that public ownership of utilities and so on and so\nforth will always be a failure?\"\n\nMrs. Babbitt reproved, \"Rone, I should think you could see and realize\nthat when your father's all worn out with orating, it's no time to\nexpect him to explain these complicated subjects. I'm sure when he's\nrested he'll be glad to explain it to you. Now let's all be quiet and\ngive Papa a chance to get ready for his next speech. Just think! Right\nnow they're gathering in Maccabee Temple, and WAITING for us!\"\n\n\nIII\n\nMr. Lucas Prout and Sound Business defeated Mr. Seneca Doane and Class\nRule, and Zenith was again saved. Babbitt was offered several minor\nappointments to distribute among poor relations, but he preferred\nadvance information about the extension of paved highways, and this a\ngrateful administration gave to him. Also, he was one of only nineteen\nspeakers at the dinner with which the Chamber of Commerce celebrated the\nvictory of righteousness.\n\nHis reputation for oratory established, at the dinner of the Zenith Real\nEstate Board he made the Annual Address. The Advocate-Times reported\nthis speech with unusual fullness:\n\n\"One of the livest banquets that has recently been pulled off occurred\nlast night in the annual Get-Together Fest of the Zenith Real Estate\nBoard, held in the Venetian Ball Room of the O'Hearn House. Mine host\nGil O'Hearn had as usual done himself proud and those assembled feasted\non such an assemblage of plates as could be rivaled nowhere west of New\nYork, if there, and washed down the plenteous feed with the cup which\ninspired but did not inebriate in the shape of cider from the farm\nof Chandler Mott, president of the board and who acted as witty and\nefficient chairman.\n\n\"As Mr. Mott was suffering from slight infection and sore throat, G.\nF. Babbitt made the principal talk. Besides outlining the progress of\nTorrensing real estate titles, Mr. Babbitt spoke in part as follows:\n\n\"'In rising to address you, with my impromptu speech carefully tucked\ninto my vest pocket, I am reminded of the story of the two Irishmen,\nMike and Pat, who were riding on the Pullman. Both of them, I forgot to\nsay, were sailors in the Navy. It seems Mike had the lower berth and by\nand by he heard a terrible racket from the upper, and when he yelled up\nto find out what the trouble was, Pat answered, \"Shure an' bedad an' how\ncan I ever get a night's sleep at all, at all? I been trying to get into\nthis darned little hammock ever since eight bells!\"\n\n\"'Now, gentlemen, standing up here before you, I feel a good deal like\nPat, and maybe after I've spieled along for a while, I may feel so darn\nsmall that I'll be able to crawl into a Pullman hammock with no trouble\nat all, at all!\n\n\"'Gentlemen, it strikes me that each year at this annual occasion when\nfriend and foe get together and lay down the battle-ax and let the waves\nof good-fellowship waft them up the flowery slopes of amity, it\nbehooves us, standing together eye to eye and shoulder to shoulder as\nfellow-citizens of the best city in the world, to consider where we are\nboth as regards ourselves and the common weal.\n\n\"'It is true that even with our 361,000, or practically 362,000,\npopulation, there are, by the last census, almost a score of larger\ncities in the United States. But, gentlemen, if by the next census we do\nnot stand at least tenth, then I'll be the first to request any knocker\nto remove my shirt and to eat the same, with the compliments of G.\nF. Babbitt, Esquire! It may be true that New York, Chicago, and\nPhiladelphia will continue to keep ahead of us in size. But aside from\nthese three cities, which are notoriously so overgrown that no decent\nwhite man, nobody who loves his wife and kiddies and God's good\nout-o'doors and likes to shake the hand of his neighbor in greeting,\nwould want to live in them--and let me tell you right here and now, I\nwouldn't trade a high-class Zenith acreage development for the whole\nlength and breadth of Broadway or State Street!--aside from these three,\nit's evident to any one with a head for facts that Zenith is the finest\nexample of American life and prosperity to be found anywhere.\n\n\"'I don't mean to say we're perfect. We've got a lot to do in the way\nof extending the paving of motor boulevards, for, believe me, it's the\nfellow with four to ten thousand a year, say, and an automobile and a\nnice little family in a bungalow on the edge of town, that makes the\nwheels of progress go round!\n\n\"'That's the type of fellow that's ruling America to-day; in fact, it's\nthe ideal type to which the entire world must tend, if there's to be a\ndecent, well-balanced, Christian, go-ahead future for this little old\nplanet! Once in a while I just naturally sit back and size up this Solid\nAmerican Citizen, with a whale of a lot of satisfaction.\n\n\"'Our Ideal Citizen--I picture him first and foremost as being busier\nthan a bird-dog, not wasting a lot of good time in day-dreaming or going\nto sassiety teas or kicking about things that are none of his business,\nbut putting the zip into some store or profession or art. At night he\nlights up a good cigar, and climbs into the little old 'bus, and maybe\ncusses the carburetor, and shoots out home. He mows the lawn, or sneaks\nin some practice putting, and then he's ready for dinner. After dinner\nhe tells the kiddies a story, or takes the family to the movies, or\nplays a few fists of bridge, or reads the evening paper, and a\nchapter or two of some good lively Western novel if he has a taste for\nliterature, and maybe the folks next-door drop in and they sit and visit\nabout their friends and the topics of the day. Then he goes happily to\nbed, his conscience clear, having contributed his mite to the prosperity\nof the city and to his own bank-account.\n\n\"'In politics and religion this Sane Citizen is the canniest man on\nearth; and in the arts he invariably has a natural taste which makes him\npick out the best, every time. In no country in the world will you find\nso many reproductions of the Old Masters and of well-known paintings on\nparlor walls as in these United States. No country has anything like our\nnumber of phonographs, with not only dance records and comic but also\nthe best operas, such as Verdi, rendered by the world's highest-paid\nsingers.\n\n\"'In other countries, art and literature are left to a lot of shabby\nbums living in attics and feeding on booze and spaghetti, but in America\nthe successful writer or picture-painter is indistinguishable from any\nother decent business man; and I, for one, am only too glad that the man\nwho has the rare skill to season his message with interesting reading\nmatter and who shows both purpose and pep in handling his literary wares\nhas a chance to drag down his fifty thousand bucks a year, to mingle\nwith the biggest executives on terms of perfect equality, and to show\nas big a house and as swell a car as any Captain of Industry! But, mind\nyou, it's the appreciation of the Regular Guy who I have been depicting\nwhich has made this possible, and you got to hand as much credit to him\nas to the authors themselves.\n\n\"'Finally, but most important, our Standardized Citizen, even if he is a\nbachelor, is a lover of the Little Ones, a supporter of the hearthstone\nwhich is the basic foundation of our civilization, first, last, and\nall the time, and the thing that most distinguishes us from the decayed\nnations of Europe.\n\n\"'I have never yet toured Europe--and as a matter of fact, I don't know\nthat I care to such an awful lot, as long as there's our own mighty\ncities and mountains to be seen--but, the way I figure it out, there\nmust be a good many of our own sort of folks abroad. Indeed, one of\nthe most enthusiastic Rotarians I ever met boosted the tenets of\none-hundred-per-cent pep in a burr that smacked o' bonny Scutlond\nand all ye bonny braes o' Bobby Burns. But same time, one thing that\ndistinguishes us from our good brothers, the hustlers over there, is\nthat they're willing to take a lot off the snobs and journalists and\npoliticians, while the modern American business man knows how to talk\nright up for himself, knows how to make it good and plenty clear that\nhe intends to run the works. He doesn't have to call in some highbrow\nhired-man when it's necessary for him to answer the crooked critics\nof the sane and efficient life. He's not dumb, like the old-fashioned\nmerchant. He's got a vocabulary and a punch.\n\n\"'With all modesty, I want to stand up here as a representative\nbusiness man and gently whisper, \"Here's our kind of folks! Here's the\nspecifications of the Standardized American Citizen! Here's the new\ngeneration of Americans: fellows with hair on their chests and smiles\nin their eyes and adding-machines in their offices. We're not doing any\nboasting, but we like ourselves first-rate, and if you don't like us,\nlook out--better get under cover before the cyclone hits town!\"\n\n\"'So! In my clumsy way I have tried to sketch the Real He-man, the\nfellow with Zip and Bang. And it's because Zenith has so large a\nproportion of such men that it's the most stable, the greatest of our\ncities. New York also has its thousands of Real Folks, but New York is\ncursed with unnumbered foreigners. So are Chicago and San Francisco.\nOh, we have a golden roster of cities--Detroit and Cleveland with their\nrenowned factories, Cincinnati with its great machine-tool and soap\nproducts, Pittsburg and Birmingham with their steel, Kansas City and\nMinneapolis and Omaha that open their bountiful gates on the bosom\nof the ocean-like wheatlands, and countless other magnificent\nsister-cities, for, by the last census, there were no less than\nsixty-eight glorious American burgs with a population of over one\nhundred thousand! And all these cities stand together for power and\npurity, and against foreign ideas and communism--Atlanta with Hartford,\nRochester with Denver, Milwaukee with Indianapolis, Los Angeles with\nScranton, Portland, Maine, with Portland, Oregon. A good live wire from\nBaltimore or Seattle or Duluth is the twin-brother of every like fellow\nbooster from Buffalo or Akron, Fort Worth or Oskaloosa!\n\n\"'But it's here in Zenith, the home for manly men and womanly women and\nbright kids, that you find the largest proportion of these Regular Guys,\nand that's what sets it in a class by itself; that's why Zenith will\nbe remembered in history as having set the pace for a civilization that\nshall endure when the old time-killing ways are gone forever and the day\nof earnest efficient endeavor shall have dawned all round the world!\n\n\"'Some time I hope folks will quit handing all the credit to a lot of\nmoth-eaten, mildewed, out-of-date, old, European dumps, and give proper\ncredit to the famous Zenith spirit, that clean fighting determination\nto win Success that has made the little old Zip City celebrated in\nevery land and clime, wherever condensed milk and pasteboard cartons\nare known! Believe me, the world has fallen too long for these worn-out\ncountries that aren't producing anything but bootblacks and scenery and\nbooze, that haven't got one bathroom per hundred people, and that don't\nknow a loose-leaf ledger from a slip-cover; and it's just about time for\nsome Zenithite to get his back up and holler for a show-down!\n\n\"'I tell you, Zenith and her sister-cities are producing a new type of\ncivilization. There are many resemblances between Zenith and these other\nburgs, and I'm darn glad of it! The extraordinary, growing, and sane\nstandardization of stores, offices, streets, hotels, clothes, and\nnewspapers throughout the United States shows how strong and enduring a\ntype is ours.\n\n\"'I always like to remember a piece that Chum Frink wrote for the\nnewspapers about his lecture-tours. It is doubtless familiar to many of\nyou, but if you will permit me, I'll take a chance and read it. It's\none of the classic poems, like \"If\" by Kipling, or Ella Wheeler Wilcox's\n\"The Man Worth While\"; and I always carry this clipping of it in my\nnote-book:\n\n\n\"When I am out upon the road, a poet with a pedler's load I mostly sing\na hearty song, and take a chew and hike along, a-handing out my samples\nfine of Cheero Brand of sweet sunshine, and peddling optimistic pokes\nand stable lines of japes and jokes to Lyceums and other folks, to\nRotarys, Kiwanis' Clubs, and feel I ain't like other dubs. And then old\nMajor Silas Satan, a brainy cuss who's always waitin', he gives his tail\na lively quirk, and gets in quick his dirty work. He fills me up with\nmullygrubs; my hair the backward way he rubs; he makes me lonelier than\na hound, on Sunday when the folks ain't round. And then b' gosh, I would\nprefer to never be a lecturer, a-ridin' round in classy cars and smoking\nfifty-cent cigars, and never more I want to roam; I simply want to be\nback home, a-eatin' flap jacks, hash, and ham, with folks who savvy whom\nI am!\n\n\"But when I get that lonely spell, I simply seek the best hotel, no\nmatter in what town I be--St. Paul, Toledo, or K.C., in Washington,\nSchenectady, in Louisville or Albany. And at that inn it hits my dome\nthat I again am right at home. If I should stand a lengthy spell in\nfront of that first-class hotel, that to the drummers loves to cater,\nacross from some big film theayter; if I should look around and buzz,\nand wonder in what town I was, I swear that I could never tell! For all\nthe crowd would be so swell, in just the same fine sort of jeans they\nwear at home, and all the queens with spiffy bonnets on their beans, and\nall the fellows standing round a-talkin' always, I'll be bound, the same\ngood jolly kind of guff, 'bout autos, politics and stuff and baseball\nplayers of renown that Nice Guys talk in my home town!\n\n\"Then when I entered that hotel, I'd look around and say, \"Well, well!\"\nFor there would be the same news-stand, same magazines and candies\ngrand, same smokes of famous standard brand, I'd find at home, I'll\ntell! And when I saw the jolly bunch come waltzing in for eats at lunch,\nand squaring up in natty duds to platters large of French Fried spuds,\nwhy then I'd stand right up and bawl, \"I've never left my home at all!\"\nAnd all replete I'd sit me down beside some guy in derby brown upon a\nlobby chair of plush, and murmur to him in a rush, \"Hello, Bill, tell\nme, good old scout, how is your stock a-holdin' out?\" Then we'd be off,\ntwo solid pals, a-chatterin' like giddy gals of flivvers, weather, home,\nand wives, lodge-brothers then for all our lives! So when Sam Satan\nmakes you blue, good friend, that's what I'd up and do, for in these\nStates where'er you roam, you never leave your home sweet home.\"\n\n\n\"'Yes, sir, these other burgs are our true partners in the great game\nof vital living. But let's not have any mistake about this. I claim that\nZenith is the best partner and the fastest-growing partner of the whole\ncaboodle. I trust I may be pardoned if I give a few statistics to back\nup my claims. If they are old stuff to any of you, yet the tidings of\nprosperity, like the good news of the Bible, never become tedious to the\nears of a real hustler, no matter how oft the sweet story is told! Every\nintelligent person knows that Zenith manufactures more condensed milk\nand evaporated cream, more paper boxes, and more lighting-fixtures, than\nany other city in the United States, if not in the world. But it is not\nso universally known that we also stand second in the manufacture of\npackage-butter, sixth in the giant realm of motors and automobiles,\nand somewhere about third in cheese, leather findings, tar roofing,\nbreakfast food, and overalls!\n\n\"'Our greatness, however, lies not alone in punchful prosperity but\nequally in that public spirit, that forward-looking idealism and\nbrotherhood, which has marked Zenith ever since its foundation by the\nFathers. We have a right, indeed we have a duty toward our fair city,\nto announce broadcast the facts about our high schools, characterized by\ntheir complete plants and the finest school-ventilating systems in\nthe country, bar none; our magnificent new hotels and banks and the\npaintings and carved marble in their lobbies; and the Second National\nTower, the second highest business building in any inland city in the\nentire country. When I add that we have an unparalleled number of miles\nof paved streets, bathrooms vacuum cleaners, and all the other signs\nof civilization; that our library and art museum are well supported and\nhoused in convenient and roomy buildings; that our park-system is more\nthan up to par, with its handsome driveways adorned with grass,\nshrubs, and statuary, then I give but a hint of the all round unlimited\ngreatness of Zenith!\n\n\"'I believe, however, in keeping the best to the last. When I remind you\nthat we have one motor car for every five and seven-eighths persons in\nthe city, then I give a rock-ribbed practical indication of the kind of\nprogress and braininess which is synonymous with the name Zenith!\n\n\"'But the way of the righteous is not all roses. Before I close I must\ncall your attention to a problem we have to face, this coming year. The\nworst menace to sound government is not the avowed socialists but a\nlot of cowards who work under cover--the long-haired gentry who\ncall themselves \"liberals\" and \"radicals\" and \"non-partisan\" and\n\"intelligentsia\" and God only knows how many other trick names!\nIrresponsible teachers and professors constitute the worst of this whole\ngang, and I am ashamed to say that several of them are on the faculty of\nour great State University! The U. is my own Alma Mater, and I am proud\nto be known as an alumni, but there are certain instructors there who\nseem to think we ought to turn the conduct of the nation over to hoboes\nand roustabouts.\n\n\"'Those profs are the snakes to be scotched--they and all their\nmilk-and-water ilk! The American business man is generous to a\nfault. But one thing he does demand of all teachers and lecturers and\njournalists: if we're going to pay them our good money, they've got\nto help us by selling efficiency and whooping it up for rational\nprosperity! And when it comes to these blab-mouth, fault-finding,\npessimistic, cynical University teachers, let me tell you that during\nthis golden coming year it's just as much our duty to bring influence to\nhave those cusses fired as it is to sell all the real estate and gather\nin all the good shekels we can.\n\n\"'Not till that is done will our sons and daughters see that the ideal\nof American manhood and culture isn't a lot of cranks sitting around\nchewing the rag about their Rights and their Wrongs, but a God-fearing,\nhustling, successful, two-fisted Regular Guy, who belongs to some church\nwith pep and piety to it, who belongs to the Boosters or the Rotarians\nor the Kiwanis, to the Elks or Moose or Red Men or Knights of Columbus\nor any one of a score of organizations of good, jolly, kidding,\nlaughing, sweating, upstanding, lend-a-handing Royal Good Fellows,\nwho plays hard and works hard, and whose answer to his critics is a\nsquare-toed boot that'll teach the grouches and smart alecks to respect\nthe He-man and get out and root for Uncle Samuel, U.S.A.!'\"\n\n\nIV\n\nBabbitt promised to become a recognized orator. He entertained a Smoker\nof the Men's Club of the Chatham Road presbyterian Church with Irish,\nJewish, and Chinese dialect stories.\n\nBut in nothing was he more clearly revealed as the Prominent Citizen\nthan in his lecture on \"Brass Tacks Facts on Real Estate,\" as delivered\nbefore the class in Sales Methods at the Zenith Y.M.C.A.\n\nThe Advocate-Times reported the lecture so fully that Vergil Gunch said\nto Babbitt, \"You're getting to be one of the classiest spellbinders in\ntown. Seems 's if I couldn't pick up a paper without reading about your\nwell-known eloquence. All this guff ought to bring a lot of business\ninto your office. Good work! Keep it up!\"\n\n\"Go on, quit your kidding,\" said Babbitt feebly, but at this tribute\nfrom Gunch, himself a man of no mean oratorical fame, he expanded with\ndelight and wondered how, before his vacation, he could have questioned\nthe joys of being a solid citizen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nHIS march to greatness was not without disastrous stumbling.\n\nFame did not bring the social advancement which the Babbitts deserved.\nThey were not asked to join the Tonawanda Country Club nor invited to\nthe dances at the Union. Himself, Babbitt fretted, he didn't \"care a fat\nhoot for all these highrollers, but the wife would kind of like to be\nAmong Those Present.\" He nervously awaited his university class-dinner\nand an evening of furious intimacy with such social leaders as Charles\nMcKelvey the millionaire contractor, Max Kruger the banker, Irving Tate\nthe tool-manufacturer, and Adelbert Dobson the fashionable interior\ndecorator. Theoretically he was their friend, as he had been in college,\nand when he encountered them they still called him \"Georgie,\" but he\ndidn't seem to encounter them often, and they never invited him to\ndinner (with champagne and a butler) at their houses on Royal Ridge.\n\nAll the week before the class-dinner he thought of them. \"No reason why\nwe shouldn't become real chummy now!\"\n\n\nII\n\nLike all true American diversions and spiritual outpourings, the\ndinner of the men of the Class of 1896 was thoroughly organized. The\ndinner-committee hammered like a sales-corporation. Once a week they\nsent out reminders:\n\nTICKLER NO. 3\n\nOld man, are you going to be with us at the livest Friendship Feed the\nalumni of the good old U have ever known? The alumnae of '08 turned out\n60% strong. Are we boys going to be beaten by a bunch of skirts? Come\non, fellows, let's work up some real genuine enthusiasm and all boost\ntogether for the snappiest dinner yet! Elegant eats, short ginger-talks,\nand memories shared together of the brightest, gladdest days of life.\n\n\nThe dinner was held in a private room at the Union Club. The club was\na dingy building, three pretentious old dwellings knocked together, and\nthe entrance-hall resembled a potato cellar, yet the Babbitt who\nwas free of the magnificence of the Athletic Club entered with\nembarrassment. He nodded to the doorman, an ancient proud negro with\nbrass buttons and a blue tail-coat, and paraded through the hall, trying\nto look like a member.\n\nSixty men had come to the dinner. They made islands and eddies in\nthe hall; they packed the elevator and the corners of the private\ndining-room. They tried to be intimate and enthusiastic. They appeared\nto one another exactly as they had in college--as raw youngsters whose\npresent mustaches, baldnesses, paunches, and wrinkles were but jovial\ndisguises put on for the evening. \"You haven't changed a particle!\"\nthey marveled. The men whom they could not recall they addressed, \"Well,\nwell, great to see you again, old man. What are you--Still doing the\nsame thing?\"\n\nSome one was always starting a cheer or a college song, and it was\nalways thinning into silence. Despite their resolution to be democratic\nthey divided into two sets: the men with dress-clothes and the men\nwithout. Babbitt (extremely in dress-clothes) went from one group to the\nother. Though he was, almost frankly, out for social conquest, he sought\nPaul Riesling first. He found him alone, neat and silent.\n\nPaul sighed, \"I'm no good at this handshaking and 'well, look who's\nhere' bunk.\"\n\n\"Rats now, Paulibus, loosen up and be a mixer! Finest bunch of boys on\nearth! Say, you seem kind of glum. What's matter?\"\n\n\"Oh, the usual. Run-in with Zilla.\"\n\n\"Come on! Let's wade in and forget our troubles.\"\n\nHe kept Paul beside him, but worked toward the spot where Charles\nMcKelvey stood warming his admirers like a furnace.\n\nMcKelvey had been the hero of the Class of '96; not only football\ncaptain and hammer-thrower but debater, and passable in what the State\nUniversity considered scholarship. He had gone on, had captured the\nconstruction-company once owned by the Dodsworths, best-known pioneer\nfamily of Zenith. He built state capitols, skyscrapers, railway\nterminals. He was a heavy-shouldered, big-chested man, but not sluggish.\nThere was a quiet humor in his eyes, a syrup-smooth quickness in his\nspeech, which intimidated politicians and warned reporters; and in his\npresence the most intelligent scientist or the most sensitive artist\nfelt thin-blooded, unworldly, and a little shabby. He was, particularly\nwhen he was influencing legislatures or hiring labor-spies, very easy\nand lovable and gorgeous. He was baronial; he was a peer in the rapidly\ncrystallizing American aristocracy, inferior only to the haughty Old\nFamilies. (In Zenith, an Old Family is one which came to town before\n1840.) His power was the greater because he was not hindered by\nscruples, by either the vice or the virtue of the older Puritan\ntradition.\n\nMcKelvey was being placidly merry now with the great, the manufacturers\nand bankers, the land-owners and lawyers and surgeons who had chauffeurs\nand went to Europe. Babbitt squeezed among them. He liked McKelvey's\nsmile as much as the social advancement to be had from his favor. If in\nPaul's company he felt ponderous and protective, with McKelvey he felt\nslight and adoring.\n\nHe heard McKelvey say to Max Kruger, the banker, \"Yes, we'll put up Sir\nGerald Doak.\" Babbitt's democratic love for titles became a rich relish.\n\"You know, he's one of the biggest iron-men in England, Max. Horribly\nwell-off.... Why, hello, old Georgie! Say, Max, George Babbitt is\ngetting fatter than I am!\"\n\nThe chairman shouted, \"Take your seats, fellows!\"\n\n\"Shall we make a move, Charley?\" Babbitt said casually to McKelvey.\n\n\"Right. Hello, Paul! How's the old fiddler? Planning to sit anywhere\nspecial, George? Come on, let's grab some seats. Come on, Max. Georgie,\nI read about your speeches in the campaign. Bully work!\"\n\nAfter that, Babbitt would have followed him through fire. He was\nenormously busy during the dinner, now bumblingly cheering Paul, now\napproaching McKelvey with \"Hear, you're going to build some piers in\nBrooklyn,\" now noting how enviously the failures of the class, sitting\nby themselves in a weedy group, looked up to him in his association with\nthe nobility, now warming himself in the Society Talk of McKelvey and\nMax Kruger. They spoke of a \"jungle dance\" for which Mona Dodsworth\nhad decorated her house with thousands of orchids. They spoke, with an\nexcellent imitation of casualness, of a dinner in Washington at\nwhich McKelvey had met a Senator, a Balkan princess, and an English\nmajor-general. McKelvey called the princess \"Jenny,\" and let it be known\nthat he had danced with her.\n\nBabbitt was thrilled, but not so weighted with awe as to be silent. If\nhe was not invited by them to dinner, he was yet accustomed to talking\nwith bank-presidents, congressmen, and clubwomen who entertained poets.\nHe was bright and referential with McKelvey:\n\n\"Say, Charley, juh remember in Junior year how we chartered a sea-going\nhack and chased down to Riverdale, to the big show Madame Brown used to\nput on? Remember how you beat up that hick constabule that tried to run\nus in, and we pinched the pants-pressing sign and took and hung it on\nProf. Morrison's door? Oh, gosh, those were the days!\"\n\nThose, McKelvey agreed, were the days.\n\nBabbitt had reached \"It isn't the books you study in college but the\nfriendships you make that counts\" when the men at head of the table\nbroke into song. He attacked McKelvey:\n\n\"It's a shame, uh, shame to drift apart because our, uh, business\nactivities lie in different fields. I've enjoyed talking over the good\nold days. You and Mrs. McKelvey must come to dinner some night.\"\n\nVaguely, \"Yes, indeed--\"\n\n\"Like to talk to you about the growth of real estate out beyond your\nGrantsville warehouse. I might be able to tip you off to a thing or two,\npossibly.\"\n\n\"Splendid! We must have dinner together, Georgie. Just let me know. And\nit will be a great pleasure to have your wife and you at the house,\"\nsaid McKelvey, much less vaguely.\n\nThen the chairman's voice, that prodigious voice which once had roused\nthem to cheer defiance at rooters from Ohio or Michigan or Indiana,\nwhooped, \"Come on, you wombats! All together in the long yell!\" Babbitt\nfelt that life would never be sweeter than now, when he joined with Paul\nRiesling and the newly recovered hero, McKelvey, in:\n\nBaaaaaattle-ax Get an ax, Bal-ax, Get-nax, Who, who? The U.! Hooroo!\n\n\nIII\n\nThe Babbitts invited the McKelveys to dinner, in early December, and the\nMcKelveys not only accepted but, after changing the date once or twice,\nactually came.\n\nThe Babbitts somewhat thoroughly discussed the details of the dinner,\nfrom the purchase of a bottle of champagne to the number of salted\nalmonds to be placed before each person. Especially did they mention the\nmatter of the other guests. To the last Babbitt held out for giving\nPaul Riesling the benefit of being with the McKelveys. \"Good old Charley\nwould like Paul and Verg Gunch better than some highfalutin' Willy\nboy,\" he insisted, but Mrs. Babbitt interrupted his observations with,\n\"Yes--perhaps--I think I'll try to get some Lynnhaven oysters,\" and\nwhen she was quite ready she invited Dr. J. T. Angus, the oculist, and a\ndismally respectable lawyer named Maxwell, with their glittering wives.\n\nNeither Angus nor Maxwell belonged to the Elks or to the Athletic Club;\nneither of them had ever called Babbitt \"brother\" or asked his opinions\non carburetors. The only \"human people\" whom she invited, Babbitt\nraged, were the Littlefields; and Howard Littlefield at times became so\nstatistical that Babbitt longed for the refreshment of Gunch's, \"Well,\nold lemon-pie-face, what's the good word?\"\n\nImmediately after lunch Mrs. Babbitt began to set the table for the\nseven-thirty dinner to the McKelveys, and Babbitt was, by order, home at\nfour. But they didn't find anything for him to do, and three times Mrs.\nBabbitt scolded, \"Do please try to keep out of the way!\" He stood in the\ndoor of the garage, his lips drooping, and wished that Littlefield or\nSam Doppelbrau or somebody would come along and talk to him. He saw Ted\nsneaking about the corner of the house.\n\n\"What's the matter, old man?\" said Babbitt.\n\n\"Is that you, thin, owld one? Gee, Ma certainly is on the warpath!\nI told her Rone and I would jus' soon not be let in on the fiesta\nto-night, and she bit me. She says I got to take a bath, too. But, say,\nthe Babbitt men will be some lookers to-night! Little Theodore in a\ndress-suit!\"\n\n\"The Babbitt men!\" Babbitt liked the sound of it. He put his arm about\nthe boy's shoulder. He wished that Paul Riesling had a daughter, so that\nTed might marry her. \"Yes, your mother is kind of rouncing round, all\nright,\" he said, and they laughed together, and sighed together, and\ndutifully went in to dress.\n\nThe McKelveys were less than fifteen minutes late.\n\nBabbitt hoped that the Doppelbraus would see the McKelveys' limousine,\nand their uniformed chauffeur, waiting in front.\n\nThe dinner was well cooked and incredibly plentiful, and Mrs. Babbitt\nhad brought out her grandmother's silver candlesticks. Babbitt worked\nhard. He was good. He told none of the jokes he wanted to tell. He\nlistened to the others. He started Maxwell off with a resounding, \"Let's\nhear about your trip to the Yellowstone.\" He was laudatory, extremely\nlaudatory. He found opportunities to remark that Dr. Angus was a\nbenefactor to humanity, Maxwell and Howard Littlefield profound\nscholars, Charles McKelvey an inspiration to ambitious youth, and Mrs.\nMcKelvey an adornment to the social circles of Zenith, Washington, New\nYork, Paris, and numbers of other places.\n\nBut he could not stir them. It was a dinner without a soul. For no\nreason that was clear to Babbitt, heaviness was over them and they spoke\nlaboriously and unwillingly.\n\nHe concentrated on Lucille McKelvey, carefully not looking at her\nblanched lovely shoulder and the tawny silken bared which supported her\nfrock.\n\n\"I suppose you'll be going to Europe pretty soon again, won't you?\" he\ninvited.\n\n\"I'd like awfully to run over to Rome for a few weeks.\"\n\n\"I suppose you see a lot of pictures and music and curios and everything\nthere.\"\n\n\"No, what I really go for is: there's a little trattoria on the Via\ndella Scrofa where you get the best fettuccine in the world.\"\n\n\"Oh, I--Yes. That must be nice to try that. Yes.\"\n\nAt a quarter to ten McKelvey discovered with profound regret that his\nwife had a headache. He said blithely, as Babbitt helped him with his\ncoat, \"We must lunch together some time, and talk over the old days.\"\n\nWhen the others had labored out, at half-past ten, Babbitt turned to\nhis wife, pleading, \"Charley said he had a corking time and we must\nlunch--said they wanted to have us up to the house for dinner before\nlong.\"\n\nShe achieved, \"Oh, it's just been one of those quiet evenings that are\noften so much more enjoyable than noisy parties where everybody talks at\nonce and doesn't really settle down to-nice quiet enjoyment.\"\n\nBut from his cot on the sleeping-porch he heard her weeping, slowly,\nwithout hope.\n\n\nIV\n\nFor a month they watched the social columns, and waited for a return\ndinner-invitation.\n\nAs the hosts of Sir Gerald Doak, the McKelveys were headlined all the\nweek after the Babbitts' dinner. Zenith ardently received Sir Gerald\n(who had come to America to buy coal). The newspapers interviewed him\non prohibition, Ireland, unemployment, naval aviation, the rate of\nexchange, tea-drinking versus whisky-drinking, the psychology of\nAmerican women, and daily life as lived by English county families. Sir\nGerald seemed to have heard of all those topics. The McKelveys gave him\na Singhalese dinner, and Miss Elnora Pearl Bates, society editor of the\nAdvocate-Times, rose to her highest lark-note. Babbitt read aloud at\nbreakfast-table:\n\n\n'Twixt the original and Oriental decorations, the strange and delicious\nfood, and the personalities both of the distinguished guests, the\ncharming hostess and the noted host, never has Zenith seen a more\nrecherche affair than the Ceylon dinner-dance given last evening by Mr.\nand Mrs. Charles McKelvey to Sir Gerald Doak. Methought as we--fortunate\none!--were privileged to view that fairy and foreign scene, nothing at\nMonte Carlo or the choicest ambassadorial sets of foreign capitals could\nbe more lovely. It is not for nothing that Zenith is in matters social\nrapidly becoming known as the choosiest inland city in the country.\n\nThough he is too modest to admit it, Lord Doak gives a cachet to our\nsmart quartier such as it has not received since the ever-memorable\nvisit of the Earl of Sittingbourne. Not only is he of the British\npeerage, but he is also, on dit, a leader of the British metal\nindustries. As he comes from Nottingham, a favorite haunt of Robin Hood,\nthough now, we are informed by Lord Doak, a live modern city of 275,573\ninhabitants, and important lace as well as other industries, we like to\nthink that perhaps through his veins runs some of the blood, both virile\nred and bonny blue, of that earlier lord o' the good greenwood, the\nroguish Robin.\n\nThe lovely Mrs. McKelvey never was more fascinating than last evening\nin her black net gown relieved by dainty bands of silver and at her\nexquisite waist a glowing cluster of Aaron Ward roses.\n\n\nBabbitt said bravely, \"I hope they don't invite us to meet this Lord\nDoak guy. Darn sight rather just have a nice quiet little dinner with\nCharley and the Missus.\"\n\nAt the Zenith Athletic Club they discussed it amply. \"I s'pose we'll\nhave to call McKelvey 'Lord Chaz' from now on,\" said Sidney Finkelstein.\n\n\"It beats all get-out,\" meditated that man of data, Howard Littlefield,\n\"how hard it is for some people to get things straight. Here they call\nthis fellow 'Lord Doak' when it ought to be 'Sir Gerald.'\"\n\nBabbitt marvelled, \"Is that a fact! Well, well! 'Sir Gerald,' eh? That's\nwhat you call um, eh? Well, sir, I'm glad to know that.\"\n\nLater he informed his salesmen, \"It's funnier 'n a goat the way\nsome folks that, just because they happen to lay up a big wad, go\nentertaining famous foreigners, don't have any more idea 'n a rabbit how\nto address 'em so's to make 'em feel at home!\"\n\nThat evening, as he was driving home, he passed McKelvey's limousine\nand saw Sir Gerald, a large, ruddy, pop-eyed, Teutonic Englishman whose\ndribble of yellow mustache gave him an aspect sad and doubtful. Babbitt\ndrove on slowly, oppressed by futility. He had a sudden, unexplained,\nand horrible conviction that the McKelveys were laughing at him.\n\nHe betrayed his depression by the violence with which he informed his\nwife, \"Folks that really tend to business haven't got the time to waste\non a bunch like the McKelveys. This society stuff is like any other\nhobby; if you devote yourself to it, you get on. But I like to have a\nchance to visit with you and the children instead of all this idiotic\nchasing round.\"\n\nThey did not speak of the McKelveys again.\n\n\nV\n\nIt was a shame, at this worried time, to have to think about the\nOverbrooks.\n\nEd Overbrook was a classmate of Babbitt who had been a failure. He had\na large family and a feeble insurance business out in the suburb of\nDorchester. He was gray and thin and unimportant. He had always been\ngray and thin and unimportant. He was the person whom, in any group,\nyou forgot to introduce, then introduced with extra enthusiasm. He had\nadmired Babbitt's good-fellowship in college, had admired ever since\nhis power in real estate, his beautiful house and wonderful clothes. It\npleased Babbitt, though it bothered him with a sense of responsibility.\nAt the class-dinner he had seen poor Overbrook, in a shiny blue serge\nbusiness-suit, being diffident in a corner with three other failures.\nHe had gone over and been cordial: \"Why, hello, young Ed! I hear you're\nwriting all the insurance in Dorchester now. Bully work!\"\n\nThey recalled the good old days when Overbrook used to write poetry.\nOverbrook embarrassed him by blurting, \"Say, Georgie, I hate to think\nof how we been drifting apart. I wish you and Mrs. Babbitt would come to\ndinner some night.\"\n\nBabbitt boomed, \"Fine! Sure! Just let me know. And the wife and I want\nto have you at the house.\" He forgot it, but unfortunately Ed Overbrook\ndid not. Repeatedly he telephoned to Babbitt, inviting him to dinner.\n\"Might as well go and get it over,\" Babbitt groaned to his wife. \"But\ndon't it simply amaze you the way the poor fish doesn't know the first\nthing about social etiquette? Think of him 'phoning me, instead of his\nwife sitting down and writing us a regular bid! Well, I guess\nwe're stuck for it. That's the trouble with all this class-brother\nhooptedoodle.\"\n\nHe accepted Overbrook's next plaintive invitation, for an evening two\nweeks off. A dinner two weeks off, even a family dinner, never seems\nso appalling, till the two weeks have astoundingly disappeared and\none comes dismayed to the ambushed hour. They had to change the date,\nbecause of their own dinner to the McKelveys, but at last they gloomily\ndrove out to the Overbrooks' house in Dorchester.\n\nIt was miserable from the beginning. The Overbrooks had dinner at\nsix-thirty, while the Babbitts never dined before seven. Babbitt\npermitted himself to be ten minutes late. \"Let's make it as short as\npossible. I think we'll duck out quick. I'll say I have to be at the\noffice extra early to-morrow,\" he planned.\n\nThe Overbrook house was depressing. It was the second story of a wooden\ntwo-family dwelling; a place of baby-carriages, old hats hung in\nthe hall, cabbage-smell, and a Family Bible on the parlor table. Ed\nOverbrook and his wife were as awkward and threadbare as usual, and the\nother guests were two dreadful families whose names Babbitt never caught\nand never desired to catch. But he was touched, and disconcerted, by the\ntactless way in which Overbrook praised him: \"We're mighty proud to have\nold George here to-night! Of course you've all read about his speeches\nand oratory in the papers--and the boy's good-looking, too, eh?--but\nwhat I always think of is back in college, and what a great old mixer he\nwas, and one of the best swimmers in the class.\"\n\nBabbitt tried to be jovial; he worked at it; but he could find nothing\nto interest him in Overbrook's timorousness, the blankness of the other\nguests, or the drained stupidity of Mrs. Overbrook, with her spectacles,\ndrab skin, and tight-drawn hair. He told his best Irish story, but it\nsank like soggy cake. Most bleary moment of all was when Mrs. Overbrook,\npeering out of her fog of nursing eight children and cooking and\nscrubbing, tried to be conversational.\n\n\"I suppose you go to Chicago and New York right along, Mr. Babbitt,\" she\nprodded.\n\n\"Well, I get to Chicago fairly often.\"\n\n\"It must be awfully interesting. I suppose you take in all the\ntheaters.\"\n\n\"Well, to tell the truth, Mrs. Overbrook, thing that hits me best is a\ngreat big beefsteak at a Dutch restaurant in the Loop!\"\n\nThey had nothing more to say. Babbitt was sorry, but there was no\nhope; the dinner was a failure. At ten, rousing out of the stupor of\nmeaningless talk, he said as cheerily as he could, \"'Fraid we got to be\nstarting, Ed. I've got a fellow coming to see me early to-morrow.\" As\nOverbrook helped him with his coat, Babbitt said, \"Nice to rub up on the\nold days! We must have lunch together, P.D.Q.\"\n\nMrs. Babbitt sighed, on their drive home, \"It was pretty terrible. But\nhow Mr. Overbrook does admire you!\"\n\n\"Yep. Poor cuss! Seems to think I'm a little tin archangel, and the\nbest-looking man in Zenith.\"\n\n\"Well, you're certainly not that but--Oh, Georgie, you don't suppose we\nhave to invite them to dinner at our house now, do we?\"\n\n\"Ouch! Gaw, I hope not!\"\n\n\"See here, now, George! You didn't say anything about it to Mr.\nOverbrook, did you?\"\n\n\"No! Gee! No! Honest, I didn't! Just made a bluff about having him to\nlunch some time.\"\n\n\"Well.... Oh, dear.... I don't want to hurt their feelings. But I\ndon't see how I could stand another evening like this one. And suppose\nsomebody like Dr. and Mrs. Angus came in when we had the Overbrooks\nthere, and thought they were friends of ours!\"\n\nFor a week they worried, \"We really ought to invite Ed and his wife,\npoor devils!\" But as they never saw the Overbrooks, they forgot them,\nand after a month or two they said, \"That really was the best way, just\nto let it slide. It wouldn't be kind to THEM to have them here. They'd\nfeel so out of place and hard-up in our home.\"\n\nThey did not speak of the Overbrooks again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nTHE certainty that he was not going to be accepted by the McKelveys made\nBabbitt feel guilty and a little absurd. But he went more regularly to\nthe Elks; at a Chamber of Commerce luncheon he was oratorical regarding\nthe wickedness of strikes; and again he saw himself as a Prominent\nCitizen.\n\nHis clubs and associations were food comfortable to his spirit.\n\nOf a decent man in Zenith it was required that he should belong to\none, preferably two or three, of the innumerous \"lodges\" and\nprosperity-boosting lunch-clubs; to the Rotarians, the Kiwanis, or the\nBoosters; to the Oddfellows, Moose, Masons, Red Men, Woodmen, Owls,\nEagles, Maccabees, Knights of Pythias, Knights of Columbus, and other\nsecret orders characterized by a high degree of heartiness, sound\nmorals, and reverence for the Constitution. There were four reasons for\njoining these orders: It was the thing to do. It was good for business,\nsince lodge-brothers frequently became customers. It gave to Americans\nunable to become Geheimrate or Commendatori such unctuous honorifics as\nHigh Worthy Recording Scribe and Grand Hoogow to add to the commonplace\ndistinctions of Colonel, Judge, and Professor. And it permitted the\nswaddled American husband to stay away from home for one evening a week.\nThe lodge was his piazza, his pavement cafe. He could shoot pool and\ntalk man-talk and be obscene and valiant.\n\nBabbitt was what he called a \"joiner\" for all these reasons.\n\nBehind the gold and scarlet banner of his public achievements was the\ndun background of office-routine: leases, sales-contracts, lists of\nproperties to rent. The evenings of oratory and committees and lodges\nstimulated him like brandy, but every morning he was sandy-tongued. Week\nby week he accumulated nervousness. He was in open disagreement with his\noutside salesman, Stanley Graff; and once, though her charms had always\nkept him nickeringly polite to her, he snarled at Miss McGoun for\nchanging his letters.\n\nBut in the presence of Paul Riesling he relaxed. At least once a week\nthey fled from maturity. On Saturday they played golf, jeering, \"As\na golfer, you're a fine tennis-player,\" or they motored all Sunday\nafternoon, stopping at village lunchrooms to sit on high stools at a\ncounter and drink coffee from thick cups. Sometimes Paul came over in\nthe evening with his violin, and even Zilla was silent as the lonely man\nwho had lost his way and forever crept down unfamiliar roads spun out\nhis dark soul in music.\n\n\nII\n\nNothing gave Babbitt more purification and publicity than his labors for\nthe Sunday School.\n\nHis church, the Chatham Road Presbyterian, was one of the largest and\nrichest, one of the most oaken and velvety, in Zenith. The pastor was\nthe Reverend John Jennison Drew, M.A., D.D., LL.D. (The M.A. and the\nD.D. were from Elbert University, Nebraska, the LL.D. from Waterbury\nCollege, Oklahoma.) He was eloquent, efficient, and versatile. He\npresided at meetings for the denunciation of unions or the elevation of\ndomestic service, and confided to the audiences that as a poor boy he\nhad carried newspapers. For the Saturday edition of the Evening Advocate\nhe wrote editorials on \"The Manly Man's Religion\" and \"The Dollars and\nSense Value of Christianity,\" which were printed in bold type surrounded\nby a wiggly border. He often said that he was \"proud to be known as\nprimarily a business man\" and that he certainly was not going to \"permit\nthe old Satan to monopolize all the pep and punch.\" He was a thin,\nrustic-faced young man with gold spectacles and a bang of dull brown\nhair, but when he hurled himself into oratory he glowed with power.\nHe admitted that he was too much the scholar and poet to imitate the\nevangelist, Mike Monday, yet he had once awakened his fold to new life,\nand to larger collections, by the challenge, \"My brethren, the real\ncheap skate is the man who won't lend to the Lord!\"\n\nHe had made his church a true community center. It contained everything\nbut a bar. It had a nursery, a Thursday evening supper with a short\nbright missionary lecture afterward, a gymnasium, a fortnightly\nmotion-picture show, a library of technical books for young\nworkmen--though, unfortunately, no young workman ever entered the church\nexcept to wash the windows or repair the furnace--and a sewing-circle\nwhich made short little pants for the children of the poor while Mrs.\nDrew read aloud from earnest novels.\n\nThough Dr. Drew's theology was Presbyterian, his church-building\nwas gracefully Episcopalian. As he said, it had the \"most perdurable\nfeatures of those noble ecclesiastical monuments of grand Old England\nwhich stand as symbols of the eternity of faith, religious and civil.\"\nIt was built of cheery iron-spot brick in an improved Gothic style, and\nthe main auditorium had indirect lighting from electric globes in lavish\nalabaster bowls.\n\nOn a December morning when the Babbitts went to church, Dr. John\nJennison Drew was unusually eloquent. The crowd was immense. Ten brisk\nyoung ushers, in morning coats with white roses, were bringing folding\nchairs up from the basement. There was an impressive musical program,\nconducted by Sheldon Smeeth, educational director of the Y.M.C.A.,\nwho also sang the offertory. Babbitt cared less for this, because some\nmisguided person had taught young Mr. Smeeth to smile, smile, smile\nwhile he was singing, but with all the appreciation of a fellow-orator\nhe admired Dr. Drew's sermon. It had the intellectual quality which\ndistinguished the Chatham Road congregation from the grubby chapels on\nSmith Street.\n\n\"At this abundant harvest-time of all the year,\" Dr. Drew chanted,\n\"when, though stormy the sky and laborious the path to the drudging\nwayfarer, yet the hovering and bodiless spirit swoops back o'er all the\nlabors and desires of the past twelve months, oh, then it seems to\nme there sounds behind all our apparent failures the golden chorus of\ngreeting from those passed happily on; and lo! on the dim horizon we\nsee behind dolorous clouds the mighty mass of mountains--mountains of\nmelody, mountains of mirth, mountains of might!\"\n\n\"I certainly do like a sermon with culture and thought in it,\" meditated\nBabbitt.\n\nAt the end of the service he was delighted when the pastor, actively\nshaking hands at the door, twittered, \"Oh, Brother Babbitt, can you wait\na jiffy? Want your advice.\"\n\n\"Sure, doctor! You bet!\"\n\n\"Drop into my office. I think you'll like the cigars there.\" Babbitt did\nlike the cigars. He also liked the office, which was distinguished from\nother offices only by the spirited change of the familiar wall-placard\nto \"This is the Lord's Busy Day.\" Chum Frink came in, then William W.\nEathorne.\n\nMr. Eathorne was the seventy-year-old president of the First State Bank\nof Zenith. He still wore the delicate patches of side-whiskers which had\nbeen the uniform of bankers in 1870. If Babbitt was envious of the\nSmart Set of the McKelveys, before William Washington Eathorne he was\nreverent. Mr. Eathorne had nothing to do with the Smart Set. He was\nabove it. He was the great-grandson of one of the five men who founded\nZenith, in 1792, and he was of the third generation of bankers. He could\nexamine credits, make loans, promote or injure a man's business. In his\npresence Babbitt breathed quickly and felt young.\n\nThe Reverend Dr. Drew bounced into the room and flowered into speech:\n\n\"I've asked you gentlemen to stay so I can put a proposition before you.\nThe Sunday School needs bucking up. It's the fourth largest in Zenith,\nbut there's no reason why we should take anybody's dust. We ought to be\nfirst. I want to request you, if you will, to form a committee of\nadvice and publicity for the Sunday School; look it over and make any\nsuggestions for its betterment, and then, perhaps, see that the press\ngives us some attention--give the public some really helpful and\nconstructive news instead of all these murders and divorces.\"\n\n\"Excellent,\" said the banker.\n\nBabbitt and Frink were enchanted to join him.\n\n\nIII\n\nIf you had asked Babbitt what his religion was, he would have answered\nin sonorous Boosters'-Club rhetoric, \"My religion is to serve my fellow\nmen, to honor my brother as myself, and to do my bit to make life\nhappier for one and all.\" If you had pressed him for more detail, he\nwould have announced, \"I'm a member of the Presbyterian Church, and\nnaturally, I accept its doctrines.\" If you had been so brutal as to\ngo on, he would have protested, \"There's no use discussing and arguing\nabout religion; it just stirs up bad feeling.\"\n\nActually, the content of his theology was that there was a supreme being\nwho had tried to make us perfect, but presumably had failed; that if\none was a Good Man he would go to a place called Heaven (Babbitt\nunconsciously pictured it as rather like an excellent hotel with a\nprivate garden), but if one was a Bad Man, that is, if he murdered\nor committed burglary or used cocaine or had mistresses or sold\nnon-existent real estate, he would be punished. Babbitt was uncertain,\nhowever, about what he called \"this business of Hell.\" He explained\nto Ted, \"Of course I'm pretty liberal; I don't exactly believe in a\nfire-and-brimstone Hell. Stands to reason, though, that a fellow can't\nget away with all sorts of Vice and not get nicked for it, see how I\nmean?\"\n\nUpon this theology he rarely pondered. The kernel of his practical\nreligion was that it was respectable, and beneficial to one's business,\nto be seen going to services; that the church kept the Worst Elements\nfrom being still worse; and that the pastor's sermons, however dull they\nmight seem at the time of taking, yet had a voodooistic power which \"did\na fellow good--kept him in touch with Higher Things.\"\n\nHis first investigations for the Sunday School Advisory Committee did\nnot inspire him.\n\nHe liked the Busy Folks' Bible Class, composed of mature men and women\nand addressed by the old-school physician, Dr. T. Atkins Jordan, in\na sparkling style comparable to that of the more refined humorous\nafter-dinner speakers, but when he went down to the junior classes he\nwas disconcerted. He heard Sheldon Smeeth, educational director of the\nY.M.C.A. and leader of the church-choir, a pale but strenuous young man\nwith curly hair and a smile, teaching a class of sixteen-year-old boys.\nSmeeth lovingly admonished them, \"Now, fellows, I'm going to have a\nHeart to Heart Talk Evening at my house next Thursday. We'll get off by\nourselves and be frank about our Secret Worries. You can just tell old\nSheldy anything, like all the fellows do at the Y. I'm going to explain\nfrankly about the horrible practises a kiddy falls into unless he's\nguided by a Big Brother, and about the perils and glory of Sex.\" Old\nSheldy beamed damply; the boys looked ashamed; and Babbitt didn't know\nwhich way to turn his embarrassed eyes.\n\nLess annoying but also much duller were the minor classes which were\nbeing instructed in philosophy and Oriental ethnology by earnest\nspinsters. Most of them met in the highly varnished Sunday School room,\nbut there was an overflow to the basement, which was decorated with\nvaricose water-pipes and lighted by small windows high up in the oozing\nwall. What Babbitt saw, however, was the First Congregational Church\nof Catawba. He was back in the Sunday School of his boyhood. He smelled\nagain that polite stuffiness to be found only in church parlors; he\nrecalled the case of drab Sunday School books: \"Hetty, a Humble\nHeroine\" and \"Josephus, a Lad of Palestine;\" he thumbed once more the\nhigh-colored text-cards which no boy wanted but no boy liked to throw\naway, because they were somehow sacred; he was tortured by the stumbling\nrote of thirty-five years ago, as in the vast Zenith church he listened\nto:\n\n\"Now, Edgar, you read the next verse. What does it mean when it says\nit's easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye? What does this\nteach us? Clarence! Please don't wiggle so! If you had studied your\nlesson you wouldn't be so fidgety. Now, Earl, what is the lesson\nJesus was trying to teach his disciples? The one thing I want you\nto especially remember, boys, is the words, 'With God all things\nare possible.' Just think of that always--Clarence, PLEASE pay\nattention--just say 'With God all things are possible' whenever you\nfeel discouraged, and, Alec, will you read the next verse; if you'd pay\nattention you wouldn't lose your place!\"\n\nDrone--drone--drone--gigantic bees that boomed in a cavern of\ndrowsiness--\n\nBabbitt started from his open-eyed nap, thanked the teacher for \"the\nprivilege of listening to her splendid teaching,\" and staggered on to\nthe next circle.\n\nAfter two weeks of this he had no suggestions whatever for the Reverend\nDr. Drew.\n\nThen he discovered a world of Sunday School journals, an enormous\nand busy domain of weeklies and monthlies which were as technical,\nas practical and forward-looking, as the real-estate columns or the\nshoe-trade magazines. He bought half a dozen of them at a religious\nbook-shop and till after midnight he read them and admired.\n\nHe found many lucrative tips on \"Focusing Appeals,\" \"Scouting for New\nMembers,\" and \"Getting Prospects to Sign up with the Sunday School.\" He\nparticularly liked the word \"prospects,\" and he was moved by the rubric:\n\n\"The moral springs of the community's life lie deep in its Sunday\nSchools--its schools of religious instruction and inspiration. Neglect\nnow means loss of spiritual vigor and moral power in years to come....\nFacts like the above, followed by a straight-arm appeal, will reach\nfolks who can never be laughed or jollied into doing their part.\"\n\nBabbitt admitted, \"That's so. I used to skin out of the ole Sunday\nSchool at Catawba every chance I got, but same time, I wouldn't be where\nI am to-day, maybe, if it hadn't been for its training in--in moral\npower. And all about the Bible. (Great literature. Have to read some of\nit again, one of these days).\"\n\nHow scientifically the Sunday School could be organized he learned from\nan article in the Westminster Adult Bible Class:\n\n\"The second vice-president looks after the fellowship of the class. She\nchooses a group to help her. These become ushers. Every one who comes\ngets a glad hand. No one goes away a stranger. One member of the group\nstands on the doorstep and invites passers-by to come in.\"\n\nPerhaps most of all Babbitt appreciated the remarks by William H.\nRidgway in the Sunday School Times:\n\n\"If you have a Sunday School class without any pep and get-up-and-go\nin it, that is, without interest, that is uncertain in attendance, that\nacts like a fellow with the spring fever, let old Dr. Ridgway write you\na prescription. Rx. Invite the Bunch for Supper.\"\n\nThe Sunday School journals were as well rounded as they were practical.\nThey neglected none of the arts. As to music the Sunday School Times\nadvertised that C. Harold Lowden, \"known to thousands through his sacred\ncompositions,\" had written a new masterpiece, \"entitled 'Yearning for\nYou.' The poem, by Harry D. Kerr, is one of the daintiest you could\nimagine and the music is indescribably beautiful. Critics are agreed\nthat it will sweep the country. May be made into a charming sacred song\nby substituting the hymn words, 'I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say.'\"\n\nEven manual training was adequately considered. Babbitt noted an\ningenious way of illustrating the resurrection of Jesus Christ:\n\n\"Model for Pupils to Make. Tomb with Rolling Door.--Use a square covered\nbox turned upside down. Pull the cover forward a little to form a groove\nat the bottom. Cut a square door, also cut a circle of cardboard to more\nthan cover the door. Cover the circular door and the tomb thickly with\nstiff mixture of sand, flour and water and let it dry. It was the heavy\ncircular stone over the door the women found 'rolled away' on Easter\nmorning. This is the story we are to 'Go-tell.'\"\n\nIn their advertisements the Sunday School journals were thoroughly\nefficient. Babbitt was interested in a preparation which \"takes the\nplace of exercise for sedentary men by building up depleted nerve\ntissue, nourishing the brain and the digestive system.\" He was edified\nto learn that the selling of Bibles was a hustling and strictly\ncompetitive industry, and as an expert on hygiene he was pleased by the\nSanitary Communion Outfit Company's announcement of \"an improved and\nsatisfactory outfit throughout, including highly polished beautiful\nmahogany tray. This tray eliminates all noise, is lighter and more\neasily handled than others and is more in keeping with the furniture of\nthe church than a tray of any other material.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nHe dropped the pile of Sunday School journals.\n\nHe pondered, \"Now, there's a real he-world. Corking!\n\n\"Ashamed I haven't sat in more. Fellow that's an influence in the\ncommunity--shame if he doesn't take part in a real virile hustling\nreligion. Sort of Christianity Incorporated, you might say.\n\n\"But with all reverence.\n\n\"Some folks might claim these Sunday School fans are undignified and\nunspiritual and so on. Sure! Always some skunk to spring things like\nthat! Knocking and sneering and tearing-down--so much easier than\nbuilding up. But me, I certainly hand it to these magazines. They've\nbrought ole George F. Babbitt into camp, and that's the answer to the\ncritics!\n\n\"The more manly and practical a fellow is, the more he ought to lead the\nenterprising Christian life. Me for it! Cut out this carelessness and\nboozing and--Rone! Where the devil you been? This is a fine time o'\nnight to be coming in!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nI\n\nTHERE are but three or four old houses in Floral Heights, and in Floral\nHeights an old house is one which was built before 1880. The largest of\nthese is the residence of William Washington Eathorne, president of the\nFirst State Bank.\n\nThe Eathorne Mansion preserves the memory of the \"nice parts\" of Zenith\nas they appeared from 1860 to 1900. It is a red brick immensity with\ngray sandstone lintels and a roof of slate in courses of red, green, and\ndyspeptic yellow. There are two anemic towers, one roofed with copper,\nthe other crowned with castiron ferns. The porch is like an open\ntomb; it is supported by squat granite pillars above which hang frozen\ncascades of brick. At one side of the house is a huge stained-glass\nwindow in the shape of a keyhole.\n\nBut the house has an effect not at all humorous. It embodies the heavy\ndignity of those Victorian financiers who ruled the generation between\nthe pioneers and the brisk \"sales-engineers\" and created a somber\noligarchy by gaining control of banks, mills, land, railroads, mines.\nOut of the dozen contradictory Zeniths which together make up the\ntrue and complete Zenith, none is so powerful and enduring yet none\nso unfamiliar to the citizens as the small, still, dry, polite, cruel\nZenith of the William Eathornes; and for that tiny hierarchy the other\nZeniths unwittingly labor and insignificantly die.\n\nMost of the castles of the testy Victorian tetrarchs are gone now or\ndecayed into boarding-houses, but the Eathorne Mansion remains virtuous\nand aloof, reminiscent of London, Back Bay, Rittenhouse Square. Its\nmarble steps are scrubbed daily, the brass plate is reverently polished,\nand the lace curtains are as prim and superior as William Washington\nEathorne himself.\n\nWith a certain awe Babbitt and Chum Frink called on Eathorne for a\nmeeting of the Sunday School Advisory Committee; with uneasy stillness\nthey followed a uniformed maid through catacombs of reception-rooms to\nthe library. It was as unmistakably the library of a solid old banker as\nEathorne's side-whiskers were the side-whiskers of a solid old banker.\nThe books were most of them Standard Sets, with the correct and\ntraditional touch of dim blue, dim gold, and glossy calf-skin. The\nfire was exactly correct and traditional; a small, quiet, steady fire,\nreflected by polished fire-irons. The oak desk was dark and old and\naltogether perfect; the chairs were gently supercilious.\n\nEathorne's inquiries as to the healths of Mrs. Babbitt, Miss Babbitt,\nand the Other Children were softly paternal, but Babbitt had nothing\nwith which to answer him. It was indecent to think of using the \"How's\ntricks, ole socks?\" which gratified Vergil Gunch and Frink and Howard\nLittlefield--men who till now had seemed successful and urbane. Babbitt\nand Frink sat politely, and politely did Eathorne observe, opening his\nthin lips just wide enough to dismiss the words, \"Gentlemen, before we\nbegin our conference--you may have felt the cold in coming here--so good\nof you to save an old man the journey--shall we perhaps have a whisky\ntoddy?\"\n\nSo well trained was Babbitt in all the conversation that befits a Good\nFellow that he almost disgraced himself with \"Rather than make trouble,\nand always providin' there ain't any enforcement officers hiding in\nthe waste-basket--\" The words died choking in his throat. He bowed in\nflustered obedience. So did Chum Frink.\n\nEathorne rang for the maid.\n\nThe modern and luxurious Babbitt had never seen any one ring for a\nservant in a private house, except during meals. Himself, in hotels, had\nrung for bell-boys, but in the house you didn't hurt Matilda's feelings;\nyou went out in the hall and shouted for her. Nor had he, since\nprohibition, known any one to be casual about drinking. It was\nextraordinary merely to sip his toddy and not cry, \"Oh, maaaaan, this\nhits me right where I live!\" And always, with the ecstasy of youth\nmeeting greatness, he marveled, \"That little fuzzy-face there, why,\nhe could make me or break me! If he told my banker to call my loans--!\nGosh! That quarter-sized squirt! And looking like he hadn't got a single\nbit of hustle to him! I wonder--Do we Boosters throw too many fits about\npep?\"\n\nFrom this thought he shuddered away, and listened devoutly to Eathorne's\nideas on the advancement of the Sunday School, which were very clear and\nvery bad.\n\nDiffidently Babbitt outlined his own suggestions:\n\n\"I think if you analyze the needs of the school, in fact, going right\nat it as if it was a merchandizing problem, of course the one basic\nand fundamental need is growth. I presume we're all agreed we won't be\nsatisfied till we build up the biggest darn Sunday School in the whole\nstate, so the Chatham Road Presbyterian won't have to take anything\noff anybody. Now about jazzing up the campaign for prospects: they've\nalready used contesting teams, and given prizes to the kids that bring\nin the most members. And they made a mistake there: the prizes were\na lot of folderols and doodads like poetry books and illustrated\nTestaments, instead of something a real live kid would want to work for,\nlike real cash or a speedometer for his motor cycle. Course I suppose\nit's all fine and dandy to illustrate the lessons with these decorated\nbook-marks and blackboard drawings and so on, but when it comes down to\nreal he-hustling, getting out and drumming up customers--or members, I\nmean, why, you got to make it worth a fellow's while.\n\n\"Now, I want to propose two stunts: First, divide the Sunday School into\nfour armies, depending on age. Everybody gets a military rank in his own\narmy according to how many members he brings in, and the duffers that\nlie down on us and don't bring in any, they remain privates. The pastor\nand superintendent rank as generals. And everybody has got to give\nsalutes and all the rest of that junk, just like a regular army, to make\n'em feel it's worth while to get rank.\n\n\"Then, second: Course the school has its advertising committee, but,\nLord, nobody ever really works good--nobody works well just for the love\nof it. The thing to do is to be practical and up-to-date, and hire a\nreal paid press-agent for the Sunday School-some newspaper fellow who\ncan give part of his time.\"\n\n\"Sure, you bet!\" said Chum Frink.\n\n\"Think of the nice juicy bits he could get in!\" Babbitt crowed.\n\"Not only the big, salient, vital facts, about how fast the Sunday\nSchool--and the collection--is growing, but a lot of humorous gossip\nand kidding: about how some blowhard fell down on his pledge to get new\nmembers, or the good time the Sacred Trinity class of girls had at their\nwieniewurst party. And on the side, if he had time, the press-agent\nmight even boost the lessons themselves--do a little advertising for\nall the Sunday Schools in town, in fact. No use being hoggish toward\nthe rest of 'em, providing we can keep the bulge on 'em in membership.\nFrinstance, he might get the papers to--Course I haven't got a literary\ntraining like Frink here, and I'm just guessing how the pieces ought\nto be written, but take frinstance, suppose the week's lesson is about\nJacob; well, the press-agent might get in something that would have\na fine moral, and yet with a trick headline that'd get folks to read\nit--say like: 'Jake Fools the Old Man; Makes Getaway with Girl and\nBankroll.' See how I mean? That'd get their interest! Now, course, Mr.\nEathorne, you're conservative, and maybe you feel these stunts would be\nundignified, but honestly, I believe they'd bring home the bacon.\"\n\nEathorne folded his hands on his comfortable little belly and purred\nlike an aged pussy:\n\n\"May I say, first, that I have been very much pleased by your analysis\nof the situation, Mr. Babbitt. As you surmise, it's necessary in My\nPosition to be conservative, and perhaps endeavor to maintain a certain\nstandard of dignity. Yet I think you'll find me somewhat progressive. In\nour bank, for example, I hope I may say that we have as modern a method\nof publicity and advertising as any in the city. Yes, I fancy you'll\nfind us oldsters quite cognizant of the shifting spiritual values of the\nage. Yes, oh yes. And so, in fact, it pleases me to be able to say\nthat though personally I might prefer the sterner Presbyterianism of an\nearlier era--\"\n\nBabbitt finally gathered that Eathorne was willing.\n\nChum Frink suggested as part-time press-agent one Kenneth Escott,\nreporter on the Advocate-Times.\n\nThey parted on a high plane of amity and Christian helpfulness.\n\nBabbitt did not drive home, but toward the center of the city. He wished\nto be by himself and exult over the beauty of intimacy with William\nWashington Eathorne.\n\n\nII\n\nA snow-blanched evening of ringing pavements and eager lights.\n\nGreat golden lights of trolley-cars sliding along the packed snow of the\nroadway. Demure lights of little houses. The belching glare of a distant\nfoundry, wiping out the sharp-edged stars. Lights of neighborhood drug\nstores where friends gossiped, well pleased, after the day's work.\n\nThe green light of a police-station, and greener radiance on the snow;\nthe drama of a patrol-wagon--gong beating like a terrified heart,\nheadlights scorching the crystal-sparkling street, driver not a\nchauffeur but a policeman proud in uniform, another policeman perilously\ndangling on the step at the back, and a glimpse of the prisoner. A\nmurderer, a burglar, a coiner cleverly trapped?\n\nAn enormous graystone church with a rigid spire; dim light in the\nParlors, and cheerful droning of choir-practise. The quivering green\nmercury-vapor light of a photo-engraver's loft. Then the storming lights\nof down-town; parked cars with ruby tail-lights; white arched entrances\nto movie theaters, like frosty mouths of winter caves; electric\nsigns--serpents and little dancing men of fire; pink-shaded globes and\nscarlet jazz music in a cheap up-stairs dance-hall; lights of Chinese\nrestaurants, lanterns painted with cherry-blossoms and with pagodas,\nhung against lattices of lustrous gold and black. Small dirty lamps in\nsmall stinking lunchrooms. The smart shopping-district, with rich and\nquiet light on crystal pendants and furs and suave surfaces of polished\nwood in velvet-hung reticent windows. High above the street, an\nunexpected square hanging in the darkness, the window of an office where\nsome one was working late, for a reason unknown and stimulating. A man\nmeshed in bankruptcy, an ambitious boy, an oil-man suddenly become rich?\n\nThe air was shrewd, the snow was deep in uncleared alleys, and beyond\nthe city, Babbitt knew, were hillsides of snow-drift among wintry oaks,\nand the curving ice-enchanted river.\n\nHe loved his city with passionate wonder. He lost the accumulated\nweariness of business--worry and expansive oratory; he felt young and\npotential. He was ambitious. It was not enough to be a Vergil Gunch,\nan Orville Jones. No. \"They're bully fellows, simply lovely, but they\nhaven't got any finesse.\" No. He was going to be an Eathorne; delicately\nrigorous, coldly powerful.\n\n\"That's the stuff. The wallop in the velvet mitt. Not let anybody\nget fresh with you. Been getting careless about my diction. Slang.\nColloquial. Cut it out. I was first-rate at rhetoric in college. Themes\non--Anyway, not bad. Had too much of this hooptedoodle and good-fellow\nstuff. I--Why couldn't I organize a bank of my own some day? And Ted\nsucceed me!\"\n\nHe drove happily home, and to Mrs. Babbitt he was a William Washington\nEathorne, but she did not notice it.\n\n\nIII\n\nYoung Kenneth Escott, reporter on the Advocate-Times was appointed\npress-agent of the Chatham Road Presbyterian Sunday School. He gave six\nhours a week to it. At least he was paid for giving six hours a week.\nHe had friends on the Press and the Gazette and he was not (officially)\nknown as a press-agent. He procured a trickle of insinuating items\nabout neighborliness and the Bible, about class-suppers, jolly but\neducational, and the value of the Prayer-life in attaining financial\nsuccess.\n\nThe Sunday School adopted Babbitt's system of military ranks. Quickened\nby this spiritual refreshment, it had a boom. It did not become the\nlargest school in Zenith--the Central Methodist Church kept ahead of it\nby methods which Dr. Drew scored as \"unfair, undignified, un-American,\nungentlemanly, and unchristian\"--but it climbed from fourth place to\nsecond, and there was rejoicing in heaven, or at least in that portion\nof heaven included in the parsonage of Dr. Drew, while Babbitt had much\npraise and good repute.\n\nHe had received the rank of colonel on the general staff of the school.\nHe was plumply pleased by salutes on the street from unknown small\nboys; his ears were tickled to ruddy ecstasy by hearing himself called\n\"Colonel;\" and if he did not attend Sunday School merely to be thus\nexalted, certainly he thought about it all the way there.\n\nHe was particularly pleasant to the press-agent, Kenneth Escott; he took\nhim to lunch at the Athletic Club and had him at the house for dinner.\n\nLike many of the cocksure young men who forage about cities in apparent\ncontentment and who express their cynicism in supercilious slang, Escott\nwas shy and lonely. His shrewd starveling face broadened with joy at\ndinner, and he blurted, \"Gee whillikins, Mrs. Babbitt, if you knew how\ngood it is to have home eats again!\"\n\nEscott and Verona liked each other. All evening they \"talked about\nideas.\" They discovered that they were Radicals. True, they were\nsensible about it. They agreed that all communists were criminals;\nthat this vers libre was tommy-rot; and that while there ought to be\nuniversal disarmament, of course Great Britain and the United States\nmust, on behalf of oppressed small nations, keep a navy equal to the\ntonnage of all the rest of the world. But they were so revolutionary\nthat they predicted (to Babbitt's irritation) that there would some\nday be a Third Party which would give trouble to the Republicans and\nDemocrats.\n\nEscott shook hands with Babbitt three times, at parting.\n\nBabbitt mentioned his extreme fondness for Eathorne.\n\nWithin a week three newspapers presented accounts of Babbitt's sterling\nlabors for religion, and all of them tactfully mentioned William\nWashington Eathorne as his collaborator.\n\nNothing had brought Babbitt quite so much credit at the Elks, the\nAthletic Club, and the Boosters'. His friends had always congratulated\nhim on his oratory, but in their praise was doubt, for even in speeches\nadvertising the city there was something highbrow and degenerate,\nlike writing poetry. But now Orville Jones shouted across the Athletic\ndining-room, \"Here's the new director of the First State Bank!\" Grover\nButterbaugh, the eminent wholesaler of plumbers' supplies, chuckled,\n\"Wonder you mix with common folks, after holding Eathorne's hand!\" And\nEmil Wengert, the jeweler, was at last willing to discuss buying a house\nin Dorchester.\n\n\nIV\n\nWhen the Sunday School campaign was finished, Babbitt suggested to\nKenneth Escott, \"Say, how about doing a little boosting for Doc Drew\npersonally?\"\n\nEscott grinned. \"You trust the doc to do a little boosting for himself,\nMr. Babbitt! There's hardly a week goes by without his ringing up the\npaper to say if we'll chase a reporter up to his Study, he'll let us\nin on the story about the swell sermon he's going to preach on the\nwickedness of short skirts, or the authorship of the Pentateuch. Don't\nyou worry about him. There's just one better publicity-grabber in town,\nand that's this Dora Gibson Tucker that runs the Child Welfare and the\nAmericanization League, and the only reason she's got Drew beaten is\nbecause she has got SOME brains!\"\n\n\"Well, now Kenneth, I don't think you ought to talk that way about the\ndoctor. A preacher has to watch his interests, hasn't he? You remember\nthat in the Bible about--about being diligent in the Lord's business, or\nsomething?\"\n\n\"All right, I'll get something in if you want me to, Mr. Babbitt, but\nI'll have to wait till the managing editor is out of town, and then\nblackjack the city editor.\"\n\nThus it came to pass that in the Sunday Advocate-Times, under a picture\nof Dr. Drew at his earnestest, with eyes alert, jaw as granite, and\nrustic lock flamboyant, appeared an inscription--a wood-pulp tablet\nconferring twenty-four hours' immortality:\n\n\nThe Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drew, M.A., pastor of the beautiful\nChatham Road Presbyterian Church in lovely Floral Heights, is a wizard\nsoul-winner. He holds the local record for conversions. During his\nshepherdhood an average of almost a hundred sin-weary persons per year\nhave declared their resolve to lead a new life and have found a harbor\nof refuge and peace.\n\nEverything zips at the Chatham Road Church. The subsidiary organizations\nare keyed to the top-notch of efficiency. Dr. Drew is especially keen\non good congregational singing. Bright cheerful hymns are used at every\nmeeting, and the special Sing Services attract lovers of music and\nprofessionals from all parts of the city.\n\nOn the popular lecture platform as well as in the pulpit Dr. Drew is\na renowned word-painter, and during the course of the year he receives\nliterally scores of invitations to speak at varied functions both here\nand elsewhere.\n\n\nV\n\nBabbitt let Dr. Drew know that he was responsible for this tribute. Dr.\nDrew called him \"brother,\" and shook his hand a great many times.\n\nDuring the meetings of the Advisory Committee, Babbitt had hinted that\nhe would be charmed to invite Eathorne to dinner, but Eathorne had\nmurmured, \"So nice of you--old man, now--almost never go out.\" Surely\nEathorne would not refuse his own pastor. Babbitt said boyishly to Drew:\n\n\"Say, doctor, now we've put this thing over, strikes me it's up to the\ndominie to blow the three of us to a dinner!\"\n\n\"Bully! You bet! Delighted!\" cried Dr. Drew, in his manliest way. (Some\none had once told him that he talked like the late President Roosevelt.)\n\n\"And, uh, say, doctor, be sure and get Mr. Eathorne to come. Insist\non it. It's, uh--I think he sticks around home too much for his own\nhealth.\"\n\nEathorne came.\n\nIt was a friendly dinner. Babbitt spoke gracefully of the stabilizing\nand educational value of bankers to the community. They were, he\nsaid, the pastors of the fold of commerce. For the first time Eathorne\ndeparted from the topic of Sunday Schools, and asked Babbitt about the\nprogress of his business. Babbitt answered modestly, almost filially.\n\nA few months later, when he had a chance to take part in the Street\nTraction Company's terminal deal, Babbitt did not care to go to his own\nbank for a loan. It was rather a quiet sort of deal and, if it had come\nout, the Public might not have understood. He went to his friend Mr.\nEathorne; he was welcomed, and received the loan as a private venture;\nand they both profited in their pleasant new association.\n\nAfter that, Babbitt went to church regularly, except on spring Sunday\nmornings which were obviously meant for motoring. He announced to Ted,\n\"I tell you, boy, there's no stronger bulwark of sound conservatism than\nthe evangelical church, and no better place to make friends who'll\nhelp you to gain your rightful place in the community than in your own\nchurch-home!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nI\n\nTHOUGH he saw them twice daily, though he knew and amply discussed every\ndetail of their expenditures, yet for weeks together Babbitt was no more\nconscious of his children than of the buttons on his coat-sleeves.\n\nThe admiration of Kenneth Escott made him aware of Verona.\n\nShe had become secretary to Mr. Gruensberg of the Gruensberg Leather\nCompany; she did her work with the thoroughness of a mind which reveres\ndetails and never quite understands them; but she was one of the\npeople who give an agitating impression of being on the point of doing\nsomething desperate--of leaving a job or a husband--without ever doing\nit. Babbitt was so hopeful about Escott's hesitant ardors that he became\nthe playful parent. When he returned from the Elks he peered coyly into\nthe living-room and gurgled, \"Has our Kenny been here to-night?\" He\nnever credited Verona's protest, \"Why, Ken and I are just good friends,\nand we only talk about Ideas. I won't have all this sentimental\nnonsense, that would spoil everything.\"\n\nIt was Ted who most worried Babbitt.\n\nWith conditions in Latin and English but with a triumphant record in\nmanual training, basket-ball, and the organization of dances, Ted was\nstruggling through his Senior year in the East Side High School. At home\nhe was interested only when he was asked to trace some subtle ill in the\nignition system of the car. He repeated to his tut-tutting father that\nhe did not wish to go to college or law-school, and Babbitt was equally\ndisturbed by this \"shiftlessness\" and by Ted's relations with Eunice\nLittlefield, next door.\n\nThough she was the daughter of Howard Littlefield, that wrought-iron\nfact-mill, that horse-faced priest of private ownership, Eunice was\na midge in the sun. She danced into the house, she flung herself into\nBabbitt's lap when he was reading, she crumpled his paper, and laughed\nat him when he adequately explained that he hated a crumpled newspaper\nas he hated a broken sales-contract. She was seventeen now. Her ambition\nwas to be a cinema actress. She did not merely attend the showing of\nevery \"feature film;\" she also read the motion-picture magazines,\nthose extraordinary symptoms of the Age of Pep-monthlies and weeklies\ngorgeously illustrated with portraits of young women who had recently\nbeen manicure girls, not very skilful manicure girls, and who, unless\ntheir every grimace had been arranged by a director, could not have\nacted in the Easter cantata of the Central Methodist Church; magazines\nreporting, quite seriously, in \"interviews\" plastered with pictures of\nriding-breeches and California bungalows, the views on sculpture and\ninternational politics of blankly beautiful, suspiciously beautiful\nyoung men; outlining the plots of films about pure prostitutes and\nkind-hearted train-robbers; and giving directions for making bootblacks\ninto Celebrated Scenario Authors overnight.\n\nThese authorities Eunice studied. She could, she frequently did, tell\nwhether it was in November or December, 1905, that Mack Harker? the\nrenowned screen cowpuncher and badman, began his public career as\nchorus man in \"Oh, You Naughty Girlie.\" On the wall of her room, her\nfather reported, she had pinned up twenty-one photographs of actors. But\nthe signed portrait of the most graceful of the movie heroes she carried\nin her young bosom.\n\nBabbitt was bewildered by this worship of new gods, and he suspected\nthat Eunice smoked cigarettes. He smelled the cloying reek from\nup-stairs, and heard her giggling with Ted. He never inquired. The\nagreeable child dismayed him. Her thin and charming face was sharpened\nby bobbed hair; her skirts were short, her stockings were rolled, and,\nas she flew after Ted, above the caressing silk were glimpses of soft\nknees which made Babbitt uneasy, and wretched that she should consider\nhim old. Sometimes, in the veiled life of his dreams, when the\nfairy child came running to him she took on the semblance of Eunice\nLittlefield.\n\nTed was motor-mad as Eunice was movie-mad.\n\nA thousand sarcastic refusals did not check his teasing for a car of\nhis own. However lax he might be about early rising and the prosody of\nVergil, he was tireless in tinkering. With three other boys he bought a\nrheumatic Ford chassis, built an amazing racer-body out of tin and pine,\nwent skidding round corners in the perilous craft, and sold it at a\nprofit. Babbitt gave him a motor-cycle, and every Saturday afternoon,\nwith seven sandwiches and a bottle of Coca-Cola in his pockets, and\nEunice perched eerily on the rumble seat, he went roaring off to distant\ntowns.\n\nUsually Eunice and he were merely neighborhood chums, and quarreled with\na wholesome and violent lack of delicacy; but now and then, after the\ncolor and scent of a dance, they were silent together and a little\nfurtive, and Babbitt was worried.\n\nBabbitt was an average father. He was affectionate, bullying,\nopinionated, ignorant, and rather wistful. Like most parents, he enjoyed\nthe game of waiting till the victim was clearly wrong, then virtuously\npouncing. He justified himself by croaking, \"Well, Ted's mother spoils\nhim. Got to be somebody who tells him what's what, and me, I'm elected\nthe goat. Because I try to bring him up to be a real, decent, human\nbeing and not one of these sapheads and lounge-lizards, of course they\nall call me a grouch!\"\n\nThroughout, with the eternal human genius for arriving by the worst\npossible routes at surprisingly tolerable goals, Babbitt loved his son\nand warmed to his companionship and would have sacrificed everything for\nhim--if he could have been sure of proper credit.\n\n\nII\n\nTed was planning a party for his set in the Senior Class.\n\nBabbitt meant to be helpful and jolly about it. From his memory of\nhigh-school pleasures back in Catawba he suggested the nicest games:\nGoing to Boston, and charades with stew-pans for helmets, and\nword-games in which you were an Adjective or a Quality. When he was most\nenthusiastic he discovered that they weren't paying attention; they were\nonly tolerating him. As for the party, it was as fixed and standardized\nas a Union Club Hop. There was to be dancing in the living-room, a noble\ncollation in the dining-room, and in the hall two tables of bridge for\nwhat Ted called \"the poor old dumb-bells that you can't get to dance\nhardly more 'n half the time.\"\n\nEvery breakfast was monopolized by conferences on the affair. No one\nlistened to Babbitt's bulletins about the February weather or to his\nthroat-clearing comments on the headlines. He said furiously, \"If I may\nbe PERMITTED to interrupt your engrossing private CONVERSATION--Juh hear\nwhat I SAID?\"\n\n\"Oh, don't be a spoiled baby! Ted and I have just as much right to talk\nas you have!\" flared Mrs. Babbitt.\n\nOn the night of the party he was permitted to look on, when he was not\nhelping Matilda with the Vecchia ice cream and the petits fours. He was\ndeeply disquieted. Eight years ago, when Verona had given a high-school\nparty, the children had been featureless gabies. Now they were men\nand women of the world, very supercilious men and women; the boys\ncondescended to Babbitt, they wore evening-clothes, and with hauteur\nthey accepted cigarettes from silver cases. Babbitt had heard stories\nof what the Athletic Club called \"goings on\" at young parties; of\ngirls \"parking\" their corsets in the dressing-room, of \"cuddling\" and\n\"petting,\" and a presumable increase in what was known as Immorality.\nTo-night he believed the stories. These children seemed bold to him, and\ncold. The girls wore misty chiffon, coral velvet, or cloth of gold, and\naround their dipping bobbed hair were shining wreaths. He had it, upon\nurgent and secret inquiry, that no corsets were known to be parked\nupstairs; but certainly these eager bodies were not stiff with steel.\nTheir stockings were of lustrous silk, their slippers costly and\nunnatural, their lips carmined and their eyebrows penciled. They danced\ncheek to cheek with the boys, and Babbitt sickened with apprehension and\nunconscious envy.\n\nWorst of them all was Eunice Littlefield, and maddest of all the boys\nwas Ted. Eunice was a flying demon. She slid the length of the room; her\ntender shoulders swayed; her feet were deft as a weaver's shuttle; she\nlaughed, and enticed Babbitt to dance with her.\n\nThen he discovered the annex to the party.\n\nThe boys and girls disappeared occasionally, and he remembered rumors\nof their drinking together from hip-pocket flasks. He tiptoed round the\nhouse, and in each of the dozen cars waiting in the street he saw the\npoints of light from cigarettes, from each of them heard high giggles.\nHe wanted to denounce them but (standing in the snow, peering round\nthe dark corner) he did not dare. He tried to be tactful. When he had\nreturned to the front hall he coaxed the boys, \"Say, if any of you\nfellows are thirsty, there's some dandy ginger ale.\"\n\n\"Oh! Thanks!\" they condescended.\n\nHe sought his wife, in the pantry, and exploded, \"I'd like to go in\nthere and throw some of those young pups out of the house! They talk\ndown to me like I was the butler! I'd like to--\"\n\n\"I know,\" she sighed; \"only everybody says, all the mothers tell me,\nunless you stand for them, if you get angry because they go out to their\ncars to have a drink, they won't come to your house any more, and we\nwouldn't want Ted left out of things, would we?\"\n\nHe announced that he would be enchanted to have Ted left out of things,\nand hurried in to be polite, lest Ted be left out of things.\n\nBut, he resolved, if he found that the boys were drinking, he\nwould--well, he'd \"hand 'em something that would surprise 'em.\" While\nhe was trying to be agreeable to large-shouldered young bullies he was\nearnestly sniffing at them Twice he caught the reek of prohibition-time\nwhisky, but then, it was only twice--\n\nDr. Howard Littlefield lumbered in.\n\nHe had come, in a mood of solemn parental patronage, to look on. Ted and\nEunice were dancing, moving together like one body. Littlefield gasped.\nHe called Eunice. There was a whispered duologue, and Littlefield\nexplained to Babbitt that Eunice's mother had a headache and needed her.\nShe went off in tears. Babbitt looked after them furiously. \"That little\ndevil! Getting Ted into trouble! And Littlefield, the conceited old\ngas-bag, acting like it was Ted that was the bad influence!\"\n\nLater he smelled whisky on Ted's breath.\n\nAfter the civil farewell to the guests, the row was terrific, a thorough\nFamily Scene, like an avalanche, devastating and without reticences.\nBabbitt thundered, Mrs. Babbitt wept, Ted was unconvincingly defiant,\nand Verona in confusion as to whose side she was taking.\n\nFor several months there was coolness between the Babbitts and the\nLittlefields, each family sheltering their lamb from the wolf-cub next\ndoor. Babbitt and Littlefield still spoke in pontifical periods about\nmotors and the senate, but they kept bleakly away from mention of their\nfamilies. Whenever Eunice came to the house she discussed with pleasant\nintimacy the fact that she had been forbidden to come to the house; and\nBabbitt tried, with no success whatever, to be fatherly and advisory\nwith her.\n\n\nIII\n\n\"Gosh all fishhooks!\" Ted wailed to Eunice, as they wolfed hot\nchocolate, lumps of nougat, and an assortment of glace nuts, in the\nmosaic splendor of the Royal Drug Store, \"it gets me why Dad doesn't\njust pass out from being so poky. Every evening he sits there, about\nhalf-asleep, and if Rone or I say, 'Oh, come on, let's do something,' he\ndoesn't even take the trouble to think about it. He just yawns and says,\n'Naw, this suits me right here.' He doesn't know there's any fun going\non anywhere. I suppose he must do some thinking, same as you and I do,\nbut gosh, there's no way of telling it. I don't believe that outside of\nthe office and playing a little bum golf on Saturday he knows there's\nanything in the world to do except just keep sitting there-sitting\nthere every night--not wanting to go anywhere--not wanting to do\nanything--thinking us kids are crazy--sitting there--Lord!\"\n\n\nIV\n\nIf he was frightened by Ted's slackness, Babbitt was not sufficiently\nfrightened by Verona. She was too safe. She lived too much in the neat\nlittle airless room of her mind. Kenneth Escott and she were always\nunder foot. When they were not at home, conducting their cautiously\nradical courtship over sheets of statistics, they were trudging off to\nlectures by authors and Hindu philosophers and Swedish lieutenants.\n\n\"Gosh,\" Babbitt wailed to his wife, as they walked home from the\nFogartys' bridge-party, \"it gets me how Rone and that fellow can be so\npoky. They sit there night after night, whenever he isn't working,\nand they don't know there's any fun in the world. All talk and\ndiscussion--Lord! Sitting there--sitting there--night after night--not\nwanting to do anything--thinking I'm crazy because I like to go out and\nplay a fist of cards--sitting there--gosh!\"\n\nThen round the swimmer, bored by struggling through the perpetual surf\nof family life, new combers swelled.\n\n\nV\n\nBabbitt's father- and mother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Henry T. Thompson,\nrented their old house in the Bellevue district and moved to the Hotel\nHatton, that glorified boarding-house filled with widows, red-plush\nfurniture, and the sound of ice-water pitchers. They were lonely there,\nand every other Sunday evening the Babbitts had to dine with them, on\nfricasseed chicken, discouraged celery, and cornstarch ice cream, and\nafterward sit, polite and restrained, in the hotel lounge, while a young\nwoman violinist played songs from the German via Broadway.\n\nThen Babbitt's own mother came down from Catawba to spend three weeks.\n\nShe was a kind woman and magnificently uncomprehending. She\ncongratulated the convention-defying Verona on being a \"nice, loyal\nhome-body without all these Ideas that so many girls seem to have\nnowadays;\" and when Ted filled the differential with grease, out of pure\nlove of mechanics and filthiness, she rejoiced that he was \"so handy\naround the house--and helping his father and all, and not going out with\nthe girls all the time and trying to pretend he was a society fellow.\"\n\nBabbitt loved his mother, and sometimes he rather liked her, but he was\nannoyed by her Christian Patience, and he was reduced to pulpiness when\nshe discoursed about a quite mythical hero called \"Your Father\":\n\n\"You won't remember it, Georgie, you were such a little fellow at the\ntime--my, I remember just how you looked that day, with your goldy brown\ncurls and your lace collar, you always were such a dainty child, and\nkind of puny and sickly, and you loved pretty things so much and the red\ntassels on your little bootees and all--and Your Father was taking us to\nchurch and a man stopped us and said 'Major'--so many of the neighbors\nused to call Your Father 'Major;' of course he was only a private in The\nWar but everybody knew that was because of the jealousy of his captain\nand he ought to have been a high-ranking officer, he had that natural\nability to command that so very, very few men have--and this man came\nout into the road and held up his hand and stopped the buggy and said,\n'Major,' he said, 'there's a lot of the folks around here that have\ndecided to support Colonel Scanell for congress, and we want you to\njoin us. Meeting people the way you do in the store, you could help us a\nlot.'\n\n\"Well, Your Father just looked at him and said, 'I certainly shall do\nnothing of the sort. I don't like his politics,' he said. Well, the\nman--Captain Smith they used to call him, and heaven only knows\nwhy, because he hadn't the shadow or vestige of a right to be called\n'Captain' or any other title--this Captain Smith said, 'We'll make it\nhot for you if you don't stick by your friends, Major.' Well, you know\nhow Your Father was, and this Smith knew it too; he knew what a Real Man\nhe was, and he knew Your Father knew the political situation from A to\nZ, and he ought to have seen that here was one man he couldn't impose\non, but he went on trying to and hinting and trying till Your Father\nspoke up and said to him, 'Captain Smith,' he said, 'I have a reputation\naround these parts for being one who is amply qualified to mind his own\nbusiness and let other folks mind theirs!' and with that he drove on and\nleft the fellow standing there in the road like a bump on a log!\"\n\nBabbitt was most exasperated when she revealed his boyhood to the\nchildren. He had, it seemed, been fond of barley-sugar; had worn the\n\"loveliest little pink bow in his curls\" and corrupted his own name to\n\"Goo-goo.\" He heard (though he did not officially hear) Ted admonishing\nTinka, \"Come on now, kid; stick the lovely pink bow in your curls and\nbeat it down to breakfast, or Goo-goo will jaw your head off.\"\n\nBabbitt's half-brother, Martin, with his wife and youngest baby, came\ndown from Catawba for two days. Martin bred cattle and ran the dusty\ngeneral-store. He was proud of being a freeborn independent American of\nthe good old Yankee stock; he was proud of being honest, blunt, ugly,\nand disagreeable. His favorite remark was \"How much did you pay for\nthat?\" He regarded Verona's books, Babbitt's silver pencil, and flowers\non the table as citified extravagances, and said so. Babbitt would have\nquarreled with him but for his gawky wife and the baby, whom Babbitt\nteased and poked fingers at and addressed:\n\n\"I think this baby's a bum, yes, sir, I think this little baby's a bum,\nhe's a bum, yes, sir, he's a bum, that's what he is, he's a bum, this\nbaby's a bum, he's nothing but an old bum, that's what he is--a bum!\"\n\nAll the while Verona and Kenneth Escott held long inquiries into\nepistemology; Ted was a disgraced rebel; and Tinka, aged eleven, was\ndemanding that she be allowed to go to the movies thrice a week, \"like\nall the girls.\"\n\nBabbitt raged, \"I'm sick of it! Having to carry three generations. Whole\ndamn bunch lean on me. Pay half of mother's income, listen to Henry\nT., listen to Myra's worrying, be polite to Mart, and get called an old\ngrouch for trying to help the children. All of 'em depending on me and\npicking on me and not a damn one of 'em grateful! No relief, and no\ncredit, and no help from anybody. And to keep it up for--good Lord, how\nlong?\"\n\nHe enjoyed being sick in February; he was delighted by their\nconsternation that he, the rock, should give way.\n\nHe had eaten a questionable clam. For two days he was languorous and\npetted and esteemed. He was allowed to snarl \"Oh, let me alone!\" without\nreprisals. He lay on the sleeping-porch and watched the winter sun slide\nalong the taut curtains, turning their ruddy khaki to pale blood red.\nThe shadow of the draw-rope was dense black, in an enticing ripple on\nthe canvas. He found pleasure in the curve of it, sighed as the fading\nlight blurred it. He was conscious of life, and a little sad. With no\nVergil Gunches before whom to set his face in resolute optimism, he\nbeheld, and half admitted that he beheld, his way of life as incredibly\nmechanical. Mechanical business--a brisk selling of badly built houses.\nMechanical religion--a dry, hard church, shut off from the real life\nof the streets, inhumanly respectable as a top-hat. Mechanical golf and\ndinner-parties and bridge and conversation. Save with Paul Riesling,\nmechanical friendships--back-slapping and jocular, never daring to essay\nthe test of quietness.\n\nHe turned uneasily in bed.\n\nHe saw the years, the brilliant winter days and all the long sweet\nafternoons which were meant for summery meadows, lost in such brittle\npretentiousness. He thought of telephoning about leases, of cajoling men\nhe hated, of making business calls and waiting in dirty anterooms--hat\non knee, yawning at fly-specked calendars, being polite to office-boys.\n\n\"I don't hardly want to go back to work,\" he prayed. \"I'd like to--I\ndon't know.\"\n\nBut he was back next day, busy and of doubtful temper.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nI\n\nTHE Zenith Street Traction Company planned to build car-repair shops in\nthe suburb of Dorchester, but when they came to buy the land they\nfound it held, on options, by the Babbitt-Thompson Realty Company. The\npurchasing-agent, the first vice-president, and even the president of\nthe Traction Company protested against the Babbitt price. They mentioned\ntheir duty toward stockholders, they threatened an appeal to the courts,\nthough somehow the appeal to the courts was never carried out and the\nofficials found it wiser to compromise with Babbitt. Carbon copies of\nthe correspondence are in the company's files, where they may be viewed\nby any public commission.\n\nJust after this Babbitt deposited three thousand dollars in the bank,\nthe purchasing-agent of the Street Traction Company bought a five\nthousand dollar car, he first vice-president built a home in Devon\nWoods, and the president was appointed minister to a foreign country.\n\nTo obtain the options, to tie up one man's land without letting his\nneighbor know, had been an unusual strain on Babbitt. It was necessary\nto introduce rumors about planning garages and stores, to pretend\nthat he wasn't taking any more options, to wait and look as bored as a\npoker-player at a time when the failure to secure a key-lot threatened\nhis whole plan. To all this was added a nerve-jabbing quarrel with his\nsecret associates in the deal. They did not wish Babbitt and Thompson\nto have any share in the deal except as brokers. Babbitt rather\nagreed. \"Ethics of the business-broker ought to strictly represent his\nprinciples and not get in on the buying,\" he said to Thompson.\n\n\"Ethics, rats! Think I'm going to see that bunch of holy grafters get\naway with the swag and us not climb in?\" snorted old Henry.\n\n\"Well, I don't like to do it. Kind of double-crossing.\"\n\n\"It ain't. It's triple-crossing. It's the public that gets\ndouble-crossed. Well, now we've been ethical and got it out of our\nsystems, the question is where we can raise a loan to handle some of\nthe property for ourselves, on the Q. T. We can't go to our bank for it.\nMight come out.\"\n\n\"I could see old Eathorne. He's close as the tomb.\"\n\n\"That's the stuff.\"\n\nEathorne was glad, he said, to \"invest in character,\" to make Babbitt\nthe loan and see to it that the loan did not appear on the books of the\nbank. Thus certain of the options which Babbitt and Thompson obtained\nwere on parcels of real estate which they themselves owned, though the\nproperty did not appear in their names.\n\nIn the midst of closing this splendid deal, which stimulated business\nand public confidence by giving an example of increased real-estate\nactivity, Babbitt was overwhelmed to find that he had a dishonest person\nworking for him.\n\nThe dishonest one was Stanley Graff, the outside salesman.\n\nFor some time Babbitt had been worried about Graff. He did not keep his\nword to tenants. In order to rent a house he would promise repairs\nwhich the owner had not authorized. It was suspected that he juggled\ninventories of furnished houses so that when the tenant left he had\nto pay for articles which had never been in the house and the price\nof which Graff put into his pocket. Babbitt had not been able to prove\nthese suspicions, and though he had rather planned to discharge Graff he\nhad never quite found time for it.\n\nNow into Babbitt's private room charged a red-faced man, panting, \"Look\nhere! I've come to raise particular merry hell, and unless you have that\nfellow pinched, I will!\" \"What's--Calm down, o' man. What's trouble?\"\n\n\"Trouble! Huh! Here's the trouble--\"\n\n\"Sit down and take it easy! They can hear you all over the building!\"\n\n\"This fellow Graff you got working for you, he leases me a house. I\nwas in yesterday and signs the lease, all O.K., and he was to get the\nowner's signature and mail me the lease last night. Well, and he did.\nThis morning I comes down to breakfast and the girl says a fellow had\ncome to the house right after the early delivery and told her he wanted\nan envelope that had been mailed by mistake, big long envelope with\n'Babbitt-Thompson' in the corner of it. Sure enough, there it was, so\nshe lets him have it. And she describes the fellow to me, and it was\nthis Graff. So I 'phones to him and he, the poor fool, he admits it! He\nsays after my lease was all signed he got a better offer from another\nfellow and he wanted my lease back. Now what you going to do about it?\"\n\n\"Your name is--?\"\n\n\"William Varney--W. K. Varney.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. That was the Garrison house.\" Babbitt sounded the buzzer. When\nMiss McGoun came in, he demanded, \"Graff gone out?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Will you look through his desk and see if there is a lease made out to\nMr. Varney on the Garrison house?\" To Varney: \"Can't tell you how sorry\nI am this happened. Needless to say, I'll fire Graff the minute he comes\nin. And of course your lease stands. But there's one other thing I'd\nlike to do. I'll tell the owner not to pay us the commission but apply\nit to your rent. No! Straight! I want to. To be frank, this thing shakes\nme up bad. I suppose I've always been a Practical Business Man. Probably\nI've told one or two fairy stories in my time, when the occasion called\nfor it--you know: sometimes you have to lay things on thick, to impress\nboneheads. But this is the first time I've ever had to accuse one of\nmy own employees of anything more dishonest than pinching a few stamps.\nHonest, it would hurt me if we profited by it. So you'll let me hand you\nthe commission? Good!\"\n\n\nII\n\nHe walked through the February city, where trucks flung up a spattering\nof slush and the sky was dark above dark brick cornices. He came back\nmiserable. He, who respected the law, had broken it by concealing the\nFederal crime of interception of the mails. But he could not see Graff\ngo to jail and his wife suffer. Worse, he had to discharge Graff and\nthis was a part of office routine which he feared. He liked people\nso much, he so much wanted them to like him that he could not bear\ninsulting them.\n\nMiss McGoun dashed in to whisper, with the excitement of an approaching\nscene, \"He's here!\"\n\n\"Mr. Graff? Ask him to come in.\"\n\nHe tried to make himself heavy and calm in his chair, and to keep his\neyes expressionless. Graff stalked in--a man of thirty-five, dapper,\neye-glassed, with a foppish mustache.\n\n\"Want me?\" said Graff.\n\n\"Yes. Sit down.\"\n\nGraff continued to stand, grunting, \"I suppose that old nut Varney has\nbeen in to see you. Let me explain about him. He's a regular tightwad,\nand he sticks out for every cent, and he practically lied to me about\nhis ability to pay the rent--I found that out just after we signed up.\nAnd then another fellow comes along with a better offer for the house,\nand I felt it was my duty to the firm to get rid of Varney, and I was\nso worried about it I skun up there and got back the lease. Honest, Mr.\nBabbitt, I didn't intend to pull anything crooked. I just wanted the\nfirm to have all the commis--\"\n\n\"Wait now, Stan. This may all be true, but I've been having a lot of\ncomplaints about you. Now I don't s'pose you ever mean to do wrong,\nand I think if you just get a good lesson that'll jog you up a little,\nyou'll turn out a first-class realtor yet. But I don't see how I can\nkeep you on.\"\n\nGraff leaned against the filing-cabinet, his hands in his pockets, and\nlaughed. \"So I'm fired! Well, old Vision and Ethics, I'm tickled\nto death! But I don't want you to think you can get away with any\nholier-than-thou stuff. Sure I've pulled some raw stuff--a little of\nit--but how could I help it, in this office?\"\n\n\"Now, by God, young man--\"\n\n\"Tut, tut! Keep the naughty temper down, and don't holler, because\neverybody in the outside office will hear you. They're probably\nlistening right now. Babbitt, old dear, you're crooked in the first\nplace and a damn skinflint in the second. If you paid me a decent salary\nI wouldn't have to steal pennies off a blind man to keep my wife from\nstarving. Us married just five months, and her the nicest girl living,\nand you keeping us flat broke all the time, you damned old thief, so you\ncan put money away for your saphead of a son and your wishywashy fool\nof a daughter! Wait, now! You'll by God take it, or I'll bellow so the\nwhole office will hear it! And crooked--Say, if I told the prosecuting\nattorney what I know about this last Street Traction option steal, both\nyou and me would go to jail, along with some nice, clean, pious, high-up\ntraction guns!\"\n\n\"Well, Stan, looks like we were coming down to cases. That deal--There\nwas nothing crooked about it. The only way you can get progress is for\nthe broad-gauged men to get things done; and they got to be rewarded--\"\n\n\"Oh, for Pete's sake, don't get virtuous on me! As I gather it, I'm\nfired. All right. It's a good thing for me. And if I catch you knocking\nme to any other firm, I'll squeal all I know about you and Henry T. and\nthe dirty little lickspittle deals that you corporals of industry pull\noff for the bigger and brainier crooks, and you'll get chased out of\ntown. And me--you're right, Babbitt, I've been going crooked, but now\nI'm going straight, and the first step will be to get a job in some\noffice where the boss doesn't talk about Ideals. Bad luck, old dear, and\nyou can stick your job up the sewer!\"\n\nBabbitt sat for a long time, alternately raging, \"I'll have him\narrested,\" and yearning \"I wonder--No, I've never done anything that\nwasn't necessary to keep the Wheels of Progress moving.\"\n\nNext day he hired in Graff's place Fritz Weilinger, the salesman of his\nmost injurious rival, the East Side Homes and Development Company, and\nthus at once annoyed his competitor and acquired an excellent man.\nYoung Fritz was a curly-headed, merry, tennis-playing youngster. He made\ncustomers welcome to the office. Babbitt thought of him as a son, and in\nhim had much comfort.\n\n\nIII\n\nAn abandoned race-track on the outskirts of Chicago, a plot excellent\nfor factory sites, was to be sold, and Jake Offut asked Babbitt to\nbid on it for him. The strain of the Street Traction deal and his\ndisappointment in Stanley Graff had so shaken Babbitt that he found\nit hard to sit at his desk and concentrate. He proposed to his family,\n\"Look here, folks! Do you know who's going to trot up to Chicago for a\ncouple of days--just week-end; won't lose but one day of school--know\nwho's going with that celebrated business-ambassador, George F. Babbitt?\nWhy, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt Babbitt!\"\n\n\"Hurray!\" Ted shouted, and \"Oh, maybe the Babbitt men won't paint that\nlil ole town red!\"\n\nAnd, once away from the familiar implications of home, they were two men\ntogether. Ted was young only in his assumption of oldness, and the only\nrealms, apparently, in which Babbitt had a larger and more grown-up\nknowledge than Ted's were the details of real estate and the phrases of\npolitics. When the other sages of the Pullman smoking-compartment had\nleft them to themselves, Babbitt's voice did not drop into the playful\nand otherwise offensive tone in which one addresses children but\ncontinued its overwhelming and monotonous rumble, and Ted tried to\nimitate it in his strident tenor:\n\n\"Gee, dad, you certainly did show up that poor boot when he got flip\nabout the League of Nations!\"\n\n\"Well, the trouble with a lot of these fellows is, they simply don't\nknow what they're talking about. They don't get down to facts.... What\ndo you think of Ken Escott?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you, dad: it strikes me Ken is a nice lad; no special faults\nexcept he smokes too much; but slow, Lord! Why, if we don't give him\na shove the poor dumb-bell never will propose! And Rone just as bad.\nSlow.\"\n\n\"Yes, I guess you're right. They're slow. They haven't either one of 'em\ngot our pep.\"\n\n\"That's right. They're slow. I swear, dad, I don't know how Rone got\ninto our family! I'll bet, if the truth were known, you were a bad old\negg when you were a kid!\"\n\n\"Well, I wasn't so slow!\"\n\n\"I'll bet you weren't! I'll bet you didn't miss many tricks!\"\n\n\"Well, when I was out with the girls I didn't spend all the time telling\n'em about the strike in the knitting industry!\"\n\nThey roared together, and together lighted cigars.\n\n\"What are we going to do with 'em?\" Babbitt consulted.\n\n\"Gosh, I don't know. I swear, sometimes I feel like taking Ken aside and\nputting him over the jumps and saying to him, 'Young fella me lad, are\nyou going to marry young Rone, or are you going to talk her to death?\nHere you are getting on toward thirty, and you're only making twenty or\ntwenty-five a week. When you going to develop a sense of responsibility\nand get a raise? If there's anything that George F. or I can do to help\nyou, call on us, but show a little speed, anyway!'\"\n\n\"Well, at that, it might not be so bad if you or I talked to him, except\nhe might not understand. He's one of these high brows. He can't come\ndown to cases and lay his cards on the table and talk straight out from\nthe shoulder, like you or I can.\"\n\n\"That's right, he's like all these highbrows.\"\n\n\"That's so, like all of 'em.\"\n\n\"That's a fact.\"\n\nThey sighed, and were silent and thoughtful and happy.\n\nThe conductor came in. He had once called at Babbitt's office, to ask\nabout houses. \"H' are you, Mr. Babbitt! We going to have you with us to\nChicago? This your boy?\"\n\n\"Yes, this is my son Ted.\"\n\n\"Well now, what do you know about that! Here I been thinking you were\na youngster yourself, not a day over forty, hardly, and you with this\ngreat big fellow!\"\n\n\"Forty? Why, brother, I'll never see forty-five again!\"\n\n\"Is that a fact! Wouldn't hardly 'a' thought it!\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, it's a bad give-away for the old man when he has to travel\nwith a young whale like Ted here!\"\n\n\"You're right, it is.\" To Ted: \"I suppose you're in college now?\"\n\nProudly, \"No, not till next fall. I'm just kind of giving the diff'rent\ncolleges the once-over now.\"\n\nAs the conductor went on his affable way, huge watch-chain jingling\nagainst his blue chest, Babbitt and Ted gravely considered colleges.\nThey arrived at Chicago late at night; they lay abed in the morning,\nrejoicing, \"Pretty nice not to have to get up and get down to breakfast,\nheh?\" They were staying at the modest Eden Hotel, because Zenith\nbusiness men always stayed at the Eden, but they had dinner in the\nbrocade and crystal Versailles Room of the Regency Hotel. Babbitt\nordered Blue Point oysters with cocktail sauce, a tremendous steak with\na tremendous platter of French fried potatoes, two pots of coffee, apple\npie with ice cream for both of them and, for Ted, an extra piece of\nmince pie.\n\n\"Hot stuff! Some feed, young fella!\" Ted admired.\n\n\"Huh! You stick around with me, old man, and I'll show you a good time!\"\n\nThey went to a musical comedy and nudged each other at the matrimonial\njokes and the prohibition jokes; they paraded the lobby, arm in arm,\nbetween acts, and in the glee of his first release from the shame which\ndissevers fathers and sons Ted chuckled, \"Dad, did you ever hear the one\nabout the three milliners and the judge?\"\n\nWhen Ted had returned to Zenith, Babbitt was lonely. As he was trying\nto make alliance between Offutt and certain Milwaukee interests which\nwanted the race-track plot, most of his time was taken up in waiting for\ntelephone calls.... Sitting on the edge of his bed, holding the portable\ntelephone, asking wearily, \"Mr. Sagen not in yet? Didn' he leave any\nmessage for me? All right, I'll hold the wire.\" Staring at a stain on\nthe wall, reflecting that it resembled a shoe, and being bored by this\ntwentieth discovery that it resembled a shoe. Lighting a cigarette;\nthen, bound to the telephone with no ashtray in reach, wondering what\nto do with this burning menace and anxiously trying to toss it into the\ntiled bathroom. At last, on the telephone, \"No message, eh? All right,\nI'll call up again.\"\n\nOne afternoon he wandered through snow-rutted streets of which he\nhad never heard, streets of small tenements and two-family houses and\nmarooned cottages. It came to him that he had nothing to do, that there\nwas nothing he wanted to do. He was bleakly lonely in the evening, when\nhe dined by himself at the Regency Hotel. He sat in the lobby afterward,\nin a plush chair bedecked with the Saxe-Coburg arms, lighting a cigar\nand looking for some one who would come and play with him and save him\nfrom thinking. In the chair next to him (showing the arms of Lithuania)\nwas a half-familiar man, a large red-faced man with pop eyes and a\ndeficient yellow mustache. He seemed kind and insignificant, and as\nlonely as Babbitt himself. He wore a tweed suit and a reluctant orange\ntie.\n\nIt came to Babbitt with a pyrotechnic crash. The melancholy stranger was\nSir Gerald Doak.\n\nInstinctively Babbitt rose, bumbling, \"How 're you, Sir Gerald? 'Member\nwe met in Zenith, at Charley McKelvey's? Babbitt's my name--real\nestate.\"\n\n\"Oh! How d' you do.\" Sir Gerald shook hands flabbily.\n\nEmbarrassed, standing, wondering how he could retreat, Babbitt\nmaundered, \"Well, I suppose you been having a great trip since we saw\nyou in Zenith.\"\n\n\"Quite. British Columbia and California and all over the place,\" he said\ndoubtfully, looking at Babbitt lifelessly.\n\n\"How did you find business conditions in British Columbia? Or I suppose\nmaybe you didn't look into 'em. Scenery and sport and so on?\"\n\n\"Scenery? Oh, capital. But business conditions--You know, Mr. Babbitt,\nthey're having almost as much unemployment as we are.\" Sir Gerald was\nspeaking warmly now.\n\n\"So? Business conditions not so doggone good, eh?\"\n\n\"No, business conditions weren't at all what I'd hoped to find them.\"\n\n\"Not good, eh?\"\n\n\"No, not--not really good.\"\n\n\"That's a darn shame. Well--I suppose you're waiting for somebody to\ntake you out to some big shindig, Sir Gerald.\"\n\n\"Shindig? Oh. Shindig. No, to tell you the truth, I was wondering what\nthe deuce I could do this evening. Don't know a soul in Tchicahgo. I\nwonder if you happen to know whether there's a good theater in this\ncity?\"\n\n\"Good? Why say, they're running grand opera right now! I guess maybe\nyou'd like that.\"\n\n\"Eh? Eh? Went to the opera once in London. Covent Garden sort of thing.\nShocking! No, I was wondering if there was a good cinema-movie.\"\n\nBabbitt was sitting down, hitching his chair over, shouting, \"Movie?\nSay, Sir Gerald, I supposed of course you had a raft of dames waiting to\nlead you out to some soiree--\"\n\n\"God forbid!\"\n\n\"--but if you haven't, what do you say you and me go to a movie? There's\na peach of a film at the Grantham: Bill Hart in a bandit picture.\"\n\n\"Right-o! Just a moment while I get my coat.\"\n\nSwollen with greatness, slightly afraid lest the noble blood of\nNottingham change its mind and leave him at any street corner, Babbitt\nparaded with Sir Gerald Doak to the movie palace and in silent bliss sat\nbeside him, trying not to be too enthusiastic, lest the knight despise\nhis adoration of six-shooters and broncos. At the end Sir Gerald\nmurmured, \"Jolly good picture, this. So awfully decent of you to take\nme. Haven't enjoyed myself so much for weeks. All these Hostesses--they\nnever let you go to the cinema!\"\n\n\"The devil you say!\" Babbitt's speech had lost the delicate refinement\nand all the broad A's with which he had adorned it, and become hearty\nand natural. \"Well, I'm tickled to death you liked it, Sir Gerald.\"\n\nThey crawled past the knees of fat women into the aisle; they stood in\nthe lobby waving their arms in the rite of putting on overcoats. Babbitt\nhinted, \"Say, how about a little something to eat? I know a place where\nwe could get a swell rarebit, and we might dig up a little drink--that\nis, if you ever touch the stuff.\"\n\n\"Rather! But why don't you come to my room? I've some Scotch--not half\nbad.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't want to use up all your hootch. It's darn nice of you,\nbut--You probably want to hit the hay.\"\n\nSir Gerald was transformed. He was beefily yearning. \"Oh really, now;\nI haven't had a decent evening for so long! Having to go to all these\ndances. No chance to discuss business and that sort of thing. Do be a\ngood chap and come along. Won't you?\"\n\n\"Will I? You bet! I just thought maybe--Say, by golly, it does do a\nfellow good, don't it, to sit and visit about business conditions,\nafter he's been to these balls and masquerades and banquets and all\nthat society stuff. I often feel that way in Zenith. Sure, you bet I'll\ncome.\"\n\n\"That's awfully nice of you.\" They beamed along the street. \"Look\nhere, old chap, can you tell me, do American cities always keep up this\ndreadful social pace? All these magnificent parties?\"\n\n\"Go on now, quit your kidding! Gosh, you with court balls and functions\nand everything--\"\n\n\"No, really, old chap! Mother and I--Lady Doak, I should say, we usually\nplay a hand of bezique and go to bed at ten. Bless my soul, I couldn't\nkeep up your beastly pace! And talking! All your American women, they\nknow so much--culture and that sort of thing. This Mrs. McKelvey--your\nfriend--\"\n\n\"Yuh, old Lucile. Good kid.\"\n\n\"--she asked me which of the galleries I liked best in Florence. Or was\nit in Firenze? Never been in Italy in my life! And primitives. Did I\nlike primitives. Do you know what the deuce a primitive is?\"\n\n\"Me? I should say not! But I know what a discount for cash is.\"\n\n\"Rather! So do I, by George! But primitives!\"\n\n\"Yuh! Primitives!\"\n\nThey laughed with the sound of a Boosters' luncheon.\n\nSir Gerald's room was, except for his ponderous and durable English\nbags, very much like the room of George F. Babbitt; and quite in the\nmanner of Babbitt he disclosed a huge whisky flask, looked proud and\nhospitable, and chuckled, \"Say, when, old chap.\"\n\nIt was after the third drink that Sir Gerald proclaimed, \"How do you\nYankees get the notion that writing chaps like Bertrand Shaw and this\nWells represent us? The real business England, we think those chaps are\ntraitors. Both our countries have their comic Old Aristocracy--you know,\nold county families, hunting people and all that sort of thing--and we\nboth have our wretched labor leaders, but we both have a backbone of\nsound business men who run the whole show.\"\n\n\"You bet. Here's to the real guys!\"\n\n\"I'm with you! Here's to ourselves!\"\n\nIt was after the fourth drink that Sir Gerald asked humbly, \"What do you\nthink of North Dakota mortgages?\" but it was not till after the fifth\nthat Babbitt began to call him \"Jerry,\" and Sir Gerald confided, \"I\nsay, do you mind if I pull off my boots?\" and ecstatically stretched his\nknightly feet, his poor, tired, hot, swollen feet out on the bed.\n\nAfter the sixth, Babbitt irregularly arose. \"Well, I better be hiking\nalong. Jerry, you're a regular human being! I wish to thunder we'd been\nbetter acquainted in Zenith. Lookit. Can't you come back and stay with\nme a while?\"\n\n\"So sorry--must go to New York to-morrow. Most awfully sorry, old boy.\nI haven't enjoyed an evening so much since I've been in the States.\nReal talk. Not all this social rot. I'd never have let them give me the\nbeastly title--and I didn't get it for nothing, eh?--if I'd thought I'd\nhave to talk to women about primitives and polo! Goodish thing to have\nin Nottingham, though; annoyed the mayor most frightfully when I got it;\nand of course the missus likes it. But nobody calls me 'Jerry' now--\"\nHe was almost weeping. \"--and nobody in the States has treated me like a\nfriend till to-night! Good-by, old chap, good-by! Thanks awfully!\"\n\n\"Don't mention it, Jerry. And remember whenever you get to Zenith, the\nlatch-string is always out.\"\n\n\"And don't forget, old boy, if you ever come to Nottingham, Mother and\nI will be frightfully glad to see you. I shall tell the fellows in\nNottingham your ideas about Visions and Real Guys--at our next Rotary\nClub luncheon.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nBabbitt lay abed at his hotel, imagining the Zenith Athletic Club asking\nhim, \"What kind of a time d'you have in Chicago?\" and his answering,\n\"Oh, fair; ran around with Sir Gerald Doak a lot;\" picturing himself\nmeeting Lucile McKelvey and admonishing her, \"You're all right, Mrs.\nMac, when you aren't trying to pull this highbrow pose. It's just as\nGerald Doak says to me in Chicago--oh, yes, Jerry's an old friend of\nmine--the wife and I are thinking of running over to England to stay\nwith Jerry in his castle, next year--and he said to me, 'Georgie, old\nbean, I like Lucile first-rate, but you and me, George, we got to make\nher get over this highty-tighty hooptediddle way she's got.\"\n\nBut that evening a thing happened which wrecked his pride.\n\n\nV\n\nAt the Regency Hotel cigar-counter he fell to talking with a salesman\nof pianos, and they dined together. Babbitt was filled with friendliness\nand well-being. He enjoyed the gorgeousness of the dining-room: the\nchandeliers, the looped brocade curtains, the portraits of French kings\nagainst panels of gilded oak. He enjoyed the crowd: pretty women, good\nsolid fellows who were \"liberal spenders.\"\n\nHe gasped. He stared, and turned away, and stared again. Three tables\noff, with a doubtful sort of woman, a woman at once coy and withered,\nwas Paul Riesling, and Paul was supposed to be in Akron, selling\ntar-roofing. The woman was tapping his hand, mooning at him and\ngiggling. Babbitt felt that he had encountered something involved\nand harmful. Paul was talking with the rapt eagerness of a man who is\ntelling his troubles. He was concentrated on the woman's faded eyes.\nOnce he held her hand and once, blind to the other guests, he puckered\nhis lips as though he was pretending to kiss her. Babbitt had so strong\nan impulse to go to Paul that he could feel his body uncoiling, his\nshoulders moving, but he felt, desperately, that he must be diplomatic,\nand not till he saw Paul paying the check did he bluster to the\npiano-salesman, \"By golly-friend of mine over there--'scuse me\nsecond--just say hello to him.\"\n\nHe touched Paul's shoulder, and cried, \"Well, when did you hit town?\"\n\nPaul glared up at him, face hardening. \"Oh, hello, George. Thought you'd\ngone back to Zenith.\" He did not introduce his companion. Babbitt peeped\nat her. She was a flabbily pretty, weakly flirtatious woman of forty-two\nor three, in an atrocious flowery hat. Her rouging was thorough but\nunskilful.\n\n\"Where you staying, Paulibus?\"\n\nThe woman turned, yawned, examined her nails. She seemed accustomed to\nnot being introduced.\n\nPaul grumbled, \"Campbell Inn, on the South Side.\"\n\n\"Alone?\" It sounded insinuating.\n\n\"Yes! Unfortunately!\" Furiously Paul turned toward the woman, smiling\nwith a fondness sickening to Babbitt. \"May! Want to introduce you. Mrs.\nArnold, this is my old-acquaintance, George Babbitt.\"\n\n\"Pleasmeech,\" growled Babbitt, while she gurgled, \"Oh, I'm very pleased\nto meet any friend of Mr. Riesling's, I'm sure.\"\n\nBabbitt demanded, \"Be back there later this evening, Paul? I'll drop\ndown and see you.\"\n\n\"No, better--We better lunch together to-morrow.\"\n\n\"All right, but I'll see you to-night, too, Paul. I'll go down to your\nhotel, and I'll wait for you!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nI\n\nHE sat smoking with the piano-salesman, clinging to the warm refuge of\ngossip, afraid to venture into thoughts of Paul. He was the more affable\non the surface as secretly he became more apprehensive, felt more\nhollow. He was certain that Paul was in Chicago without Zilla's\nknowledge, and that he was doing things not at all moral and secure.\nWhen the salesman yawned that he had to write up his orders, Babbitt\nleft him, left the hotel, in leisurely calm. But savagely he said\n\"Campbell Inn!\" to the taxi-driver. He sat agitated on the slippery\nleather seat, in that chill dimness which smelled of dust and perfume\nand Turkish cigarettes. He did not heed the snowy lake-front, the dark\nspaces and sudden bright corners in the unknown land south of the Loop.\n\nThe office of the Campbell Inn was hard, bright, new; the night clerk\nharder and brighter. \"Yep?\" he said to Babbitt.\n\n\"Mr. Paul Riesling registered here?\"\n\n\"Yep.\"\n\n\"Is he in now?\"\n\n\"Nope.\"\n\n\"Then if you'll give me his key, I'll wait for him.\"\n\n\"Can't do that, brother. Wait down here if you wanna.\"\n\nBabbitt had spoken with the deference which all the Clan of Good Fellows\ngive to hotel clerks. Now he said with snarling abruptness:\n\n\"I may have to wait some time. I'm Riesling's brother-in-law. I'll go up\nto his room. D' I look like a sneak-thief?\"\n\nHis voice was low and not pleasant. With considerable haste the\nclerk took down the key, protesting, \"I never said you looked like a\nsneak-thief. Just rules of the hotel. But if you want to--\"\n\nOn his way up in the elevator Babbitt wondered why he was here. Why\nshouldn't Paul be dining with a respectable married woman? Why had he\nlied to the clerk about being Paul's brother-in-law? He had acted like a\nchild. He must be careful not to say foolish dramatic things to Paul.\nAs he settled down he tried to look pompous and placid. Then the\nthought--Suicide. He'd been dreading that, without knowing it. Paul\nwould be just the person to do something like that. He must be out of\nhis head or he wouldn't be confiding in that--that dried-up hag.\n\nZilla (oh, damn Zilla! how gladly he'd throttle that nagging fiend of a\nwoman!)--she'd probably succeeded at last, and driven Paul crazy.\n\nSuicide. Out there in the lake, way out, beyond the piled ice along the\nshore. It would be ghastly cold to drop into the water to-night.\n\nOr--throat cut--in the bathroom--\n\nBabbitt flung into Paul's bathroom. It was empty. He smiled, feebly.\n\nHe pulled at his choking collar, looked at his watch, opened the window\nto stare down at the street, looked at his watch, tried to read the\nevening paper lying on the glass-topped bureau, looked again at his\nwatch. Three minutes had gone by since he had first looked at it.\n\nAnd he waited for three hours.\n\nHe was sitting fixed, chilled, when the doorknob turned. Paul came in\nglowering.\n\n\"Hello,\" Paul said. \"Been waiting?\"\n\n\"Yuh, little while.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Well what? Just thought I'd drop in to see how you made out in Akron.\"\n\n\"I did all right. What difference does it make?\"\n\n\"Why, gosh, Paul, what are you sore about?\"\n\n\"What are you butting into my affairs for?\"\n\n\"Why, Paul, that's no way to talk! I'm not butting into nothing. I was\nso glad to see your ugly old phiz that I just dropped in to say howdy.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm not going to have anybody following me around and trying to\nboss me. I've had all of that I'm going to stand!\"\n\n\"Well, gosh, I'm not--\"\n\n\"I didn't like the way you looked at May Arnold, or the snooty way you\ntalked.\"\n\n\"Well, all right then! If you think I'm a buttinsky, then I'll just butt\nin! I don't know who your May Arnold is, but I know doggone good and\nwell that you and her weren't talking about tar-roofing, no, nor about\nplaying the violin, neither! If you haven't got any moral consideration\nfor yourself, you ought to have some for your position in the community.\nThe idea of your going around places gawping into a female's eyes like\na love-sick pup! I can understand a fellow slipping once, but I don't\npropose to see a fellow that's been as chummy with me as you have\ngetting started on the downward path and sneaking off from his wife,\neven as cranky a one as Zilla, to go woman-chasing--\"\n\n\"Oh, you're a perfectly moral little husband!\"\n\n\"I am, by God! I've never looked at any woman except Myra since I've\nbeen married--practically--and I never will! I tell you there's nothing\nto immorality. It don't pay. Can't you see, old man, it just makes Zilla\nstill crankier?\"\n\nSlight of resolution as he was of body, Paul threw his snow-beaded\novercoat on the floor and crouched on a flimsy cane chair. \"Oh, you're\nan old blowhard, and you know less about morality than Tinka, but you're\nall right, Georgie. But you can't understand that--I'm through. I can't\ngo Zilla's hammering any longer. She's made up her mind that I'm a\ndevil, and--Reg'lar Inquisition. Torture. She enjoys it. It's a game to\nsee how sore she can make me. And me, either it's find a little comfort,\nany comfort, anywhere, or else do something a lot worse. Now this Mrs.\nArnold, she's not so young, but she's a fine woman and she understands a\nfellow, and she's had her own troubles.\"\n\n\"Yea! I suppose she's one of these hens whose husband 'doesn't\nunderstand her'!\"\n\n\"I don't know. Maybe. He was killed in the war.\"\n\nBabbitt lumbered up, stood beside Paul patting his shoulder, making soft\napologetic noises.\n\n\"Honest, George, she's a fine woman, and she's had one hell of a time.\nWe manage to jolly each other up a lot. We tell each other we're the\ndandiest pair on earth. Maybe we don't believe it, but it helps a lot\nto have somebody with whom you can be perfectly simple, and not all this\ndiscussing--explaining--\"\n\n\"And that's as far as you go?\"\n\n\"It is not! Go on! Say it!\"\n\n\"Well, I don't--I can't say I like it, but--\" With a burst which left\nhim feeling large and shining with generosity, \"it's none of my darn\nbusiness! I'll do anything I can for you, if there's anything I can do.\"\n\n\"There might be. I judge from Zilla's letters that 've been forwarded\nfrom Akron that she's getting suspicious about my staying away so long.\nShe'd be perfectly capable of having me shadowed, and of coming to\nChicago and busting into a hotel dining-room and bawling me out before\neverybody.\"\n\n\"I'll take care of Zilla. I'll hand her a good fairy-story when I get\nback to Zenith.\"\n\n\"I don't know--I don't think you better try it. You're a good fellow.\nbut I don't know that diplomacy is your strong point.\" Babbitt looked\nhurt, then irritated. \"I mean with women! With women, I mean. Course\nthey got to go some to beat you in business diplomacy, but I just\nmean with women. Zilla may do a lot of rough talking, but she's pretty\nshrewd. She'd have the story out of you in no time.\"\n\n\"Well, all right, but--\" Babbitt was still pathetic at not being allowed\nto play Secret Agent. Paul soothed:\n\n\"Course maybe you might tell her you'd been in Akron and seen me there.\"\n\n\"Why, sure, you bet! Don't I have to go look at that candy-store\nproperty in Akron? Don't I? Ain't it a shame I have to stop off there\nwhen I'm so anxious to get home? Ain't it a regular shame? I'll say it\nis! I'll say it's a doggone shame!\"\n\n\"Fine. But for glory hallelujah's sake don't go putting any fancy\nfixings on the story. When men lie they always try to make it too\nartistic, and that's why women get suspicious. And--Let's have a drink,\nGeorgie. I've got some gin and a little vermouth.\"\n\nThe Paul who normally refused a second cocktail took a second now, and\na third. He became red-eyed and thick-tongued. He was embarrassingly\njocular and salacious.\n\nIn the taxicab Babbitt incredulously found tears crowding into his eyes.\n\n\nII\n\nHe had not told Paul of his plan but he did stop at Akron, between\ntrains, for the one purpose of sending to Zilla a postcard with \"Had to\ncome here for the day, ran into Paul.\" In Zenith he called on her.\nIf for public appearances Zilla was over-coiffed, over-painted,\nand resolutely corseted, for private misery she wore a filthy blue\ndressing-gown and torn stockings thrust into streaky pink satin mules.\nHer face was sunken. She seemed to have but half as much hair as Babbitt\nremembered, and that half was stringy. She sat in a rocker amid a debris\nof candy-boxes and cheap magazines, and she sounded dolorous when she\ndid not sound derisive. But Babbitt was exceedingly breezy:\n\n\"Well, well, Zil, old dear, having a good loaf while hubby's away?\nThat's the ideal I'll bet a hat Myra never got up till ten, while I was\nin Chicago. Say, could I borrow your thermos--just dropped in to see\nif I could borrow your thermos bottle. We're going to have a toboggan\nparty--want to take some coffee mit. Oh, did you get my card from Akron,\nsaying I'd run into Paul?\"\n\n\"Yes. What was he doing?\"\n\n\"How do you mean?\" He unbuttoned his overcoat, sat tentatively on the\narm of a chair.\n\n\"You know how I mean!\" She slapped the pages of a magazine with an\nirritable clatter. \"I suppose he was trying to make love to some hotel\nwaitress or manicure girl or somebody.\"\n\n\"Hang it, you're always letting on that Paul goes round chasing skirts.\nHe doesn't, in the first place, and if he did, it would prob'ly be\nbecause you keep hinting at him and dinging at him so much. I hadn't\nmeant to, Zilla, but since Paul is away, in Akron--\"\n\n\"He really is in Akron? I know he has some horrible woman that he writes\nto in Chicago.\"\n\n\"Didn't I tell you I saw him in Akron? What 're you trying to do? Make\nme out a liar?\"\n\n\"No, but I just--I get so worried.\"\n\n\"Now, there you are! That's what gets me! Here you love Paul, and yet\nyou plague him and cuss him out as if you hated him. I simply can't\nunderstand why it is that the more some folks love people, the harder\nthey try to make 'em miserable.\"\n\n\"You love Ted and Rone--I suppose--and yet you nag them.\"\n\n\"Oh. Well. That. That's different. Besides, I don't nag 'em. Not what\nyou'd call nagging. But zize saying: Now, here's Paul, the nicest,\nmost sensitive critter on God's green earth. You ought to be ashamed of\nyourself the way you pan him. Why, you talk to him like a washerwoman.\nI'm surprised you can act so doggone common, Zilla!\"\n\nShe brooded over her linked fingers. \"Oh, I know. I do go and get\nmean sometimes, and I'm sorry afterwards. But, oh, Georgie, Paul is so\naggravating! Honestly, I've tried awfully hard, these last few years, to\nbe nice to him, but just because I used to be spiteful--or I seemed so;\nI wasn't, really, but I used to speak up and say anything that came\ninto my head--and so he made up his mind that everything was my fault.\nEverything can't always be my fault, can it? And now if I get to\nfussing, he just turns silent, oh, so dreadfully silent, and he\nwon't look at me--he just ignores me. He simply isn't human! And he\ndeliberately keeps it up till I bust out and say a lot of things I don't\nmean. So silent--Oh, you righteous men! How wicked you are! How rotten\nwicked!\"\n\nThey thrashed things over and over for half an hour. At the end, weeping\ndrably, Zilla promised to restrain herself.\n\nPaul returned four days later, and the Babbitts and Rieslings went\nfestively to the movies and had chop suey at a Chinese restaurant.\nAs they walked to the restaurant through a street of tailor shops and\nbarber shops, the two wives in front, chattering about cooks, Babbitt\nmurmured to Paul, \"Zil seems a lot nicer now.\"\n\n\"Yes, she has been, except once or twice. But it's too late now. I\njust--I'm not going to discuss it, but I'm afraid of her. There's\nnothing left. I don't ever want to see her. Some day I'm going to break\naway from her. Somehow.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nTHE International Organization of Boosters' Clubs has be come a\nworld-force for optimism, manly pleasantry, and good business. Chapters\nare to be found now in thirty countries. Nine hundred and twenty of the\nthousand chapters, however, are in the United States.\n\nNone of these is more ardent than the Zenith Boosters' Club.\n\nThe second March lunch of the Zenith Boosters was the most important of\nthe year, as it was to be followed by the annual election of officers.\nThere was agitation abroad. The lunch was held in the ballroom of the\nO'Hearn House. As each of the four hundred Boosters entered he took from\na wall-board a huge celluloid button announcing his name, his nick name,\nand his business. There was a fine of ten cents for calling a Fellow\nBooster by anything but his nickname at a lunch, and as Babbitt jovially\nchecked his hat the air was radiant with shouts of \"Hello, Chet!\" and\n\"How're you, Shorty!\" and \"Top o' the mornin', Mac!\"\n\nThey sat at friendly tables for eight, choosing places by lot. Babbitt\nwas with Albert Boos the merchant tailor, Hector Seybolt of the Little\nSweetheart Condensed Milk Company, Emil Wengert the jeweler, Professor\nPumphrey of the Riteway Business College, Dr. Walter Gorbutt, Roy\nTeegarten the photographer, and Ben Berkey the photo-engraver. One of\nthe merits of the Boosters' Club was that only two persons from each\ndepartment of business were permitted to join, so that you at\nonce encountered the Ideals of other occupations, and realized the\nmetaphysical oneness of all occupations--plumbing and portrait-painting,\nmedicine and the manufacture of chewing-gum.\n\nBabbitt's table was particularly happy to-day, because Professor\nPumphrey had just had a birthday, and was therefore open to teasing.\n\n\"Let's pump Pump about how old he is!\" said Emil Wengert.\n\n\"No, let's paddle him with a dancing-pump!\" said Ben Berkey.\n\nBut it was Babbitt who had the applause, with \"Don't talk about pumps to\nthat guy! The only pump he knows is a bottle! Honest, they tell me he's\nstarting a class in home-brewing at the ole college!\"\n\nAt each place was the Boosters' Club booklet, listing the members.\nThough the object of the club was good-fellowship, yet they never lost\nsight of the importance of doing a little more business. After each name\nwas the member's occupation. There were scores of advertisements in the\nbooklet, and on one page the admonition: \"There's no rule that you have\nto trade with your Fellow Boosters, but get wise, boy--what's the use\nof letting all this good money get outside of our happy fambly?\" And at\neach place, to-day, there was a present; a card printed in artistic red\nand black:\n\n\nSERVICE AND BOOSTERISM\n\nService finds its finest opportunity and development only in its\nbroadest and deepest application and the consideration of its perpetual\naction upon reaction. I believe the highest type of Service, like the\nmost progressive tenets of ethics, senses unceasingly and is motived by\nactive adherence and loyalty to that which is the essential principle of\nBoosterism--Good Citizenship in all its factors and aspects.\n\nDAD PETERSEN.\n\nCompliments of Dadbury Petersen Advertising Corp.\n\n\"Ads, not Fads, at Dad's\"\n\n\nThe Boosters all read Mr. Peterson's aphorism and said they understood\nit perfectly.\n\nThe meeting opened with the regular weekly \"stunts.\" Retiring President\nVergil Gunch was in the chair, his stiff hair like a hedge, his\nvoice like a brazen gong of festival. Members who had brought guests\nintroduced them publicly. \"This tall red-headed piece of misinformation\nis the sporting editor of the Press,\" said Willis Ijams; and H. H.\nHazen, the druggist, chanted, \"Boys, when you're on a long motor tour\nand finally get to a romantic spot or scene and draw up and remark to\nthe wife, 'This is certainly a romantic place,' it sends a glow right\nup and down your vertebrae. Well, my guest to-day is from such a place,\nHarper's Ferry, Virginia, in the beautiful Southland, with memories of\ngood old General Robert E. Lee and of that brave soul, John Brown who,\nlike every good Booster, goes marching on--\"\n\nThere were two especially distinguished guests: the leading man of the\n\"Bird of Paradise\" company, playing this week at the Dodsworth Theater,\nand the mayor of Zenith, the Hon. Lucas Prout.\n\nVergil Gunch thundered, \"When we manage to grab this celebrated Thespian\noff his lovely aggregation of beautiful actresses--and I got to admit\nI butted right into his dressing-room and told him how the Boosters\nappreciated the high-class artistic performance he's giving us--and\ndon't forget that the treasurer of the Dodsworth is a Booster and will\nappreciate our patronage--and when on top of that we yank Hizzonor\nout of his multifarious duties at City Hall, then I feel we've done\nourselves proud, and Mr. Prout will now say a few words about the\nproblems and duties--\"\n\nBy rising vote the Boosters decided which was the handsomest and which\nthe ugliest guest, and to each of them was given a bunch of carnations,\ndonated, President Gunch noted, by Brother Booster H. G. Yeager, the\nJennifer Avenue florist.\n\nEach week, in rotation, four Boosters were privileged to obtain the\npleasures of generosity and of publicity by donating goods or services\nto four fellow-members, chosen by lot. There was laughter, this week,\nwhen it was announced that one of the contributors was Barnabas Joy, the\nundertaker. Everybody whispered, \"I can think of a coupla good guys to\nbe buried if his donation is a free funeral!\"\n\nThrough all these diversions the Boosters were lunching on chicken\ncroquettes, peas, fried potatoes, coffee, apple pie, and American\ncheese. Gunch did not lump the speeches. Presently he called on the\nvisiting secretary of the Zenith Rotary Club, a rival organization.\nThe secretary had the distinction of possessing State Motor Car License\nNumber 5.\n\nThe Rotary secretary laughingly admitted that wherever he drove in the\nstate so low a number created a sensation, and \"though it was pretty\nnice to have the honor, yet traffic cops remembered it only too darn\nwell, and sometimes he didn't know but what he'd almost as soon have\njust plain B56,876 or something like that. Only let any doggone Booster\ntry to get Number 5 away from a live Rotarian next year, and watch the\nfur fly! And if they'd permit him, he'd wind up by calling for a cheer\nfor the Boosters and Rotarians and the Kiwanis all together!\"\n\nBabbitt sighed to Professor Pumphrey, \"Be pretty nice to have as low a\nnumber as that! Everybody 'd say, 'He must be an important guy!' Wonder\nhow he got it? I'll bet he wined and dined the superintendent of the\nMotor License Bureau to a fare-you-well!\"\n\nThen Chum Frink addressed them:\n\n\"Some of you may feel that it's out of place here to talk on a strictly\nhighbrow and artistic subject, but I want to come out flatfooted and\nask you boys to O.K. the proposition of a Symphony Orchestra for Zenith.\nNow, where a lot of you make your mistake is in assuming that if you\ndon't like classical music and all that junk, you ought to oppose it.\nNow, I want to confess that, though I'm a literary guy by profession, I\ndon't care a rap for all this long-haired music. I'd rather listen to a\ngood jazz band any time than to some piece by Beethoven that hasn't any\nmore tune to it than a bunch of fighting cats, and you couldn't whistle\nit to save your life! But that isn't the point. Culture has become as\nnecessary an adornment and advertisement for a city to-day as pavements\nor bank-clearances. It's Culture, in theaters and art-galleries and so\non, that brings thousands of visitors to New York every year and, to be\nfrank, for all our splendid attainments we haven't yet got the Culture\nof a New York or Chicago or Boston--or at least we don't get the credit\nfor it. The thing to do then, as a live bunch of go-getters, is to\nCAPITALIZE CULTURE; to go right out and grab it.\n\n\"Pictures and books are fine for those that have the time to study 'em,\nbut they don't shoot out on the road and holler 'This is what little\nold Zenith can put up in the way of Culture.' That's precisely what\na Symphony Orchestra does do. Look at the credit Minneapolis and\nCincinnati get. An orchestra with first-class musickers and a swell\nconductor--and I believe we ought to do the thing up brown and get\none of the highest-paid conductors on the market, providing he ain't a\nHun--it goes right into Beantown and New York and Washington; it plays\nat the best theaters to the most cultured and moneyed people; it gives\nsuch class-advertising as a town can get in no other way; and the guy\nwho is so short-sighted as to crab this orchestra proposition is passing\nup the chance to impress the glorious name of Zenith on some big New\nYork millionaire that might-that might establish a branch factory here!\n\n\"I could also go into the fact that for our daughters who show an\ninterest in highbrow music and may want to teach it, having an A1 local\norganization is of great benefit, but let's keep this on a practical\nbasis, and I call on you good brothers to whoop it up for Culture and a\nWorld-beating Symphony Orchestra!\"\n\nThey applauded.\n\nTo a rustle of excitement President Gunch proclaimed, \"Gentlemen, we\nwill now proceed to the annual election of officers.\" For each of the\nsix offices, three candidates had been chosen by a committee. The second\nname among the candidates for vice-president was Babbitt's.\n\nHe was surprised. He looked self-conscious. His heart pounded. He was\nstill more agitated when the ballots were counted and Gunch said, \"It's\na pleasure to announce that Georgie Babbitt will be the next assistant\ngavel-wielder. I know of no man who stands more stanchly for common\nsense and enterprise than good old George. Come on, let's give him our\nbest long yell!\"\n\nAs they adjourned, a hundred men crushed in to slap his back. He had\nnever known a higher moment. He drove away in a blur of wonder. He\nlunged into his office, chuckling to Miss McGoun, \"Well, I guess you\nbetter congratulate your boss! Been elected vice-president of the\nBoosters!\"\n\nHe was disappointed. She answered only, \"Yes--Oh, Mrs. Babbitt's been\ntrying to get you on the 'phone.\" But the new salesman, Fritz Weilinger,\nsaid, \"By golly, chief, say, that's great, that's perfectly great! I'm\ntickled to death! Congratulations!\"\n\nBabbitt called the house, and crowed to his wife, \"Heard you were trying\nto get me, Myra. Say, you got to hand it to little Georgie, this time!\nBetter talk careful! You are now addressing the vice-president of the\nBoosters' Club!\"\n\n\"Oh, Georgie--\"\n\n\"Pretty nice, huh? Willis Ijams is the new president, but when\nhe's away, little ole Georgie takes the gavel and whoops 'em up\nand introduces the speakers--no matter if they're the governor\nhimself--and--\"\n\n\"George! Listen!\"\n\n\"--It puts him in solid with big men like Doc Dilling and--\"\n\n\"George! Paul Riesling--\"\n\n\"Yes, sure, I'll 'phone Paul and let him know about it right away.\"\n\n\"Georgie! LISTEN! Paul's in jail. He shot his wife, he shot Zilla, this\nnoon. She may not live.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nI\n\nHE drove to the City Prison, not blindly, but with unusual fussy care at\ncorners, the fussiness of an old woman potting plants. It kept him from\nfacing the obscenity of fate.\n\nThe attendant said, \"Naw, you can't see any of the prisoners till\nthree-thirty--visiting-hour.\"\n\nIt was three. For half an hour Babbitt sat looking at a calendar and\na clock on a whitewashed wall. The chair was hard and mean and creaky.\nPeople went through the office and, he thought, stared at him. He felt\na belligerent defiance which broke into a wincing fear of this machine\nwhich was grinding Paul--Paul----\n\nExactly at half-past three he sent in his name.\n\nThe attendant returned with \"Riesling says he don't want to see you.\"\n\n\"You're crazy! You didn't give him my name! Tell him it's George wants\nto see him, George Babbitt.\"\n\n\"Yuh, I told him, all right, all right! He said he didn't want to see\nyou.\"\n\n\"Then take me in anyway.\"\n\n\"Nothing doing. If you ain't his lawyer, if he don't want to see you,\nthat's all there is to it.\"\n\n\"But, my GOD--Say, let me see the warden.\"\n\n\"He's busy. Come on, now, you--\" Babbitt reared over him. The attendant\nhastily changed to a coaxing \"You can come back and try to-morrow.\nProbably the poor guy is off his nut.\"\n\nBabbitt drove, not at all carefully or fussily, sliding viciously past\ntrucks, ignoring the truckmen's curses, to the City Hall; he stopped\nwith a grind of wheels against the curb, and ran up the marble steps to\nthe office of the Hon. Mr. Lucas Prout, the mayor. He bribed the mayor's\ndoorman with a dollar; he was instantly inside, demanding, \"You remember\nme, Mr. Prout? Babbitt--vice-president of the Boosters--campaigned for\nyou? Say, have you heard about poor Riesling? Well, I want an order on\nthe warden or whatever you call um of the City Prison to take me back\nand see him. Good. Thanks.\"\n\nIn fifteen minutes he was pounding down the prison corridor to a cage\nwhere Paul Riesling sat on a cot, twisted like an old beggar, legs\ncrossed, arms in a knot, biting at his clenched fist.\n\nPaul looked up blankly as the keeper unlocked the cell, admitted\nBabbitt, and left them together. He spoke slowly: \"Go on! Be moral!\"\n\nBabbitt plumped on the couch beside him. \"I'm not going to be moral!\nI don't care what happened! I just want to do anything I can. I'm glad\nZilla got what was coming to her.\"\n\nPaul said argumentatively, \"Now, don't go jumping on Zilla. I've been\nthinking; maybe she hasn't had any too easy a time. Just after I shot\nher--I didn't hardly mean to, but she got to deviling me so I went\ncrazy, just for a second, and pulled out that old revolver you and I\nused to shoot rabbits with, and took a crack at her. Didn't hardly mean\nto--After that, when I was trying to stop the blood--It was terrible\nwhat it did to her shoulder, and she had beautiful skin--Maybe she won't\ndie. I hope it won't leave her skin all scarred. But just afterward,\nwhen I was hunting through the bathroom for some cotton to stop the\nblood, I ran onto a little fuzzy yellow duck we hung on the tree one\nChristmas, and I remembered she and I'd been awfully happy then--Hell. I\ncan't hardly believe it's me here.\" As Babbitt's arm tightened about\nhis shoulder, Paul sighed, \"I'm glad you came. But I thought maybe you'd\nlecture me, and when you've committed a murder, and been brought here\nand everything--there was a big crowd outside the apartment house, all\nstaring, and the cops took me through it--Oh, I'm not going to talk\nabout it any more.\"\n\nBut he went on, in a monotonous, terrified insane mumble. To divert him\nBabbitt said, \"Why, you got a scar on your cheek.\"\n\n\"Yes. That's where the cop hit me. I suppose cops get a lot of fun out\nof lecturing murderers, too. He was a big fellow. And they wouldn't let\nme help carry Zilla down to the ambulance.\"\n\n\"Paul! Quit it! Listen: she won't die, and when it's all over you and\nI'll go off to Maine again. And maybe we can get that May Arnold to\ngo along. I'll go up to Chicago and ask her. Good woman, by golly. And\nafterwards I'll see that you get started in business out West somewhere,\nmaybe Seattle--they say that's a lovely city.\"\n\nPaul was half smiling. It was Babbitt who rambled now. He could not tell\nwhether Paul was heeding, but he droned on till the coming of Paul's\nlawyer, P. J. Maxwell, a thin, busy, unfriendly man who nodded at\nBabbitt and hinted, \"If Riesling and I could be alone for a moment--\"\n\nBabbitt wrung Paul's hands, and waited in the office till Maxwell came\npattering out. \"Look, old man, what can I do?\" he begged.\n\n\"Nothing. Not a thing. Not just now,\" said Maxwell. \"Sorry. Got to\nhurry. And don't try to see him. I've had the doctor give him a shot of\nmorphine, so he'll sleep.\"\n\nIt seemed somehow wicked to return to the office. Babbitt felt as though\nhe had just come from a funeral. He drifted out to the City Hospital to\ninquire about Zilla. She was not likely to die, he learned. The bullet\nfrom Paul's huge old .44 army revolver had smashed her shoulder and torn\nupward and out.\n\nHe wandered home and found his wife radiant with the horified\ninterest we have in the tragedies of our friends. \"Of course Paul isn't\naltogether to blame, but this is what comes of his chasing after other\nwomen instead of bearing his cross in a Christian way,\" she exulted.\n\nHe was too languid to respond as he desired. He said what was to be said\nabout the Christian bearing of crosses, and went out to clean the car.\nDully, patiently, he scraped linty grease from the drip-pan, gouged\nat the mud caked on the wheels. He used up many minutes in washing his\nhands; scoured them with gritty kitchen soap; rejoiced in hurting his\nplump knuckles. \"Damn soft hands--like a woman's. Aah!\"\n\nAt dinner, when his wife began the inevitable, he bellowed, \"I forbid\nany of you to say a word about Paul! I'll 'tend to all the talking about\nthis that's necessary, hear me? There's going to be one house in\nthis scandal-mongering town to-night that isn't going to spring the\nholier-than-thou. And throw those filthy evening papers out of the\nhouse!\"\n\nBut he himself read the papers, after dinner.\n\nBefore nine he set out for the house of Lawyer Maxwell. He was received\nwithout cordiality. \"Well?\" said Maxwell.\n\n\"I want to offer my services in the trial. I've got an idea. Why\ncouldn't I go on the stand and swear I was there, and she pulled the gun\nfirst and he wrestled with her and the gun went off accidentally?\"\n\n\"And perjure yourself?\"\n\n\"Huh? Yes, I suppose it would be perjury. Oh--Would it help?\"\n\n\"But, my dear fellow! Perjury!\"\n\n\"Oh, don't be a fool! Excuse me, Maxwell; I didn't mean to get your\ngoat. I just mean: I've known and you've known many and many a case of\nperjury, just to annex some rotten little piece of real estate, and\nhere where it's a case of saving Paul from going to prison, I'd perjure\nmyself black in the face.\"\n\n\"No. Aside from the ethics of the matter, I'm afraid it isn't\npracticable. The prosecutor would tear your testimony to pieces. It's\nknown that only Riesling and his wife were there at the time.\"\n\n\"Then, look here! Let me go on the stand and swear--and this would be\nthe God's truth--that she pestered him till he kind of went crazy.\"\n\n\"No. Sorry. Riesling absolutely refuses to have any testimony reflecting\non his wife. He insists on pleading guilty.\"\n\n\"Then let me get up and testify something--whatever you say. Let me do\nSOMETHING!\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, Babbitt, but the best thing you can do--I hate to say it,\nbut you could help us most by keeping strictly out of it.\"\n\nBabbitt, revolving his hat like a defaulting poor tenant, winced so\nvisibly that Maxwell condescended:\n\n\"I don't like to hurt your feelings, but you see we both want to do our\nbest for Riesling, and we mustn't consider any other factor. The trouble\nwith you, Babbitt, is that you're one of these fellows who talk too\nreadily. You like to hear your own voice. If there were anything for\nwhich I could put you in the witness-box, you'd get going and give the\nwhole show away. Sorry. Now I must look over some papers--So sorry.\"\n\n\nII\n\nHe spent most of the next morning nerving himself to face the garrulous\nworld of the Athletic Club. They would talk about Paul; they would\nbe lip-licking and rotten. But at the Roughnecks' Table they did not\nmention Paul. They spoke with zeal of the coming baseball season. He\nloved them as he never had before.\n\n\nIII\n\nHe had, doubtless from some story-book, pictured Paul's trial as a\nlong struggle, with bitter arguments, a taut crowd, and sudden and\noverwhelming new testimony. Actually, the trial occupied less than\nfifteen minutes, largely filled with the evidence of doctors that Zilla\nwould recover and that Paul must have been temporarily insane. Next day\nPaul was sentenced to three years in the State Penitentiary and taken\noff--quite undramatically, not handcuffed, merely plodding in a tired\nway beside a cheerful deputy sheriff--and after saying good-by to him\nat the station Babbitt returned to his office to realize that he faced a\nworld which, without Paul, was meaningless.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nI\n\nHE was busy, from March to June. He kept himself from the bewilderment\nof thinking. His wife and the neighbors were generous. Every evening he\nplayed bridge or attended the movies, and the days were blank of face\nand silent.\n\nIn June, Mrs. Babbitt and Tinka went East, to stay with relatives, and\nBabbitt was free to do--he was not quite sure what.\n\nAll day long after their departure he thought of the emancipated house\nin which he could, if he desired, go mad and curse the gods without\nhaving to keep up a husbandly front. He considered, \"I could have a\nreg'lar party to-night; stay out till two and not do any explaining\nafterwards. Cheers!\" He telephoned to Vergil Gunch, to Eddie Swanson.\nBoth of them were engaged for the evening, and suddenly he was bored by\nhaving to take so much trouble to be riotous.\n\nHe was silent at dinner, unusually kindly to Ted and Verona, hesitating\nbut not disapproving when Verona stated her opinion of Kenneth Escott's\nopinion of Dr. John Jennison Drew's opinion of the opinions of the\nevolutionists. Ted was working in a garage through the summer vacation,\nand he related his daily triumphs: how he had found a cracked ball-race,\nwhat he had said to the Old Grouch, what he had said to the foreman\nabout the future of wireless telephony.\n\nTed and Verona went to a dance after dinner. Even the maid was out.\nRarely had Babbitt been alone in the house for an entire evening. He was\nrestless. He vaguely wanted something more diverting than the newspaper\ncomic strips to read. He ambled up to Verona's room, sat on her maidenly\nblue and white bed, humming and grunting in a solid-citizen manner as he\nexamined her books: Conrad's \"Rescue,\" a volume strangely named \"Figures\nof Earth,\" poetry (quite irregular poetry, Babbitt thought) by Vachel\nLindsay, and essays by H. L. Mencken--highly improper essays, making fun\nof the church and all the decencies. He liked none of the books. In them\nhe felt a spirit of rebellion against niceness and solid-citizenship.\nThese authors--and he supposed they were famous ones, too--did not seem\nto care about telling a good story which would enable a fellow to forget\nhis troubles. He sighed. He noted a book, \"The Three Black Pennies,\"\nby Joseph Hergesheimer. Ah, that was something like it! It would be an\nadventure story, maybe about counterfeiting--detectives sneaking up on\nthe old house at night. He tucked the book under his arm, he clumped\ndown-stairs and solemnly began to read, under the piano-lamp:\n\n\"A twilight like blue dust sifted into the shallow fold of the thickly\nwooded hills. It was early October, but a crisping frost had already\nstamped the maple trees with gold, the Spanish oaks were hung with\npatches of wine red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening\nunderbrush. A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above\nthe hills, wavered against the serene ashen evening. Howat Penny,\nstanding in the comparative clearing of a road, decided that the\nshifting regular flight would not come close enough for a shot.... He\nhad no intention of hunting the geese. With the drooping of day\nhis keenness had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened,\npermeating him....\"\n\nThere it was again: discontent with the good common ways. Babbitt laid\ndown the book and listened to the stillness. The inner doors of the\nhouse were open. He heard from the kitchen the steady drip of the\nrefrigerator, a rhythm demanding and disquieting. He roamed to the\nwindow. The summer evening was foggy and, seen through the wire\nscreen, the street lamps were crosses of pale fire. The whole world was\nabnormal. While he brooded, Verona and Ted came in and went up to\nbed. Silence thickened in the sleeping house. He put on his hat, his\nrespectable derby, lighted a cigar, and walked up and down before the\nhouse, a portly, worthy, unimaginative figure, humming \"Silver Threads\namong the Gold.\" He casually considered, \"Might call up Paul.\" Then he\nremembered. He saw Paul in a jailbird's uniform, but while he agonized\nhe didn't believe the tale. It was part of the unreality of this\nfog-enchanted evening.\n\nIf she were here Myra would be hinting, \"Isn't it late, Georgie?\" He\ntramped in forlorn and unwanted freedom. Fog hid the house now. The\nworld was uncreated, a chaos without turmoil or desire.\n\nThrough the mist came a man at so feverish a pace that he seemed to\ndance with fury as he entered the orb of glow from a street-lamp. At\neach step he brandished his stick and brought it down with a crash. His\nglasses on their broad pretentious ribbon banged against his stomach.\nBabbitt incredulously saw that it was Chum Frink.\n\nFrink stopped, focused his vision, and spoke with gravity:\n\n\"There's another fool. George Babbitt. Lives for renting\nhowshes--houses. Know who I am? I'm traitor to poetry. I'm drunk. I'm\ntalking too much. I don't care. Know what I could 've been? I could 've\nbeen a Gene Field or a James Whitcomb Riley. Maybe a Stevenson.\nI could 've. Whimsies. 'Magination. Lissen. Lissen to this. Just\nmade it up:\n\n     Glittering summery meadowy noise\n     Of beetles and bums and respectable boys.\n\nHear that? Whimzh--whimsy. I made that up. I don't know what it means!\nBeginning good verse. Chile's Garden Verses. And whadi write? Tripe!\nCheer-up poems. All tripe! Could have written--Too late!\"\n\nHe darted on with an alarming plunge, seeming always to pitch forward\nyet never quite falling. Babbitt would have been no more astonished\nand no less had a ghost skipped out of the fog carrying his head.\nHe accepted Frink with vast apathy; he grunted, \"Poor boob!\" and\nstraightway forgot him.\n\nHe plodded into the house, deliberately went to the refrigerator and\nrifled it. When Mrs. Babbitt was at home, this was one of the major\nhousehold crimes. He stood before the covered laundry tubs, eating a\nchicken leg and half a saucer of raspberry jelly, and grumbling over a\nclammy cold boiled potato. He was thinking. It was coming to him that\nperhaps all life as he knew it and vigorously practised it was futile;\nthat heaven as portrayed by the Reverend Dr. John Jennison Drew was\nneither probable nor very interesting; that he hadn't much pleasure out\nof making money; that it was of doubtful worth to rear children merely\nthat they might rear children who would rear children. What was it all\nabout? What did he want?\n\nHe blundered into the living-room, lay on the davenport, hands behind\nhis head.\n\nWhat did he want? Wealth? Social position? Travel? Servants? Yes, but\nonly incidentally.\n\n\"I give it up,\" he sighed.\n\nBut he did know that he wanted the presence of Paul Riesling; and from\nthat he stumbled into the admission that he wanted the fairy girl--in\nthe flesh. If there had been a woman whom he loved, he would have fled\nto her, humbled his forehead on her knees.\n\nHe thought of his stenographer, Miss McGoun. He thought of the prettiest\nof the manicure girls at the Hotel Thornleigh barber shop. As he fell\nasleep on the davenport he felt that he had found something in life, and\nthat he had made a terrifying, thrilling break with everything that was\ndecent and normal.\n\n\nII\n\nHe had forgotten, next morning, that he was a conscious rebel, but he\nwas irritable in the office and at the eleven o'clock drive of telephone\ncalls and visitors he did something he had often desired and never\ndared: he left the office without excuses to those stave-drivers his\nemployees, and went to the movies. He enjoyed the right to be alone. He\ncame out with a vicious determination to do what he pleased.\n\nAs he approached the Roughnecks' Table at the club, everybody laughed.\n\n\"Well, here's the millionaire!\" said Sidney Finkelstein.\n\n\"Yes, I saw him in his Locomobile!\" said Professor Pumphrey.\n\n\"Gosh, it must be great to be a smart guy like Georgie!\" moaned Vergil\nGunch. \"He's probably stolen all of Dorchester. I'd hate to leave a poor\nlittle defenseless piece of property lying around where he could get his\nhooks on it!\"\n\nThey had, Babbitt perceived, \"something on him.\" Also, they \"had their\nkidding clothes on.\" Ordinarily he would have been delighted at the\nhonor implied in being chaffed, but he was suddenly touchy. He grunted,\n\"Yuh, sure; maybe I'll take you guys on as office boys!\" He was\nimpatient as the jest elaborately rolled on to its denouement.\n\n\"Of course he may have been meeting a girl,\" they said, and \"No, I think\nhe was waiting for his old roommate, Sir Jerusalem Doak.\"\n\nHe exploded, \"Oh, spring it, spring it, you boneheads! What's the great\njoke?\"\n\n\"Hurray! George is peeved!\" snickered Sidney Finkelstein, while a grin\nwent round the table. Gunch revealed the shocking truth: He had seen\nBabbitt coming out of a motion-picture theater--at noon!\n\nThey kept it up. With a hundred variations, a hundred guffaws, they said\nthat he had gone to the movies during business-hours. He didn't so much\nmind Gunch, but he was annoyed by Sidney Finkelstein, that brisk, lean,\nred-headed explainer of jokes. He was bothered, too, by the lump of ice\nin his glass of water. It was too large; it spun round and burned his\nnose when he tried to drink. He raged that Finkelstein was like that\nlump of ice. But he won through; he kept up his banter till they grew\ntired of the superlative jest and turned to the great problems of the\nday.\n\nHe reflected, \"What's the matter with me to-day? Seems like I've got an\nawful grouch. Only they talk so darn much. But I better steer careful\nand keep my mouth shut.\"\n\nAs they lighted their cigars he mumbled, \"Got to get back,\" and on a\nchorus of \"If you WILL go spending your mornings with lady ushers at the\nmovies!\" he escaped. He heard them giggling. He was embarrassed. While\nhe was most bombastically agreeing with the coat-man that the weather\nwas warm, he was conscious that he was longing to run childishly with\nhis troubles to the comfort of the fairy child.\n\n\nIII\n\nHe kept Miss McGoun after he had finished dictating. He searched for a\ntopic which would warm her office impersonality into friendliness.\n\n\"Where you going on your vacation?\" he purred.\n\n\"I think I'll go up-state to a farm do you want me to have the Siddons\nlease copied this afternoon?\"\n\n\"Oh, no hurry about it.... I suppose you have a great time when you get\naway from us cranks in the office.\"\n\nShe rose and gathered her pencils. \"Oh, nobody's cranky here I think I\ncan get it copied after I do the letters.\"\n\nShe was gone. Babbitt utterly repudiated the view that he had been\ntrying to discover how approachable was Miss McGoun. \"Course! knew there\nwas nothing doing!\" he said.\n\n\nIV\n\nEddie Swanson, the motor-car agent who lived across the street from\nBabbitt, was giving a Sunday supper. His wife Louetta, young Louetta who\nloved jazz in music and in clothes and laughter, was at her wildest. She\ncried, \"We'll have a real party!\" as she received the guests. Babbitt\nhad uneasily felt that to many men she might be alluring; now he\nadmitted that to himself she was overwhelmingly alluring. Mrs. Babbitt\nhad never quite approved of Louetta; Babbitt was glad that she was not\nhere this evening.\n\nHe insisted on helping Louetta in the kitchen: taking the chicken\ncroquettes from the warming-oven, the lettuce sandwiches from the\nice-box. He held her hand, once, and she depressingly didn't notice it.\nShe caroled, \"You're a good little mother's-helper, Georgie. Now trot in\nwith the tray and leave it on the side-table.\"\n\nHe wished that Eddie Swanson would give them cocktails; that Louetta\nwould have one. He wanted--Oh, he wanted to be one of these Bohemians\nyou read about. Studio parties. Wild lovely girls who were independent.\nNot necessarily bad. Certainly not! But not tame, like Floral Heights.\nHow he'd ever stood it all these years--\n\nEddie did not give them cocktails. True, they supped with mirth, and\nwith several repetitions by Orville Jones of \"Any time Louetta wants to\ncome sit on my lap I'll tell this sandwich to beat it!\" but they\nwere respectable, as befitted Sunday evening. Babbitt had discreetly\npreempted a place beside Louetta on the piano bench. While he talked\nabout motors, while he listened with a fixed smile to her account of the\nfilm she had seen last Wednesday, while he hoped that she would hurry up\nand finish her description of the plot, the beauty of the leading man,\nand the luxury of the setting, he studied her. Slim waist girdled\nwith raw silk, strong brows, ardent eyes, hair parted above a broad\nforehead--she meant youth to him and a charm which saddened. He thought\nof how valiant a companion she would be on a long motor tour, exploring\nmountains, picnicking in a pine grove high above a valley. Her frailness\ntouched him; he was angry at Eddie Swanson for the incessant family\nbickering. All at once he identified Louetta with the fairy girl. He\nwas startled by the conviction that they had always had a romantic\nattraction for each other.\n\n\"I suppose you're leading a simply terrible life, now you're a widower,\"\nshe said.\n\n\"You bet! I'm a bad little fellow and proud of it. Some evening you slip\nEddie some dope in his coffee and sneak across the road and I'll show\nyou how to mix a cocktail,\" he roared.\n\n\"Well, now, I might do it! You never can tell!\"\n\n\"Well, whenever you're ready, you just hang a towel out of the attic\nwindow and I'll jump for the gin!\"\n\nEvery one giggled at this naughtiness. In a pleased way Eddie Swanson\nstated that he would have a physician analyze his coffee daily. The\nothers were diverted to a discussion of the more agreeable recent\nmurders, but Babbitt drew Louetta back to personal things:\n\n\"That's the prettiest dress I ever saw in my life.\"\n\n\"Do you honestly like it?\"\n\n\"Like it? Why, say, I'm going to have Kenneth Escott put a piece in the\npaper saying that the swellest dressed woman in the U. S. is Mrs. E.\nLouetta Swanson.\"\n\n\"Now, you stop teasing me!\" But she beamed. \"Let's dance a little.\nGeorge, you've got to dance with me.\"\n\nEven as he protested, \"Oh, you know what a rotten dancer I am!\" he was\nlumbering to his feet.\n\n\"I'll teach you. I can teach anybody.\"\n\nHer eyes were moist, her voice was jagged with excitement. He was\nconvinced that he had won her. He clasped her, conscious of her smooth\nwarmth, and solemnly he circled in a heavy version of the one-step. He\nbumped into only one or two people. \"Gosh, I'm not doing so bad; hittin'\n'em up like a regular stage dancer!\" he gloated; and she answered\nbusily, \"Yes--yes--I told you I could teach anybody--DON'T TAKE SUCH\nLONG STEPS!\"\n\nFor a moment he was robbed of confidence; with fearful concentration\nhe sought to keep time to the music. But he was enveloped again by her\nenchantment. \"She's got to like me; I'll make her!\" he vowed. He tried\nto kiss the lock beside her ear. She mechanically moved her head to\navoid it, and mechanically she murmured, \"Don't!\"\n\nFor a moment he hated her, but after the moment he was as urgent as\never. He danced with Mrs. Orville Jones, but he watched Louetta swooping\ndown the length of the room with her husband. \"Careful! You're getting\nfoolish!\" he cautioned himself, the while he hopped and bent his solid\nknees in dalliance with Mrs. Jones, and to that worthy lady rumbled,\n\"Gee, it's hot!\" Without reason, he thought of Paul in that shadowy\nplace where men never dance. \"I'm crazy to-night; better go home,\" he\nworried, but he left Mrs. Jones and dashed to Louetta's lovely side,\ndemanding, \"The next is mine.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm so hot; I'm not going to dance this one.\"\n\n\"Then,\" boldly, \"come out and sit on the porch and get all nice and\ncool.\"\n\n\"Well--\"\n\nIn the tender darkness, with the clamor in the house behind them, he\nresolutely took her hand. She squeezed his once, then relaxed.\n\n\"Louetta! I think you're the nicest thing I know!\"\n\n\"Well, I think you're very nice.\"\n\n\"Do you? You got to like me! I'm so lonely!\"\n\n\"Oh, you'll be all right when your wife comes home.\"\n\n\"No, I'm always lonely.\"\n\nShe clasped her hands under her chin, so that he dared not touch her. He\nsighed:\n\n\"When I feel punk and--\" He was about to bring in the tragedy of Paul,\nbut that was too sacred even for the diplomacy of love. \"--when I get\ntired out at the office and everything, I like to look across the street\nand think of you. Do you know I dreamed of you, one time!\"\n\n\"Was it a nice dream?\"\n\n\"Lovely!\"\n\n\"Oh, well, they say dreams go by opposites! Now I must run in.\"\n\nShe was on her feet.\n\n\"Oh, don't go in yet! Please, Louetta!\"\n\n\"Yes, I must. Have to look out for my guests.\"\n\n\"Let 'em look out for 'emselves!\"\n\n\"I couldn't do that.\" She carelessly tapped his shoulder and slipped\naway.\n\nBut after two minutes of shamed and childish longing to sneak home he\nwas snorting, \"Certainly I wasn't trying to get chummy with her! Knew\nthere was nothing doing, all the time!\" and he ambled in to dance with\nMrs. Orville Jones, and to avoid Louetta, virtuously and conspicuously.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nI\n\nHIS visit to Paul was as unreal as his night of fog and questioning.\nUnseeing he went through prison corridors stinking of carbolic acid to\na room lined with pale yellow settees pierced in rosettes, like the\nshoe-store benches he had known as a boy. The guard led in Paul. Above\nhis uniform of linty gray, Paul's face was pale and without expression.\nHe moved timorously in response to the guard's commands; he meekly\npushed Babbitt's gifts of tobacco and magazines across the table to the\nguard for examination. He had nothing to say but \"Oh, I'm getting used\nto it\" and \"I'm working in the tailor shop; the stuff hurts my fingers.\"\n\nBabbitt knew that in this place of death Paul was already dead. And as\nhe pondered on the train home something in his own self seemed to have\ndied: a loyal and vigorous faith in the goodness of the world, a fear of\npublic disfavor, a pride in success. He was glad that his wife was away.\nHe admitted it without justifying it. He did not care.\n\n\nII\n\nHer card read \"Mrs. Daniel Judique.\" Babbitt knew of her as the widow of\na wholesale paper-dealer. She must have been forty or forty-two but he\nthought her younger when he saw her in the office, that afternoon. She\nhad come to inquire about renting an apartment, and he took her away\nfrom the unskilled girl accountant. He was nervously attracted by her\nsmartness. She was a slender woman, in a black Swiss frock dotted with\nwhite, a cool-looking graceful frock. A broad black hat shaded her face.\nHer eyes were lustrous, her soft chin of an agreeable plumpness, and her\ncheeks an even rose. Babbitt wondered afterward if she was made up, but\nno man living knew less of such arts.\n\nShe sat revolving her violet parasol. Her voice was appealing without\nbeing coy. \"I wonder if you can help me?\"\n\n\"Be delighted.\"\n\n\"I've looked everywhere and--I want a little flat, just a bedroom, or\nperhaps two, and sitting-room and kitchenette and bath, but I want one\nthat really has some charm to it, not these dingy places or these new\nones with terrible gaudy chandeliers. And I can't pay so dreadfully\nmuch. My name's Tanis Judique.\"\n\n\"I think maybe I've got just the thing for you. Would you like to chase\naround and look at it now?\"\n\n\"Yes. I have a couple of hours.\"\n\nIn the new Cavendish Apartments, Babbitt had a flat which he had been\nholding for Sidney Finkelstein, but at the thought of driving beside\nthis agreeable woman he threw over his friend Finkelstein, and with a\nnote of gallantry he proclaimed, \"I'll let you see what I can do!\"\n\nHe dusted the seat of the car for her, and twice he risked death in\nshowing off his driving.\n\n\"You do know how to handle a car!\" she said.\n\nHe liked her voice. There was, he thought, music in it and a hint of\nculture, not a bouncing giggle like Louetta Swanson's.\n\nHe boasted, \"You know, there's a lot of these fellows that are so scared\nand drive so slow that they get in everybody's way. The safest driver\nis a fellow that knows how to handle his machine and yet isn't scared to\nspeed up when it's necessary, don't you think so?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\"\n\n\"I bet you drive like a wiz.\"\n\n\"Oh, no--I mean--not really. Of course, we had a car--I mean, before\nmy husband passed on--and I used to make believe drive it, but I don't\nthink any woman ever learns to drive like a man.\"\n\n\"Well, now, there's some mighty good woman drivers.\"\n\n\"Oh, of course, these women that try to imitate men, and play golf and\neverything, and ruin their complexions and spoil their hands!\"\n\n\"That's so. I never did like these mannish females.\"\n\n\"I mean--of course, I admire them, dreadfully, and I feel so weak and\nuseless beside them.\"\n\n\"Oh, rats now! I bet you play the piano like a wiz.\"\n\n\"Oh, no--I mean--not really.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll bet you do!\" He glanced at her smooth hands, her diamond and\nruby rings. She caught the glance, snuggled her hands together with\na kittenish curving of slim white fingers which delighted him, and\nyearned:\n\n\"I do love to play--I mean--I like to drum on the piano, but I haven't\nhad any real training. Mr. Judique used to say I would 've been a\ngood pianist if I'd had any training, but then, I guess he was just\nflattering me.\"\n\n\"I'll bet he wasn't! I'll bet you've got temperament.\"\n\n\"Oh--Do you like music, Mr Babbitt?\"\n\n\"You bet I do! Only I don't know 's I care so much for all this\nclassical stuff.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do! I just love Chopin and all those.\"\n\n\"Do you, honest? Well, of course, I go to lots of these highbrow\nconcerts, but I do like a good jazz orchestra, right up on its toes,\nwith the fellow that plays the bass fiddle spinning it around and\nbeating it up with the bow.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know. I do love good dance music. I love to dance, don't you, Mr.\nBabbitt?\"\n\n\"Sure, you bet. Not that I'm very darn good at it, though.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sure you are. You ought to let me teach you. I can teach\nanybody to dance.\"\n\n\"Would you give me a lesson some time?\"\n\n\"Indeed I would.\"\n\n\"Better be careful, or I'll be taking you up on that proposition. I'll\nbe coming up to your flat and making you give me that lesson.\"\n\n\"Ye-es.\" She was not offended, but she was non-committal. He warned\nhimself, \"Have some sense now, you chump! Don't go making a fool of\nyourself again!\" and with loftiness he discoursed:\n\n\"I wish I could dance like some of these young fellows, but I'll tell\nyou: I feel it's a man's place to take a full, you might say, a creative\nshare in the world's work and mold conditions and have something to show\nfor his life, don't you think so?\"\n\n\"Oh, I do!\"\n\n\"And so I have to sacrifice some of the things I might like to tackle,\nthough I do, by golly, play about as good a game of golf as the next\nfellow!\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sure you do.... Are you married?\"\n\n\"Uh--yes.... And, uh, of course official duties I'm the vice-president\nof the Boosters' Club, and I'm running one of the committees of the\nState Association of Real Estate Boards, and that means a lot of work\nand responsibility--and practically no gratitude for it.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know! Public men never do get proper credit.\"\n\nThey looked at each other with a high degree of mutual respect, and at\nthe Cavendish Apartments he helped her out in a courtly manner, waved\nhis hand at the house as though he were presenting it to her, and\nponderously ordered the elevator boy to \"hustle and get the keys.\" She\nstood close to him in the elevator, and he was stirred but cautious.\n\nIt was a pretty flat, of white woodwork and soft blue walls. Mrs.\nJudique gushed with pleasure as she agreed to take it, and as they\nwalked down the hall to the elevator she touched his sleeve, caroling,\n\"Oh, I'm so glad I went to you! It's such a privilege to meet a man who\nreally Understands. Oh! The flats SOME people have showed me!\"\n\nHe had a sharp instinctive belief that he could put his arm around her,\nbut he rebuked himself and with excessive politeness he saw her to the\ncar, drove her home. All the way back to his office he raged:\n\n\"Glad I had some sense for once.... Curse it, I wish I'd tried. She's a\ndarling! A corker! A reg'lar charmer! Lovely eyes and darling lips and\nthat trim waist--never get sloppy, like some women.... No, no, no! She's\na real cultured lady. One of the brightest little women I've met these\nmany moons. Understands about Public Topics and--But, darn it, why\ndidn't I try? . . . Tanis!\"\n\n\nIII\n\nHe was harassed and puzzled by it, but he found that he was turning\ntoward youth, as youth. The girl who especially disturbed him--though he\nhad never spoken to her--was the last manicure girl on the right in the\nPompeian Barber Shop. She was small, swift, black-haired, smiling. She\nwas nineteen, perhaps, or twenty. She wore thin salmon-colored blouses\nwhich exhibited her shoulders and her black-ribboned camisoles.\n\nHe went to the Pompeian for his fortnightly hair-trim. As always, he\nfelt disloyal at deserting his neighbor, the Reeves Building Barber\nShop. Then, for the first time, he overthrew his sense of guilt.\n\"Doggone it, I don't have to go here if I don't want to! I don't own the\nReeves Building! These barbers got nothing on me! I'll doggone well get\nmy hair cut where I doggone well want to! Don't want to hear anything\nmore about it! I'm through standing by people--unless I want to. It\ndoesn't get you anywhere. I'm through!\"\n\nThe Pompeian Barber Shop was in the basement of the Hotel Thornleigh,\nlargest and most dynamically modern hotel in Zenith. Curving marble\nsteps with a rail of polished brass led from the hotel-lobby down to the\nbarber shop. The interior was of black and white and crimson tiles,\nwith a sensational ceiling of burnished gold, and a fountain in which\na massive nymph forever emptied a scarlet cornucopia. Forty barbers\nand nine manicure girls worked desperately, and at the door six colored\nporters lurked to greet the customers, to care reverently for their hats\nand collars, to lead them to a place of waiting where, on a carpet like\na tropic isle in the stretch of white stone floor, were a dozen leather\nchairs and a table heaped with magazines.\n\nBabbitt's porter was an obsequious gray-haired negro who did him an\nhonor highly esteemed in the land of Zenith--greeted him by name. Yet\nBabbitt was unhappy. His bright particular manicure girl was engaged.\nShe was doing the nails of an overdressed man and giggling with him.\nBabbitt hated him. He thought of waiting, but to stop the powerful\nsystem of the Pompeian was inconceivable, and he was instantly wafted\ninto a chair.\n\nAbout him was luxury, rich and delicate. One votary was having a\nviolet-ray facial treatment, the next an oil shampoo. Boys wheeled about\nmiraculous electrical massage-machines. The barbers snatched\nsteaming towels from a machine like a howitzer of polished nickel and\ndisdainfully flung them away after a second's use. On the vast marble\nshelf facing the chairs were hundreds of tonics, amber and ruby and\nemerald. It was flattering to Babbitt to have two personal slaves at\nonce--the barber and the bootblack. He would have been completely happy\nif he could also have had the manicure girl. The barber snipped at his\nhair and asked his opinion of the Havre de Grace races, the baseball\nseason, and Mayor Prout. The young negro bootblack hummed \"The Camp\nMeeting Blues\" and polished in rhythm to his tune, drawing the shiny\nshoe-rag so taut at each stroke that it snapped like a banjo string.\nThe barber was an excellent salesman. He made Babbitt feel rich and\nimportant by his manner of inquiring, \"What is your favorite tonic, sir?\nHave you time to-day, sir, for a facial massage? Your scalp is a little\ntight; shall I give you a scalp massage?\"\n\nBabbitt's best thrill was in the shampoo. The barber made his hair\ncreamy with thick soap, then (as Babbitt bent over the bowl, muffled in\ntowels) drenched it with hot water which prickled along his scalp, and\nat last ran the water ice-cold. At the shock, the sudden burning cold on\nhis skull, Babbitt's heart thumped, his chest heaved, and his spine was\nan electric wire. It was a sensation which broke the monotony of life.\nHe looked grandly about the shop as he sat up. The barber obsequiously\nrubbed his wet hair and bound it in a towel as in a turban, so that\nBabbitt resembled a plump pink calif on an ingenious and adjustable\nthrone. The barber begged (in the manner of one who was a good fellow\nyet was overwhelmed by the splendors of the calif), \"How about a little\nEldorado Oil Rub, sir? Very beneficial to the scalp, sir. Didn't I give\nyou one the last time?\"\n\nHe hadn't, but Babbitt agreed, \"Well, all right.\"\n\nWith quaking eagerness he saw that his manicure girl was free.\n\n\"I don't know, I guess I'll have a manicure after all,\" he droned, and\nexcitedly watched her coming, dark-haired, smiling, tender, little. The\nmanicuring would have to be finished at her table, and he would be able\nto talk to her without the barber listening. He waited contentedly, not\ntrying to peep at her, while she filed his nails and the barber shaved\nhim and smeared on his burning cheeks all the interesting mixtures which\nthe pleasant minds of barbers have devised through the revolving ages.\nWhen the barber was done and he sat opposite the girl at her table, he\nadmired the marble slab of it, admired the sunken set bowl with its tiny\nsilver taps, and admired himself for being able to frequent so costly a\nplace. When she withdrew his wet hand from the bowl, it was so sensitive\nfrom the warm soapy water that he was abnormally aware of the clasp of\nher firm little paw. He delighted in the pinkness and glossiness of her\nnails. Her hands seemed to him more adorable than Mrs. Judique's thin\nfingers, and more elegant. He had a certain ecstasy in the pain when she\ngnawed at the cuticle of his nails with a sharp knife. He struggled not\nto look at the outline of her young bosom and her shoulders, the more\napparent under a film of pink chiffon. He was conscious of her as an\nexquisite thing, and when he tried to impress his personality on her he\nspoke as awkwardly as a country boy at his first party:\n\n\"Well, kinda hot to be working to-day.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, it is hot. You cut your own nails, last time, didn't you!\"\n\n\"Ye-es, guess I must 've.\"\n\n\"You always ought to go to a manicure.\"\n\n\"Yes, maybe that's so. I--\"\n\n\"There's nothing looks so nice as nails that are looked after good. I\nalways think that's the best way to spot a real gent. There was an auto\nsalesman in here yesterday that claimed you could always tell a fellow's\nclass by the car he drove, but I says to him, 'Don't be silly,' I says;\n'the wisenheimers grab a look at a fellow's nails when they want to tell\nif he's a tin-horn or a real gent!\"'\n\n\"Yes, maybe there's something to that. Course, that is--with a pretty\nkiddy like you, a man can't help coming to get his mitts done.\"\n\n\"Yeh, I may be a kid, but I'm a wise bird, and I know nice folks when\nI see um--I can read character at a glance--and I'd never talk so frank\nwith a fellow if I couldn't see he was a nice fellow.\"\n\nShe smiled. Her eyes seemed to him as gentle as April pools. With great\nseriousness he informed himself that \"there were some roughnecks who\nwould think that just because a girl was a manicure girl and maybe not\nawful well educated, she was no good, but as for him, he was a democrat,\nand understood people,\" and he stood by the assertion that this was a\nfine girl, a good girl--but not too uncomfortably good. He inquired in a\nvoice quick with sympathy:\n\n\"I suppose you have a lot of fellows who try to get fresh with you.\"\n\n\"Say, gee, do I! Say, listen, there's some of these cigar-store sports\nthat think because a girl's working in a barber shop, they can get away\nwith anything. The things they saaaaaay! But, believe me, I know how to\nhop those birds! I just give um the north and south and ask um, 'Say,\nwho do you think you're talking to?' and they fade away like love's\nyoung nightmare and oh, don't you want a box of nail-paste? It will keep\nthe nails as shiny as when first manicured, harmless to apply and lasts\nfor days.\"\n\n\"Sure, I'll try some. Say--Say, it's funny; I've been coming here ever\nsince the shop opened and--\" With arch surprise. \"--I don't believe I\nknow your name!\"\n\n\"Don't you? My, that's funny! I don't know yours!\"\n\n\"Now you quit kidding me! What's the nice little name?\"\n\n\"Oh, it ain't so darn nice. I guess it's kind of kike. But my folks\nain't kikes. My papa's papa was a nobleman in Poland, and there was a\ngentleman in here one day, he was kind of a count or something--\"\n\n\"Kind of a no-account, I guess you mean!\"\n\n\"Who's telling this, smarty? And he said he knew my papa's papa's folks\nin Poland and they had a dandy big house. Right on a lake!\" Doubtfully,\n\"Maybe you don't believe it?\"\n\n\"Sure. No. Really. Sure I do. Why not? Don't think I'm kidding you,\nhoney, but every time I've noticed you I've said to myself, 'That kid\nhas Blue Blood in her veins!'\"\n\n\"Did you, honest?\"\n\n\"Honest I did. Well, well, come on--now we're friends--what's the\ndarling little name?\"\n\n\"Ida Putiak. It ain't so much-a-much of a name. I always say to Ma, I\nsay, 'Ma, why didn't you name me Doloress or something with some class\nto it?'\"\n\n\"Well, now, I think it's a scrumptious name. Ida!\"\n\n\"I bet I know your name!\"\n\n\"Well, now, not necessarily. Of course--Oh, it isn't so specially well\nknown.\"\n\n\"Aren't you Mr. Sondheim that travels for the Krackajack Kitchen Kutlery\nKo.?\"\n\n\"I am not! I'm Mr. Babbitt, the real-estate broker!\"\n\n\"Oh, excuse me! Oh, of course. You mean here in Zenith.\"\n\n\"Yep.\" With the briskness of one whose feelings have been hurt.\n\n\"Oh, sure. I've read your ads. They're swell.\"\n\n\"Um, well--You might have read about my speeches.\"\n\n\"Course I have! I don't get much time to read but--I guess you think I'm\nan awfully silly little nit!\"\n\n\"I think you're a little darling!\"\n\n\"Well--There's one nice thing about this job. It gives a girl a\nchance to meet some awfully nice gentlemen and improve her mind with\nconversation, and you get so you can read a guy's character at the first\nglance.\"\n\n\"Look here, Ida; please don't think I'm getting fresh--\" He was hotly\nreflecting that it would be humiliating to be rejected by this child,\nand dangerous to be accepted. If he took her to dinner, if he were seen\nby censorious friends--But he went on ardently: \"Don't think I'm getting\nfresh if I suggest it would be nice for us to go out and have a little\ndinner together some evening.\"\n\n\"I don't know as I ought to but--My gentleman-friend's always wanting to\ntake me out. But maybe I could to-night.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nThere was no reason, he assured himself, why he shouldn't have a\nquiet dinner with a poor girl who would benefit by association with an\neducated and mature person like himself. But, lest some one see them and\nnot understand, he would take her to Biddlemeier's Inn, on the outskirts\nof the city. They would have a pleasant drive, this hot lonely evening,\nand he might hold her hand--no, he wouldn't even do that. Ida was\ncomplaisant; her bare shoulders showed it only too clearly; but he'd be\nhanged if he'd make love to her merely because she expected it.\n\nThen his car broke down; something had happened to the ignition. And he\nHAD to have the car this evening! Furiously he tested the spark-plugs,\nstared at the commutator. His angriest glower did not seem to stir the\nsulky car, and in disgrace it was hauled off to a garage. With a renewed\nthrill he thought of a taxicab. There was something at once wealthy and\ninterestingly wicked about a taxicab.\n\nBut when he met her, on a corner two blocks from the Hotel Thornleigh,\nshe said, \"A taxi? Why, I thought you owned a car!\"\n\n\"I do. Of course I do! But it's out of commission to-night.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she remarked, as one who had heard that tale before.\n\nAll the way out to Biddlemeier's Inn he tried to talk as an old friend,\nbut he could not pierce the wall of her words. With interminable\nindignation she narrated her retorts to \"that fresh head-barber\" and the\ndrastic things she would do to him if he persisted in saying that she\nwas \"better at gassing than at hoof-paring.\"\n\nAt Biddlemeier's Inn they were unable to get anything to drink. The\nhead-waiter refused to understand who George F. Babbitt was. They\nsat steaming before a vast mixed grill, and made conversation about\nbaseball. When he tried to hold Ida's hand she said with bright\nfriendliness, \"Careful! That fresh waiter is rubbering.\" But they came\nout into a treacherous summer night, the air lazy and a little moon\nabove transfigured maples.\n\n\"Let's drive some other place, where we can get a drink and dance!\" he\ndemanded.\n\n\"Sure, some other night. But I promised Ma I'd be home early to-night.\"\n\n\"Rats! It's too nice to go home.\"\n\n\"I'd just love to, but Ma would give me fits.\"\n\nHe was trembling. She was everything that was young and exquisite. He\nput his arm about her. She snuggled against his shoulder, unafraid,\nand he was triumphant. Then she ran down the steps of the Inn, singing,\n\"Come on, Georgie, we'll have a nice drive and get cool.\"\n\nIt was a night of lovers. All along the highway into Zenith, under the\nlow and gentle moon, motors were parked and dim figures were clasped in\nrevery. He held out hungry hands to Ida, and when she patted them he was\ngrateful. There was no sense of struggle and transition; he kissed her\nand simply she responded to his kiss, they two behind the stolid back of\nthe chauffeur.\n\nHer hat fell off, and she broke from his embrace to reach for it.\n\n\"Oh, let it be!\" he implored.\n\n\"Huh? My hat? Not a chance!\"\n\nHe waited till she had pinned it on, then his arm sank about her. She\ndrew away from it, and said with maternal soothing, \"Now, don't be a\nsilly boy! Mustn't make Ittle Mama scold! Just sit back, dearie, and see\nwhat a swell night it is. If you're a good boy, maybe I'll kiss you when\nwe say nighty-night. Now give me a cigarette.\"\n\nHe was solicitous about lighting her cigarette and inquiring as to\nher comfort. Then he sat as far from her as possible. He was cold with\nfailure. No one could have told Babbitt that he was a fool with more\nvigor, precision, and intelligence than he himself displayed. He\nreflected that from the standpoint of the Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drew\nhe was a wicked man, and from the standpoint of Miss Ida Putiak, an old\nbore who had to be endured as the penalty attached to eating a large\ndinner.\n\n\"Dearie, you aren't going to go and get peevish, are you?\"\n\nShe spoke pertly. He wanted to spank her. He brooded, \"I don't have to\ntake anything off this gutter-pup! Darn immigrant! Well, let's get it\nover as quick as we can, and sneak home and kick ourselves for the rest\nof the night.\"\n\nHe snorted, \"Huh? Me peevish? Why, you baby, why should I be peevish?\nNow, listen, Ida; listen to Uncle George. I want to put you wise about\nthis scrapping with your head-barber all the time. I've had a lot\nof experience with employees, and let me tell you it doesn't pay to\nantagonize--\"\n\nAt the drab wooden house in which she lived he said good-night briefly\nand amiably, but as the taxicab drove off he was praying \"Oh, my God!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nI\n\nHE awoke to stretch cheerfully as he listened to the sparrows, then to\nremember that everything was wrong; that he was determined to go astray,\nand not in the least enjoying the process. Why, he wondered, should he\nbe in rebellion? What was it all about? \"Why not be sensible; stop all\nthis idiotic running around, and enjoy himself with his family,\nhis business, the fellows at the club?\" What was he getting out of\nrebellion? Misery and shame--the shame of being treated as an offensive\nsmall boy by a ragamuffin like Ida Putiak! And yet--Always he came back\nto \"And yet.\" Whatever the misery, he could not regain contentment with\na world which, once doubted, became absurd.\n\nOnly, he assured himself, he was \"through with this chasing after\ngirls.\"\n\nBy noontime he was not so sure even of that. If in Miss McGoun, Louetta\nSwanson, and Ida he had failed to find the lady kind and lovely, it did\nnot prove that she did not exist. He was hunted by the ancient thought\nthat somewhere must exist the not impossible she who would understand\nhim, value him, and make him happy.\n\n\nII\n\nMrs. Babbitt returned in August.\n\nOn her previous absences he had missed her reassuring buzz and of her\narrival he had made a fete. Now, though he dared not hurt her by letting\na hint of it appear in his letters, he was sorry that she was coming\nbefore he had found himself, and he was embarrassed by the need of\nmeeting her and looking joyful.\n\nHe loitered down to the station; he studied the summer-resort posters,\nlest he have to speak to acquaintances and expose his uneasiness. But\nhe was well trained. When the train clanked in he was out on the cement\nplatform, peering into the chair-cars, and as he saw her in the line of\npassengers moving toward the vestibule he waved his hat. At the door he\nembraced her, and announced, \"Well, well, well, well, by golly, you look\nfine, you look fine.\" Then he was aware of Tinka. Here was something,\nthis child with her absurd little nose and lively eyes, that loved him,\nbelieved him great, and as he clasped her, lifted and held her till she\nsquealed, he was for the moment come back to his old steady self.\n\nTinka sat beside him in the car, with one hand on the steering-wheel,\npretending to help him drive, and he shouted back to his wife, \"I'll bet\nthe kid will be the best chuffer in the family! She holds the wheel like\nan old professional!\"\n\nAll the while he was dreading the moment when he would be alone with his\nwife and she would patiently expect him to be ardent.\n\n\nIII\n\nThere was about the house an unofficial theory that he was to take\nhis vacation alone, to spend a week or ten days in Catawba, but he was\nnagged by the memory that a year ago he had been with Paul in Maine. He\nsaw himself returning; finding peace there, and the presence of Paul,\nin a life primitive and heroic. Like a shock came the thought that he\nactually could go. Only, he couldn't, really; he couldn't leave his\nbusiness, and \"Myra would think it sort of funny, his going way off\nthere alone. Course he'd decided to do whatever he darned pleased, from\nnow on, but still--to go way off to Maine!\"\n\nHe went, after lengthy meditations.\n\nWith his wife, since it was inconceivable to explain that he was going\nto seek Paul's spirit in the wilderness, he frugally employed the lie\nprepared over a year ago and scarcely used at all. He said that he had\nto see a man in New York on business. He could not have explained even\nto himself why he drew from the bank several hundred dollars more than\nhe needed, nor why he kissed Tinka so tenderly, and cried, \"God bless\nyou, baby!\" From the train he waved to her till she was but a scarlet\nspot beside the brown bulkier presence of Mrs. Babbitt, at the end of a\nsteel and cement aisle ending in vast barred gates. With melancholy he\nlooked back at the last suburb of Zenith.\n\nAll the way north he pictured the Maine guides: simple and strong and\ndaring, jolly as they played stud-poker in their unceiled shack, wise\nin woodcraft as they tramped the forest and shot the rapids. He\nparticularly remembered Joe Paradise, half Yankee, half Indian. If he\ncould but take up a backwoods claim with a man like Joe, work hard with\nhis hands, be free and noisy in a flannel shirt, and never come back to\nthis dull decency!\n\nOr, like a trapper in a Northern Canada movie, plunge through the\nforest, make camp in the Rockies, a grim and wordless caveman! Why not?\nHe COULD do it! There'd be enough money at home for the family to live\non till Verona was married and Ted self-supporting. Old Henry T. would\nlook out for them. Honestly! Why NOT? Really LIVE--\n\nHe longed for it, admitted that he longed for it, then almost believed\nthat he was going lo do it. Whenever common sense snorted, \"Nonsense!\nFolks don't run away from decent families and partners; just simply\ndon't do it, that's all!\" then Babbitt answered pleadingly, \"Well, it\nwouldn't take any more nerve than for Paul to go to jail and--Lord,\nhow I'd' like to do it! Moccasins-six-gun-frontier town-gamblers--sleep\nunder the stars--be a regular man, with he-men like Joe Paradise--gosh!\"\n\nSo he came to Maine, again stood on the wharf before the camp-hotel,\nagain spat heroically into the delicate and shivering water, while the\npines rustled, the mountains glowed, and a trout leaped and fell in a\nsliding circle. He hurried to the guides' shack as to his real home,\nhis real friends, long missed. They would be glad to see him. They would\nstand up and shout? \"Why, here's Mr. Babbitt! He ain't one of these\nordinary sports! He's a real guy!\"\n\nIn their boarded and rather littered cabin the guides sat about the\ngreasy table playing stud-poker with greasy cards: half a dozen wrinkled\nmen in old trousers and easy old felt hats. They glanced up and nodded.\nJoe Paradise, the swart aging man with the big mustache, grunted, \"How\ndo. Back again?\"\n\nSilence, except for the clatter of chips.\n\nBabbitt stood beside them, very lonely. He hinted, after a period of\nhighly concentrated playing, \"Guess I might take a hand, Joe.\"\n\n\"Sure. Sit in. How many chips you want? Let's see; you were here with\nyour wife, last year, wa'n't you?\" said Joe Paradise.\n\nThat was all of Babbitt's welcome to the old home.\n\nHe played for half an hour before he spoke again. His head was reeking\nwith the smoke of pipes and cheap cigars, and he was weary of pairs and\nfour-flushes, resentful of the way in which they ignored him. He flung\nat Joe:\n\n\"Working now?\"\n\n\"Nope.\"\n\n\"Like to guide me for a few days?\"\n\n\"Well, jus' soon. I ain't engaged till next week.\"\n\nOnly thus did Joe recognize the friendship Babbitt was offering him.\nBabbitt paid up his losses and left the shack rather childishly. Joe\nraised his head from the coils of smoke like a seal rising from surf,\ngrunted, \"I'll come 'round t'morrow,\" and dived down to his three aces.\n\nNeither in his voiceless cabin, fragrant with planks of new-cut pine,\nnor along the lake, nor in the sunset clouds which presently eddied\nbehind the lavender-misted mountains, could Babbitt find the spirit of\nPaul as a reassuring presence. He was so lonely that after supper\nhe stopped to talk with an ancient old lady, a gasping and steadily\ndiscoursing old lady, by the stove in the hotel-office. He told her of\nTed's presumable future triumphs in the State University and of Tinka's\nremarkable vocabulary till he was homesick for the home he had left\nforever.\n\nThrough the darkness, through that Northern pine-walled silence, he\nblundered down to the lake-front and found a canoe. There were no\npaddles in it but with a board, sitting awkwardly amidships and poking\nat the water rather than paddling, he made his way far out on the lake.\nThe lights of the hotel and the cottages became yellow dots, a cluster\nof glow-worms at the base of Sachem Mountain. Larger and ever more\nimperturbable was the mountain in the star-filtered darkness, and the\nlake a limitless pavement of black marble. He was dwarfed and dumb and\na little awed, but that insignificance freed him from the pomposities of\nbeing Mr. George F. Babbitt of Zenith; saddened and freed his heart.\nNow he was conscious of the presence of Paul, fancied him (rescued\nfrom prison, from Zilla and the brisk exactitudes of the tar-roofing\nbusiness) playing his violin at the end of the canoe. He vowed, \"I will\ngo on! I'll never go back! Now that Paul's out of it, I don't want to\nsee any of those damn people again! I was a fool to get sore because Joe\nParadise didn't jump up and hug me. He's one of these woodsmen; too wise\nto go yelping and talking your arm off like a cityman. But get him back\nin the mountains, out on the trail--! That's real living!\"\n\n\nIV\n\nJoe reported at Babbitt's cabin at nine the next morning. Babbitt\ngreeted him as a fellow caveman:\n\n\"Well, Joe, how d' you feel about hitting the trail, and getting away\nfrom these darn soft summerites and these women and all?\"\n\n\"All right, Mr. Babbitt.\"\n\n\"What do you say we go over to Box Car Pond--they tell me the shack\nthere isn't being used--and camp out?\"\n\n\"Well, all right, Mr. Babbitt, but it's nearer to Skowtuit Pond, and you\ncan get just about as good fishing there.\"\n\n\"No, I want to get into the real wilds.\"\n\n\"Well, all right.\"\n\n\"We'll put the old packs on our backs and get into the woods and really\nhike.\"\n\n\"I think maybe it would be easier to go by water, through Lake Chogue.\nWe can go all the way by motor boat--flat-bottom boat with an Evinrude.\"\n\n\"No, sir! Bust up the quiet with a chugging motor? Not on your life! You\njust throw a pair of socks in the old pack, and tell 'em what you want\nfor eats. I'll be ready soon 's you are.\"\n\n\"Most of the sports go by boat, Mr. Babbitt. It's a long walk.\n\n\"Look here, Joe: are you objecting to walking?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, I guess I can do it. But I haven't tramped that far for sixteen\nyears. Most of the sports go by boat. But I can do it if you say so--I\nguess.\" Joe walked away in sadness.\n\nBabbitt had recovered from his touchy wrath before Joe returned. He\npictured him as warming up and telling the most entertaining stories.\nBut Joe had not yet warmed up when they took the trail. He persistently\nkept behind Babbitt, and however much his shoulders ached from the pack,\nhowever sorely he panted, Babbitt could hear his guide panting equally.\nBut the trail was satisfying: a path brown with pine-needles and rough\nwith roots, among the balsams, the ferns, the sudden groves of white\nbirch. He became credulous again, and rejoiced in sweating. When he\nstopped to rest he chuckled, \"Guess we're hitting it up pretty good for\na couple o' old birds, eh?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh,\" admitted Joe.\n\n\"This is a mighty pretty place. Look, you can see the lake down through\nthe trees. I tell you, Joe, you don't appreciate how lucky you are to\nlive in woods like this, instead of a city with trolleys grinding and\ntypewriters clacking and people bothering the life out of you all the\ntime! I wish I knew the woods like you do. Say, what's the name of that\nlittle red flower?\"\n\nRubbing his back, Joe regarded the flower resentfully \"Well, some folks\ncall it one thing and some calls it another I always just call it Pink\nFlower.\"\n\nBabbitt blessedly ceased thinking as tramping turned into blind\nplodding. He was submerged in weariness. His plump legs seemed to go\non by themselves, without guidance, and he mechanically wiped away the\nsweat which stung his eyes. He was too tired to be consciously glad as,\nafter a sun-scourged mile of corduroy tote-road through a swamp where\nflies hovered over a hot waste of brush, they reached the cool shore of\nBox Car Pond. When he lifted the pack from his back he staggered from\nthe change in balance, and for a moment could not stand erect. He lay\nbeneath an ample-bosomed maple tree near the guest-shack, and joyously\nfelt sleep running through his veins.\n\nHe awoke toward dusk, to find Joe efficiently cooking bacon and eggs and\nflapjacks for supper, and his admiration of the woodsman returned. He\nsat on a stump and felt virile.\n\n\"Joe, what would you do if you had a lot of money? Would you stick\nto guiding, or would you take a claim 'way back in the woods and be\nindependent of people?\"\n\nFor the first time Joe brightened. He chewed his cud a second, and\nbubbled, \"I've often thought of that! If I had the money, I'd go down to\nTinker's Falls and open a swell shoe store.\"\n\nAfter supper Joe proposed a game of stud-poker but Babbitt refused with\nbrevity, and Joe contentedly went to bed at eight. Babbitt sat on the\nstump, facing the dark pond, slapping mosquitos. Save the snoring guide,\nthere was no other human being within ten miles. He was lonelier than he\nhad ever been in his life. Then he was in Zenith.\n\nHe was worrying as to whether Miss McGoun wasn't paying too much for\ncarbon paper. He was at once resenting and missing the persistent\nteasing at the Roughnecks' Table. He was wondering what Zilla Riesling\nwas doing now. He was wondering whether, after the summer's maturity\nof being a garageman, Ted would \"get busy\" in the university. He was\nthinking of his wife. \"If she would only--if she wouldn't be so darn\nsatisfied with just settling down--No! I won't! I won't go back! I'll\nbe fifty in three years. Sixty in thirteen years. I'm going to have some\nfun before it's too late. I don't care! I will!\"\n\nHe thought of Ida Putiak, of Louetta Swanson, of that nice widow--what\nwas her name?--Tanis Judique?--the one for whom he'd found the flat. He\nwas enmeshed in imaginary conversations. Then:\n\n\"Gee, I can't seem to get away from thinking about folks!\"\n\nThus it came to him merely to run away was folly, because he could never\nrun away from himself.\n\nThat moment he started for Zenith. In his journey there was no\nappearance of flight, but he was fleeing, and four days afterward he was\non the Zenith train. He knew that he was slinking back not because it\nwas what he longed to do but because it was all he could do. He scanned\nagain his discovery that he could never run away from Zenith and family\nand office, because in his own brain he bore the office and the family\nand every street and disquiet and illusion of Zenith.\n\n\"But I'm going to--oh, I'm going to start something!\" he vowed, and he\ntried to make it valiant.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nI\n\nAs he walked through the train, looking for familiar faces, he saw only\none person whom he knew, and that was Seneca Doane, the lawyer who,\nafter the blessings of being in Babbitt's own class at college and\nof becoming a corporation-counsel, had turned crank, had headed\nfarmer-labor tickets and fraternized with admitted socialists. Though he\nwas in rebellion, naturally Babbitt did not care to be seen talking\nwith such a fanatic, but in all the Pullmans he could find no other\nacquaintance, and reluctantly he halted. Seneca Doane was a slight,\nthin-haired man, rather like Chum Frink except that he hadn't Frink's\ngrin. He was reading a book called \"The Way of All Flesh.\" It looked\nreligious to Babbitt, and he wondered if Doane could possibly have been\nconverted and turned decent and patriotic.\n\n\"Why, hello, Doane,\" he said.\n\nDoane looked up. His voice was curiously kind. \"Oh! How do, Babbitt.\"\n\n\"Been away, eh?\"\n\n\"Yes, I've been in Washington.\"\n\n\"Washington, eh? How's the old Government making out?\"\n\n\"It's--Won't you sit down?\"\n\n\"Thanks. Don't care if I do. Well, well! Been quite a while since I've\nhad a good chance to talk to you, Doane. I was, uh--Sorry you didn't\nturn up at the last class-dinner.\"\n\n\"Oh-thanks.\"\n\n\"How's the unions coming? Going to run for mayor again?\" Doane seemed\nrestless. He was fingering the pages of his book. He said \"I might\" as\nthough it didn't mean anything in particular, and he smiled.\n\nBabbitt liked that smile, and hunted for conversation: \"Saw a bang-up\ncabaret in New York: the 'Good-Morning Cutie' bunch at the Hotel\nMinton.\"\n\n\"Yes, they're pretty girls. I danced there one evening.\"\n\n\"Oh. Like dancing?\"\n\n\"Naturally. I like dancing and pretty women and good food better than\nanything else in the world. Most men do.\"\n\n\"But gosh, Doane, I thought you fellows wanted to take all the good eats\nand everything away from us.\"\n\n\"No. Not at all. What I'd like to see is the meetings of the\nGarment Workers held at the Ritz, with a dance afterward. Isn't that\nreasonable?\"\n\n\"Yuh, might be good idea, all right. Well--Shame I haven't seen more\nof you, recent years. Oh, say, hope you haven't held it against me,\nmy bucking you as mayor, going on the stump for Prout. You see, I'm an\norganization Republican, and I kind of felt--\"\n\n\"There's no reason why you shouldn't fight me. I have no doubt you're\ngood for the Organization. I remember--in college you were an unusually\nliberal, sensitive chap. I can still recall your saying to me that you\nwere going to be a lawyer, and take the cases of the poor for nothing,\nand fight the rich. And I remember I said I was going to be one of\nthe rich myself, and buy paintings and live at Newport. I'm sure you\ninspired us all.\"\n\n\"Well.... Well.... I've always aimed to be liberal.\" Babbitt was\nenormously shy and proud and self-conscious; he tried to look like the\nboy he had been a quarter-century ago, and he shone upon his old friend\nSeneca Doane as he rumbled, \"Trouble with a lot of these fellows, even\nthe live wires and some of 'em that think they're forward-looking, is\nthey aren't broad-minded and liberal. Now, I always believe in giving\nthe other fellow a chance, and listening to his ideas.\"\n\n\"That's fine.\"\n\n\"Tell you how I figure it: A little opposition is good for all of us,\nso a fellow, especially if he's a business man and engaged in doing the\nwork of the world, ought to be liberal.\"\n\n\"Yes--\"\n\n\"I always say a fellow ought to have Vision and Ideals. I guess some of\nthe fellows in my business think I'm pretty visionary, but I just let\n'em think what they want to and go right on--same as you do.... By\ngolly, this is nice to have a chance to sit and visit and kind of, you\nmight say, brush up on our ideals.\"\n\n\"But of course we visionaries do rather get beaten. Doesn't it bother\nyou?\"\n\n\"Not a bit! Nobody can dictate to me what I think!\"\n\n\"You're the man I want to help me. I want you to talk to some of\nthe business men and try to make them a little more liberal in their\nattitude toward poor Beecher Ingram.\"\n\n\"Ingram? But, why, he's this nut preacher that got kicked out of\nthe Congregationalist Church, isn't he, and preaches free love and\nsedition?\"\n\nThis, Doane explained, was indeed the general conception of Beecher\nIngram, but he himself saw Beecher Ingram as a priest of the brotherhood\nof man, of which Babbitt was notoriously an upholder. So would Babbitt\nkeep his acquaintances from hounding Ingram and his forlorn little\nchurch?\n\n\"You bet! I'll call down any of the boys I hear getting funny about\nIngram,\" Babbitt said affectionately to his dear friend Doane.\n\nDoane warmed up and became reminiscent. He spoke of student days in\nGermany, of lobbying for single tax in Washington, of international\nlabor conferences. He mentioned his friends, Lord Wycombe, Colonel\nWedgwood, Professor Piccoli. Babbitt had always supposed that Doane\nassociated only with the I. W. W., but now he nodded gravely, as one\nwho knew Lord Wycombes by the score, and he got in two references to Sir\nGerald Doak. He felt daring and idealistic and cosmopolitan.\n\nSuddenly, in his new spiritual grandeur, he was sorry for Zilla\nRiesling, and understood her as these ordinary fellows at the Boosters'\nClub never could.\n\n\nII\n\nFive hours after he had arrived in Zenith and told his wife how hot it\nwas in New York, he went to call on Zilla. He was buzzing with ideas and\nforgiveness. He'd get Paul released; he'd do things, vague but highly\nbenevolent things, for Zilla; he'd be as generous as his friend Seneca\nDoane.\n\nHe had not seen Zilla since Paul had shot her, and he still pictured her\nas buxom, high-colored, lively, and a little blowsy. As he drove up\nto her boarding-house, in a depressing back street below the wholesale\ndistrict, he stopped in discomfort. At an upper window, leaning on her\nelbow, was a woman with the features of Zilla, but she was bloodless\nand aged, like a yellowed wad of old paper crumpled into wrinkles. Where\nZilla had bounced and jiggled, this woman was dreadfully still.\n\nHe waited half an hour before she came into the boarding-house parlor.\nFifty times he opened the book of photographs of the Chicago World's\nFair of 1893, fifty times he looked at the picture of the Court of\nHonor.\n\nHe was startled to find Zilla in the room. She wore a black streaky gown\nwhich she had tried to brighten with a girdle of crimson ribbon. The\nribbon had been torn and patiently mended. He noted this carefully,\nbecause he did not wish to look at her shoulders. One shoulder was lower\nthan the other; one arm she carried in contorted fashion, as though it\nwere paralyzed; and behind a high collar of cheap lace there was a gouge\nin the anemic neck which had once been shining and softly plump.\n\n\"Yes?\" she said.\n\n\"Well, well, old Zilla! By golly, it's good to see you again!\"\n\n\"He can send his messages through a lawyer.\"\n\n\"Why, rats, Zilla, I didn't come just because of him. Came as an old\nfriend.\"\n\n\"You waited long enough!\"\n\n\"Well, you know how it is. Figured you wouldn't want to see a friend of\nhis for quite some time and--Sit down, honey! Let's be sensible. We've\nall of us done a bunch of things that we hadn't ought to, but maybe we\ncan sort of start over again. Honest, Zilla, I'd like to do something to\nmake you both happy. Know what I thought to-day? Mind you, Paul doesn't\nknow a thing about this--doesn't know I was going to come see you. I got\nto thinking: Zilla's a fine? big-hearted woman, and she'll understand\nthat, uh, Paul's had his lesson now. Why wouldn't it be a fine idea if\nyou asked the governor to pardon him? Believe he would, if it came from\nyou. No! Wait! Just think how good you'd feel if you were generous.\"\n\n\"Yes, I wish to be generous.\" She was sitting primly, speaking icily.\n\"For that reason I wish to keep him in prison, as an example to\nevil-doers. I've gotten religion, George, since the terrible thing that\nman did to me. Sometimes I used to be unkind, and I wished for worldly\npleasures, for dancing and the theater. But when I was in the hospital\nthe pastor of the Pentecostal Communion Faith used to come to see me,\nand he showed me, right from the prophecies written in the Word of God,\nthat the Day of Judgment is coming and all the members of the older\nchurches are going straight to eternal damnation, because they only do\nlip-service and swallow the world, the flesh, and the devil--\"\n\nFor fifteen wild minutes she talked, pouring out admonitions to flee the\nwrath to come, and her face flushed, her dead voice recaptured something\nof the shrill energy of the old Zilla. She wound up with a furious:\n\n\"It's the blessing of God himself that Paul should be in prison now, and\ntorn and humbled by punishment, so that he may yet save his soul, and so\nother wicked men, these horrible chasers after women and lust, may have\nan example.\"\n\nBabbitt had itched and twisted. As in church he dared not move during\nthe sermon so now he felt that he must seem attentive, though her\nscreeching denunciations flew past him like carrion birds.\n\nHe sought to be calm and brotherly:\n\n\"Yes, I know, Zilla. But gosh, it certainly is the essence of religion\nto be charitable, isn't it? Let me tell you how I figure it: What we\nneed in the world is liberalism, liberality, if we're going to get\nanywhere. I've always believed in being broad-minded and liberal--\"\n\n\"You? Liberal?\" It was very much the old Zilla. \"Why, George Babbitt,\nyou're about as broad-minded and liberal as a razor-blade!\"\n\n\"Oh, I am, am I! Well, just let me tell you, just--let me--tell--you,\nI'm as by golly liberal as you are religious, anyway! YOU RELIGIOUS!\"\n\n\"I am so! Our pastor says I sustain him in the faith!\"\n\n\"I'll bet you do! With Paul's money! But just to show you how liberal\nI am, I'm going to send a check for ten bucks to this Beecher Ingram,\nbecause a lot of fellows are saying the poor cuss preaches sedition and\nfree love, and they're trying to run him out of town.\"\n\n\"And they're right! They ought to run him out of town! Why, he\npreaches--if you can call it preaching--in a theater, in the House of\nSatan! You don't know what it is to find God, to find peace, to behold\nthe snares that the devil spreads out for our feet. Oh, I'm so glad to\nsee the mysterious purposes of God in having Paul harm me and stop\nmy wickedness--and Paul's getting his, good and plenty, for the cruel\nthings he did to me, and I hope he DIES in prison!\"\n\nBabbitt was up, hat in hand, growling, \"Well, if that's what you call\nbeing at peace, for heaven's sake just warn me before you go to war,\nwill you?\"\n\n\nIII\n\nVast is the power of cities to reclaim the wanderer. More than mountains\nor the shore-devouring sea, a city retains its character, imperturbable,\ncynical, holding behind apparent changes its essential purpose. Though\nBabbitt had deserted his family and dwelt with Joe Paradise in the\nwilderness, though he had become a liberal, though he had been quite\nsure, on the night before he reached Zenith, that neither he nor the\ncity would be the same again, ten days after his return he could not\nbelieve that he had ever been away. Nor was it at all evident to his\nacquaintances that there was a new George F. Babbitt, save that he was\nmore irritable under the incessant chaffing at the Athletic Club, and\nonce, when Vergil Gunch observed that Seneca Doane ought to be hanged,\nBabbitt snorted, \"Oh, rats, he's not so bad.\"\n\nAt home he grunted \"Eh?\" across the newspaper to his commentatory wife,\nand was delighted by Tinka's new red tam o'shanter, and announced, \"No\nclass to that corrugated iron garage. Have to build me a nice frame\none.\"\n\nVerona and Kenneth Escott appeared really to be engaged. In\nhis newspaper Escott had conducted a pure-food crusade against\ncommission-houses. As a result he had been given an excellent job in a\ncommission-house, and he was making a salary on which he could marry,\nand denouncing irresponsible reporters who wrote stories criticizing\ncommission-houses without knowing what they were talking about.\n\nThis September Ted had entered the State University as a freshman in the\nCollege of Arts and Sciences. The university was at Mohalis only fifteen\nmiles from Zenith, and Ted often came down for the week-end. Babbitt was\nworried. Ted was \"going in for\" everything but books. He had tried to\n\"make\" the football team as a light half-back, he was looking forward\nto the basket-ball season, he was on the committee for the Freshman\nHop, and (as a Zenithite, an aristocrat among the yokels) he was being\n\"rushed\" by two fraternities. But of his studies Babbitt could learn\nnothing save a mumbled, \"Oh, gosh, these old stiffs of teachers just\ngive you a lot of junk about literature and economics.\"\n\nOne week-end Ted proposed, \"Say, Dad, why can't I transfer over from the\nCollege to the School of Engineering and take mechanical engineering?\nYou always holler that I never study, but honest, I would study there.\"\n\n\"No, the Engineering School hasn't got the standing the College has,\"\nfretted Babbitt.\n\n\"I'd like to know how it hasn't! The Engineers can play on any of the\nteams!\"\n\nThere was much explanation of the \"dollars-and-cents value of being\nknown as a college man when you go into the law,\" and a truly oratorical\naccount of the lawyer's life. Before he was through with it, Babbitt had\nTed a United States Senator.\n\nAmong the great lawyers whom he mentioned was Seneca Doane.\n\n\"But, gee whiz,\" Ted marveled, \"I thought you always said this Doane was\na reg'lar nut!\"\n\n\"That's no way to speak of a great man! Doane's always been a good\nfriend of mine--fact I helped him in college--I started him out and you\nmight say inspired him. Just because he's sympathetic with the aims of\nLabor, a lot of chumps that lack liberality and broad-mindedness think\nhe's a crank, but let me tell you there's mighty few of 'em that rake\nin the fees he does, and he's a friend of some of the strongest; most\nconservative men in the world--like Lord Wycombe, this, uh, this big\nEnglish nobleman that's so well known. And you now, which would you\nrather do: be in with a lot of greasy mechanics and laboring-men, or\nchum up to a real fellow like Lord Wycombe, and get invited to his house\nfor parties?\"\n\n\"Well--gosh,\" sighed Ted.\n\nThe next week-end he came in joyously with, \"Say, Dad, why couldn't I\ntake mining engineering instead of the academic course? You talk about\nstanding--maybe there isn't much in mechanical engineering, but the\nMiners, gee, they got seven out of eleven in the new elections to Nu Tau\nTau!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nI\n\nTHE strike which turned Zenith into two belligerent camps; white and\nred, began late in September with a walk-out of telephone girls and\nlinemen, in protest against a reduction of wages. The newly formed union\nof dairy-products workers went out, partly in sympathy and partly\nin demand for a forty-four hour week. They were followed by the\ntruck-drivers' union. Industry was tied up, and the whole city was\nnervous with talk of a trolley strike, a printers' strike, a general\nstrike. Furious citizens, trying to get telephone calls through\nstrike-breaking girls, danced helplessly. Every truck that made its way\nfrom the factories to the freight-stations was guarded by a policeman,\ntrying to look stoical beside the scab driver. A line of fifty\ntrucks from the Zenith Steel and Machinery Company was attacked by\nstrikers-rushing out from the sidewalk, pulling drivers from the seats,\nsmashing carburetors and commutators, while telephone girls cheered from\nthe walk, and small boys heaved bricks.\n\nThe National Guard was ordered out. Colonel Nixon, who in private life\nwas Mr. Caleb Nixon, secretary of the Pullmore Tractor Company, put on\na long khaki coat and stalked through crowds, a .44 automatic in hand.\nEven Babbitt's friend, Clarence Drum the shoe merchant--a round and\nmerry man who told stories at the Athletic Club, and who strangely\nresembled a Victorian pug-dog--was to be seen as a waddling but\nferocious captain, with his belt tight about his comfortable little\nbelly, and his round little mouth petulant as he piped to chattering\ngroups on corners. \"Move on there now! I can't have any of this\nloitering!\"\n\nEvery newspaper in the city, save one, was against the strikers. When\nmobs raided the news-stands, at each was stationed a militiaman, a\nyoung, embarrassed citizen-soldier with eye-glasses, bookkeeper or\ngrocery-clerk in private life, trying to look dangerous while small boys\nyelped, \"Get onto de tin soldier!\" and striking truck-drivers inquired\ntenderly, \"Say, Joe, when I was fighting in France, was you in camp\nin the States or was you doing Swede exercises in the Y. M. C. A.? Be\ncareful of that bayonet, now, or you'll cut yourself!\"\n\nThere was no one in Zenith who talked of anything but the strike, and\nno one who did not take sides. You were either a courageous friend of\nLabor, or you were a fearless supporter of the Rights of Property; and\nin either case you were belligerent, and ready to disown any friend who\ndid not hate the enemy.\n\nA condensed-milk plant was set afire--each side charged it to the\nother--and the city was hysterical.\n\nAnd Babbitt chose this time to be publicly liberal.\n\nHe belonged to the sound, sane, right-thinking wing, and at first he\nagreed that the Crooked Agitators ought to be shot. He was sorry when\nhis friend, Seneca Doane, defended arrested strikers, and he thought of\ngoing to Doane and explaining about these agitators, but when he read a\nbroadside alleging that even on their former wages the telephone girls\nhad been hungry, he was troubled. \"All lies and fake figures,\" he said,\nbut in a doubtful croak.\n\nFor the Sunday after, the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church announced a\nsermon by Dr. John Jennison Drew on \"How the Saviour Would End Strikes.\"\nBabbitt had been negligent about church-going lately, but he went to\nthe service, hopeful that Dr. Drew really did have the information as\nto what the divine powers thought about strikes. Beside Babbitt in the\nlarge, curving, glossy, velvet-upholstered pew was Chum Frink.\n\nFrink whispered, \"Hope the doc gives the strikers hell! Ordinarily,\nI don't believe in a preacher butting into political matters--let him\nstick to straight religion and save souls, and not stir up a lot of\ndiscussion--but at a time like this, I do think he ought to stand right\nup and bawl out those plug-uglies to a fare-you-well!\"\n\n\"Yes--well--\" said Babbitt.\n\nThe Rev. Dr. Drew, his rustic bang flopping with the intensity of his\npoetic and sociologic ardor, trumpeted:\n\n\"During the untoward series of industrial dislocations which have--let\nus be courageous and admit it boldly--throttled the business life of\nour fair city these past days, there has been a great deal of loose talk\nabout scientific prevention of scientific--SCIENTIFIC! Now, let me tell\nyou that the most unscientific thing in the world is science! Take the\nattacks on the established fundamentals of the Christian creed which\nwere so popular with the 'scientists' a generation ago. Oh, yes, they\nwere mighty fellows, and great poo-bahs of criticism! They were going to\ndestroy the church; they were going to prove the world was created and\nhas been brought to its extraordinary level of morality and civilization\nby blind chance. Yet the church stands just as firmly to-day as ever,\nand the only answer a Christian pastor needs make to the long-haired\nopponents of his simple faith is just a pitying smile!\n\n\"And now these same 'scientists' want to replace the natural condition\nof free competition by crazy systems which, no matter by what\nhigh-sounding names they are called, are nothing but a despotic\npaternalism. Naturally, I'm not criticizing labor courts, injunctions\nagainst men proven to be striking unjustly, or those excellent unions in\nwhich the men and the boss get together. But I certainly am criticizing\nthe systems in which the free and fluid motivation of independent labor\nis to be replaced by cooked-up wage-scales and minimum salaries and\ngovernment commissions and labor federations and all that poppycock.\n\n\"What is not generally understood is that this whole industrial matter\nisn't a question of economics. It's essentially and only a matter\nof Love, and of the practical application of the Christian religion!\nImagine a factory--instead of committees of workmen alienating the boss,\nthe boss goes among them smiling, and they smile back, the elder brother\nand the younger. Brothers, that's what they must be, loving brothers,\nand then strikes would be as inconceivable as hatred in the home!\"\n\nIt was at this point that Babbitt muttered, \"Oh, rot!\"\n\n\"Huh?\" said Chum Frink.\n\n\"He doesn't know what he's talking about. It's just as clear as mud. It\ndoesn't mean a darn thing.\"\n\n\"Maybe, but--\"\n\nFrink looked at him doubtfully, through all the service kept glancing at\nhim doubtfully, till Babbitt was nervous.\n\n\nII\n\nThe strikers had announced a parade for Tuesday morning, but Colonel\nNixon had forbidden it, the newspapers said. When Babbitt drove west\nfrom his office at ten that morning he saw a drove of shabby men heading\ntoward the tangled, dirty district beyond Court House Square. He hated\nthem, because they were poor, because they made him feel insecure \"Damn\nloafers! Wouldn't be common workmen if they had any pep,\" he complained.\nHe wondered if there was going to be a riot. He drove toward the\nstarting-point of the parade, a triangle of limp and faded grass known\nas Moore Street Park, and halted his car.\n\nThe park and streets were buzzing with strikers, young men in blue denim\nshirts, old men with caps. Through them, keeping them stirred like a\nboiling pot, moved the militiamen. Babbitt could hear the soldiers'\nmonotonous orders: \"Keep moving--move on, 'bo--keep your feet warm!\"\nBabbitt admired their stolid good temper. The crowd shouted, \"Tin\nsoldiers,\" and \"Dirty dogs--servants of the capitalists!\" but the\nmilitiamen grinned and answered only, \"Sure, that's right. Keep moving,\nBilly!\"\n\nBabbitt thrilled over the citizen-soldiers, hated the scoundrels who\nwere obstructing the pleasant ways of prosperity, admired Colonel\nNixon's striding contempt for the crowd; and as Captain Clarence Drum,\nthat rather puffing shoe-dealer, came raging by, Babbitt respectfully\nclamored, \"Great work, Captain! Don't let 'em march!\" He watched the\nstrikers filing from the park. Many of them bore posters with \"They\ncan't stop our peacefully walking.\" The militiamen tore away the\nposters, but the strikers fell in behind their leaders and straggled\noff, a thin unimpressive trickle between steel-glinting lines of\nsoldiers. Babbitt saw with disappointment that there wasn't going to be\nany violence, nothing interesting at all. Then he gasped.\n\nAmong the marchers, beside a bulky young workman, was Seneca Doane,\nsmiling, content. In front of him was Professor Brockbank, head of\nthe history department in the State University, an old man and\nwhite-bearded, known to come from a distinguished Massachusetts family.\n\n\"Why, gosh,\" Babbitt marveled, \"a swell like him in with the strikers?\nAnd good ole Senny Doane! They're fools to get mixed up with this bunch.\nThey're parlor socialists! But they have got nerve. And nothing in it\nfor them, not a cent! And--I don't know 's ALL the strikers look like\nsuch tough nuts. Look just about like anybody else to me!\"\n\nThe militiamen were turning the parade down a side street.\n\n\"They got just as much right to march as anybody else! They own the\nstreets as much as Clarence Drum or the American Legion does!\" Babbitt\ngrumbled. \"Of course, they're--they're a bad element, but--Oh, rats!\"\n\nAt the Athletic Club, Babbitt was silent during lunch, while the others\nfretted, \"I don't know what the world's coming to,\" or solaced their\nspirits with \"kidding.\"\n\nCaptain Clarence Drum came swinging by, splendid in khaki.\n\n\"How's it going, Captain?\" inquired Vergil Gunch.\n\n\"Oh, we got 'em stopped. We worked 'em off on side streets and separated\n'em and they got discouraged and went home.\"\n\n\"Fine work. No violence.\"\n\n\"Fine work nothing!\" groaned Mr. Drum. \"If I had my way, there'd be a\nwhole lot of violence, and I'd start it, and then the whole thing would\nbe over. I don't believe in standing back and wet-nursing these fellows\nand letting the disturbances drag on. I tell you these strikers are\nnothing in God's world but a lot of bomb-throwing socialists and thugs,\nand the only way to handle 'em is with a club! That's what I'd do; beat\nup the whole lot of 'em!\"\n\nBabbitt heard himself saying, \"Oh, rats, Clarence, they look just about\nlike you and me, and I certainly didn't notice any bombs.\"\n\nDrum complained, \"Oh, you didn't, eh? Well, maybe you'd like to take\ncharge of the strike! Just tell Colonel Nixon what innocents the\nstrikers are! He'd be glad to hear about it!\" Drum strode on, while all\nthe table stared at Babbitt.\n\n\"What's the idea? Do you want us to give those hell-hounds love and\nkisses, or what?\" said Orville Jones.\n\n\"Do you defend a lot of hoodlums that are trying to take the bread and\nbutter away from our families?\" raged Professor Pumphrey.\n\nVergil Gunch intimidatingly said nothing. He put on sternness like a\nmask; his jaw was hard, his bristly short hair seemed cruel, his silence\nwas a ferocious thunder. While the others assured Babbitt that they must\nhave misunderstood him, Gunch looked as though he had understood only\ntoo well. Like a robed judge he listened to Babbitt's stammering:\n\n\"No, sure; course they're a bunch of toughs. But I just mean--Strikes me\nit's bad policy to talk about clubbing 'em. Cabe Nixon doesn't. He's\ngot the fine Italian hand. And that's why he's colonel. Clarence Drum is\njealous of him.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Professor Pumphrey, \"you hurt Clarence's feelings, George.\nHe's been out there all morning getting hot and dusty, and no wonder he\nwants to beat the tar out of those sons of guns!\"\n\nGunch said nothing, and watched; and Babbitt knew that he was being\nwatched.\n\n\nIII\n\nAs he was leaving the club Babbitt heard Chum Frink protesting to Gunch,\n\"--don't know what's got into him. Last Sunday Doc Drew preached a\ncorking sermon about decency in business and Babbitt kicked about that,\ntoo. Near 's I can figure out--\"\n\nBabbitt was vaguely frightened.\n\n\nIV\n\nHe saw a crowd listening to a man who was talking from the rostrum of a\nkitchen-chair. He stopped his car. From newspaper pictures he knew that\nthe speaker must be the notorious freelance preacher, Beecher Ingram,\nof whom Seneca Doane had spoken. Ingram was a gaunt man with flamboyant\nhair, weather-beaten cheeks, and worried eyes. He was pleading:\n\n\"--if those telephone girls can hold out, living on one meal a day,\ndoing their own washing, starving and smiling, you big hulking men ought\nto be able--\"\n\nBabbitt saw that from the sidewalk Vergil Gunch was watching him. In\nvague disquiet he started the car and mechanically drove on, while\nGunch's hostile eyes seemed to follow him all the way.\n\n\nV\n\n\"There's a lot of these fellows,\" Babbitt was complaining to his wife,\n\"that think if workmen go on strike they're a regular bunch of fiends.\nNow, of course, it's a fight between sound business and the destructive\nelement, and we got to lick the stuffin's out of 'em when they challenge\nus, but doggoned if I see why we can't fight like gentlemen and not go\ncalling 'em dirty dogs and saying they ought to be shot down.\"\n\n\"Why, George,\" she said placidly, \"I thought you always insisted that\nall strikers ought to be put in jail.\"\n\n\"I never did! Well, I mean--Some of 'em, of course. Irresponsible\nleaders. But I mean a fellow ought to be broad-minded and liberal about\nthings like--\"\n\n\"But dearie, I thought you always said these so-called 'liberal' people\nwere the worst of--\"\n\n\"Rats! Woman never can understand the different definitions of a word.\nDepends on how you mean it. And it don't pay to be too cocksure about\nanything. Now, these strikers: Honest, they're not such bad people. Just\nfoolish. They don't understand the complications of merchandizing and\nprofit, the way we business men do, but sometimes I think they're\nabout like the rest of us, and no more hogs for wages than we are for\nprofits.\"\n\n\"George! If people were to hear you talk like that--of course I KNOW\nyou; I remember what a wild crazy boy you were; I know you don't mean a\nword you say--but if people that didn't understand you were to hear you\ntalking, they'd think you were a regular socialist!\"\n\n\"What do I care what anybody thinks? And let me tell you right now--I\nwant you to distinctly understand I never was a wild crazy kid, and when\nI say a thing, I mean it, and I stand by it and--Honest, do you think\npeople would think I was too liberal if I just said the strikers were\ndecent?\"\n\n\"Of course they would. But don't worry, dear; I know you don't mean\na word of it. Time to trot up to bed now. Have you enough covers for\nto-night?\"\n\nOn the sleeping-porch he puzzled, \"She doesn't understand me. Hardly\nunderstand myself. Why can't I take things easy, way I used to?\n\n\"Wish I could go out to Senny Doane's house and talk things over with\nhim. No! Suppose Verg Gunch saw me going in there!\n\n\"Wish I knew some really smart woman, and nice, that would see what I'm\ntrying to get at, and let me talk to her and--I wonder if Myra's right?\nCould the fellows think I've gone nutty just because I'm broad-minded\nand liberal? Way Verg looked at me--\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nI\n\nMISS McGOUN came into his private office at three in the afternoon with\n\"Lissen, Mr. Babbitt; there's a Mrs. Judique on the 'phone--wants to see\nabout some repairs, and the salesmen are all out. Want to talk to her?\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThe voice of Tanis Judique was clear and pleasant. The black cylinder\nof the telephone-receiver seemed to hold a tiny animated image of her:\nlustrous eyes, delicate nose, gentle chin.\n\n\"This is Mrs. Judique. Do you remember me? You drove me up here to the\nCavendish Apartments and helped me find such a nice flat.\"\n\n\"Sure! Bet I remember! What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"Why, it's just a little--I don't know that I ought to bother you, but\nthe janitor doesn't seem to be able to fix it. You know my flat is on\nthe top floor, and with these autumn rains the roof is beginning to\nleak, and I'd be awfully glad if--\"\n\n\"Sure! I'll come up and take a look at it.\" Nervously, \"When do you\nexpect to be in?\"\n\n\"Why, I'm in every morning.\"\n\n\"Be in this afternoon, in an hour or so?\"\n\n\"Ye-es. Perhaps I could give you a cup of tea. I think I ought to, after\nall your trouble.\"\n\n\"Fine! I'll run up there soon as I can get away.\"\n\nHe meditated, \"Now there's a woman that's got refinement, savvy, CLASS!\n'After all your trouble--give you a cup of tea.' She'd appreciate a\nfellow. I'm a fool, but I'm not such a bad cuss, get to know me. And not\nso much a fool as they think!\"\n\nThe great strike was over, the strikers beaten. Except that Vergil\nGunch seemed less cordial, there were no visible effects of Babbitt's\ntreachery to the clan. The oppressive fear of criticism was gone, but a\ndiffident loneliness remained. Now he was so exhilarated that, to prove\nhe wasn't, he droned about the office for fifteen minutes, looking at\nblue-prints, explaining to Miss McGoun that this Mrs. Scott wanted more\nmoney for her house--had raised the asking-price--raised it from seven\nthousand to eighty-five hundred--would Miss McGoun be sure and put\nit down on the card--Mrs. Scott's house--raise. When he had thus\nestablished himself as a person unemotional and interested only in\nbusiness, he sauntered out. He took a particularly long time to start\nhis car; he kicked the tires, dusted the glass of the speedometer, and\ntightened the screws holding the wind-shield spot-light.\n\nHe drove happily off toward the Bellevue district, conscious of the\npresence of Mrs. Judique as of a brilliant light on the horizon. The\nmaple leaves had fallen and they lined the gutters of the asphalted\nstreets. It was a day of pale gold and faded green, tranquil and\nlingering. Babbitt was aware of the meditative day, and of the\nbarrenness of Bellevue--blocks of wooden houses, garages, little shops,\nweedy lots. \"Needs pepping up; needs the touch that people like Mrs.\nJudique could give a place,\" he ruminated, as he rattled through the\nlong, crude, airy streets. The wind rose, enlivening, keen, and in a\nblaze of well-being he came to the flat of Tanis Judique.\n\nShe was wearing, when she flutteringly admitted him, a frock of black\nchiffon cut modestly round at the base of her pretty throat. She seemed\nto him immensely sophisticated. He glanced at the cretonnes and colored\nprints in her living-room, and gurgled, \"Gosh, you've fixed the place\nnice! Takes a clever woman to know how to make a home, all right!\"\n\n\"You really like it? I'm so glad! But you've neglected me, scandalously.\nYou promised to come some time and learn to dance.\"\n\nRather unsteadily, \"Oh, but you didn't mean it seriously!\"\n\n\"Perhaps not. But you might have tried!\"\n\n\"Well, here I've come for my lesson, and you might just as well prepare\nto have me stay for supper!\"\n\nThey both laughed in a manner which indicated that of course he didn't\nmean it.\n\n\"But first I guess I better look at that leak.\"\n\nShe climbed with him to the flat roof of the apartment-house a detached\nworld of slatted wooden walks, clotheslines, water-tank in a penthouse.\nHe poked at things with his toe, and sought to impress her by being\nlearned about copper gutters, the desirability of passing plumbing pipes\nthrough a lead collar and sleeve and flashing them with copper, and the\nadvantages of cedar over boiler-iron for roof-tanks.\n\n\n\"You have to know so much, in real estate!\" she admired.\n\nHe promised that the roof should be repaired within two days. \"Do you\nmind my 'phoning from your apartment?\" he asked.\n\n\"Heavens, no!\"\n\nHe stood a moment at the coping, looking over a land of hard little\nbungalows with abnormally large porches, and new apartment-houses,\nsmall, but brave with variegated brick walls and terra-cotta trimmings.\nBeyond them was a hill with a gouge of yellow clay like a vast wound.\nBehind every apartment-house, beside each dwelling, were small garages.\nIt was a world of good little people, comfortable, industrious,\ncredulous.\n\nIn the autumnal light the flat newness was mellowed, and the air was a\nsun-tinted pool.\n\n\"Golly, it's one fine afternoon. You get a great view here, right up\nTanner's Hill,\" said Babbitt.\n\n\"Yes, isn't it nice and open.\"\n\n\"So darn few people appreciate a View.\"\n\n\"Don't you go raising my rent on that account! Oh, that was naughty\nof me! I was just teasing. Seriously though, there are so few who\nrespond--who react to Views. I mean--they haven't any feeling of poetry\nand beauty.\"\n\n\"That's a fact, they haven't,\" he breathed, admiring her slenderness and\nthe absorbed, airy way in which she looked toward the hill, chin lifted,\nlips smiling. \"Well, guess I'd better telephone the plumbers, so they'll\nget on the job first thing in the morning.\"\n\nWhen he had telephoned, making it conspicuously authoritative and gruff\nand masculine, he looked doubtful, and sighed, \"S'pose I'd better be--\"\n\n\"Oh, you must have that cup of tea first!\"\n\n\"Well, it would go pretty good, at that.\"\n\nIt was luxurious to loll in a deep green rep chair, his legs thrust\nout before him, to glance at the black Chinese telephone stand and the\ncolored photograph of Mount Vernon which he had always liked so much,\nwhile in the tiny kitchen--so near--Mrs. Judique sang \"My Creole Queen.\"\nIn an intolerable sweetness, a contentment so deep that he was wistfully\ndiscontented, he saw magnolias by moonlight and heard plantation darkies\ncrooning to the banjo. He wanted to be near her, on pretense of helping\nher, yet he wanted to remain in this still ecstasy. Languidly he\nremained.\n\nWhen she bustled in with the tea he smiled up at her. \"This is awfully\nnice!\" For the first time, he was not fencing; he was quietly and\nsecurely friendly; and friendly and quiet was her answer: \"It's nice to\nhave you here. You were so kind, helping me to find this little home.\"\n\nThey agreed that the weather would soon turn cold. They agreed that\nprohibition was prohibitive. They agreed that art in the home was\ncultural. They agreed about everything. They even became bold. They\nhinted that these modern young girls, well, honestly, their short skirts\nwere short. They were proud to find that they were not shocked by such\nfrank speaking. Tanis ventured, \"I know you'll understand--I mean--I\ndon't quite know how to say it, but I do think that girls who pretend\nthey're bad by the way they dress really never go any farther. They give\naway the fact that they haven't the instincts of a womanly woman.\"\n\nRemembering Ida Putiak, the manicure girl, and how ill she had used him,\nBabbitt agreed with enthusiasm; remembering how ill all the world had\nused him, he told of Paul Riesling, of Zilla, of Seneca Doane, of the\nstrike:\n\n\"See how it was? Course I was as anxious to have those beggars licked to\na standstill as anybody else, but gosh, no reason for not seeing their\nside. For a fellow's own sake, he's got to be broad-minded and liberal,\ndon't you think so?\"\n\n\"Oh, I do!\" Sitting on the hard little couch, she clasped her hands\nbeside her, leaned toward him, absorbed him; and in a glorious state of\nbeing appreciated he proclaimed:\n\n\"So I up and said to the fellows at the club, 'Look here,' I--\"\n\n\"Do you belong to the Union Club? I think it's--\"\n\n\"No; the Athletic. Tell you: Course they're always asking me to join\nthe Union, but I always say, 'No, sir! Nothing doing!' I don't mind the\nexpense but I can't stand all the old fogies.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, that's so. But tell me: what did you say to them?\"\n\n\"Oh, you don't want to hear it. I'm probably boring you to death with my\ntroubles! You wouldn't hardly think I was an old duffer; I sound like a\nkid!\"\n\n\"Oh, you're a boy yet. I mean--you can't be a day over forty-five.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm not--much. But by golly I begin to feel middle-aged\nsometimes; all these responsibilities and all.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know!\" Her voice caressed him; it cloaked him like warm silk.\n\"And I feel lonely, so lonely, some days, Mr. Babbitt.\"\n\n\"We're a sad pair of birds! But I think we're pretty darn nice!\"\n\n\"Yes, I think we're lots nicer than most people I know!\" They smiled.\n\"But please tell me what you said at the Club.\"\n\n\"Well, it was like this: Course Seneca Doane is a friend of mine--they\ncan say what they want to, they can call him anything they please, but\nwhat most folks here don't know is that Senny is the bosom pal of some\nof the biggest statesmen in the world--Lord Wycombe, frinstance--you\nknow, this big British nobleman. My friend Sir Gerald Doak told me\nthat Lord Wycombe is one of the biggest guns in England--well, Doak or\nsomebody told me.\"\n\n\"Oh! Do you know Sir Gerald? The one that was here, at the McKelveys'?\"\n\n\"Know him? Well, say, I know him just well enough so we call each other\nGeorge and Jerry, and we got so pickled together in Chicago--\"\n\n\"That must have been fun. But--\" She shook a finger at him. \"--I can't\nhave you getting pickled! I'll have to take you in hand!\"\n\n\"Wish you would! . . . Well, zize saying: You see I happen to know what\na big noise Senny Doane is outside of Zenith, but of course a prophet\nhasn't got any honor in his own country, and Senny, darn his old hide,\nhe's so blame modest that he never lets folks know the kind of an outfit\nhe travels with when he goes abroad. Well, during the strike Clarence\nDrum comes pee-rading up to our table, all dolled up fit to kill in his\nnice lil cap'n's uniform, and somebody says to him, 'Busting the strike,\nClarence?'\n\n\"Well, he swells up like a pouter-pigeon and he hollers, so 's you\ncould hear him way up in the reading-room, 'Yes, sure; I told the\nstrike-leaders where they got off, and so they went home.'\n\n\"'Well,' I says to him, 'glad there wasn't any violence.'\n\n\"'Yes,' he says, 'but if I hadn't kept my eye skinned there would 've\nbeen. All those fellows had bombs in their pockets. They're reg'lar\nanarchists.'\n\n\"'Oh, rats, Clarence,' I says, 'I looked 'em all over carefully, and\nthey didn't have any more bombs 'n a rabbit,' I says. 'Course,' I says,\n'they're foolish, but they're a good deal like you and me, after all.'\n\n\"And then Vergil Gunch or somebody--no, it was Chum Frink--you know,\nthis famous poet--great pal of mine--he says to me, 'Look here,' he\nsays, 'do you mean to say you advocate these strikes?' Well, I was so\ndisgusted with a fellow whose mind worked that way that I swear, I had a\ngood mind to not explain at all--just ignore him--\"\n\n\"Oh, that's so wise!\" said Mrs. Judique.\n\n\"--but finally I explains to him: 'If you'd done as much as I have on\nChamber of Commerce committees and all,' I says, 'then you'd have the\nright to talk! But same time,' I says, 'I believe in treating your\nopponent like a gentleman!' Well, sir, that held 'em! Frink--Chum I\nalways call him--he didn't have another word to say. But at that, I\nguess some of 'em kind o' thought I was too liberal. What do you think?\"\n\n\"Oh, you were so wise. And courageous! I love a man to have the courage\nof his convictions!\"\n\n\"But do you think it was a good stunt? After all, some of these fellows\nare so darn cautious and narrow-minded that they're prejudiced against a\nfellow that talks right out in meeting.\"\n\n\"What do you care? In the long run they're bound to respect a man who\nmakes them think, and with your reputation for oratory you--\"\n\n\"What do you know about my reputation for oratory?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not going to tell you everything I know! But seriously, you\ndon't realize what a famous man you are.\"\n\n\"Well--Though I haven't done much orating this fall. Too kind of\nbothered by this Paul Riesling business, I guess. But--Do you know,\nyou're the first person that's really understood what I was getting at,\nTanis--Listen to me, will you! Fat nerve I've got, calling you Tanis!\"\n\n\"Oh, do! And shall I call you George? Don't you think it's awfully nice\nwhen two people have so much--what shall I call it?--so much analysis\nthat they can discard all these stupid conventions and understand each\nother and become acquainted right away, like ships that pass in the\nnight?\"\n\n\"I certainly do! I certainly do!\"\n\nHe was no longer quiescent in his chair; he wandered about the room, he\ndropped on the couch beside her. But as he awkwardly stretched his hand\ntoward her fragile, immaculate fingers, she said brightly, \"Do give me\na cigarette. Would you think poor Tanis was dreadfully naughty if she\nsmoked?\"\n\n\"Lord, no! I like it!\"\n\nHe had often and weightily pondered flappers smoking in Zenith\nrestaurants, but he knew only one woman who smoked--Mrs. Sam Doppelbrau,\nhis flighty neighbor. He ceremoniously lighted Tanis's cigarette, looked\nfor a place to deposit the burnt match, and dropped it into his pocket.\n\n\"I'm sure you want a cigar, you poor man!\" she crooned.\n\n\"Do you mind one?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I love the smell of a good cigar; so nice and--so nice and like\na man. You'll find an ash-tray in my bedroom, on the table beside the\nbed, if you don't mind getting it.\"\n\nHe was embarrassed by her bedroom: the broad couch with a cover of\nviolet silk, mauve curtains striped with gold. Chinese Chippendale\nbureau, and an amazing row of slippers, with ribbon-wound shoe-trees,\nand primrose stockings lying across them. His manner of bringing the\nash-tray had just the right note of easy friendliness, he felt. \"A boob\nlike Verg Gunch would try to get funny about seeing her bedroom, but\nI take it casually.\" He was not casual afterward. The contentment of\ncompanionship was gone, and he was restless with desire to touch her\nhand. But whenever he turned toward her, the cigarette was in his way.\nIt was a shield between them. He waited till she should have finished,\nbut as he rejoiced at her quick crushing of its light on the ashtray she\nsaid, \"Don't you want to give me another cigarette?\" and hopelessly he\nsaw the screen of pale smoke and her graceful tilted hand again between\nthem. He was not merely curious now to find out whether she would\nlet him hold her hand (all in the purest friendship, naturally), but\nagonized with need of it.\n\nOn the surface appeared none of all this fretful drama. They were\ntalking cheerfully of motors, of trips to California, of Chum Frink.\nOnce he said delicately, \"I do hate these guys--I hate these people that\ninvite themselves to meals, but I seem to have a feeling I'm going to\nhave supper with the lovely Mrs. Tanis Judique to-night. But I suppose\nyou probably have seven dates already.\"\n\n\"Well, I was thinking some of going to the movies. Yes, I really think I\nought to get out and get some fresh air.\"\n\nShe did not encourage him to stay, but never did she discourage him.\nHe considered, \"I better take a sneak! She WILL let me stay--there IS\nsomething doing--and I mustn't get mixed up with--I mustn't--I've got to\nbeat it.\" Then, \"No. it's too late now.\"\n\nSuddenly, at seven, brushing her cigarette away, brusquely taking her\nhand:\n\n\"Tanis! Stop teasing me! You know we--Here we are, a couple of lonely\nbirds, and we're awful happy together. Anyway I am! Never been so\nhappy! Do let me stay! Ill gallop down to the delicatessen and buy some\nstuff--cold chicken maybe--or cold turkey--and we can have a nice little\nsupper, and afterwards, if you want to chase me out, I'll be good and go\nlike a lamb.\"\n\n\"Well--yes--it would be nice,\" she said.\n\nNor did she withdraw her hand. He squeezed it, trembling, and blundered\ntoward his coat. At the delicatessen he bought preposterous stores of\nfood, chosen on the principle of expensiveness. From the drug store\nacross the street he telephoned to his wife, \"Got to get a fellow to\nsign a lease before he leaves town on the midnight. Won't be home till\nlate. Don't wait up for me. Kiss Tinka good-night.\" He expectantly\nlumbered back to the flat.\n\n\"Oh, you bad thing, to buy so much food!\" was her greeting, and her\nvoice was gay, her smile acceptant.\n\nHe helped her in the tiny white kitchen; he washed the lettuce, he\nopened the olive bottle. She ordered him to set the table, and as he\ntrotted into the living-room, as he hunted through the buffet for knives\nand forks, he felt utterly at home.\n\n\"Now the only other thing,\" he announced, \"is what you're going to wear.\nI can't decide whether you're to put on your swellest evening gown, or\nlet your hair down and put on short skirts and make-believe you're a\nlittle girl.\"\n\n\"I'm going to dine just as I am, in this old chiffon rag, and if you\ncan't stand poor Tanis that way, you can go to the club for dinner!\"\n\n\"Stand you!\" He patted her shoulder. \"Child, you're the brainiest and\nthe loveliest and finest woman I've ever met! Come now, Lady Wycombe,\nif you'll take the Duke of Zenith's arm, we will proambulate in to the\nmagnolious feed!\"\n\n\"Oh, you do say the funniest, nicest things!\"\n\nWhen they had finished the picnic supper he thrust his head out of the\nwindow and reported, \"It's turned awful chilly, and I think it's going\nto rain. You don't want to go to the movies.\"\n\n\"Well--\"\n\n\"I wish we had a fireplace! I wish it was raining like all get-out\nto-night, and we were in a funny little old-fashioned cottage, and\nthe trees thrashing like everything outside, and a great big log fire\nand--I'll tell you! Let's draw this couch up to the radiator, and\nstretch our feet out, and pretend it's a wood-fire.\"\n\n\"Oh, I think that's pathetic! You big child!\"\n\nBut they did draw up to the radiator, and propped their feet against\nit--his clumsy black shoes, her patent-leather slippers. In the dimness\nthey talked of themselves; of how lonely she was, how bewildered he, and\nhow wonderful that they had found each other. As they fell silent the\nroom was stiller than a country lane. There was no sound from the street\nsave the whir of motor-tires, the rumble of a distant freight-train.\nSelf-contained was the room, warm, secure, insulated from the harassing\nworld.\n\nHe was absorbed by a rapture in which all fear and doubting were\nsmoothed away; and when he reached home, at dawn, the rapture had\nmellowed to contentment serene and full of memories.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nI\n\nTHE assurance of Tanis Judique's friendship fortified Babbitt's\nself-approval. At the Athletic Club he became experimental. Though\nVergil Gunch was silent, the others at the Roughnecks' Table came to\naccept Babbitt as having, for no visible reason, \"turned crank.\" They\nargued windily with him, and he was cocky, and enjoyed the spectacle\nof his interesting martyrdom. He even praised Seneca Doane. Professor\nPumphrey said that was carrying a joke too far; but Babbitt argued, \"No!\nFact! I tell you he's got one of the keenest intellects in the country.\nWhy, Lord Wycombe said that--\"\n\n\"Oh, who the hell is Lord Wycombe? What you always lugging him in for?\nYou been touting him for the last six weeks!\" protested Orville Jones.\n\n\"George ordered him from Sears-Roebuck. You can get those English\nhigh-muckamucks by mail for two bucks apiece,\" suggested Sidney\nFinkelstein.\n\n\"That's all right now! Lord Wycombe, he's one of the biggest intellects\nin English political life. As I was saying: Of course I'm conservative\nmyself, but I appreciate a guy like Senny Doane because--\"\n\nVergil Gunch interrupted harshly, \"I wonder if you are so conservative?\nI find I can manage to run my own business without any skunks and reds\nlike Doane in it!\"\n\nThe grimness of Gunch's voice, the hardness of his jaw, disconcerted\nBabbitt, but he recovered and went on till they looked bored, then\nirritated, then as doubtful as Gunch.\n\n\nII\n\nHe thought of Tanis always. With a stir he remembered her every aspect.\nHis arms yearned for her. \"I've found her! I've dreamed of her all these\nyears and now I've found her!\" he exulted. He met her at the movies\nin the morning; he drove out to her flat in the late afternoon or on\nevenings when he was believed to be at the Elks. He knew her financial\naffairs and advised her about them, while she lamented her feminine\nignorance, and praised his masterfulness, and proved to know much more\nabout bonds than he did. They had remembrances, and laughter over old\ntimes. Once they quarreled, and he raged that she was as \"bossy\" as\nhis wife and far more whining when he was inattentive. But that passed\nsafely.\n\nTheir high hour was a tramp on a ringing December afternoon, through\nsnow-drifted meadows down to the icy Chaloosa River. She was exotic\nin an astrachan cap and a short beaver coat; she slid on the ice and\nshouted, and he panted after her, rotund with laughter.... Myra Babbitt\nnever slid on the ice.\n\nHe was afraid that they would be seen together. In Zenith it is\nimpossible to lunch with a neighbor's wife without the fact being\nknown, before nightfall, in every house in your circle. But Tanis was\nbeautifully discreet. However appealingly she might turn to him when\nthey were alone, she was gravely detached when they were abroad, and he\nhoped that she would be taken for a client. Orville Jones once saw them\nemerging from a movie theater, and Babbitt bumbled, \"Let me make you\n'quainted with Mrs. Judique. Now here's a lady who knows the right\nbroker to come to, Orvy!\" Mr. Jones, though he was a man censorious of\nmorals and of laundry machinery, seemed satisfied.\n\nHis predominant fear--not from any especial fondness for her but from\nthe habit of propriety--was that his wife would learn of the affair. He\nwas certain that she knew nothing specific about Tanis, but he was also\ncertain that she suspected something indefinite. For years she had been\nbored by anything more affectionate than a farewell kiss, yet she was\nhurt by any slackening in his irritable periodic interest, and now he\nhad no interest; rather, a revulsion. He was completely faithful--to\nTanis. He was distressed by the sight of his wife's slack plumpness, by\nher puffs and billows of flesh, by the tattered petticoat which she was\nalways meaning and always forgetting to throw away. But he was aware\nthat she, so long attuned to him, caught all his repulsions. He\nelaborately, heavily, jocularly tried to check them. He couldn't.\n\nThey had a tolerable Christmas. Kenneth Escott was there, admittedly\nengaged to Verona. Mrs. Babbitt was tearful and called Kenneth her new\nson. Babbitt was worried about Ted, because he had ceased complaining\nof the State University and become suspiciously acquiescent. He wondered\nwhat the boy was planning, and was too shy to ask. Himself, Babbitt\nslipped away on Christmas afternoon to take his present, a silver\ncigarette-box, to Tanis. When he returned Mrs. Babbitt asked, much too\ninnocently, \"Did you go out for a little fresh air?\"\n\n\"Yes, just lil drive,\" he mumbled.\n\nAfter New Year's his wife proposed, \"I heard from my sister to-day,\nGeorge. She isn't well. I think perhaps I ought to go stay with her for\na few weeks.\"\n\nNow, Mrs. Babbitt was not accustomed to leave home during the winter\nexcept on violently demanding occasions, and only the summer before, she\nhad been gone for weeks. Nor was Babbitt one of the detachable husbands\nwho take separations casually He liked to have her there; she looked\nafter his clothes; she knew how his steak ought to be cooked; and her\nclucking made him feel secure. But he could not drum up even a dutiful\n\"Oh, she doesn't really need you, does she?\" While he tried to look\nregretful, while he felt that his wife was watching him, he was filled\nwith exultant visions of Tanis.\n\n\"Do you think I'd better go?\" she said sharply.\n\n\"You've got to decide, honey; I can't.\"\n\nShe turned away, sighing, and his forehead was damp.\n\nTill she went, four days later, she was curiously still, he cumbrously\naffectionate. Her train left at noon. As he saw it grow small beyond the\ntrain-shed he longed to hurry to Tanis.\n\n\"No, by golly, I won't do that!\" he vowed. \"I won't go near her for a\nweek!\"\n\nBut he was at her flat at four.\n\n\nIII\n\nHe who had once controlled or seemed to control his life in a progress\nunimpassioned but diligent and sane was for that fortnight borne on a\ncurrent of desire and very bad whisky and all the complications of\nnew acquaintances, those furious new intimates who demand so much more\nattention than old friends. Each morning he gloomily recognized his\nidiocies of the evening before. With his head throbbing, his tongue and\nlips stinging from cigarettes, he incredulously counted the number of\ndrinks he had taken, and groaned, \"I got to quit!\" He had ceased saying,\n\"I WILL quit!\" for however resolute he might be at dawn, he could not,\nfor a single evening, check his drift.\n\nHe had met Tanis's friends; he had, with the ardent haste of the\nMidnight People, who drink and dance and rattle and are ever afraid to\nbe silent, been adopted as a member of her group, which they called \"The\nBunch.\" He first met them after a day when he had worked particularly\nhard and when he hoped to be quiet with Tanis and slowly sip her\nadmiration.\n\nFrom down the hall he could hear shrieks and the grind of a phonograph.\nAs Tanis opened the door he saw fantastic figures dancing in a haze of\ncigarette smoke. The tables and chairs were against the wall.\n\n\"Oh, isn't this dandy!\" she gabbled at him. \"Carrie Nork had the\nloveliest idea. She decided it was time for a party, and she 'phoned the\nBunch and told 'em to gather round. . . . George, this is Carrie.\"\n\n\"Carrie\" was, in the less desirable aspects of both, at once matronly\nand spinsterish. She was perhaps forty; her hair was an unconvincing\nash-blond; and if her chest was flat, her hips were ponderous. She\ngreeted Babbitt with a giggling \"Welcome to our little midst! Tanis says\nyou're a real sport.\"\n\nHe was apparently expected to dance, to be boyish and gay with Carrie,\nand he did his unforgiving best. He towed her about the room, bumping\ninto other couples, into the radiator, into chair-legs cunningly\nambushed. As he danced he surveyed the rest of the Bunch: A thin young\nwoman who looked capable, conceited, and sarcastic. Another woman whom\nhe could never quite remember. Three overdressed and slightly effeminate\nyoung men--soda-fountain clerks, or at least born for that profession.\nA man of his own age, immovable, self-satisfied, resentful of Babbitt's\npresence.\n\nWhen he had finished his dutiful dance Tanis took him aside and begged,\n\"Dear, wouldn't you like to do something for me? I'm all out of booze,\nand the Bunch want to celebrate. Couldn't you just skip down to Healey\nHanson's and get some?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" he said, trying not to sound sullen.\n\n\"I'll tell you: I'll get Minnie Sonntag to drive down with you.\" Tanis\nwas pointing to the thin, sarcastic young woman.\n\nMiss Sonntag greeted him with an astringent \"How d'you do, Mr. Babbitt.\nTanis tells me you're a very prominent man, and I'm honored by being\nallowed to drive with you. Of course I'm not accustomed to associating\nwith society people like you, so I don't know how to act in such exalted\ncircles!\"\n\nThus Miss Sonntag talked all the way down to Healey Hanson's. To her\njibes he wanted to reply \"Oh, go to the devil!\" but he never quite\nnerved himself to that reasonable comment. He was resenting the\nexistence of the whole Bunch. He had heard Tanis speak of \"darling\nCarrie\" and \"Min Sonntag--she's so clever--you'll adore her,\" but\nthey had never been real to him. He had pictured Tanis as living in a\nrose-tinted vacuum, waiting for him, free of all the complications of a\nFloral Heights.\n\nWhen they returned he had to endure the patronage of the young\nsoda-clerks. They were as damply friendly as Miss Sonntag was dryly\nhostile. They called him \"Old Georgie\" and shouted, \"Come on now, sport;\nshake a leg\" . . . boys in belted coats, pimply boys, as young as Ted\nand as flabby as chorus-men, but powerful to dance and to mind the\nphonograph and smoke cigarettes and patronize Tanis. He tried to be one\nof them; he cried \"Good work, Pete!\" but his voice creaked.\n\nTanis apparently enjoyed the companionship of the dancing darlings; she\nbridled to their bland flirtation and casually kissed them at the end\nof each dance. Babbitt hated her, for the moment. He saw her as\nmiddle-aged. He studied the wrinkles in the softness of her throat, the\nslack flesh beneath her chin. The taut muscles of her youth were loose\nand drooping. Between dances she sat in the largest chair, waving her\ncigarette, summoning her callow admirers to come and talk to her. (\"She\nthinks she's a blooming queen!\" growled Babbitt.) She chanted to Miss\nSonntag, \"Isn't my little studio sweet?\" (\"Studio, rats! It's a plain\nold-maid-and-chow-dog flat! Oh, God, I wish I was home! I wonder if I\ncan't make a getaway now?\")\n\nHis vision grew blurred, however, as he applied himself to Healey\nHanson's raw but vigorous whisky. He blended with the Bunch. He began\nto rejoice that Carrie Nork and Pete, the most nearly intelligent of the\nnimble youths, seemed to like him; and it was enormously important to\nwin over the surly older man, who proved to be a railway clerk named\nFulton Bemis.\n\nThe conversation of the Bunch was exclamatory, high-colored, full of\nreferences to people whom Babbitt did not know. Apparently they thought\nvery comfortably of themselves. They were the Bunch, wise and beautiful\nand amusing; they were Bohemians and urbanites, accustomed to all the\nluxuries of Zenith: dance-halls, movie-theaters, and roadhouses; and\nin a cynical superiority to people who were \"slow\" or \"tightwad\" they\ncackled:\n\n\"Oh, Pete, did I tell you what that dub of a cashier said when I came in\nlate yesterday? Oh, it was per-fect-ly priceless!\"\n\n\"Oh, but wasn't T. D. stewed! Say, he was simply ossified! What did\nGladys say to him?\"\n\n\"Think of the nerve of Bob Bickerstaff trying to get us to come to his\nhouse! Say, the nerve of him! Can you beat it for nerve? Some nerve I\ncall it!\"\n\n\"Did you notice how Dotty was dancing? Gee, wasn't she the limit!\"\n\nBabbitt was to be heard sonorously agreeing with the once-hated Miss\nMinnie Sonntag that persons who let a night go by without dancing to\njazz music were crabs, pikers, and poor fish; and he roared \"You bet!\"\nwhen Mrs. Carrie Nork gurgled, \"Don't you love to sit on the floor? It's\nso Bohemian!\" He began to think extremely well of the Bunch. When he\nmentioned his friends Sir Gerald Doak, Lord Wycombe, William Washington\nEathorne, and Chum Frink, he was proud of their condescending interest.\nHe got so thoroughly into the jocund spirit that he didn't much mind\nseeing Tanis drooping against the shoulder of the youngest and milkiest\nof the young men, and he himself desired to hold Carrie Nork's pulpy\nhand, and dropped it only because Tanis looked angry.\n\nWhen he went home, at two, he was fully a member of the Bunch, and\nall the week thereafter he was bound by the exceedingly straitened\nconventions, the exceedingly wearing demands, of their life of pleasure\nand freedom. He had to go to their parties; he was involved in the\nagitation when everybody telephoned to everybody else that she hadn't\nmeant what she'd said when she'd said that, and anyway, why was Pete\ngoing around saying she'd said it?\n\nNever was a Family more insistent on learning one another's movements\nthan were the Bunch. All of them volubly knew, or indignantly desired\nto know, where all the others had been every minute of the week. Babbitt\nfound himself explaining to Carrie or Fulton Bemis just what he had\nbeen doing that he should not have joined them till ten o'clock, and\napologizing for having gone to dinner with a business acquaintance.\n\nEvery member of the Bunch was expected to telephone to every other\nmember at least once a week. \"Why haven't you called me up?\" Babbitt\nwas asked accusingly, not only by Tanis and Carrie but presently by new\nancient friends, Jennie and Capitolina and Toots.\n\nIf for a moment he had seen Tanis as withering and sentimental, he lost\nthat impression at Carrie Nork's dance. Mrs. Nork had a large house and\na small husband. To her party came all of the Bunch, perhaps thirty-five\nof them when they were completely mobilized. Babbitt, under the name\nof \"Old Georgie,\" was now a pioneer of the Bunch, since each month it\nchanged half its membership and he who could recall the prehistoric days\nof a fortnight ago, before Mrs. Absolom, the food-demonstrator, had\ngone to Indianapolis, and Mac had \"got sore at\" Minnie, was a venerable\nleader and able to condescend to new Petes and Minnies and Gladyses.\n\nAt Carrie's, Tanis did not have to work at being hostess. She was\ndignified and sure, a clear fine figure in the black chiffon frock he\nhad always loved; and in the wider spaces of that ugly house Babbitt was\nable to sit quietly with her. He repented of his first revulsion, mooned\nat her feet, and happily drove her home. Next day he bought a violent\nyellow tie, to make himself young for her. He knew, a little sadly, that\nhe could not make himself beautiful; he beheld himself as heavy, hinting\nof fatness, but he danced, he dressed, he chattered, to be as young as\nshe was . . . as young as she seemed to be.\n\n\nIV\n\nAs all converts, whether to a religion, love, or gardening, find as by\nmagic that though hitherto these hobbies have not seemed to exist, now\nthe whole world is filled with their fury, so, once he was converted\nto dissipation, Babbitt discovered agreeable opportunities for it\neverywhere.\n\nHe had a new view of his sporting neighbor, Sam Doppelbrau. The\nDoppelbraus were respectable people, industrious people, prosperous\npeople, whose ideal of happiness was an eternal cabaret. Their life was\ndominated by suburban bacchanalia of alcohol, nicotine, gasoline, and\nkisses. They and their set worked capably all the week, and all week\nlooked forward to Saturday night, when they would, as they expressed\nit, \"throw a party;\" and the thrown party grew noisier and noisier up to\nSunday dawn, and usually included an extremely rapid motor expedition to\nnowhere in particular.\n\nOne evening when Tanis was at the theater, Babbitt found himself being\nlively with the Doppelbraus, pledging friendship with men whom he\nhad for years privily denounced to Mrs. Babbitt as a \"rotten bunch of\ntin-horns that I wouldn't go out with, rot if they were the last people\non earth.\" That evening he had sulkily come home and poked about in\nfront of the house, chipping off the walk the ice-clots, like fossil\nfootprints, made by the steps of passers-by during the recent snow.\nHoward Littlefield came up snuffling.\n\n\"Still a widower, George?\"\n\n\"Yump. Cold again to-night.\"\n\n\"What do you hear from the wife?\"\n\n\"She's feeling fine, but her sister is still pretty sick.\"\n\n\"Say, better come in and have dinner with us to-night, George.\"\n\n\"Oh--oh, thanks. Have to go out.\"\n\nSuddenly he could not endure Littlefield's recitals of the more\ninteresting statistics about totally uninteresting problems. He scraped\nat the walk and grunted.\n\nSam Doppelbrau appeared.\n\n\"Evenin', Babbitt. Working hard?\"\n\n\"Yuh, lil exercise.\"\n\n\"Cold enough for you to-night?\"\n\n\"Well, just about.\"\n\n\"Still a widower?\"\n\n\"Uh-huh.\"\n\n\"Say, Babbitt, while she's away--I know you don't care much for\nbooze-fights, but the Missus and I'd be awfully glad if you could come\nin some night. Think you could stand a good cocktail for once?\"\n\n\"Stand it? Young fella, I bet old Uncle George can mix the best cocktail\nin these United States!\"\n\n\"Hurray! That's the way to talk! Look here: There's some folks coming\nto the house to-night, Louetta Swanson and some other live ones, and I'm\ngoing to open up a bottle of pre-war gin, and maybe we'll dance a while.\nWhy don't you drop in and jazz it up a little, just for a change?\"\n\n\"Well--What time they coming?\"\n\nHe was at Sam Doppelbrau's at nine. It was the third time he had entered\nthe house. By ten he was calling Mr. Doppelbrau \"Sam, old hoss.\"\n\nAt eleven they all drove out to the Old Farm Inn. Babbitt sat in the\nback of Doppelbrau's car with Louetta Swanson. Once he had timorously\ntried to make love to her. Now he did not try; he merely made love; and\nLouetta dropped her head on his shoulder, told him what a nagger Eddie\nwas, and accepted Babbitt as a decent and well-trained libertine.\n\nWith the assistance of Tanis's Bunch, the Doppelbraus, and other\ncompanions in forgetfulness, there was not an evening for two weeks when\nhe did not return home late and shaky. With his other faculties blurred\nhe yet had the motorist's gift of being able to drive when he could\nscarce walk; of slowing down at corners and allowing for approaching\ncars. He came wambling into the house. If Verona and Kenneth Escott were\nabout, he got past them with a hasty greeting, horribly aware of their\nlevel young glances, and hid himself up-stairs. He found when he came\ninto the warm house that he was hazier than he had believed. His head\nwhirled. He dared not lie down. He tried to soak out the alcohol in a\nhot bath. For the moment his head was clearer but when he moved about\nthe bathroom his calculations of distance were wrong, so that he dragged\ndown the towels, and knocked over the soap-dish with a clatter which, he\nfeared, would betray him to the children. Chilly in his dressing-gown he\ntried to read the evening paper. He could follow every word; he seemed\nto take in the sense of things; but a minute afterward he could not have\ntold what he had been reading. When he went to bed his brain flew in\ncircles, and he hastily sat up, struggling for self-control. At last\nhe was able to lie still, feeling only a little sick and dizzy--and\nenormously ashamed. To hide his \"condition\" from his own children!\nTo have danced and shouted with people whom he despised! To have\nsaid foolish things, sung idiotic songs, tried to kiss silly girls!\nIncredulously he remembered that he had by his roaring familiarity with\nthem laid himself open to the patronizing of youths whom he would have\nkicked out of his office; that by dancing too ardently he had exposed\nhimself to rebukes from the rattiest of withering women. As it came\nrelentlessly back to him he snarled, \"I hate myself! God how I hate\nmyself!\" But, he raged, \"I'm through! No more! Had enough, plenty!\"\n\nHe was even surer about it the morning after, when he was trying to be\ngrave and paternal with his daughters at breakfast. At noontime he was\nless sure. He did not deny that he had been a fool; he saw it almost\nas clearly as at midnight; but anything, he struggled, was better than\ngoing back to a life of barren heartiness. At four he wanted a drink. He\nkept a whisky flask in his desk now, and after two minutes of battle he\nhad his drink. Three drinks later he began to see the Bunch as tender\nand amusing friends, and by six he was with them . . . and the tale was\nto be told all over.\n\nEach morning his head ached a little less. A bad head for drinks had\nbeen his safeguard, but the safeguard was crumbling. Presently he\ncould be drunk at dawn, yet not feel particularly wretched in his\nconscience--or in his stomach--when he awoke at eight. No regret, no\ndesire to escape the toil of keeping up with the arduous merriment of\nthe Bunch, was so great as his feeling of social inferiority when he\nfailed to keep up. To be the \"livest\" of them was as much his ambition\nnow as it had been to excel at making money, at playing golf, at\nmotor-driving, at oratory, at climbing to the McKelvey set. But\noccasionally he failed.\n\nHe found that Pete and the other young men considered the Bunch too\nausterely polite and the Carrie who merely kissed behind doors too\nembarrassingly monogamic. As Babbitt sneaked from Floral Heights down\nto the Bunch, so the young gallants sneaked from the proprieties of the\nBunch off to \"times\" with bouncing young women whom they picked up\nin department stores and at hotel coatrooms. Once Babbitt tried to\naccompany them. There was a motor car, a bottle of whisky, and for him\na grubby shrieking cash-girl from Parcher and Stein's. He sat beside her\nand worried. He was apparently expected to \"jolly her along,\" but when\nshe sang out, \"Hey, leggo, quit crushing me cootie-garage,\" he did not\nquite know how to go on. They sat in the back room of a saloon, and\nBabbitt had a headache, was confused by their new slang looked at them\nbenevolently, wanted to go home, and had a drink--a good many drinks.\n\nTwo evenings after, Fulton Bemis, the surly older man of the Bunch, took\nBabbitt aside and grunted, \"Look here, it's none of my business, and God\nknows I always lap up my share of the hootch, but don't you think you\nbetter watch yourself? You're one of these enthusiastic chumps that\nalways overdo things. D' you realize you're throwing in the booze as\nfast as you can, and you eat one cigarette right after another? Better\ncut it out for a while.\"\n\nBabbitt tearfully said that good old Fult was a prince, and yes, he\ncertainly would cut it out, and thereafter he lighted a cigarette and\ntook a drink and had a terrific quarrel with Tanis when she caught him\nbeing affectionate with Carrie Nork.\n\nNext morning he hated himself that he should have sunk into a position\nwhere a fifteenth-rater like Fulton Bemis could rebuke him. He perceived\nthat, since he was making love to every woman possible, Tanis was no\nlonger his one pure star, and he wondered whether she had ever been\nanything more to him than A Woman. And if Bemis had spoken to him, were\nother people talking about him? He suspiciously watched the men at the\nAthletic Club that noon. It seemed to him that they were uneasy. They\nhad been talking about him then? He was angry. He became belligerent.\nHe not only defended Seneca Doane but even made fun of the Y. M. C. A,\nVergil Gunch was rather brief in his answers.\n\nAfterward Babbitt was not angry. He was afraid. He did not go to the\nnext lunch of the Boosters' Club but hid in a cheap restaurant, and,\nwhile he munched a ham-and-egg sandwich and sipped coffee from a cup on\nthe arm of his chair, he worried.\n\nFour days later, when the Bunch were having one of their best parties,\nBabbitt drove them to the skating-rink which had been laid out on the\nChaloosa River. After a thaw the streets had frozen in smooth ice. Down\nthose wide endless streets the wind rattled between the rows of wooden\nhouses, and the whole Bellevue district seemed a frontier town. Even\nwith skid chains on all four wheels, Babbitt was afraid of sliding, and\nwhen he came to the long slide of a hill he crawled down, both brakes\non. Slewing round a corner came a less cautious car. It skidded, it\nalmost raked them with its rear fenders. In relief at their escape the\nBunch--Tanis, Minnie Sonntag, Pete, Fulton Bemis--shouted \"Oh, baby,\"\nand waved their hands to the agitated other driver. Then Babbitt saw\nProfessor Pumphrey laboriously crawling up hill, afoot, Staring owlishly\nat the revelers. He was sure that Pumphrey recognized him and saw Tanis\nkiss him as she crowed, \"You're such a good driver!\"\n\nAt lunch next day he probed Pumphrey with \"Out last night with my\nbrother and some friends of his. Gosh, what driving! Slippery 's glass.\nThought I saw you hiking up the Bellevue Avenue Hill.\"\n\n\"No, I wasn't--I didn't see you,\" said Pumphrey, hastily, rather\nguiltily.\n\nPerhaps two days afterward Babbitt took Tanis to lunch at the Hotel\nThornleigh. She who had seemed well content to wait for him at her flat\nhad begun to hint with melancholy smiles that he must think but little\nof her if he never introduced her to his friends, if he was unwilling to\nbe seen with her except at the movies. He thought of taking her to the\n\"ladies' annex\" of the Athletic Club, but that was too dangerous. He\nwould have to introduce her and, oh, people might misunderstand and--He\ncompromised on the Thornleigh.\n\nShe was unusually smart, all in black: small black tricorne hat, short\nblack caracul coat, loose and swinging, and austere high-necked black\nvelvet frock at a time when most street costumes were like evening\ngowns. Perhaps she was too smart. Every one in the gold and oak\nrestaurant of the Thornleigh was staring at her as Babbitt followed her\nto a table. He uneasily hoped that the head-waiter would give them a\ndiscreet place behind a pillar, but they were stationed on the center\naisle. Tanis seemed not to notice her admirers; she smiled at Babbitt\nwith a lavish \"Oh, isn't this nice! What a peppy-looking orchestra!\"\nBabbitt had difficulty in being lavish in return, for two tables away he\nsaw Vergil Gunch. All through the meal Gunch watched them, while Babbitt\nwatched himself being watched and lugubriously tried to keep from\nspoiling Tanis's gaiety. \"I felt like a spree to-day,\" she rippled. \"I\nlove the Thornleigh, don't you? It's so live and yet so--so refined.\"\n\nHe made talk about the Thornleigh, the service, the food, the people he\nrecognized in the restaurant, all but Vergil Gunch. There did not\nseem to be anything else to talk of. He smiled conscientiously at her\nfluttering jests; he agreed with her that Minnie Sonntag was \"so hard to\nget along with,\" and young Pete \"such a silly lazy kid, really just no\ngood at all.\" But he himself had nothing to say. He considered telling\nher his worries about Gunch, but--\"oh, gosh, it was too much work to go\ninto the whole thing and explain about Verg and everything.\"\n\nHe was relieved when he put Tanis on a trolley; he was cheerful in the\nfamiliar simplicities of his office.\n\nAt four o'clock Vergil Gunch called on him.\n\nBabbitt was agitated, but Gunch began in a friendly way:\n\n\"How's the boy? Say, some of us are getting up a scheme we'd kind of\nlike to have you come in on.\"\n\n\"Fine, Verg. Shoot.\"\n\n\"You know during the war we had the Undesirable Element, the Reds and\nwalking delegates and just the plain common grouches, dead to rights,\nand so did we for quite a while after the war, but folks forget about\nthe danger and that gives these cranks a chance to begin working\nunderground again, especially a lot of these parlor socialists. Well,\nit's up to the folks that do a little sound thinking to make a conscious\neffort to keep bucking these fellows. Some guy back East has organized\na society called the Good Citizens' League for just that purpose. Of\ncourse the Chamber of Commerce and the American Legion and so on do\na fine work in keeping the decent people in the saddle, but they're\ndevoted to so many other causes that they can't attend to this one\nproblem properly. But the Good Citizens' League, the G. C. L., they\nstick right to it. Oh, the G. C. L. has to have some other ostensible\npurposes--frinstance here in Zenith I think it ought to support the\npark-extension project and the City Planning Committee--and then, too,\nit should have a social aspect, being made up of the best people--have\ndances and so on, especially as one of the best ways it can put the\nkibosh on cranks is to apply this social boycott business to folks big\nenough so you can't reach 'em otherwise. Then if that don't work, the G.\nC. L. can finally send a little delegation around to inform folks that\nget too flip that they got to conform to decent standards and quit\nshooting off their mouths so free. Don't it sound like the organization\ncould do a great work? We've already got some of the strongest men in\ntown, and of course we want you in. How about it?\"\n\nBabbitt was uncomfortable. He felt a compulsion back to all the\nstandards he had so vaguely yet so desperately been fleeing. He fumbled:\n\n\"I suppose you'd especially light on fellows like Seneca Doane and try\nto make 'em--\"\n\n\"You bet your sweet life we would! Look here, old Georgie: I've never\nfor one moment believed you meant it when you've defended Doane, and the\nstrikers and so on, at the Club. I knew you were simply kidding those\npoor galoots like Sid Finkelstein.... At least I certainly hope you were\nkidding!\"\n\n\"Oh, well--sure--Course you might say--\" Babbitt was conscious of how\nfeeble he sounded, conscious of Gunch's mature and relentless eye.\n\"Gosh, you know where I stand! I'm no labor agitator! I'm a business\nman, first, last, and all the time! But--but honestly, I don't think\nDoane means so badly, and you got to remember he's an old friend of\nmine.\"\n\n\"George, when it comes right down to a struggle between decency and the\nsecurity of our homes on the one hand, and red ruin and those lazy\ndogs plotting for free beer on the other, you got to give up even old\nfriendships. 'He that is not with me is against me.'\"\n\n\"Ye-es, I suppose--\"\n\n\"How about it? Going to join us in the Good Citizens' League?\"\n\n\"I'll have to think it over, Verg.\"\n\n\"All right, just as you say.\" Babbitt was relieved to be let off so\neasily, but Gunch went on: \"George, I don't know what's come over you;\nnone of us do; and we've talked a lot about you. For a while we figured\nout you'd been upset by what happened to poor Riesling, and we forgave\nyou for any fool thing you said, but that's old stuff now, George, and\nwe can't make out what's got into you. Personally, I've always defended\nyou, but I must say it's getting too much for me. All the boys at the\nAthletic Club and the Boosters' are sore, the way you go on deliberately\ntouting Doane and his bunch of hell-hounds, and talking about being\nliberal--which means being wishy-washy--and even saying this preacher\nguy Ingram isn't a professional free-love artist. And then the way you\nbeen carrying on personally! Joe Pumphrey says he saw you out the other\nnight with a gang of totties, all stewed to the gills, and here to-day\ncoming right into the Thornleigh with a--well, she may be all right and\na perfect lady, but she certainly did look like a pretty gay skirt for\na fellow with his wife out of town to be taking to lunch. Didn't look\nwell. What the devil has come over you, George?\"\n\n\"Strikes me there's a lot of fellows that know more about my personal\nbusiness than I do myself!\"\n\n\"Now don't go getting sore at me because I come out flatfooted like a\nfriend and say what I think instead of tattling behind your back, the\nway a whole lot of 'em do. I tell you George, you got a position in the\ncommunity, and the community expects you to live up to it. And--Better\nthink over joining the Good Citizens' League. See you about it later.\"\n\nHe was gone.\n\nThat evening Babbitt dined alone. He saw all the Clan of Good Fellows\npeering through the restaurant window, spying on him. Fear sat beside\nhim, and he told himself that to-night he would not go to Tanis's flat;\nand he did not go . . . till late.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nI\n\nTHE summer before, Mrs. Babbitt's letters had crackled with desire to\nreturn to Zenith. Now they said nothing of returning, but a wistful\n\"I suppose everything is going on all right without me\" among her dry\nchronicles of weather and sicknesses hinted to Babbitt that he hadn't\nbeen very urgent about her coming. He worried it:\n\n\"If she were here, and I went on raising cain like I been doing, she'd\nhave a fit. I got to get hold of myself. I got to learn to play around\nand yet not make a fool of myself. I can do it, too, if folks like\nVerg Gunch 'll let me alone, and Myra 'll stay away. But--poor kid, she\nsounds lonely. Lord, I don't want to hurt her!\"\n\nImpulsively he wrote that they missed her, and her next letter said\nhappily that she was coming home.\n\nHe persuaded himself that he was eager to see her. He bought roses\nfor the house, he ordered squab for dinner, he had the car cleaned and\npolished. All the way home from the station with her he was adequate\nin his accounts of Ted's success in basket-ball at the university, but\nbefore they reached Floral Heights there was nothing more to say, and\nalready he felt the force of her stolidity, wondered whether he could\nremain a good husband and still sneak out of the house this evening for\nhalf an hour with the Bunch. When he had housed the car he blundered\nupstairs, into the familiar talcum-scented warmth of her presence,\nblaring, \"Help you unpack your bag?\"\n\n\"No, I can do it.\"\n\nSlowly she turned, holding up a small box, and slowly she said, \"I\nbrought you a present, just a new cigar-case. I don't know if you'd care\nto have it--\"\n\nShe was the lonely girl, the brown appealing Myra Thompson, whom he had\nmarried, and he almost wept for pity as he kissed her and besought,\n\"Oh, honey, honey, CARE to have it? Of course I do! I'm awful proud you\nbrought it to me. And I needed a new case badly.\"\n\nHe wondered how he would get rid of the case he had bought the week\nbefore.\n\n\"And you really are glad to see me back?\"\n\n\"Why, you poor kiddy, what you been worrying about?\"\n\n\"Well, you didn't seem to miss me very much.\"\n\nBy the time he had finished his stint of lying they were firmly bound\nagain. By ten that evening it seemed improbable that she had ever\nbeen away. There was but one difference: the problem of remaining a\nrespectable husband, a Floral Heights husband, yet seeing Tanis and\nthe Bunch with frequency. He had promised to telephone to Tanis that\nevening, and now it was melodramatically impossible. He prowled about\nthe telephone, impulsively thrusting out a hand to lift the receiver,\nbut never quite daring to risk it. Nor could he find a reason\nfor slipping down to the drug store on Smith Street, with its\ntelephone-booth. He was laden with responsibility till he threw it off\nwith the speculation: \"Why the deuce should I fret so about not being\nable to 'phone Tanis? She can get along without me. I don't owe her\nanything. She's a fine girl, but I've given her just as much as she has\nme. . . . Oh, damn these women and the way they get you all tied up in\ncomplications!\"\n\n\nII\n\nFor a week he was attentive to his wife, took her to the theater, to\ndinner at the Littlefields'; then the old weary dodging and shifting\nbegan and at least two evenings a week he spent with the Bunch. He still\nmade pretense of going to the Elks and to committee-meetings but less\nand less did he trouble to have his excuses interesting, less and less\ndid she affect to believe them. He was certain that she knew he was\nassociating with what Floral Heights called \"a sporty crowd,\" yet\nneither of them acknowledged it. In matrimonial geography the distance\nbetween the first mute recognition of a break and the admission thereof\nis as great as the distance between the first naive faith and the first\ndoubting.\n\nAs he began to drift away he also began to see her as a human being, to\nlike and dislike her instead of accepting her as a comparatively movable\npart of the furniture, and he compassionated that husband-and-wife\nrelation which, in twenty-five years of married life, had become a\nseparate and real entity. He recalled their high lights the summer\nvacation in Virginia meadows under the blue wall of the mountains; their\nmotor tour through Ohio, and the exploration of Cleveland, Cincinnati,\nand Columbus; the birth of Verona; their building of this new house,\nplanned to comfort them through a happy old age--chokingly they had said\nthat it might be the last home either of them would ever have. Yet his\nmost softening remembrance of these dear moments did not keep him from\nbarking at dinner, \"Yep, going out f' few hours. Don't sit up for me.\"\n\nHe did not dare now to come home drunk, and though he rejoiced in his\nreturn to high morality and spoke with gravity to Pete and Fulton Bemis\nabout their drinking, he prickled at Myra's unexpressed criticisms and\nsulkily meditated that a \"fellow couldn't ever learn to handle himself\nif he was always bossed by a lot of women.\"\n\nHe no longer wondered if Tanis wasn't a bit worn and sentimental. In\ncontrast to the complacent Myra he saw her as swift and air-borne and\nradiant, a fire-spirit tenderly stooping to the hearth, and however\npitifully he brooded on his wife, he longed to be with Tanis.\n\nThen Mrs. Babbitt tore the decent cloak from her unhappiness and\nthe astounded male discovered that she was having a small determined\nrebellion of her own.\n\n\nIII\n\nThey were beside the fireless fire-place, in the evening.\n\n\"Georgie,\" she said, \"you haven't given me the list of your household\nexpenses while I was away.\"\n\n\"No, I--Haven't made it out yet.\" Very affably: \"Gosh, we must try to\nkeep down expenses this year.\"\n\n\"That's so. I don't know where all the money goes to. I try to\neconomize, but it just seems to evaporate.\"\n\n\"I suppose I oughtn't to spend so much on cigars. Don't know but what\nI'll cut down my smoking, maybe cut it out entirely. I was thinking of\na good way to do it, the other day: start on these cubeb cigarettes, and\nthey'd kind of disgust me with smoking.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do wish you would! It isn't that I care, but honestly, George, it\nis so bad for you to smoke so much. Don't you think you could reduce the\namount? And George--I notice now, when you come home from these lodges\nand all, that sometimes you smell of whisky. Dearie, you know I don't\nworry so much about the moral side of it, but you have a weak stomach\nand you can't stand all this drinking.\"\n\n\"Weak stomach, hell! I guess I can carry my booze about as well as most\nfolks!\"\n\n\"Well, I do think you ought to be careful. Don't you see, dear, I don't\nwant you to get sick.\"\n\n\"Sick rats! I'm not a baby! I guess I ain't going to get sick just\nbecause maybe once a week I shoot a highball! That's the trouble with\nwomen. They always exaggerate so.\"\n\n\"George, I don't think you ought to talk that way when I'm just speaking\nfor your own good.\"\n\n\"I know, but gosh all fishhooks, that's the trouble with women! They're\nalways criticizing and commenting and bringing things up, and then they\nsay it's 'for your own good'!\"\n\n\"Why, George, that's not a nice way to talk, to answer me so short.\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't mean to answer short, but gosh, talking as if I was a\nkindergarten brat, not able to tote one highball without calling for the\nSt. Mary's ambulance! A fine idea you must have of me!\"\n\n\"Oh, it isn't that; it's just--I don't want to see you get sick and--My,\nI didn't know it was so late! Don't forget to give me those household\naccounts for the time while I was away.\"\n\n\"Oh, thunder, what's the use of taking the trouble to make 'em out now?\nLet's just skip 'em for that period.\"\n\n\"Why, George Babbitt, in all the years we've been married we've never\nfailed to keep a complete account of every penny we've spent!\"\n\n\"No. Maybe that's the trouble with us.\"\n\n\"What in the world do you mean?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't mean anything, only--Sometimes I get so darn sick and tired\nof all this routine and the accounting at the office and expenses\nat home and fussing and stewing and fretting and wearing myself out\nworrying over a lot of junk that doesn't really mean a doggone thing,\nand being so careful and--Good Lord, what do you think I'm made for?\nI could have been a darn good orator, and here I fuss and fret and\nworry--\"\n\n\"Don't you suppose I ever get tired of fussing? I get so bored with\nordering three meals a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year,\nand ruining my eyes over that horrid sewing-machine, and looking after\nyour clothes and Rone's and Ted's and Tinka's and everybody's, and\nthe laundry, and darning socks, and going down to the Piggly Wiggly to\nmarket, and bringing my basket home to save money on the cash-and-carry\nand--EVERYTHING!\"\n\n\"Well, gosh,\" with a certain astonishment, \"I suppose maybe you do! But\ntalk about--Here I have to be in the office every single day, while you\ncan go out all afternoon and see folks and visit with the neighbors and\ndo any blinkin' thing you want to!\"\n\n\"Yes, and a fine lot of good that does me! Just talking over the\nsame old things with the same old crowd, while you have all sorts of\ninteresting people coming in to see you at the office.\"\n\n\"Interesting! Cranky old dames that want to know why I haven't rented\ntheir dear precious homes for about seven times their value, and bunch\nof old crabs panning the everlasting daylights out of me because they\ndon't receive every cent of their rentals by three G.M. on the second of\nthe month! Sure! Interesting! Just as interesting as the small pox!\"\n\n\"Now, George, I will not have you shouting at me that way!\"\n\n\"Well, it gets my goat the way women figure out that a man doesn't do a\ndarn thing but sit on his chair and have lovey-dovey conferences with a\nlot of classy dames and give 'em the glad eye!\"\n\n\"I guess you manage to give them a glad enough eye when they do come\nin.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? Mean I'm chasing flappers?\"\n\n\"I should hope not--at your age!\"\n\n\"Now you look here! You may not believe it--Of course all you see is\nfat little Georgie Babbitt. Sure! Handy man around the house! Fixes the\nfurnace when the furnace-man doesn't show up, and pays the bills, but\ndull, awful dull! Well, you may not believe it, but there's some women\nthat think old George Babbitt isn't such a bad scout! They think he's\nnot so bad-looking, not so bad that it hurts anyway, and he's got a\npretty good line of guff, and some even think he shakes a darn wicked\nWalkover at dancing!\"\n\n\"Yes.\" She spoke slowly. \"I haven't much doubt that when I'm away you\nmanage to find people who properly appreciate you.\"\n\n\"Well, I just mean--\" he protested, with a sound of denial. Then he was\nangered into semi-honesty. \"You bet I do! I find plenty of folks, and\ndoggone nice ones, that don't think I'm a weak-stomached baby!\"\n\n\"That's exactly what I was saying! You can run around with anybody you\nplease, but I'm supposed to sit here and wait for you. You have the\nchance to get all sorts of culture and everything, and I just stay\nhome--\"\n\n\"Well, gosh almighty, there's nothing to prevent your reading books and\ngoing to lectures and all that junk, is there?\"\n\n\"George, I told you, I won't have you shouting at me like that! I don't\nknow what's come over you. You never used to speak to me in this cranky\nway.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean to sound cranky, but gosh, it certainly makes me sore to\nget the blame because you don't keep up with things.\"\n\n\"I'm going to! Will you help me?\"\n\n\"Sure. Anything I can do to help you in the culture-grabbing line--yours\nto oblige, G. F. Babbitt.\"\n\n\"Very well then, I want you to go to Mrs. Mudge's New Thought meeting\nwith me, next Sunday afternoon.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Who's which?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Opal Emerson Mudge. The field-lecturer for the American New\nThought League. She's going to speak on 'Cultivating the Sun Spirit'\nbefore the League of the Higher Illumination, at the Thornleigh.\"\n\n\"Oh, punk! New Thought! Hashed thought with a poached egg! 'Cultivating\nthe--' It sounds like 'Why is a mouse when it spins?' That's a fine\nspiel for a good Presbyterian to be going to, when you can hear Doc\nDrew!\"\n\n\"Reverend Drew is a scholar and a pulpit orator and all that, but he\nhasn't got the Inner Ferment, as Mrs. Mudge calls it; he hasn't any\ninspiration for the New Era. Women need inspiration now. So I want you\nto come, as you promised.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nThe Zenith branch of the League of the Higher Illumination met in the\nsmaller ballroom at the Hotel Thornleigh, a refined apartment with pale\ngreen walls and plaster wreaths of roses, refined parquet flooring, and\nultra-refined frail gilt chairs. Here were gathered sixty-five women and\nten men. Most of the men slouched in their chairs and wriggled, while\ntheir wives sat rigidly at attention, but two of them--red-necked, meaty\nmen--were as respectably devout as their wives. They were newly rich\ncontractors who, having bought houses, motors, hand-painted pictures,\nand gentlemanliness, were now buying a refined ready-made philosophy.\nIt had been a toss-up with them whether to buy New Thought, Christian\nScience, or a good standard high-church model of Episcopalianism.\n\nIn the flesh, Mrs. Opal Emerson Mudge fell somewhat short of a prophetic\naspect. She was pony-built and plump, with the face of a haughty\nPekingese, a button of a nose, and arms so short that, despite her most\nindignant endeavors, she could not clasp her hands in front of her as\nshe sat on the platform waiting. Her frock of taffeta and green velvet,\nwith three strings of glass beads, and large folding eye-glasses\ndangling from a black ribbon, was a triumph of refinement.\n\nMrs. Mudge was introduced by the president of the League of the Higher\nIllumination, an oldish young woman with a yearning voice, white spats,\nand a mustache. She said that Mrs. Mudge would now make it plain to the\nsimplest intellect how the Sun Spirit could be cultivated, and they who\nhad been thinking about cultivating one would do well to treasure Mrs.\nMudge's words, because even Zenith (and everybody knew that Zenith stood\nin the van of spiritual and New Thought progress) didn't often have\nthe opportunity to sit at the feet of such an inspiring Optimist and\nMetaphysical Seer as Mrs. Opal Emerson Mudge, who had lived the Life of\nWider Usefulness through Concentration, and in the Silence found those\nSecrets of Mental Control and the Inner Key which were immediately\ngoing to transform and bring Peace, Power, and Prosperity to the unhappy\nnations; and so, friends, would they for this precious gem-studded hour\nforget the Illusions of the Seeming Real, and in the actualization of\nthe deep-lying Veritas pass, along with Mrs. Opal Emerson Mudge, to the\nRealm Beautiful.\n\nIf Mrs. Mudge was rather pudgier than one would like one's swamis,\nyogis, seers, and initiates, yet her voice had the real professional\nnote. It was refined and optimistic; it was overpoweringly calm; it\nflowed on relentlessly, without one comma, till Babbitt was hypnotized.\nHer favorite word was \"always,\" which she pronounced olllllle-ways. Her\nprincipal gesture was a pontifical but thoroughly ladylike blessing with\ntwo stubby fingers.\n\nShe explained about this matter of Spiritual Saturation:\n\n\"There are those--\"\n\nOf \"those\" she made a linked sweetness long drawn out; a far-off\ndelicate call in a twilight minor. It chastely rebuked the restless\nhusbands, yet brought them a message of healing.\n\n\"There are those who have seen the rim and outer seeming of the logos\nthere are those who have glimpsed and in enthusiasm possessed themselves\nof some segment and portion of the Logos there are those who thus\nflicked but not penetrated and radioactivated by the Dynamis go always\nto and fro assertative that they possess and are possessed of the Logos\nand the Metaphysikos but this word I bring you this concept I enlarge\nthat those that are not utter are not even inceptive and that holiness\nis in its definitive essence always always always whole-iness and--\"\n\nIt proved that the Essence of the Sun Spirit was Truth, but its Aura and\nEffluxion were Cheerfulness:\n\n\"Face always the day with the dawn-laugh with the enthusiasm of the\ninitiate who perceives that all works together in the revolutions of\nthe Wheel and who answers the strictures of the Soured Souls of the\nDestructionists with a Glad Affirmation--\"\n\nIt went on for about an hour and seven minutes.\n\nAt the end Mrs. Mudge spoke with more vigor and punctuation:\n\n\"Now let me suggest to all of you the advantages of the Theosophical and\nPantheistic Oriental Reading Circle, which I represent. Our object is to\nunite all the manifestations of the New Era into one cohesive whole--New\nThought, Christian Science, Theosophy, Vedanta, Bahaism, and the other\nsparks from the one New Light. The subscription is but ten dollars\na year, and for this mere pittance the members receive not only the\nmonthly magazine, Pearls of Healing, but the privilege of sending right\nto the president, our revered Mother Dobbs, any questions regarding\nspiritual progress, matrimonial problems, health and well-being\nquestions, financial difficulties, and--\"\n\nThey listened to her with adoring attention. They looked genteel. They\nlooked ironed-out. They coughed politely, and crossed their legs with\nquietness, and in expensive linen handkerchiefs they blew their noses\nwith a delicacy altogether optimistic and refined.\n\nAs for Babbitt, he sat and suffered.\n\nWhen they were blessedly out in the air again, when they drove home\nthrough a wind smelling of snow and honest sun, he dared not speak. They\nhad been too near to quarreling, these days. Mrs. Babbitt forced it:\n\n\"Did you enjoy Mrs. Mudge's talk?\"\n\n\"Well I--What did you get out of it?\"\n\n\"Oh, it starts a person thinking. It gets you out of a routine of\nordinary thoughts.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll hand it to Opal she isn't ordinary, but gosh--Honest, did\nthat stuff mean anything to you?\"\n\n\"Of course I'm not trained in metaphysics, and there was lots I couldn't\nquite grasp, but I did feel it was inspiring. And she speaks so readily.\nI do think you ought to have got something out of it.\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't! I swear, I was simply astonished, the way those women\nlapped it up! Why the dickens they want to put in their time listening\nto all that blaa when they--\"\n\n\"It's certainly better for them than going to roadhouses and smoking and\ndrinking!\"\n\n\"I don't know whether it is or not! Personally I don't see a whole\nlot of difference. In both cases they're trying to get away from\nthemselves--most everybody is, these days, I guess. And I'd certainly\nget a whole lot more out of hoofing it in a good lively dance, even\nin some dive, than sitting looking as if my collar was too tight, and\nfeeling too scared to spit, and listening to Opal chewing her words.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you do! You're very fond of dives. No doubt you saw a lot of\nthem while I was away!\"\n\n\"Look here! You been doing a hell of a lot of insinuating and hinting\naround lately, as if I were leading a double life or something, and I'm\ndamn sick of it, and I don't want to hear anything more about it!\"\n\n\"Why, George Babbitt! Do you realize what you're saying? Why, George, in\nall our years together you've never talked to me like that!\"\n\n\"It's about time then!\"\n\n\"Lately you've been getting worse and worse, and now, finally, you're\ncursing and swearing at me and shouting at me, and your voice so ugly\nand hateful--I just shudder!\"\n\n\"Oh, rats, quit exaggerating! I wasn't shouting, or swearing either.\"\n\n\"I wish you could hear your own voice! Maybe you don't realize how\nit sounds. But even so--You never used to talk like that. You simply\nCOULDN'T talk this way if something dreadful hadn't happened to you.\"\n\nHis mind was hard. With amazement he found that he wasn't particularly\nsorry. It was only with an effort that he made himself more agreeable:\n\"Well, gosh, I didn't mean to get sore.\"\n\n\"George, do you realize that we can't go on like this, getting farther\nand farther apart, and you ruder and ruder to me? I just don't know\nwhat's going to happen.\"\n\nHe had a moment's pity for her bewilderment; he thought of how many\ndeep and tender things would be hurt if they really \"couldn't go on like\nthis.\" But his pity was impersonal, and he was wondering, \"Wouldn't it\nmaybe be a good thing if--Not a divorce and all that, o' course, but\nkind of a little more independence?\"\n\nWhile she looked at him pleadingly he drove on in a dreadful silence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nI\n\nWHEN he was away from her, while he kicked about the garage and swept\nthe snow off the running-board and examined a cracked hose-connection,\nhe repented, he was alarmed and astonished that he could have flared out\nat his wife, and thought fondly how much more lasting she was than the\nflighty Bunch. He went in to mumble that he was \"sorry, didn't mean to\nbe grouchy,\" and to inquire as to her interest in movies. But in the\ndarkness of the movie theater he brooded that he'd \"gone and tied\nhimself up to Myra all over again.\" He had some satisfaction in taking\nit out on Tanis Judique. \"Hang Tanis anyway! Why'd she gone and got him\ninto these mix-ups and made him all jumpy and nervous and cranky? Too\nmany complications! Cut 'em out!\"\n\nHe wanted peace. For ten days he did not see Tanis nor telephone to her,\nand instantly she put upon him the compulsion which he hated. When\nhe had stayed away from her for five days, hourly taking pride in his\nresoluteness and hourly picturing how greatly Tanis must miss him, Miss\nMcGoun reported, \"Mrs. Judique on the 'phone. Like t' speak t' you 'bout\nsome repairs.\"\n\nTanis was quick and quiet:\n\n\"Mr. Babbitt? Oh, George, this is Tanis. I haven't seen you for\nweeks--days, anyway. You aren't sick, are you?\"\n\n\"No, just been terribly rushed. I, uh, I think there'll be a big revival\nof building this year. Got to, uh, got to work hard.\"\n\n\"Of course, my man! I want you to. You know I'm terribly ambitious for\nyou; much more than I am for myself. I just don't want you to forget\npoor Tanis. Will you call me up soon?\"\n\n\"Sure! Sure! You bet!\"\n\n\"Please do. I sha'n't call you again.\"\n\nHe meditated, \"Poor kid! . . . But gosh, she oughtn't to 'phone me at\nthe office.... She's a wonder--sympathy 'ambitious for me.' . . . But\ngosh, I won't be made and compelled to call her up till I get ready.\nDarn these women, the way they make demands! It'll be one long old time\nbefore I see her! . . . But gosh, I'd like to see her to-night--sweet\nlittle thing.... Oh, cut that, son! Now you've broken away, be wise!\"\n\nShe did not telephone again, nor he, but after five more days she wrote\nto him:\n\n\nHave I offended you? You must know, dear, I didn't mean to. I'm so\nlonely and I need somebody to cheer me up. Why didn't you come to the\nnice party we had at Carrie's last evening I remember she invited you.\nCan't you come around here to-morrow Thur evening? I shall be alone and\nhope to see you.\n\n\nHis reflections were numerous:\n\n\"Doggone it, why can't she let me alone? Why can't women ever learn a\nfellow hates to be bulldozed? And they always take advantage of you by\nyelling how lonely they are.\n\n\"Now that isn't nice of you, young fella. She's a fine, square, straight\ngirl, and she does get lonely. She writes a swell hand. Nice-looking\nstationery. Plain. Refined. I guess I'll have to go see her. Well, thank\nGod, I got till to-morrow night free of her, anyway.\n\n\"She's nice but--Hang it, I won't be MADE to do things! I'm not married\nto her. No, nor by golly going to be!\n\n\"Oh, rats, I suppose I better go see her.\"\n\n\nII\n\nThursday, the to-morrow of Tanis's note, was full of emotional crises.\nAt the Roughnecks' Table at the club, Verg Gunch talked of the Good\nCitizens' League and (it seemed to Babbitt) deliberately left him out\nof the invitations to join. Old Mat Penniman, the general utility man\nat Babbitt's office, had Troubles, and came in to groan about them: his\noldest boy was \"no good,\" his wife was sick, and he had quarreled with\nhis brother-in-law. Conrad Lyte also had Troubles, and since Lyte was\none of his best clients, Babbitt had to listen to them. Mr. Lyte, it\nappeared, was suffering from a peculiarly interesting neuralgia, and\nthe garage had overcharged him. When Babbitt came home, everybody had\nTroubles: his wife was simultaneously thinking about discharging the\nimpudent new maid, and worried lest the maid leave; and Tinka desired to\ndenounce her teacher.\n\n\"Oh, quit fussing!\" Babbitt fussed. \"You never hear me whining about my\nTroubles, and yet if you had to run a real-estate office--Why, to-day I\nfound Miss Bannigan was two days behind with her accounts, and I pinched\nmy finger in my desk, and Lyte was in and just as unreasonable as ever.\"\n\nHe was so vexed that after dinner, when it was time for a tactful escape\nto Tanis, he merely grumped to his wife, \"Got to go out. Be back by\neleven, should think.\"\n\n\"Oh! You're going out again?\"\n\n\"Again! What do you mean 'again'! Haven't hardly been out of the house\nfor a week!\"\n\n\"Are you--are you going to the Elks?\"\n\n\"Nope. Got to see some people.\"\n\nThough this time he heard his own voice and knew that it was curt,\nthough she was looking at him with wide-eyed reproach, he stumped into\nthe hall, jerked on his ulster and furlined gloves, and went out to\nstart the car.\n\nHe was relieved to find Tanis cheerful, unreproachful, and brilliant in\na frock of brown net over gold tissue. \"You poor man, having to come\nout on a night like this! It's terribly cold. Don't you think a small\nhighball would be nice?\"\n\n\"Now, by golly, there's a woman with savvy! I think we could more or\nless stand a highball if it wasn't too long a one--not over a foot\ntall!\"\n\nHe kissed her with careless heartiness, he forgot the compulsion of her\ndemands, he stretched in a large chair and felt that he had beautifully\ncome home. He was suddenly loquacious; he told her what a noble and\nmisunderstood man he was, and how superior to Pete, Fulton Bemis, and\nthe other men of their acquaintance; and she, bending forward, chin\nin charming hand, brightly agreed. But when he forced himself to\nask, \"Well, honey, how's things with YOU,\" she took his duty-question\nseriously, and he discovered that she too had Troubles:\n\n\"Oh, all right but--I did get so angry with Carrie. She told Minnie that\nI told her that Minnie was an awful tightwad, and Minnie told me Carrie\nhad told her, and of course I told her I hadn't said anything of the\nkind, and then Carrie found Minnie had told me, and she was simply\nfurious because Minnie had told me, and of course I was just boiling\nbecause Carrie had told her I'd told her, and then we all met up at\nFulton's--his wife is away--thank heavens!--oh, there's the dandiest\nfloor in his house to dance on--and we were all of us simply furious\nat each other and--Oh, I do hate that kind of a mix-up, don't you? I\nmean--it's so lacking in refinement, but--And Mother wants to come and\nstay with me for a whole month, and of course I do love her, I suppose\nI do, but honestly, she'll cramp my style something dreadful--she never\ncan learn not to comment, and she always wants to know where I'm going\nwhen I go out evenings, and if I lie to her she always spies around and\nferrets around and finds out where I've been, and then she looks like\nPatience on a Monument till I could just scream. And oh, I MUST tell\nyou--You know I never talk about myself; I just hate people who do,\ndon't you? But--I feel so stupid to-night, and I know I must be boring\nyou with all this but--What would you do about Mother?\"\n\nHe gave her facile masculine advice. She was to put off her mother's\nstay. She was to tell Carrie to go to the deuce. For these valuable\nrevelations she thanked him, and they ambled into the familiar gossip\nof the Bunch. Of what a sentimental fool was Carrie. Of what a lazy\nbrat was Pete. Of how nice Fulton Bemis could be--\"course lots of people\nthink he's a regular old grouch when they meet him because he doesn't\ngive 'em the glad hand the first crack out of the box, but when they get\nto know him, he's a corker.\"\n\nBut as they had gone conscientiously through each of these analyses\nbefore, the conversation staggered. Babbitt tried to be intellectual\nand deal with General Topics. He said some thoroughly sound things about\nDisarmament, and broad-mindedness and liberalism; but it seemed to him\nthat General Topics interested Tanis only when she could apply them to\nPete, Carrie, or themselves. He was distressingly conscious of their\nsilence. He tried to stir her into chattering again, but silence rose\nlike a gray presence and hovered between them.\n\n\"I, uh--\" he labored. \"It strikes me--it strikes me that unemployment is\nlessening.\"\n\n\"Maybe Pete will get a decent job, then.\"\n\nSilence.\n\nDesperately he essayed, \"What's the trouble, old honey? You seem kind of\nquiet to-night.\"\n\n\"Am I? Oh, I'm not. But--do you really care whether I am or not?\"\n\n\"Care? Sure! Course I do!\"\n\n\"Do you really?\" She swooped on him, sat on the arm of his chair.\n\nHe hated the emotional drain of having to appear fond of her. He stroked\nher hand, smiled up at her dutifully, and sank back.\n\n\"George, I wonder if you really like me at all?\"\n\n\"Course I do, silly.\"\n\n\"Do you really, precious? Do you care a bit?\"\n\n\"Why certainly! You don't suppose I'd be here if I didn't!\"\n\n\"Now see here, young man, I won't have you speaking to me in that huffy\nway!\"\n\n\"I didn't mean to sound huffy. I just--\" In injured and rather childish\ntones: \"Gosh almighty, it makes me tired the way everybody says I\nsound huffy when I just talk natural! Do they expect me to sing it or\nsomething?\"\n\n\"Who do you mean by 'everybody'? How many other ladies have you been\nconsoling?\"\n\n\"Look here now, I won't have this hinting!\"\n\nHumbly: \"I know, dear. I was only teasing. I know it didn't mean to talk\nhuffy--it was just tired. Forgive bad Tanis. But say you love me, say\nit!\"\n\n\"I love you.... Course I do.\"\n\n\"Yes, you do!\" cynically. \"Oh, darling, I don't mean to be rude but--I\nget so lonely. I feel so useless. Nobody needs me, nothing I can do\nfor anybody. And you know, dear, I'm so active--I could be if there was\nsomething to do. And I am young, aren't I! I'm not an old thing! I'm not\nold and stupid, am I?\"\n\nHe had to assure her. She stroked his hair, and he had to look pleased\nunder that touch, the more demanding in its beguiling softness. He was\nimpatient. He wanted to flee out to a hard, sure, unemotional man-world.\nThrough her delicate and caressing fingers she may have caught something\nof his shrugging distaste. She left him--he was for the moment\nbuoyantly relieved--she dragged a footstool to his feet and sat looking\nbeseechingly up at him. But as in many men the cringing of a dog, the\nflinching of a frightened child, rouse not pity but a surprised and\njerky cruelty, so her humility only annoyed him. And he saw her now\nas middle-aged, as beginning to be old. Even while he detested his own\nthoughts, they rode him. She was old, he winced. Old! He noted how the\nsoft flesh was creasing into webby folds beneath her chin, below her\neyes, at the base of her wrists. A patch of her throat had a minute\nroughness like the crumbs from a rubber eraser. Old! She was younger in\nyears than himself, yet it was sickening to have her yearning up at him\nwith rolling great eyes--as if, he shuddered, his own aunt were making\nlove to him.\n\nHe fretted inwardly, \"I'm through with this asinine fooling around. I'm\ngoing to cut her out. She's a darn decent nice woman, and I don't want\nto hurt her, but it'll hurt a lot less to cut her right out, like a good\nclean surgical operation.\"\n\nHe was on his feet. He was speaking urgently. By every rule of\nself-esteem, he had to prove to her, and to himself, that it was her\nfault.\n\n\"I suppose maybe I'm kind of out of sorts to-night, but honest, honey,\nwhen I stayed away for a while to catch up on work and everything and\nfigure out where I was at, you ought to have been cannier and waited\ntill I came back. Can't you see, dear, when you MADE me come, I--being\nabout an average bull-headed chump--my tendency was to resist? Listen,\ndear, I'm going now--\"\n\n\"Not for a while, precious! No!\"\n\n\"Yep. Right now. And then sometime we'll see about the future.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, dear, 'about the future'? Have I done something I\noughtn't to? Oh, I'm so dreadfully sorry!\"\n\nHe resolutely put his hands behind him. \"Not a thing, God bless you, not\na thing. You're as good as they make 'em. But it's just--Good Lord, do\nyou realize I've got things to do in the world? I've got a business to\nattend to and, you might not believe it, but I've got a wife and kids\nthat I'm awful fond of!\" Then only during the murder he was committing\nwas he able to feel nobly virtuous. \"I want us to be friends but, gosh,\nI can't go on this way feeling I got to come up here every so often--\"\n\n\"Oh, darling, darling, and I've always told you, so carefully, that you\nwere absolutely free. I just wanted you to come around when you were\ntired and wanted to talk to me, or when you could enjoy our parties--\"\n\nShe was so reasonable, she was so gently right! It took him an hour to\nmake his escape, with nothing settled and everything horribly settled.\nIn a barren freedom of icy Northern wind he sighed, \"Thank God that's\nover! Poor Tanis, poor darling decent Tanis! But it is over. Absolute!\nI'm free!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nI\n\nHIS wife was up when he came in. \"Did you have a good time?\" she\nsniffed.\n\n\"I did not. I had a rotten time! Anything else I got to explain?\"\n\n\"George, how can you speak like--Oh, I don't know what's come over you!\"\n\n\"Good Lord, there's nothing come over me! Why do you look for trouble\nall the time?\" He was warning himself, \"Careful! Stop being so\ndisagreeable. Course she feels it, being left alone here all evening.\"\nBut he forgot his warning as she went on:\n\n\"Why do you go out and see all sorts of strange people? I suppose you'll\nsay you've been to another committee-meeting this evening!\"\n\n\"Nope. I've been calling on a woman. We sat by the fire and kidded each\nother and had a whale of a good time, if you want to know!\"\n\n\"Well--From the way you say it, I suppose it's my fault you went there!\nI probably sent you!\"\n\n\"You did!\"\n\n\"Well, upon my word--\"\n\n\"You hate 'strange people' as you call 'em. If you had your way, I'd be\nas much of an old stick-in-the-mud as Howard Littlefield. You never want\nto have anybody with any git to 'em at the house; you want a bunch of\nold stiffs that sit around and gas about the weather. You're doing\nyour level best to make me old. Well, let me tell you, I'm not going to\nhave--\"\n\nOverwhelmed she bent to his unprecedented tirade, and in answer she\nmourned:\n\n\"Oh, dearest, I don't think that's true. I don't mean to make you old,\nI know. Perhaps you're partly right. Perhaps I am slow about getting\nacquainted with new people. But when you think of all the dear good\ntimes we have, and the supper-parties and the movies and all--\"\n\nWith true masculine wiles he not only convinced himself that she had\ninjured him but, by the loudness of his voice and the brutality of his\nattack, he convinced her also, and presently he had her apologizing for\nhis having spent the evening with Tanis. He went up to bed well pleased,\nnot only the master but the martyr of the household. For a distasteful\nmoment after he had lain down he wondered if he had been altogether\njust. \"Ought to be ashamed, bullying her. Maybe there is her side to\nthings. Maybe she hasn't had such a bloomin' hectic time herself. But I\ndon't care! Good for her to get waked up a little. And I'm going to keep\nfree. Of her and Tanis and the fellows at the club and everybody. I'm\ngoing to run my own life!\"\n\n\nII\n\nIn this mood he was particularly objectionable at the Boosters' Club\nlunch next day. They were addressed by a congressman who had just\nreturned from an exhaustive three-months study of the finances,\nethnology, political systems, linguistic divisions, mineral resources,\nand agriculture of Germany, France, Great Britain, Italy, Austria,\nCzechoslovakia, Jugoslavia, and Bulgaria. He told them all about\nthose subjects, together with three funny stories about European\nmisconceptions of America and some spirited words on the necessity of\nkeeping ignorant foreigners out of America.\n\n\"Say, that was a mighty informative talk. Real he-stuff,\" said Sidney\nFinkelstein.\n\nBut the disaffected Babbitt grumbled, \"Four-flusher! Bunch of hot\nair! And what's the matter with the immigrants? Gosh, they aren't\nall ignorant, and I got a hunch we're all descended from immigrants\nourselves.\"\n\n\"Oh, you make me tired!\" said Mr. Finkelstein.\n\nBabbitt was aware that Dr. A. I. Dilling was sternly listening from\nacross the table. Dr. Dilling was one of the most important men in the\nBoosters'. He was not a physician but a surgeon, a more romantic and\nsounding occupation. He was an intense large man with a boiling of black\nhair and a thick black mustache. The newspapers often chronicled his\noperations; he was professor of surgery in the State University; he went\nto dinner at the very best houses on Royal Ridge; and he was said to be\nworth several hundred thousand dollars. It was dismaying to Babbitt to\nhave such a person glower at him. He hastily praised the congressman's\nwit, to Sidney Finkelstein, but for Dr. Dilling's benefit.\n\n\nIII\n\nThat afternoon three men shouldered into Babbitt's office with the air\nof a Vigilante committee in frontier days. They were large, resolute,\nbig-jawed men, and they were all high lords in the land of Zenith--Dr.\nDilling the surgeon, Charles McKelvey the contractor, and, most\ndismaying of all, the white-bearded Colonel Rutherford Snow, owner of\nthe Advocate-Times. In their whelming presence Babbitt felt small and\ninsignificant.\n\n\"Well, well, great pleasure, have chairs, what c'n I do for you?\" he\nbabbled.\n\nThey neither sat nor offered observations on the weather.\n\n\"Babbitt,\" said Colonel Snow, \"we've come from the Good Citizens'\nLeague. We've decided we want you to join. Vergil Gunch says you don't\ncare to, but I think we can show you a new light. The League is going to\ncombine with the Chamber of Commerce in a campaign for the Open Shop, so\nit's time for you to put your name down.\"\n\nIn his embarrassment Babbitt could not recall his reasons for not\nwishing to join the League, if indeed he had ever definitely known them,\nbut he was passionately certain that he did not wish to join, and at the\nthought of their forcing him he felt a stirring of anger against even\nthese princes of commerce.\n\n\"Sorry, Colonel, have to think it over a little,\" he mumbled.\n\nMcKelvey snarled, \"That means you're not going to join, George?\"\n\nSomething black and unfamiliar and ferocious spoke from Babbitt: \"Now,\nyou look here, Charley! I'm damned if I'm going to be bullied into\njoining anything, not even by you plutes!\"\n\n\"We're not bullying anybody,\" Dr. Dilling began, but Colonel Snow thrust\nhim aside with, \"Certainly we are! We don't mind a little bullying, if\nit's necessary. Babbitt, the G.C.L. has been talking about you a good\ndeal. You're supposed to be a sensible, clean, responsible man; you\nalways have been; but here lately, for God knows what reason, I hear\nfrom all sorts of sources that you're running around with a loose\ncrowd, and what's a whole lot worse, you've actually been advocating and\nsupporting some of the most dangerous elements in town, like this fellow\nDoane.\"\n\n\"Colonel, that strikes me as my private business.\"\n\n\"Possibly, but we want to have an understanding. You've stood in,\nyou and your father-in-law, with some of the most substantial and\nforward-looking interests in town, like my friends of the Street\nTraction Company, and my papers have given you a lot of boosts. Well,\nyou can't expect the decent citizens to go on aiding you if you intend\nto side with precisely the people who are trying to undermine us.\"\n\nBabbitt was frightened, but he had an agonized instinct that if he\nyielded in this he would yield in everything. He protested:\n\n\"You're exaggerating, Colonel. I believe in being broad-minded\nand liberal, but, of course, I'm just as much agin the cranks and\nblatherskites and labor unions and so on as you are. But fact is, I\nbelong to so many organizations now that I can't do 'em justice, and I\nwant to think it over before I decide about coming into the G.C.L.\"\n\nColonel Snow condescended, \"Oh, no, I'm not exaggerating! Why the doctor\nhere heard you cussing out and defaming one of the finest types of\nRepublican congressmen, just this noon! And you have entirely the wrong\nidea about 'thinking over joining.' We're not begging you to join the\nG.C.L.--we're permitting you to join. I'm not sure, my boy, but what\nif you put it off it'll be too late. I'm not sure we'll want you then.\nBetter think quick--better think quick!\"\n\nThe three Vigilantes, formidable in their righteousness, stared at him\nin a taut silence. Babbitt waited through. He thought nothing at all,\nhe merely waited, while in his echoing head buzzed, \"I don't want to\njoin--I don't want to join--I don't want to.\"\n\n\"All right. Sorry for you!\" said Colonel Snow, and the three men\nabruptly turned their beefy backs.\n\n\nIV\n\nAs Babbitt went out to his car that evening he saw Vergil Gunch coming\ndown the block. He raised his hand in salutation, but Gunch ignored it\nand crossed the street. He was certain that Gunch had seen him. He drove\nhome in sharp discomfort.\n\nHis wife attacked at once: \"Georgie dear, Muriel Frink was in this\nafternoon, and she says that Chum says the committee of this Good\nCitizens' League especially asked you to join and you wouldn't. Don't\nyou think it would be better? You know all the nicest people belong, and\nthe League stands for--\"\n\n\"I know what the League stands for! It stands for the suppression of\nfree speech and free thought and everything else! I don't propose to\nbe bullied and rushed into joining anything, and it isn't a question of\nwhether it's a good league or a bad league or what the hell kind of a\nleague it is; it's just a question of my refusing to be told I got to--\"\n\n\"But dear, if you don't join, people might criticize you.\"\n\n\"Let 'em criticize!\"\n\n\"But I mean NICE people!\"\n\n\"Rats, I--Matter of fact, this whole League is just a fad. It's like\nall these other organizations that start off with such a rush and let on\nthey're going to change the whole works, and pretty soon they peter out\nand everybody forgets all about 'em!\"\n\n\"But if it's THE fad now, don't you think you--\"\n\n\"No, I don't! Oh, Myra, please quit nagging me about it. I'm sick of\nhearing about the confounded G.C.L. I almost wish I'd joined it when\nVerg first came around, and got it over. And maybe I'd 've come in\nto-day if the committee hadn't tried to bullyrag me, but, by God, as\nlong as I'm a free-born independent American cit--\"\n\n\"Now, George, you're talking exactly like the German furnace-man.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am, am I! Then, I won't talk at all!\"\n\nHe longed, that evening, to see Tanis Judique, to be strengthened by\nher sympathy. When all the family were up-stairs he got as far as\ntelephoning to her apartment-house, but he was agitated about it and\nwhen the janitor answered he blurted, \"Nev' mind--I'll call later,\" and\nhung up the receiver.\n\n\nV\n\nIf Babbitt had not been certain about Vergil Gunch's avoiding him, there\ncould be little doubt about William Washington Eathorne, next morning.\nWhen Babbitt was driving down to the office he overtook Eathorne's car,\nwith the great banker sitting in anemic solemnity behind his chauffeur.\nBabbitt waved and cried, \"Mornin'!\" Eathorne looked at him deliberately,\nhesitated, and gave him a nod more contemptuous than a direct cut.\n\nBabbitt's partner and father-in-law came in at ten:\n\n\"George, what's this I hear about some song and dance you gave Colonel\nSnow about not wanting to join the G.C.L.? What the dickens you trying\nto do? Wreck the firm? You don't suppose these Big Guns will stand your\nbucking them and springing all this 'liberal' poppycock you been getting\noff lately, do you?\"\n\n\"Oh, rats, Henry T., you been reading bum fiction. There ain't any such\na thing as these plots to keep folks from being liberal. This is a free\ncountry. A man can do anything he wants to.\"\n\n\"Course th' ain't any plots. Who said they was? Only if folks get an\nidea you're scatter-brained and unstable, you don't suppose they'll want\nto do business with you, do you? One little rumor about your being a\ncrank would do more to ruin this business than all the plots and stuff\nthat these fool story-writers could think up in a month of Sundays.\"\n\nThat afternoon, when the old reliable Conrad Lyte, the merry miser,\nConrad Lyte, appeared, and Babbitt suggested his buying a parcel of land\nin the new residential section of Dorchester, Lyte said hastily, too\nhastily, \"No, no, don't want to go into anything new just now.\"\n\nA week later Babbitt learned, through Henry Thompson, that the officials\nof the Street Traction Company were planning another real-estate coup,\nand that Sanders, Torrey and Wing, not the Babbitt-Thompson Company,\nwere to handle it for them. \"I figure that Jake Offutt is kind of\nleery about the way folks are talking about you. Of course Jake is a\nrock-ribbed old die-hard, and he probably advised the Traction fellows\nto get some other broker. George, you got to do something!\" trembled\nThompson.\n\nAnd, in a rush, Babbitt agreed. All nonsense the way people misjudged\nhim, but still--He determined to join the Good Citizens' League the\nnext time he was asked, and in furious resignation he waited. He wasn't\nasked. They ignored him. He did not have the courage to go to the League\nand beg in, and he took refuge in a shaky boast that he had \"gotten\naway with bucking the whole city. Nobody could dictate to him how he was\ngoing to think and act!\"\n\nHe was jarred as by nothing else when the paragon of stenographers, Miss\nMcGoun, suddenly left him, though her reasons were excellent--she needed\na rest, her sister was sick, she might not do any more work for six\nmonths. He was uncomfortable with her successor, Miss Havstad. What\nMiss Havstad's given name was, no one in the office ever knew. It seemed\nimprobable that she had a given name, a lover, a powder-puff, or a\ndigestion. She was so impersonal, this slight, pale, industrious Swede,\nthat it was vulgar to think of her as going to an ordinary home to eat\nhash. She was a perfectly oiled and enameled machine, and she ought,\neach evening, to have been dusted off and shut in her desk beside her\ntoo-slim, too-frail pencil points. She took dictation swiftly, her\ntyping was perfect, but Babbitt became jumpy when he tried to work with\nher. She made him feel puffy, and at his best-beloved daily jokes she\nlooked gently inquiring. He longed for Miss McGoun's return, and thought\nof writing to her.\n\nThen he heard that Miss McGoun had, a week after leaving him, gone over\nto his dangerous competitors, Sanders, Torrey and Wing.\n\nHe was not merely annoyed; he was frightened. \"Why did she quit, then?\"\nhe worried. \"Did she have a hunch my business is going on the rocks? And\nit was Sanders got the Street Traction deal. Rats--sinking ship!\"\n\nGray fear loomed always by him now. He watched Fritz Weilinger, the\nyoung salesman, and wondered if he too would leave. Daily he fancied\nslights. He noted that he was not asked to speak at the annual Chamber\nof Commerce dinner. When Orville Jones gave a large poker party and he\nwas not invited, he was certain that he had been snubbed. He was afraid\nto go to lunch at the Athletic Club, and afraid not to go. He believed\nthat he was spied on; that when he left the table they whispered about\nhim. Everywhere he heard the rustling whispers: in the offices of\nclients, in the bank when he made a deposit, in his own office, in his\nown home. Interminably he wondered what They were saying of him. All day\nlong in imaginary conversations he caught them marveling, \"Babbitt?\nWhy, say, he's a regular anarchist! You got to admire the fellow for his\nnerve, the way he turned liberal and, by golly, just absolutely runs his\nlife to suit himself, but say, he's dangerous, that's what he is, and\nhe's got to be shown up.\"\n\nHe was so twitchy that when he rounded a corner and chanced on two\nacquaintances talking--whispering--his heart leaped, and he stalked\nby like an embarrassed schoolboy. When he saw his neighbors Howard\nLittlefield and Orville Jones together, he peered at them, went indoors\nto escape their spying, and was miserably certain that they had been\nwhispering--plotting--whispering.\n\nThrough all his fear ran defiance. He felt stubborn. Sometimes he\ndecided that he had been a very devil of a fellow, as bold as Seneca\nDoane; sometimes he planned to call on Doane and tell him what a\nrevolutionist he was, and never got beyond the planning. But just as\noften, when he heard the soft whispers enveloping him he wailed, \"Good\nLord, what have I done? Just played with the Bunch, and called down\nClarence Drum about being such a high-and-mighty sodger. Never catch ME\ncriticizing people and trying to make them accept MY ideas!\"\n\nHe could not stand the strain. Before long he admitted that he would\nlike to flee back to the security of conformity, provided there was a\ndecent and creditable way to return. But, stubbornly, he would not be\nforced back; he would not, he swore, \"eat dirt.\"\n\nOnly in spirited engagements with his wife did these turbulent fears\nrise to the surface. She complained that he seemed nervous, that\nshe couldn't understand why he did not want to \"drop in at the\nLittlefields'\" for the evening. He tried, but he could not express to\nher the nebulous facts of his rebellion and punishment. And, with Paul\nand Tanis lost, he had no one to whom he could talk. \"Good Lord, Tinka\nis the only real friend I have, these days,\" he sighed, and he clung to\nthe child, played floor-games with her all evening.\n\nHe considered going to see Paul in prison, but, though he had a pale\ncurt note from him every week, he thought of Paul as dead. It was Tanis\nfor whom he was longing.\n\n\"I thought I was so smart and independent, cutting Tanis out, and I need\nher, Lord how I need her!\" he raged. \"Myra simply can't understand. All\nshe sees in life is getting along by being just like other folks. But\nTanis, she'd tell me I was all right.\"\n\nThen he broke, and one evening, late, he did run to Tanis. He had not\ndared to hope for it, but she was in, and alone. Only she wasn't Tanis.\nShe was a courteous, brow-lifting, ice-armored woman who looked like\nTanis. She said, \"Yes, George, what is it?\" in even and uninterested\ntones, and he crept away, whipped.\n\nHis first comfort was from Ted and Eunice Littlefield.\n\nThey danced in one evening when Ted was home from the university, and\nTed chuckled, \"What's this I hear from Euny, dad? She says her dad says\nyou raised Cain by boosting old Seneca Doane. Hot dog! Give 'em fits!\nStir 'em up! This old burg is asleep!\" Eunice plumped down on Babbitt's\nlap, kissed him, nestled her bobbed hair against his chin, and crowed;\n\"I think you're lots nicer than Howard. Why is it,\" confidentially,\n\"that Howard is such an old grouch? The man has a good heart, and\nhonestly, he's awfully bright, but he never will learn to step on the\ngas, after all the training I've given him. Don't you think we could do\nsomething with him, dearest?\"\n\n\"Why, Eunice, that isn't a nice way to speak of your papa,\" Babbitt\nobserved, in the best Floral Heights manner, but he was happy for\nthe first time in weeks. He pictured himself as the veteran liberal\nstrengthened by the loyalty of the young generation. They went out to\nrifle the ice-box. Babbitt gloated, \"If your mother caught us at this,\nwe'd certainly get our come-uppance!\" and Eunice became maternal,\nscrambled a terrifying number of eggs for them, kissed Babbitt on the\near, and in the voice of a brooding abbess marveled, \"It beats the devil\nwhy feminists like me still go on nursing these men!\"\n\nThus stimulated, Babbitt was reckless when he encountered Sheldon\nSmeeth, educational director of the Y.M.C.A. and choir-leader of the\nChatham Road Church. With one of his damp hands Smeeth imprisoned\nBabbitt's thick paw while he chanted, \"Brother Babbitt, we haven't seen\nyou at church very often lately. I know you're busy with a multitude\nof details, but you mustn't forget your dear friends at the old church\nhome.\"\n\nBabbitt shook off the affectionate clasp--Sheldy liked to hold hands for\na long time--and snarled, \"Well, I guess you fellows can run the show\nwithout me. Sorry, Smeeth; got to beat it. G'day.\"\n\nBut afterward he winced, \"If that white worm had the nerve to try to\ndrag me back to the Old Church Home, then the holy outfit must have been\ndoing a lot of talking about me, too.\"\n\nHe heard them whispering--whispering--Dr. John Jennison Drew,\nCholmondeley Frink, even William Washington Eathorne. The independence\nseeped out of him and he walked the streets alone, afraid of men's\ncynical eyes and the incessant hiss of whispering.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nI\n\nHE tried to explain to his wife, as they prepared for bed, how\nobjectionable was Sheldon Smeeth, but all her answer was, \"He has such\na beautiful voice--so spiritual. I don't think you ought to speak of him\nlike that just because you can't appreciate music!\" He saw her then as a\nstranger; he stared bleakly at this plump and fussy woman with the broad\nbare arms, and wondered how she had ever come here.\n\nIn his chilly cot, turning from aching side to side, he pondered of\nTanis. \"He'd been a fool to lose her. He had to have somebody he could\nreally talk to. He'd--oh, he'd BUST if he went on stewing about things\nby himself. And Myra, useless to expect her to understand. Well, rats,\nno use dodging the issue. Darn shame for two married people to drift\napart after all these years; darn rotten shame; but nothing could bring\nthem together now, as long as he refused to let Zenith bully him into\ntaking orders--and he was by golly not going to let anybody bully him\ninto anything, or wheedle him or coax him either!\"\n\nHe woke at three, roused by a passing motor, and struggled out of bed\nfor a drink of water. As he passed through the bedroom he heard his wife\ngroan. His resentment was night-blurred; he was solicitous in inquiring,\n\"What's the trouble, hon?\"\n\n\"I've got--such a pain down here in my side--oh, it's just--it tears at\nme.\"\n\n\"Bad indigestion? Shall I get you some bicarb?\"\n\n\"Don't think--that would help. I felt funny last evening and yesterday,\nand then--oh!--it passed away and I got to sleep and--That auto woke me\nup.\"\n\nHer voice was laboring like a ship in a storm. He was alarmed.\n\n\"I better call the doctor.\"\n\n\"No, no! It'll go away. But maybe you might get me an ice-bag.\"\n\nHe stalked to the bathroom for the ice-bag, down to the kitchen for ice.\nHe felt dramatic in this late-night expedition, but as he gouged the\nchunk of ice with the dagger-like pick he was cool, steady, mature;\nand the old friendliness was in his voice as he patted the ice-bag into\nplace on her groin, rumbling, \"There, there, that'll be better now.\"\nHe retired to bed, but he did not sleep. He heard her groan again.\nInstantly he was up, soothing her, \"Still pretty bad, honey?\"\n\n\"Yes, it just gripes me, and I can't get to sleep.\"\n\nHer voice was faint. He knew her dread of doctors' verdicts and he\ndid not inform her, but he creaked down-stairs, telephoned to Dr.\nEarl Patten, and waited, shivering, trying with fuzzy eyes to read a\nmagazine, till he heard the doctor's car.\n\nThe doctor was youngish and professionally breezy. He came in as though\nit were sunny noontime. \"Well, George, little trouble, eh? How is\nshe now?\" he said busily as, with tremendous and rather irritating\ncheerfulness, he tossed his coat on a chair and warmed his hands at\na radiator. He took charge of the house. Babbitt felt ousted and\nunimportant as he followed the doctor up to the bedroom, and it was the\ndoctor who chuckled, \"Oh, just little stomach-ache\" when Verona peeped\nthrough her door, begging, \"What is it, Dad, what is it?\"\n\nTo Mrs. Babbitt the doctor said with amiable belligerence, after his\nexamination, \"Kind of a bad old pain, eh? I'll give you something to\nmake you sleep, and I think you'll feel better in the morning. I'll come\nin right after breakfast.\" But to Babbitt, lying in wait in the lower\nhall, the doctor sighed, \"I don't like the feeling there in her belly.\nThere's some rigidity and some inflammation. She's never had her\nappendix out has she? Um. Well, no use worrying. I'll be here first\nthing in the morning, and meantime she'll get some rest. I've given her\na hypo. Good night.\"\n\nThen was Babbitt caught up in the black tempest.\n\nInstantly all the indignations which had been dominating him and the\nspiritual dramas through which he had struggled became pallid and\nabsurd before the ancient and overwhelming realities, the standard and\ntraditional realities, of sickness and menacing death, the long night,\nand the thousand steadfast implications of married life. He crept back\nto her. As she drowsed away in the tropic languor of morphia, he sat on\nthe edge of her bed, holding her hand, and for the first time in many\nweeks her hand abode trustfully in his.\n\nHe draped himself grotesquely in his toweling bathrobe and a pink and\nwhite couch-cover, and sat lumpishly in a wing-chair. The bedroom was\nuncanny in its half-light, which turned the curtains to lurking robbers,\nthe dressing-table to a turreted castle. It smelled of cosmetics, of\nlinen, of sleep. He napped and woke, napped and woke, a hundred times.\nHe heard her move and sigh in slumber; he wondered if there wasn't some\nofficious brisk thing he could do for her, and before he could quite\nform the thought he was asleep, racked and aching. The night was\ninfinite. When dawn came and the waiting seemed at an end, he fell\nasleep, and was vexed to have been caught off his guard, to have been\naroused by Verona's entrance and her agitated \"Oh, what is it, Dad?\"\n\nHis wife was awake, her face sallow and lifeless in the morning light,\nbut now he did not compare her with Tanis; she was not merely A Woman,\nto be contrasted with other women, but his own self, and though he might\ncriticize her and nag her, it was only as he might criticize and nag\nhimself, interestedly, unpatronizingly, without the expectation of\nchanging--or any real desire to change--the eternal essence.\n\nWith Verona he sounded fatherly again, and firm. He consoled Tinka, who\nsatisfactorily pointed the excitement of the hour by wailing. He ordered\nearly breakfast, and wanted to look at the newspaper, and felt somehow\nheroic and useful in not looking at it. But there were still crawling\nand totally unheroic hours of waiting before Dr. Patten returned.\n\n\"Don't see much change,\" said Patten. \"I'll be back about eleven, and\nif you don't mind, I think I'll bring in some other world-famous\npill-pedler for consultation, just to be on the safe side. Now\nGeorge, there's nothing you can do. I'll have Verona keep the ice-bag\nfilled--might as well leave that on, I guess--and you, you better beat\nit to the office instead of standing around her looking as if you were\nthe patient. The nerve of husbands! Lot more neurotic than the women!\nThey always have to horn in and get all the credit for feeling bad when\ntheir wives are ailing. Now have another nice cup of coffee and git!\"\n\nUnder this derision Babbitt became more matter-of-fact. He drove to the\noffice, tried to dictate letters, tried to telephone and, before the\ncall was answered, forgot to whom he was telephoning. At a quarter after\nten he returned home. As he left the down-town traffic and sped up the\ncar, his face was as grimly creased as the mask of tragedy.\n\nHis wife greeted him with surprise. \"Why did you come back, dear? I\nthink I feel a little better. I told Verona to skip off to her office.\nWas it wicked of me to go and get sick?\"\n\nHe knew that she wanted petting, and she got it, joyously. They were\ncuriously happy when he heard Dr. Patten's car in front. He looked out\nof the window. He was frightened. With Patten was an impatient man\nwith turbulent black hair and a hussar mustache--Dr. A. I. Dilling,\nthe surgeon. Babbitt sputtered with anxiety, tried to conceal it, and\nhurried down to the door.\n\nDr. Patten was profusely casual: \"Don't want to worry you, old man, but\nI thought it might be a good stunt to have Dr. Dilling examine her.\" He\ngestured toward Dilling as toward a master.\n\nDilling nodded in his curtest manner and strode up-stairs Babbitt\ntramped the living-room in agony. Except for his wife's confinements\nthere had never been a major operation in the family, and to him surgery\nwas at once a miracle and an abomination of fear. But when Dilling and\nPatten came down again he knew that everything was all right, and he\nwanted to laugh, for the two doctors were exactly like the bearded\nphysicians in a musical comedy, both of them rubbing their hands and\nlooking foolishly sagacious.\n\nDr. Dilling spoke:\n\n\"I'm sorry, old man, but it's acute appendicitis. We ought to operate.\nOf course you must decide, but there's no question as to what has to be\ndone.\"\n\nBabbitt did not get all the force of it. He mumbled, \"Well I suppose we\ncould get her ready in a couple o' days. Probably Ted ought to come down\nfrom the university, just in case anything happened.\"\n\nDr. Dilling growled, \"Nope. If you don't want peritonitis to set in,\nwe'll have to operate right away. I must advise it strongly. If you say\ngo ahead, I'll 'phone for the St. Mary's ambulance at once, and we'll\nhave her on the table in three-quarters of an hour.\"\n\n\"I--I Of course, I suppose you know what--But great God, man, I can't\nget her clothes ready and everything in two seconds, you know! And in\nher state, so wrought-up and weak--\"\n\n\"Just throw her hair-brush and comb and tooth-brush in a bag; that's\nall she'll need for a day or two,\" said Dr. Dilling, and went to the\ntelephone.\n\nBabbitt galloped desperately up-stairs. He sent the frightened Tinka out\nof the room. He said gaily to his wife, \"Well, old thing, the doc thinks\nmaybe we better have a little operation and get it over. Just take a few\nminutes--not half as serious as a confinement--and you'll be all right\nin a jiffy.\"\n\nShe gripped his hand till the fingers ached. She said patiently, like a\ncowed child, \"I'm afraid--to go into the dark, all alone!\" Maturity was\nwiped from her eyes; they were pleading and terrified. \"Will you stay\nwith me? Darling, you don't have to go to the office now, do you? Could\nyou just go down to the hospital with me? Could you come see me this\nevening--if everything's all right? You won't have to go out this\nevening, will you?\"\n\nHe was on his knees by the bed. While she feebly ruffled his hair, he\nsobbed, he kissed the lawn of her sleeve, and swore, \"Old honey, I\nlove you more than anything in the world! I've kind of been worried by\nbusiness and everything, but that's all over now, and I'm back again.\"\n\n\"Are you really? George, I was thinking, lying here, maybe it would be a\ngood thing if I just WENT. I was wondering if anybody really needed me.\nOr wanted me. I was wondering what was the use of my living. I've been\ngetting so stupid and ugly--\"\n\n\"Why, you old humbug! Fishing for compliments when I ought to be packing\nyour bag! Me, sure, I'm young and handsome and a regular village\ncut-up and--\" He could not go on. He sobbed again; and in muttered\nincoherencies they found each other.\n\nAs he packed, his brain was curiously clear and swift. He'd have no more\nwild evenings, he realized. He admitted that he would regret them. A\nlittle grimly he perceived that this had been his last despairing fling\nbefore the paralyzed contentment of middle-age. Well, and he grinned\nimpishly, \"it was one doggone good party while it lasted!\" And--how much\nwas the operation going to cost? \"I ought to have fought that out with\nDilling. But no, damn it, I don't care how much it costs!\"\n\nThe motor ambulance was at the door. Even in his grief the Babbitt who\nadmired all technical excellences was interested in the kindly skill\nwith which the attendants slid Mrs. Babbitt upon a stretcher and carried\nher down-stairs. The ambulance was a huge, suave, varnished, white\nthing. Mrs. Babbitt moaned, \"It frightens me. It's just like a hearse,\njust like being put in a hearse. I want you to stay with me.\"\n\n\"I'll be right up front with the driver,\" Babbitt promised.\n\n\"No, I want you to stay inside with me.\" To the attendants: \"Can't he be\ninside?\"\n\n\"Sure, ma'am, you bet. There's a fine little camp-stool in there,\" the\nolder attendant said, with professional pride.\n\nHe sat beside her in that traveling cabin with its cot, its stool, its\nactive little electric radiator, and its quite unexplained calendar,\ndisplaying a girl eating cherries, and the name of an enterprising\ngrocer. But as he flung out his hand in hopeless cheerfulness it touched\nthe radiator, and he squealed:\n\n\"Ouch! Jesus!\"\n\n\"Why, George Babbitt, I won't have you cursing and swearing and\nblaspheming!\"\n\n\"I know, awful sorry but--Gosh all fish-hooks, look how I burned my\nhand! Gee whiz, it hurts! It hurts like the mischief! Why, that damn\nradiator is hot as--it's hot as--it's hotter 'n the hinges of Hades!\nLook! You can see the mark!\"\n\nSo, as they drove up to St. Mary's Hospital, with the nurses already\nlaying out the instruments for an operation to save her life, it was\nshe who consoled him and kissed the place to make it well, and though\nhe tried to be gruff and mature, he yielded to her and was glad to be\nbabied.\n\nThe ambulance whirled under the hooded carriage-entrance of the\nhospital, and instantly he was reduced to a zero in the nightmare\nsuccession of cork-floored halls, endless doors open on old women\nsitting up in bed, an elevator, the anesthetizing room, a young interne\ncontemptuous of husbands. He was permitted to kiss his wife; he saw a\nthin dark nurse fit the cone over her mouth and nose; he stiffened at a\nsweet and treacherous odor; then he was driven out, and on a high stool\nin a laboratory he sat dazed, longing to see her once again, to insist\nthat he had always loved her, had never for a second loved anybody else\nor looked at anybody else. In the laboratory he was conscious only of a\ndecayed object preserved in a bottle of yellowing alcohol. It made him\nvery sick, but he could not take his eyes from it. He was more aware of\nit than of waiting. His mind floated in abeyance, coming back always\nto that horrible bottle. To escape it he opened the door to the right,\nhoping to find a sane and business-like office. He realized that he was\nlooking into the operating-room; in one glance he took in Dr. Dilling,\nstrange in white gown and bandaged head, bending over the steel table\nwith its screws and wheels, then nurses holding basins and cotton\nsponges, and a swathed thing, just a lifeless chin and a mound of white\nin the midst of which was a square of sallow flesh with a gash a little\nbloody at the edges, protruding from the gash a cluster of forceps like\nclinging parasites.\n\nHe shut the door with haste. It may be that his frightened repentance of\nthe night and morning had not eaten in, but this dehumanizing interment\nof her who had been so pathetically human shook him utterly, and as he\ncrouched again on the high stool in the laboratory he swore faith to his\nwife . . . to Zenith . . . to business efficiency . . . to the Boosters'\nClub . . . to every faith of the Clan of Good Fellows.\n\nThen a nurse was soothing, \"All over! Perfect success! She'll come out\nfine! She'll be out from under the anesthetic soon, and you can see\nher.\"\n\nHe found her on a curious tilted bed, her face an unwholesome yellow but\nher purple lips moving slightly. Then only did he really believe that\nshe was alive. She was muttering. He bent, and heard her sighing, \"Hard\nget real maple syrup for pancakes.\" He laughed inexhaustibly; he beamed\non the nurse and proudly confided, \"Think of her talking about maple\nsyrup! By golly, I'm going to go and order a hundred gallons of it,\nright from Vermont!\"\n\n\nII\n\nShe was out of the hospital in seventeen days. He went to see her each\nafternoon, and in their long talks they drifted back to intimacy. Once\nhe hinted something of his relations to Tanis and the Bunch, and she was\ninflated by the view that a Wicked Woman had captivated her poor George.\n\nIf once he had doubted his neighbors and the supreme charm of the Good\nFellows, he was convinced now. You didn't, he noted, \"see Seneca Doane\ncoming around with any flowers or dropping in to chat with the Missus,\"\nbut Mrs. Howard Littlefield brought to the hospital her priceless wine\njelly (flavored with real wine); Orville Jones spent hours in picking\nout the kind of novels Mrs. Babbitt liked--nice love stories about New\nYork millionaries and Wyoming cowpunchers; Louetta Swanson knitted a\npink bed-jacket; Sidney Finkelstein and his merry brown-eyed flapper of\na wife selected the prettiest nightgown in all the stock of Parcher and\nStein.\n\nAll his friends ceased whispering about him, suspecting him. At the\nAthletic Club they asked after her daily. Club members whose names he\ndid not know stopped him to inquire, \"How's your good lady getting on?\"\nBabbitt felt that he was swinging from bleak uplands down into the rich\nwarm air of a valley pleasant with cottages.\n\nOne noon Vergil Gunch suggested, \"You planning to be at the hospital\nabout six? The wife and I thought we'd drop in.\" They did drop in. Gunch\nwas so humorous that Mrs. Babbitt said he must \"stop making her laugh\nbecause honestly it was hurting her incision.\" As they passed down the\nhall Gunch demanded amiably, \"George, old scout, you were soreheaded\nabout something, here a while back. I don't know why, and it's none of\nmy business. But you seem to be feeling all hunky-dory again, and why\ndon't you come join us in the Good Citizens' League, old man? We have\nsome corking times together, and we need your advice.\"\n\nThen did Babbitt, almost tearful with joy at being coaxed instead of\nbullied, at being permitted to stop fighting, at being able to desert\nwithout injuring his opinion of himself, cease utterly to be a domestic\nrevolutionist. He patted Gunch's shoulder, and next day he became a\nmember of the Good Citizens' League.\n\nWithin two weeks no one in the League was more violent regarding the\nwickedness of Seneca Doane, the crimes of labor unions, the perils of\nimmigration, and the delights of golf, morality, and bank-accounts than\nwas George F. Babbitt.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nI\n\nTHE Good Citizens' League had spread through the country, but nowhere\nwas it so effective and well esteemed as in cities of the type of\nZenith, commercial cities of a few hundred thousand inhabitants, most\nof which--though not all--lay inland, against a background of\ncornfields and mines and of small towns which depended upon them for\nmortgage-loans, table-manners, art, social philosophy and millinery.\n\nTo the League belonged most of the prosperous citizens of Zenith. They\nwere not all of the kind who called themselves \"Regular Guys.\" Besides\nthese hearty fellows, these salesmen of prosperity, there were the\naristocrats, that is, the men who were richer or had been rich for more\ngenerations: the presidents of banks and of factories, the land-owners,\nthe corporation lawyers, the fashionable doctors, and the few young-old\nmen who worked not at all but, reluctantly remaining in Zenith,\ncollected luster-ware and first editions as though they were back in\nParis. All of them agreed that the working-classes must be kept in their\nplace; and all of them perceived that American Democracy did not imply\nany equality of wealth, but did demand a wholesome sameness of thought,\ndress, painting, morals, and vocabulary.\n\nIn this they were like the ruling-class of any other country,\nparticularly of Great Britain, but they differed in being more vigorous\nand in actually trying to produce the accepted standards which all\nclasses, everywhere, desire, but usually despair of realizing.\n\nThe longest struggle of the Good Citizens' League was against the\nOpen Shop--which was secretly a struggle against all union labor.\nAccompanying it was an Americanization Movement, with evening classes in\nEnglish and history and economics, and daily articles in the newspapers,\nso that newly arrived foreigners might learn that the true-blue and\none hundred per cent. American way of settling labor-troubles was for\nworkmen to trust and love their employers.\n\nThe League was more than generous in approving other organizations\nwhich agreed with its aims. It helped the Y.M. C.A. to raise a\ntwo-hundred-thousand-dollar fund for a new building. Babbitt, Vergil\nGunch, Sidney Finkelstein, and even Charles McKelvey told the spectators\nat movie theaters how great an influence for manly Christianity the\n\"good old Y.\" had been in their own lives; and the hoar and mighty\nColonel Rutherford Snow, owner of the Advocate-Times, was photographed\nclasping the hand of Sheldon Smeeth of the Y.M.C.A. It is true\nthat afterward, when Smeeth lisped, \"You must come to one of our\nprayer-meetings,\" the ferocious Colonel bellowed, \"What the hell would\nI do that for? I've got a bar of my own,\" but this did not appear in the\npublic prints.\n\nThe League was of value to the American Legion at a time when certain of\nthe lesser and looser newspapers were criticizing that organization of\nveterans of the Great War. One evening a number of young men raided\nthe Zenith Socialist Headquarters, burned its records, beat the\noffice staff, and agreeably dumped desks out of the window. All of the\nnewspapers save the Advocate-Times and the Evening Advocate attributed\nthis valuable but perhaps hasty direct-action to the American Legion.\nThen a flying squadron from the Good Citizens' League called on the\nunfair papers and explained that no ex-soldier could possibly do such\na thing, and the editors saw the light, and retained their advertising.\nWhen Zenith's lone Conscientious Objector came home from prison and was\nrighteously run out of town, the newspapers referred to the perpetrators\nas an \"unidentified mob.\"\n\n\nII\n\nIn all the activities and triumphs of the Good Citizens' League Babbitt\ntook part, and completely won back to self-respect, placidity, and the\naffection of his friends. But he began to protest, \"Gosh, I've done my\nshare in cleaning up the city. I want to tend to business. Think I'll\njust kind of slacken up on this G.C.L. stuff now.\"\n\nHe had returned to the church as he had returned to the Boosters' Club.\nHe had even endured the lavish greeting which Sheldon Smeeth gave him.\nHe was worried lest during his late discontent he had imperiled his\nsalvation. He was not quite sure there was a Heaven to be attained, but\nDr. John Jennison Drew said there was, and Babbitt was not going to take\na chance.\n\nOne evening when he was walking past Dr. Drew's parsonage he impulsively\nwent in and found the pastor in his study.\n\n\"Jus' minute--getting 'phone call,\" said Dr. Drew in businesslike tones,\nthen, aggressively, to the telephone: \"'Lo--'lo! This Berkey and Hannis?\nReverend Drew speaking. Where the dickens is the proof for next Sunday's\ncalendar? Huh? Y' ought to have it here. Well, I can't help it if\nthey're ALL sick! I got to have it to-night. Get an A.D.T. boy and shoot\nit up here quick.\"\n\nHe turned, without slackening his briskness. \"Well, Brother Babbitt,\nwhat c'n I do for you?\"\n\n\"I just wanted to ask--Tell you how it is, dominie: Here a while ago I\nguess I got kind of slack. Took a few drinks and so on. What I wanted\nto ask is: How is it if a fellow cuts that all out and comes back to his\nsenses? Does it sort of, well, you might say, does it score against him\nin the long run?\"\n\nThe Reverend Dr. Drew was suddenly interested. \"And, uh, brother--the\nother things, too? Women?\"\n\n\"No, practically, you might say, practically not at all.\"\n\n\"Don't hesitate to tell me, brother! That's what I'm here for. Been\ngoing on joy-rides? Squeezing girls in cars?\" The reverend eyes\nglistened.\n\n\"No--no--\"\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you. I've got a deputation from the Don't Make\nProhibition a Joke Association coming to see me in a quarter of an\nhour, and one from the Anti-Birth-Control Union at a quarter of ten.\" He\nbusily glanced at his watch. \"But I can take five minutes off and pray\nwith you. Kneel right down by your chair, brother. Don't be ashamed to\nseek the guidance of God.\"\n\nBabbitt's scalp itched and he longed to flee, but Dr. Drew had already\nflopped down beside his desk-chair and his voice had changed from\nrasping efficiency to an unctuous familiarity with sin and with the\nAlmighty. Babbitt also knelt, while Drew gloated:\n\n\"O Lord, thou seest our brother here, who has been led astray by\nmanifold temptations. O Heavenly Father, make his heart to be pure,\nas pure as a little child's. Oh, let him know again the joy of a manly\ncourage to abstain from evil--\"\n\nSheldon Smeeth came frolicking into the study. At the sight of the two\nmen he smirked, forgivingly patted Babbitt on the shoulder, and\nknelt beside him, his arm about him, while he authorized Dr. Drew's\nimprecations with moans of \"Yes, Lord! Help our brother, Lord!\"\n\nThough he was trying to keep his eyes closed, Babbitt squinted between\nhis fingers and saw the pastor glance at his watch as he concluded with\na triumphant, \"And let him never be afraid to come to Us for counsel and\ntender care, and let him know that the church can lead him as a little\nlamb.\"\n\nDr. Drew sprang up, rolled his eyes in the general direction of Heaven,\nchucked his watch into his pocket, and demanded, \"Has the deputation\ncome yet, Sheldy?\"\n\n\"Yep, right outside,\" Sheldy answered, with equal liveliness; then,\ncaressingly, to Babbitt, \"Brother, if it would help, I'd love to go into\nthe next room and pray with you while Dr. Drew is receiving the brothers\nfrom the Don't Make Prohibition a Joke Association.\"\n\n\"No--no thanks--can't take the time!\" yelped Babbitt, rushing toward the\ndoor.\n\nThereafter he was often seen at the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church,\nbut it is recorded that he avoided shaking hands with the pastor at the\ndoor.\n\n\nIII\n\nIf his moral fiber had been so weakened by rebellion that he was not\nquite dependable in the more rigorous campaigns of the Good Citizens'\nLeague nor quite appreciative of the church, yet there was no doubt of\nthe joy with which Babbitt returned to the pleasures of his home and of\nthe Athletic Club, the Boosters, the Elks.\n\nVerona and Kenneth Escott were eventually and hesitatingly married.\nFor the wedding Babbitt was dressed as carefully as was Verona; he was\ncrammed into the morning-coat he wore to teas thrice a year; and with a\ncertain relief, after Verona and Kenneth had driven away in a limousine,\nhe returned to the house, removed the morning coat, sat with his aching\nfeet up on the davenport, and reflected that his wife and he could have\nthe living-room to themselves now, and not have to listen to Verona and\nKenneth worrying, in a cultured collegiate manner, about minimum wages\nand the Drama League.\n\nBut even this sinking into peace was less consoling than his return to\nbeing one of the best-loved men in the Boosters' Club.\n\n\nIV\n\nPresident Willis Ijams began that Boosters' Club luncheon by standing\nquiet and staring at them so unhappily that they feared he was about\nto announce the death of a Brother Booster. He spoke slowly then, and\ngravely:\n\n\"Boys, I have something shocking to reveal to you; something terrible\nabout one of our own members.\"\n\nSeveral Boosters, including Babbitt, looked disconcerted.\n\n\"A knight of the grip, a trusted friend of mine, recently made a trip\nup-state, and in a certain town, where a certain Booster spent his\nboyhood, he found out something which can no longer be concealed. In\nfact, he discovered the inward nature of a man whom we have accepted as\na Real Guy and as one of us. Gentlemen, I cannot trust my voice to say\nit, so I have written it down.\"\n\nHe uncovered a large blackboard and on it, in huge capitals, was the\nlegend:\n\nGeorge Follansbee Babbitt--oh you Folly!\n\nThe Boosters cheered, they laughed, they wept, they threw rolls at\nBabbitt, they cried, \"Speech, speech! Oh you Folly!\"\n\nPresident Ijams continued:\n\n\"That, gentlemen, is the awful thing Georgie Babbitt has been concealing\nall these years, when we thought he was just plain George F. Now I want\nyou to tell us, taking it in turn, what you've always supposed the F.\nstood for.\"\n\nFlivver, they suggested, and Frog-face and Flathead and Farinaceous and\nFreezone and Flapdoodle and Foghorn. By the joviality of their insults\nBabbitt knew that he had been taken back to their hearts, and happily he\nrose.\n\n\"Boys, I've got to admit it. I've never worn a wrist-watch, or parted\nmy name in the middle, but I will confess to 'Follansbee.' My only\njustification is that my old dad--though otherwise he was perfectly\nsane, and packed an awful wallop when it came to trimming the City\nFellers at checkers--named me after the family doc, old Dr. Ambrose\nFollansbee. I apologize, boys. In my next what-d'you-call-it I'll see\nto it that I get named something really practical--something that sounds\nswell and yet is good and virile--something, in fact, like that\ngrand old name so familiar to every household--that bold and almost\noverpowering name, Willis Jimjams Ijams!\"\n\nHe knew by the cheer that he was secure again and popular; he knew that\nhe would no more endanger his security and popularity by straying from\nthe Clan of Good Fellows.\n\n\nV\n\nHenry Thompson dashed into the office, clamoring, \"George! Big news!\nJake Offutt says the Traction Bunch are dissatisfied with the way\nSanders, Torrey and Wing handled their last deal, and they're willing to\ndicker with us!\"\n\nBabbitt was pleased in the realization that the last scar of his\nrebellion was healed, yet as he drove home he was annoyed by such\nbackground thoughts as had never weakened him in his days of belligerent\nconformity. He discovered that he actually did not consider the Traction\ngroup quite honest. \"Well, he'd carry out one more deal for them, but\nas soon as it was practicable, maybe as soon as old Henry Thompson died,\nhe'd break away from all association from them. He was forty-eight; in\ntwelve years he'd be sixty; he wanted to leave a clean business to his\ngrandchildren. Course there was a lot of money in negotiating for the\nTraction people, and a fellow had to look at things in a practical way,\nonly--\" He wriggled uncomfortably. He wanted to tell the Traction group\nwhat he thought of them. \"Oh, he couldn't do it, not now. If he offended\nthem this second time, they would crush him. But--\"\n\nHe was conscious that his line of progress seemed confused. He wondered\nwhat he would do with his future. He was still young; was he through\nwith all adventuring? He felt that he had been trapped into the very\nnet from which he had with such fury escaped and, supremest jest of all,\nbeen made to rejoice in the trapping.\n\n\"They've licked me; licked me to a finish!\" he whimpered.\n\nThe house was peaceful, that evening, and he enjoyed a game of pinochle\nwith his wife. He indignantly told the Tempter that he was content to do\nthings in the good old fashioned way. The day after, he went to see the\npurchasing-agent of the Street Traction Company and they made plans for\nthe secret purchase of lots along the Evanston Road. But as he drove to\nhis office he struggled, \"I'm going to run things and figure out things\nto suit myself--when I retire.\"\n\n\nVI\n\nTed had come down from the University for the week-end. Though he no\nlonger spoke of mechanical engineering and though he was reticent about\nhis opinion of his instructors, he seemed no more reconciled to college,\nand his chief interest was his wireless telephone set.\n\nOn Saturday evening he took Eunice Littlefield to a dance at Devon\nWoods. Babbitt had a glimpse of her, bouncing in the seat of the car,\nbrilliant in a scarlet cloak over a frock of thinnest creamy silk. They\ntwo had not returned when the Babbitts went to bed, at half-past eleven.\nAt a blurred indefinite time of late night Babbitt was awakened by\nthe ring of the telephone and gloomily crawled down-stairs. Howard\nLittlefield was speaking:\n\n\"George, Euny isn't back yet. Is Ted?\"\n\n\"No--at least his door is open--\"\n\n\"They ought to be home. Eunice said the dance would be over at midnight.\nWhat's the name of those people where they're going?\"\n\n\"Why, gosh, tell the truth, I don't know, Howard. It's some classmate of\nTed's, out in Devon Woods. Don't see what we can do. Wait, I'll skip up\nand ask Myra if she knows their name.\"\n\nBabbitt turned on the light in Ted's room. It was a brown boyish room;\ndisordered dresser, worn books, a high-school pennant, photographs of\nbasket-ball teams and baseball teams. Ted was decidedly not there.\n\nMrs. Babbitt, awakened, irritably observed that she certainly did not\nknow the name of Ted's host, that it was late, that Howard Littlefield\nwas but little better than a born fool, and that she was sleepy. But\nshe remained awake and worrying while Babbitt, on the sleeping-porch,\nstruggled back into sleep through the incessant soft rain of her\nremarks. It was after dawn when he was aroused by her shaking him and\ncalling \"George! George!\" in something like horror.\n\n\"Wha--wha--what is it?\"\n\n\"Come here quick and see. Be quiet!\"\n\nShe led him down the hall to the door of Ted's room and pushed it gently\nopen. On the worn brown rug he saw a froth of rose-colored chiffon\nlingerie; on the sedate Morris chair a girl's silver slipper. And on the\npillows were two sleepy heads--Ted's and Eunice's.\n\nTed woke to grin, and to mutter with unconvincing defiance, \"Good\nmorning! Let me introduce my wife--Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt Eunice\nLittlefield Babbitt, Esquiress.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" from Babbitt, and from his wife a long wailing, \"You've gone\nand--\"\n\n\"We got married last evening. Wife! Sit up and say a pretty good morning\nto mother-in-law.\"\n\nBut Eunice hid her shoulders and her charming wild hair under the\npillow.\n\nBy nine o'clock the assembly which was gathered about Ted and Eunice\nin the living-room included Mr. and Mrs. George Babbitt, Dr. and Mrs.\nHoward Littlefield, Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Escott, Mr. and Mrs. Henry\nT. Thompson, and Tinka Babbitt, who was the only pleased member of the\ninquisition.\n\nA crackling shower of phrases filled the room:\n\n\"At their age--\" \"Ought to be annulled--\" \"Never heard of such a thing\nin--\" \"Fault of both of them and--\" \"Keep it out of the papers--\" \"Ought\nto be packed off to school--\" \"Do something about it at once, and what I\nsay is--\" \"Damn good old-fashioned spanking--\"\n\nWorst of them all was Verona. \"TED! Some way MUST be found to make you\nunderstand how dreadfully SERIOUS this is, instead of standing AROUND\nwith that silly foolish SMILE on your face!\"\n\nHe began to revolt. \"Gee whittakers, Rone, you got married yourself,\ndidn't you?\"\n\n\"That's entirely different.\"\n\n\"You bet it is! They didn't have to work on Eu and me with a chain and\ntackle to get us to hold hands!\"\n\n\"Now, young man, we'll have no more flippancy,\" old Henry Thompson\nordered. \"You listen to me.\"\n\n\"You listen to Grandfather!\" said Verona.\n\n\"Yes, listen to your Grandfather!\" said Mrs. Babbitt.\n\n\"Ted, you listen to Mr. Thompson!\" said Howard Littlefield.\n\n\"Oh, for the love o' Mike, I am listening!\" Ted shouted. \"But you look\nhere, all of you! I'm getting sick and tired of being the corpse in this\npost mortem! If you want to kill somebody, go kill the preacher that\nmarried us! Why, he stung me five dollars, and all the money I had in\nthe world was six dollars and two bits. I'm getting just about enough of\nbeing hollered at!\"\n\nA new voice, booming, authoritative, dominated the room. It was Babbitt.\n\"Yuh, there's too darn many putting in their oar! Rone, you dry up.\nHoward and I are still pretty strong, and able to do our own cussing.\nTed, come into the dining-room and we'll talk this over.\"\n\nIn the dining-room, the door firmly closed, Babbitt walked to his son,\nput both hands on his shoulders. \"You're more or less right. They all\ntalk too much. Now what do you plan to do, old man?\"\n\n\"Gosh, dad, are you really going to be human?\"\n\n\"Well, I--Remember one time you called us 'the Babbitt men' and said we\nought to stick together? I want to. I don't pretend to think this isn't\nserious. The way the cards are stacked against a young fellow to-day, I\ncan't say I approve of early marriages. But you couldn't have married a\nbetter girl than Eunice; and way I figure it, Littlefield is darn lucky\nto get a Babbitt for a son-in-law! But what do you plan to do? Course\nyou could go right ahead with the U., and when you'd finished--\"\n\n\"Dad, I can't stand it any more. Maybe it's all right for some fellows.\nMaybe I'll want to go back some day. But me, I want to get into\nmechanics. I think I'd get to be a good inventor. There's a fellow that\nwould give me twenty dollars a week in a factory right now.\"\n\n\"Well--\" Babbitt crossed the floor, slowly, ponderously, seeming a\nlittle old. \"I've always wanted you to have a college degree.\" He\nmeditatively stamped across the floor again. \"But I've never--Now, for\nheaven's sake, don't repeat this to your mother, or she'd remove what\nlittle hair I've got left, but practically, I've never done a single\nthing I've wanted to in my whole life! I don't know 's I've accomplished\nanything except just get along. I figure out I've made about a quarter\nof an inch out of a possible hundred rods. Well, maybe you'll carry\nthings on further. I don't know. But I do get a kind of sneaking\npleasure out of the fact that you knew what you wanted to do and did\nit. Well, those folks in there will try to bully you, and tame you down.\nTell 'em to go to the devil! I'll back you. Take your factory job, if\nyou want to. Don't be scared of the family. No, nor all of Zenith. Nor\nof yourself, the way I've been. Go ahead, old man! The world is yours!\"\n\nArms about each other's shoulders, the Babbitt men marched into the\nliving-room and faced the swooping family."