Skip to main content

Full text of "Babbitt"

See other formats 


U  N I VE  RS I  T  E 


mm 


cw^  UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARIES 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2009  with  funding  from 

Ontario  Council  of  University  Libraries 


http://www.archive.org/details/babbittlewOOIewi 


^  isc  r,iRC 


Date  Due 

~  4 199Z 


fJBNEW^ 


^ APR  9    199?SCCie— 


^ 


Y^ 


^^^ ^^vv^ 


^  1 0  >9y 


'JAN  0  7  199d  sc   FA(  s 


i  BCI  k  2  lyw  sc  E« 


F 


4fif?o 


if  orm^ 


York  Form   —  Cooper  Graphics 


rr 


f 


» 


BABBITT 


BABBITT 


BY 

SINCLAIR  LEWIS 

AUTHOR   OF    "MAIN   STREET  * 


NEW    YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,   BY 
HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY,   INC. 

[g- 10-46] 


PRINTED  IN   THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


EDITH  WHARTON 


I 


BABBITT 


CHAPTER  I 


The  towers  of  Zenith  aspired  above  the  morning  mist;  aus- 
tere towers  of  steel  and  cement  and  limestone,  sturdy  as  cliffs 
and  delicate  as  silver  rods.  They  were  neither  citadels  nor 
churches,  but  frankly  and  beautifully  office-buildings. 

The  mist  took  pity  on  the  fretted  structures  of  earlier  gen- 
erations: the  Post  Office  with  its  shingle- tortured  mansard, 
the  red  brick  minarets  of  hulking  old  houses,  factories  with 
stingy  and  sooted  windows,  wooden  tenements  colored  like 
mud.  The  city  was  full  of  such  grotesqueries,  but  the  clean 
towers  were  thrusting  them  from  the  business  center,  and  on 
the  farther  hills  were  shining  new  houses,  homes — they  seemed 
— for  laughter  and  tranquillity. 

Over  a  concrete  bridge  fled  a  limousine  of  long  sleek  hood 
and  noiseless  engine.  These  people  in  evening  clothes  were 
returning  from  an  all-night  rehearsal  of  a  Little  Theater  play, 
an  artistic  adventure  considerably  illuminated  by  champagne. 
Below  the  bridge  curved  a  railroad,  a  maze  of  green  and 
crimson  lights.  The  New  York  Flyer  boomed  past,  and  twenty 
lines  of  polished  steel  leaped  into  the  glare. 

In  one  of  the  skyscrapers  the  wires  of  the  Associated  Press 
were  closing  down.  The  telegraph  operators  wearily  raised 
their  celluloid  eye-shades  after  a  night  of  talking  with  Paris 
and  Peking.  Through  the  building  crawled  the  scrubwomen, 
yawning,  their  old  shoes  slapping.    The  dawn  mist  spun  away. 


2  BABBITT 

Cues  of  men  with  lunch-boxes  clumped  toward  the  immensity 
of  new  factories,  sheets  of  glass  and  hollow  tile,  glittering  shops 
where  five  thousand  men  worked  beneath  one  roof,  pouring 
out  the  honest  wares  that  would  be  sold  up  the  Euphrates 
and  across  the  veldt.  The  whistles  rolled  out  in  greeting  a 
chorus  cheerful  as  the  April  dawn;  the  song  of  labor  in  a  city 
built — it  seemed — for  giants. 


n 

There  was  nothing  of  the  giant  in  the  aspect  of  the  man 
who  was  beginning  to  awaken  on  the  sleeping-porch  of  a 
Dutch  Colonial  house  in  that  residential  district  of  Zenith 
known  as  Floral  Heights. 

His  name  was  George  F.  Babbitt.  He  was  forty-six  years 
old  now,  in  April,  1920,  and  he  made  nothing  in  particular, 
neither  butter  nor  shoes  nor  poetry,  but  he  was  nimble  in  the 
calling  of  selling  houses  for  more  than  people  could  afford 
to  pay. 

His  large  head  was  pink,  his  brown  hair  thin  and  dry.  His 
face  was  babyish  in  slumber,  despite  his  wrinkles  and  the 
red  spectacle-dents  on  the  slopes  of  his  nose.  He  was  not  fat 
but  he  was  exceedingly  well  fed;  his  cheeks  were  pads,  and 
the  unroughened  hand  which  lay  helpless  upon  the  khaki- 
colored  blanket  was  slightly  puffy.  He  seemed  prosperous, 
extremely  married  and  unromantic;  and  altogether  unroman- 
tic  appeared  this  sleeping-porch,  which  looked  on  one  sizable 
elm,  two  respectable  grass-plots,  a  cement  driveway,  and  a 
corrugated  iron  garage.  Yet  Babbitt  was  again  dreaming  of 
the  fairy  child,  a  dream  more  romantic  than  scarlet  pagodas  by 
a  silver  sea. 

For  years  the  fairy  child  had  come  to  him.  Where  others 
saw  but  Georgie  Babbitt,  she  discerned  gallant  youth.  She 
waited  for  him,  in  the  darkness  beyond  mysterious  groves. 
When  at  last  he  could  slip  away  from  the  crowded  house  he 


BABBITT  3 

darted  to  her.  His  wife,  his  clamoring  friends,  sought  to  fol- 
low, but  he  escaped,  the  girl  fleet  beside  him,  and  they  crouched 
together  on  a  shadowy  hillside.  She  was  so  slim,  so  white,  so 
eager!  She  cried  that  he  was  gay  and  valiant,  that  she  would 
wail  for  him,  that  they  would  sail — 

Rumble  and  bang  of  the  milk- truck. 

Babbitt  moaned^  turned  over,  struggled  back  toward  his 
dream  He  could  see  only  her  face  now,  beyond  misty 
waters.  The  furnace-man  slammed  the  basement  door.  A 
dog  barked  in  the  next  yard.  As  Babbitt  sank  blissfully  into 
a  dim  warm  tide,  the  paper-carrier  went  by  whistling,  and  the 
rolled- up  Advocate  thumped  the  front  door.  Babbitt  roused, 
his  stomach  constricted  with  alarm.  As  he  relaxed,  he  was 
pierced  by  the  familiar  and  irritating  rattle  of  some  one  crank- 
ing a  Ford:  snap-ah-ah,  snap-ah-ah,  snap-ah-ah.  Himself  a 
pious  motorist.  Babbitt  cranked  with  the  unseen  driver,  with 
him  waited  through  taut  hours  for  the  roar  of  the  starting 
engine,  with  him  agonized  as  the  roar  ceased  and  again  began 
the  infernal  patient  snap-ah-ah — a  round,  flat  sound,  a  shiv- 
ering cold-morning  sound,  a  sound  infuriating  and  inescapable. 
Not  till  the  rising  voice  of  the  motor  told  him  that  the  Ford 
was  moving  was  he  released  from  the  panting  tension.  He 
glanced  once  at  his  favorite  tree,  elm  twigs  against  the  gold 
patina  of  sky,  and  fumbled  for  sleep  as  for  a  drug.  He  who 
had  been  a  boy  very  credulous  of  life  was  no  longer  greatly 
interested  in  the  possible  and  improbable  adventures  of  each 
new  day. 

He  escaped  from  reality  till  the  alarm-clock  rang,  at  seven- 
twenty. 

m 

It  was  the  best  of  nationally  advertised  and  quantitatively 
produced  alarm-clocks,  with  all  modern  attachments,  includ- 
ing cathedral  chime,  intermittent  alarm,  and  a  phosphorescent 
dial.     Babbitt  was  proud  of  being  awakened  by  such  a  rich 


4  BABBITT 

device.  Socially  it  was  almost  as  creditable  as  buying  ex- 
pensive cord  tires. 

He  sulkily  admitted  now  that  there  was  no  more  escape, 
but  he  lay  and  detested  the  grind  of  the  real-estate  business, 
and  disliked  his  family,  and  disliked  himself  for  disliking  them. 
The  evening  before,  he  had  played  poker  at  Vergil  Gunch's 
till  midnight,  and  after  such  holidays  he  was  irritable  before 
breakfast.  It  may  have  been  the  tremendous  home-brewed 
beer  of  the  prohibition-era  and  the  cigars  to  which  that  beer 
enticed  him;  it  may  have  been  resentment  of  return  from 
this  fine,  bold  man-world  to  a  restricted  region  of  wives  and 
stenographers,  and  of  suggestions  not  to  smoke  so  much. 

From  the  bedroom  beside  the  sleeping-porch,  his  wife's  de- 
testably cheerful  "Time  to  get  up,  Georgie  boy,"  and  the  itchy 
sound,  the  brisk  and  scratchy  sound,  of  combing  hairs  out  of 
a  stiff  brush. 

He  grunted;  he  dragged  his  thick  legs,  in  faded  baby-blue 
pajamas,  from  under  the  khaki  blanket;  he  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  cot,  running  his  fingers  through  his  wild  hair,  while  his 
plump  feet  mechanically  felt  for  his  slippers.  He  looked  re- 
gretfully at  the  blanket — forever  a  suggestion  to  him  of  free- 
dom and  heroism.  He  had  bought  it  for  a  camping  trip  which 
had  never  come  off.  It  symbolized  gorgeous  loafing,  gor- 
geous cursing,  virile  flannel  shirts. 

He  creaked  to  his  feet,  groaning  at  the  waves  of  pain  which 
passed  behind  his  eyeballs.  Though  he  waited  for  their  scorch- 
ing recurrence,  he  looked  blurrily  out  at  the  yard.  It  delighted 
him,  as  always;  it  was  the  neat  yard  of  a  successful  business 
man  of  Zenith,  that  is,  it  was  perfection,  and  made  him  also 
perfect.  He  regarded  the  corrugated  iron  garage.  For  the 
three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth  time  in  a  year  he  reflected,  "No 
class  to  that  tin  shack.  Have  to  build  me  a  frame  garage. 
But  by  golly  it's  the  only  thing  on  the  place  that  isn't  up-to- 
date!"  While  he  stared  he  thought  of  a  community  garage  for 
his  acreage  development,  Glen  Oriole.    He  stopped  puffing  and 


BABBITT  5 

jiggling.  His  arms  were  akimbo.  His  petulant,  sleep-swollen 
face  was  set  in  harder  lines.  He  suddenly  seemed  capable,  an 
official,  a  man  to  contrive,  to  direct,  to  get  things  done. 

On  the  vigor  of  his  idea  he  was  carried  down  the  hard, 
clean,  imused-looking  hall  into  the  bathroom. 

Though  the  house  was  not  large  it  had,  like  all  houses  on 
Floral  Heights,  an  altogether  royal  bathroom  of  porcelain  and 
glazed  tile  and  metal  sleek  as  silver.  The  towel-rack  was  a 
rod  of  clear  glass  set  in  nickel.  The  tub  was  long  enough 
for  a  Prussian  Guard,  and  above  the  set  bowl  was  a  sensational 
exhibit, of  tooth-brush  holder,  shaving-brush  holder,  soap-dish, 
sponge-dish,  and  medicine-cabinet,  so  glittering  and  so  in- 
genious that  they  resembled  an  electrical  instrument-board. 
But  the  Babbitt  whose  god  was  Modern  Appliances  was  not 
pleased.  The  air  of  the  bathroom  was  thick  with  the  smell  of 
a  heathen  toothpaste.  "Verona  been  at  it  again!  'Stead  of 
sticking  to  Lilidol,  like  I've  re-peat-ed-ly  asked  her,  she's  gone 
and  gotten  some  confounded  stinkum  stuff  that  makes  you 
sick!" 

The  bath-mat  was  wrinkled  and  the  floor  was  wet.  (His 
daughter  Verona  eccentrically  took  baths  in  the  morning,  now 
and  then.)  He  slipped  on  the  mat,  and  slid  against  the  tub. 
He  said  "Damn!"  Furiously  he  snatched  up  his  tube  of  shav- 
ing-cream, furiously  he  lathered,  with  a  belligerent  slapping 
of  the  unctuous  brush,  furiously  he  raked  his  plump  cheeks 
with  a  safety-razor.  It  pulled.  The  blade  was  dull.  He 
said,  "Damn — oh — oh — damn  it!" 

He  hunted  through  the  medicine-cabinet  for  a  packet  of 
new  razor-blades  (reflecting,  as  invariably,  "Be  cheaper  to 
buy  one  of  these  dinguses  and  strop  your  own  blades,")  and 
when  he  discovered  the  packet,  behind  the  round  box  of  bi- 
carbonate of  soda,  he  thought  ill  of  his  wife  for  putting  it 
there  and  very  well  of  himself  for  not  saying  "Damn."  But 
he  did  say  it,  immediately  afterward,  when  with  wet  and 
soap-slippery  fingers  he  tried  to  remove  the  horrible  little 


6  BABBITT 

envelope  and  crisp  clinging  oiled  paper  from  the  new  blade. 

Then  there  was  the  problem,  oft-pondered,  never  solved,  of 
what  to  do  with  the  old  blade,  which  might  imperil  the  fingers 
of  his  young.  As  usual,  he  tossed  it  on  top  of  the  medicine- 
cabinet,  with  a  mental  note  that  some  day  he  must  rf^move 
the  fifty  or  sixty  other  blades  that  were  also  tempora'-ily, 
piled  up  there.  He  finished  his  shavinj^  in  a  growinp  testi- 
ness  increased  by  his  spinning  headache  and  by  the  emptiness 
in  his  stomach.  When  he  was  done,  his  round  face  smooth 
and  streamy  and  his  eyes  stinging  from  soapy  water,  he 
reached  for  a  towel.  The  family  towels  were  wet,  wet  and 
clammy  and  vile,  all  of  them  wet,  he  found,  as  he  blindly 
snatched  them — ^his  own  face-towel,  his  wife's,  Verona's,  Ted's, 
Tinka's,  and  the  lone  bath-towel  with  the  huge  welt  of  initial. 
Then  George  F.  Babbitt  did  a  dismaying  thing.  He  wiped 
his  face  on  the  guest-towel!  It  was  a  pansy-embroidered 
trifle  which  always  hung  there  to  indicate  that  the  Babbitts 
were  in  the  best  Floral  Heights  society.  No  one  had  ever 
used  it.  No  guest  had  ever  dared  to.  Guests  secretively  took 
a  corner  of  the  nearest  regular  towel. 

He  was  raging^  "By  golly,  here  they  go  and  use  up  all  the 
towels,  every  doggone  one  of  'em,  and  they  use  'em  and  get  'em 
all  wet  and  sopping,  and  never  put  out  a  dry  one  for  me — 
of  course,  I'm  the  goat! — and  then  I  want  one  and —  I'm  the 
only  person  in  the  doggone  house  that's  got  the  slightest  dog- 
gone bit  of  consideration  for  other  people  and  thoughtfulness 
and  consider  there  may  be  others  that  may  want  to  use  the 
doggone  bathroom  after  me  and  v^onsider — " 

He  was  pitching  the  chill  abominations  into  the  bath-tub, 
pleased  by  the  vindictiveness  of  that  desolate  flapping  sound; 
and  in  the  midst  his  wife  serenely  trotted  in,  observed  se- 
renely, "Why  Georgie  dear,  what  are  you  doing?  Are  you 
going  to  wash  out  the  towels?  Why,  you  needn't  wash  out 
the  towels.  Oh,  Georgie,  you  didn't  go  and  use  the  guest- 
towel,  did  you?" 


BABBITT  7 

It  is  not  recorded  that  he  was  able  to  answer. 
For  the  first  time  in  weeks  he  was  sufficiently  roused  by 
his  wife  to  look  at  her. 

IV 

Myra  Babbitt — Mrs.  George  F.  Babbitt — was  definitely  ma- 
ture. She  had  creases  from  the  corners  of  her  mouth  to  the 
bottom  of  her  chin,  and  her  plump  neck  bagged.  But  the 
thing  that  marked  her  as  having  passed  the  line  was  that  she 
no  longer  had  reticences  before  her  husband,  and  no  longer 
worried  about  not  having  reticences.  She  was  in  a  petticoat 
now,  and  corsets  which  bulged,  and  unaware  of  being  seen 
in  bulgy  corsets.  She  had  become  so  dully  habituated  to 
married  life  that  in  her  full  matronliness  she  was  as  sexless  as 
an  anemic  nun.  She  was  a  good  woman,  a  kind  woman,  a 
diligent  woman,  but  no  one,  save  perhaps  Tinka  her  ten- 
year-old,  was  at  all  interested  in  her  or  entirely  aware  that 
she  was  alive. 

After  a  rather  thorough  discussion  of  all  the  domestic  and 
social  aspects  of  towels  she  apologized  to  Babbitt  for  his 
having  an  alcoholic  headache;  and  he  recovered  enough  to 
endure  the  search  for  a  B.V.D.  undershirt  which  had,  he  pointed 
out,  malevolently  been  concealed  among  his  clean  pajamas. 

He  was  fairly  amiable  in  the  conference  on  the  brown  suit. 

"What  do  you  think,  Myra?"  He  pawed  at  the  clothes 
hunched  on  a  chair  in  their  bedroom,  while  she  moved  about 
mysteriously  adjusting  and  patting  her  petticoat  and,  to  his 
jaundiced  eye,  never  seeming  to  get  on  with  her  dressing. 
"How  about  it?  Shall  I  wear  the  brown  suit  another 
day?" 

"Well,  it  looks  awfully  nice  on  you." 

"I  know,  but  gosh,  it  needs  pressing." 

"That's  so.     Perhaps  it  does." 

"It  certainly  could  stand  being  pressed,  all  right.'* 

"Yes,  perhaps  it  wouldn't  hurt  it  to  be  pressed." 


8  iBABBITT 

"But  gee,  the  coat  doesn't  need  pressing.  No  sense  in  hav- 
ing the  whole  darn  suit  pressed,  when  the  coat  doesn't  need  it." 

"That's  so." 

"But  the  pants  certainly  need  it,  all  right.  Look  at  them 
— look  at  those  wrinkles — the  pants  certainly  do  need  press- 
ing." 

"That's  so.  Oh,  Georgie,  why  couldn't  you  wear  the  brown 
coat  with  the  blue  trousers  we  were  wondering  what  we'd  do 
with  them?" 

"Good  Lord!  Did  you  ever  in  all  my  life  know  me  to  wear 
the  coat  of  one  suit  and  the  pants  of  another?  What  do  you 
think  I  am?     A  busted  bookkeeper?" 

"Well,  why  don't  you  put  on  the  dark  gray  suit  to-day,  and 
stop  in  at  the  tailor  and  leave  the  brown  trousers?" 

"Well,  they  certainly  need —  Now  where  the  devil  is  that 
gray  suit?     Oh,  yes,  here  we  are." 

He  was  able  to  get  through  the  other  crises  of  dressing  with 
comparative  resoluteness  and  calm. 

His  first  adornment  was  the  sleeveless  dimity  B.V.D. 
undershirt,  in  which  he  resembled  a  small  boy  humorlessly 
wearing  a  cheesecloth  tabard  at  a  civic  pageant.  He  never 
put  on  B.V.D.'s  without  thanking  the  God  of  Progress  that  he 
didn't  wear  tight,  long,  old-fashioned  undergarments,  like  his 
father-in-law  and  partner,  Henry  Thompson.  His  second  em- 
bellishment Vi^as  combing  and  slicking  back  his  hair.  It  gave 
him  a  tremendous  forehead,  arching  up  two  inches  beyond 
the  former  hair-line.  But  most  wonder-working  of  all  was 
the  donning  of  his  spectacles. 

There  is  character  in  sjpectacles — the  pretentious  tortoise- 
shell,  the  meek  pince-nez  of  the  school  teacher,  the  twisted 
silver-framed  glasses  of  the  old  villager.  Babbitt's  spectacles 
had  huge,  circular,  frameless  lenses  of  the  very  best  glass; 
the  ear-pieces  were  thin  bars  of  gold.  In  them  he  was  the 
modern  business  man ;  one  who  gave  orders  to  clerks  and  drove 
a  car  and  played  occasional  golf  and  was  scholarly  in  regard 


BABBITT  9 

to  Salesmanship.  His  head  suddenly  appeared  not  babyish 
but  weighty,  and  you  noted  his  heavy,  blunt  nose,  his  straight 
mouth  and  thick,  long  upper  lip,  his  chin  overfleshy  but  strong; 
with  respect  you  beheld  him  put  on  the  rest  of  his  uniform  as 
a  Solid  Citizen. 

The  gray  suit  was  well  cut,  well  made,  and  completely  un- 
distinguished. It  was  a  standard  suit.  White  piping  on  the 
V  of  the  vest  added  a  flavor  of  law  and  learning.  His  shoes 
were  black  laced  boots,  good  boots,  honest  boots,  standard 
boots,  extraordinarily  uninteresting  boots.  The  only  frivolity 
was  in  his  purple  knitted  scarf.  With  considerable  comment 
on  the  matter  to  Mrs.  Babbitt  (who,  acrobatically  fastening 
the  back  of  her  blouse  to  her  skirt  with  a  safety-pin,  did  not 
hear  a  word  he  said),  he  chose  between  the  purple  scarf  and 
a  tapestry  effect  with  stringless  brown  harps  among  blown 
palms,  and  into  it  he  thrust  a  snake-head  pin  with  opal  eyes. 

A  sensational  event  was  changing  from  the  brown  suit  to 
the  gray  the  contents  of  his  pockets.  He  was  earnest  about 
these  objects.  They  were  of  eternal  importance,  like  baseball 
or  the  Republican  Party.  They  included  a  fountain  pen  and 
a  silver  pencil  (always  lacking  a  supply  of  new  leads)  which 
belonged  in  the  righthand  upper  vest  pocket.  Without  them 
he  would  have  felt  naked.  On  his  watch-chain  were  a  gold 
penknife,  silver  cigar-cutter,  seven  keys  (the  use  of  two  of 
which  he  had  forgotten),  and  incidentally  a  good  watch.  De- 
pending from  the  chain  was  a  large,  yellowish  elk's-tooth — 
proclamation  of  his  membership  in  the  Brotherly  and  Protec- 
tive Order  of  Elks.  Most  significant  of  all  was  his  loose-leaf 
pocket  note-book,  that  modern  and  efficient  note-book  which 
contained  the  addresses  of  people  whom  he  had  forgotten,  pru- 
dent memoranda  of  postal  money-orders  which  had  reached 
their  destinations  months  ago,  stamps  which  had  lost  their 
mucilage,  clippings  of  verses  by  T.  Cholmondeley  Frink  and 
of  the  newspaper  editorials  from  which  Babbitt  got  his  opin- 
ions and  his  polysyllables,  notes  to  be  sure  and  do  things  which 


10  BABBITT 

he  did  not  intend  to  do,  and  one  curious  inscription — D.S.S. 
D.M.Y.P.D.F. 

But  he  had  no  cigarette-case.  No  one  had  ever  happened 
to  give  him  one,  so  he  hadn't  the  habit,  and  people  who  car-« 
fied  cigarette-cases  he  regarded  as  effeminate. 

Last,  he  stuck  in  his  lapel  the  Boosters'  Club  button.  With 
the  conciseness  of  great  art  the  button  displayed  two  words: 
"Boosters — Pep!"  It  made  Babbitt  feel  loyal  and  important. 
It  associated  him  with  Good  Fellows,  with  men  who  were  nice 
and  human,  and  important  in  business  circles.  It  was  his 
V.C.,  his  Legion  of  Honor  ribbon,  his  Phi  Beta  Kappa  key. 

With  the  subtleties  of  dressing  ran  other  complex  worries. 
"I  feel  kind  of  punk  this  morning,"  he  said.  "I  think  I  had 
too  much  dinner  last  evening.  You  oughtn't  to  serve  those 
heavy  banana  fritters." 

"But  you  asked  me  to  have  some." 

"I  know,  but —  I  tell  you,  when  a  fellow  gets  past  forty 
he  has  to  look  after  his  digestion.  There's  a  lot  of  fellows 
that  don't  take  proper  care  of  themselves.  I  tell  you  at  forty 
a  man's  a  fool  or  his  doctor — I  mean,  his  own  doctor.  Folks 
don't  give  enough  attention  to  this  matter  of  dieting.  Now 
I  think —  Course  a  man  ought  to  have  a  good  meal  after 
the  day's  work,  but  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  both  of  us 
if  we  took  lighter  lunches." 

"But  Georgie,  here  at  home  I  always  do  have  a  light 
lunch." 

"Mean  to  imply  I  make  a  hog  of  myself,  eating  down-town? 
Yes,  sure!  You'd  have  a  swell  time  if  you  had  to  eat  the 
truck  that  new  steward  hands  out  to  us  at  the  Athletic  Club! 
But  I  certainly  do  feel  out  of  sorts,  this  morning.  Funny,  got 
a  pain  down  here  on  the  left  side — but  no,  that  wouldn't  be 
appendicitis,  would  it?  Last  night,  when  I  was  driving  over 
to  Verg  Gunch's,  I  felt  a  pain  in  my  stomach,  too.  Right  here 
it  was — kind  of  a  sharp  shooting  pain.  I —  Where'd  that 
dime  go  to?    Why  don't  you  serve  more  prunes  at  break- 


BABBITT  II 

fast?  Of  course  I  eat  an  apple  every  evening — an  apple  a 
day  keeps  the  doctor  away — but  still,  you  ought  to  have  more 
prunes,  and  not  all  these  fancy  doodads." 

"The  last  time  I  had  prunes  you  didn't  eat  them." 

"Well,  I  didn't  feel  like  eating  'em,  I  suppose.  Matter  of 
fact,  I  think  I  did  eat  some  of  'em.  Anyway —  I  tell  you 
it's  mighty  important  to —  I  was  saying  to  Verg  Gunch,  just 
last  evening,  most  people  don't  take  sufficient  care  of  their 
diges — " 

"Shall  we  have  the  Gunches  for  our  dinner,  next  week?" 

"Why  sure;  you  bet." 

"Now  see  here,  George:  I  want  you  to  put  on  your  nice 
dinner-jacket  that  evening." 

"Rats!     The  rest  of  'em  won't  want  to  dress." 

"Of  course  they  will.  You  remember  when  you  didn't  dress 
for  the  Littlefields'  supper-party,  and  all  the  rest  did,  and  how 
embarrassed  you  were." 

"Embarrassed,  hell!  I  wasn't  embarrassed.  Everybody 
knows  I  can  put  on  as  expensive  a  Tux.  as  anybody  else,  and 
I  should  worry  if  I  don't  happen  to  have  it  on  sometimes.  All 
a  darn  nuisance,  anyway.  All  right  for  a  woman,  that  stays 
around  the  house  all  the  time,  but  when  a  fellow's  worked 
like  the  dickens  all  day,  he  doesn't  want  to  go  and  hustle  his 
head  off  getting  into  the  soup-and-fish  for  a  lot  of  folks  that 
he's  seen  in  just  reg'lar  ordinary  clothes  that  same  day." 

"You  know  you  enjoy  being  seen  in  one.  The  other  evening 
you  admitted  you  were  glad  I'd  insisted  on  your  dressing. 
You  said  you  felt  a  lot  better  for  it.  And  oh,  Georgie,  I  do 
wish  you  wouldn't  say  'Tux.'     It's  'dinner-jacket.'  " 

"Rats,  what's  the  odds?" 

"Well,  it's  what  all  the  nice  folks  say.  Suppose  Lucile  Mc- 
Kelvey  heard  you  calling  it  a  'Tux.'  " 

"Well,  that's  all  right  now!  Lucile  McKelvey  can't  pull 
anything  on  me!  Her  folks  are  common  as  mud,  even  if  her 
husband  and  her  dad  are  millionaires !    I  suppose  you're  trying 


12  BABBITT 

to  rub  in  your  exalted  social  position!  Well,  let  me  tell  you 
that  your  revered  paternal  ancestor,  Henry  T,,  doesn't  even 
call  it  a  'Tux.'!  He  calls  it  a  'bobtail  jacket  for  a  ringtail 
monkey,'  and  you  couldn't  get  him  into  one  unless  you 
chloroformed  him!" 

"Now  don't  be  horrid,  George." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  be  horrid,  but  Lord!  you're  getting 
as  fussy  as  Verona.  Ever  since  she  got  out  of  college  she's 
been  too  rambunctious  to  live  with — doesn't  know  what  she 
wants — well,  I  know  what  she  wants! — all  she  wants  is  to 
marry  a  millionaire,  and  live  in  Europe,  and  hold  some  preach- 
er's hand,  and  simultaneously  at  the  same  time  stay  right  here 
in  Zenith  and  be  some  blooming  kind  of  a  socialist  agitator 
or  boss  charity- worker  or  some  damn  thing!  Lord,  and  Ted 
is  just  as  bad!  He  wants  to  go  to  college,  and  he  doesn't  want 
to  go  to  college.  Only  one  of  the  three  that  knows  her  own 
mind  is  Tinka.  Simply  can't  understand  how  I  ever  came  to 
have  a  pair  of  shillyshallying  children  like  Rone  and  Ted. 
I  may  not  be  any  Rockefeller  or  James  J.  Shakespeare,  but 
I  certainly  do  know  my  own  mind,  and  I  do  keep  right  on 
plugging  along  in  the  office  and —  Do  you  know  the  latest? 
Far  as  I  can  figure  out,  Ted's  new  bee  is  he'd  like  to  be  a 
movie  actor  and —  And  here  I've  told  him  a  hundred  times, 
if  he'll  go  to  college  and  law-school  and  make  good,  I'll  set 
him  up  in  business  and —  Verona  just  exactly  as  bad. 
Doesn't  know  what  she  wants.  Well,  well,  come  on!  Aren't 
you  ready  yet?    The  girl  rang  the  bell  three  minutes  ago." 


Before  he  followed  his  wife,  Babbitt  stood  at  the  western- 
most window  of  their  room.  This  residential  settlement, 
Floral  Heights,  was  on  a  rise;  and  though  the  center  of  the 
city  was  three  miles  away — Zenith  had  between  three  and  four 
hundred  thousand  inhabitants  now — he  could  see  the  top  of 


BABBITT  13 

the  Second  National  Tower,  an  Indiana  limestone  building  of 
thirty-five  stories. 

Its  shining  walls  rose  against  April  sky  to  a  simple  cornice 
like  a  streak  of-  white  fire.  Integrity  was  in  the  tower,  and 
decision.  It  bore  its  strength  lightly  as  a  tall  soldier.  As 
Babbitt  stared,  the  nervousness  was  soothed  from  his  face,  his 
slack  chin  lifted  in  reverence.  All  he  articulated  was  "That's 
one  lovely  sight!"  but  he  was  inspired  by  tjie  rhythm  of  the 
city;  his  love  of  it  renewed.  He  beheld  the  tower  as  a  tem- 
ple-spire of  the  religion  of  business,  a  faith  passionate,  ex- 
alted, surpassing  common  men;  and  as  he  clumped  down  to 
breakfast  he  whistled  the  ballad  "Oh,  by  gee,  by  gosh,  by 
jingo"  as  though  it  were  a  hymn  melancholy  and  noble. 


CHAPTER  II 


Relieved  of  Babbitt's  bumbling  and  the  soft  grunts  with 
which  his  wife  expressed  the  sympathy  she  was  too  experienced 
to  feel  and  much  too  experienced  not  to  show,  their  bedroom 
settled  instantly  into  impersonality. 

It  gave  on  the  sleeping-porch.  It  served  both  of  them  as 
dressing-room,  and  on  the  coldest  nights  Babbitt  luxuriously 
gave  up  the  duty  of  being  manly  and  retreated  to  the  bed 
inside,  to  curl  his  toes  in  the  warmth  and  laugh  at  the  Janu- 
ary gale. 

The  room  displayed  a  modest  and  pleasant  color-scheme, 
after  one  of  the  best  standard  designs  of  the  decorator  who 
"did  the  interiors"  for  most  of  the  speculative-builders'  houses 
in  Zenith.  The  walls  were  gray,  the  woodwork  white,  the 
rug  a  serene  blue;  and  very  much  like  mahogany  was  the  fur- 
niture— the  bureau  with  its  great  clear  mirror,  Mrs.  Babbitt's 
dressing-table  with  toilet-articles  of  almost  solid  silver,  the 
plain  twin  beds,  between  them  a  small  table  holding  a  standard 
electric  bedside  lamp,  a  glass  for  water,  and  a  standard  bed- 
side book  with  colored  illustrations — what  particular  book  it 
was  cannot  be  ascertained,  since  no  one  had  ever  opened  it. 
The  mattresses  were  firm  but  not  hard,  triumphant  modern 
mattresses  which  had  cost  a  great  deal  of  money;  the  hot- 
water  radiator  was  of  exactly  the  proper  scientific  surface 
for  the  cubic  contents  of  the  room.  The  windows  were  large 
and  easily  opened,  with  the  best  catches  and  cords,  and  Hol- 
land roller-shades  guaranteed  not  to  crack.  It  was  a  master- 
piece among  bedrooms,  right  out  of  Cheerful  Modern  Houses 
for  Medium  Incomes.     Only  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 

14 


BABBITT  15 

Babbitts,  nor  with  any  one  else.  If  people  had  ever  lived 
and  loved  here,  read  thrillers  at  midnight  and  lain  in  beau- 
tiful indolence  on  a  Sunday  morning,  there  were  no  signs  of 
it.  It  had  the  air  of  being  a  very  good  room  in  a  very  good 
hotel.  One  expected  the  chambermaid  to  come  in  and  make 
it  ready  for  people  who  would  stay  but  one  night,  go  without 
looking  back,  and  never  think  of  it  again. 

Every  second  house  in  Floral  Heights  had  a  bedroom  pre- 
cisely like  this. 

The  Babbitts'  house  was  five  years  old.  It  was  all  as  com- 
petent and  glossy  as  this  bedroom.  It  had  the  best  of  taste, 
the  best  of  inexpensive  rugs,  a  simple  and  laudable  architec- 
ture, and  the  latest  conveniences.  Throughout,  electricity  took 
the  place  of  candles  and  slatternly  hearth-fires.  Along  the 
bedroom  baseboard  were  three  plugs  for  electric  lamps,  con- 
cealed by  little  brass  doors.  In  the  halls  were  plugs  for  the 
vacuum  cleaner,  and  in  the  living-room  plugs  for  the  piano 
lamp,  for  the  electric  fan.  The  trim  dining-room  (with  its 
admirable  oak  buffet,  its  leaded-glass  cupboard,  its  creamy 
plaster  walls,  its  modest  scene  of  a  salmon  expiring  upon  a 
pile  of  oysters)  had  plugs  which  supplied  the  electric  percolator 
and  the  electric  toaster. 

In  fact  there  was  but  one  thing  wrong  with  the  Babbitt 
house:  It  was  not  a  home. 


n 

Often  of  a  morning  Babbitt  came  bouncing  and  jesting  in 
to  breakfast.  But  things  were  mysteriously  awry  to-day.  As 
he  pontifically  tread  the  upper  hall  he  looked  into  Verona's 
bedroom  and  protested,  "What's  the  use  of  giving  the  family 
a  high-class  house  when  they  don't  appreciate  it  and  tend 
to  business  and  get  down  to  brass  tacks?" 

He  marched  upon  them:  Verona,  a  dumpy  brown-haired 
girl  of  twenty-two,  just  out  of  Bryn  Mawr,  given  to  soHci- 


i6  BABBITT 

tudes  about  duty  and  sex  and  God  and  the  unconquerable 
bagginess  of  the  gray  sports-suit  she  was  now  wearing.  Ted 
— Theodore  Roosevelt  Babbitt — a  decorative  boy  of  seventeen. 
Tinka — Katherine — still  a  baby  at  ten,  with  radiant  red  hair 
and  a  thin  skin  which  hinted  of  too  much  candy  and  too  many 
ice  cream  sodas.  Babbitt  did  not  show  his  vague  irritation 
as  he  tramped  in.  He  really  disliked  being  a  family  tyrant, 
and  his  nagging  was  as  meaningless  as  it  was  frequent.  He 
shouted  at  Tinka,  "Well,  kittiedoolie!"  It  was  the  only  pet 
name  in  his  vocabulary,  except  the  "dear"  and  "hon."  with 
which  he  recognized  his  wife,  and  he  flung  it  at  Tinka  every 
morning. 

He  gulped  a  cup  of  coffee  in  the  hope  of  pacifying  his 
stomach  and  his  soul.  His  stomach  ceased  to  feel  as  though 
it  did  not  belong  to  him,  but  Verona  began  to  be  conscientious 
and  annoying,  and  abruptly  there  returned  to  Babbitt  the 
doubts  regarding  life  and  families  and  business  which  had 
clawed  at  him  when  his  dream-life  and  the  slim  fairy  girl  had 
fied. 

Verona  had  for  six  months  been  filing-clerk  at  the  Gruens- 
berg  Leather  Company  offices,  with  a  prospect  of  becoming 
secretary  to  Mr.  Gruensberg  and  thus,  as  Babbitt  defined  it, 
"getting  some  good  out  of  your  expensive  college  education  till 
you're  ready  to  marry  and  settle  down," 

But  now  said  Verona:  "Father!  I  was  talking  to  a  class- 
mate of  mine  that's  working  for  the  Associated  Charities — oh, 
Dad,  there's  the  sweetest  little  babies  that  come  to  the  milk- 
station  there! — and  I  feel  as  though  I  ought  to  be  doing  some- 
thing worth  while  like  that." 

"What  do  you  mean  'worth  while'?  If  you  get  to  be  Gruens- 
berg's  secretary — and  maybe  you  would,  if  you  kept  up  your 
shorthand  and  didn't  go  sneaking  off  to  concerts  and  talk- 
fests  every  evening — I  guess  you'll  find  thirty-five  or  forty 
bones  a  week  worth  while!" 

"I  know,  but — oh,  I  want  to — contribute —    I  wish  I  were 


BABBITT  17 

working  in  a  settlement-house.  I  wonder  if  I  could  get  one 
of  the  department-stores  to  let  me  put  in  a  welfare-department 
with  a  nice  rest-room  and  chintzes  and  wicker  chairs  and  so 
on  and  so  forth.     Or  I  could — " 

"Now  you  look  here!  The  first  thing  you  got  to  understand 
is  that  all  this  uplift  and  flipflop  and  settlement-work  and 
recreation  is  nothing  in  God's  world  but  the  entering  wedge 
for  socialism.  The  sooner  a  man  learns  he  isn't  going  to  be 
coddled,  and  he  needn't  expect  a  lot  of  free  grub  and,  uh,  all 
these  free  classes  and  flipflop  and  doodads  for  his  kids  unless 
he  earns  'em,  why,  the  sooner  he'll  get  on  the  job  and  pro- 
duce— produce — ^produce!  That's  what  the  country  needs,  and 
not  all  this  fancy  stuff  that  just  enfeebles  the  will-power  of  the 
working  man  and  gives  his  kids  a  lot  of  notions  above  their 
class.  And  you — if  you'd  tend  to  business  instead  of  fooling 
and  fussing —  All  the  time!  When  I  was  a  young  man  I  made 
up  my  mind  what  I  wanted  to  do,  and  stuck  to  it  through 
thick  and  thin,  and  that's  why  I'm  where  I  am  to-day,  and — 
Myra!  What  do  you  let  the  girl  chop  the  toast  up  into  these 
dinky  little  chunks  for?  Can't  get  your  fist  onto  'em.  Half 
cold,  anyway!" 

Ted  Babbitt,  junior  in  the  great  East  Side  High  School, 
had  been  making  hiccup-like  sounds  of  interruption.  He 
blurted  now,  "Say,  Rone,  you  going  to — " 

Verona  whirled.  "Ted!  Will  you  kindly  not  interrupt  us 
when  we're  talking  about  serious  matters!" 

"Aw  punk,"  said  Ted  judicially.  "Ever  since  somebody 
slipped  up  and  let  you  out  of  college.  Ammonia,  you  been 
pulling  these  nut  conversations  about  what-nots  and  so-on- 
and-so-forths.  Are  you  going  to —  I  want  to  use  the  car  to- 
night." 

Babbitt  snorted,  "Oh,  you  do!  May  want  it  myself!" 
Verona  protested,  "Oh,  you  do,  Mr.  Smarty!  I'm  going  to 
take  it  myself!"  Tinka  wailed,  "Oh,  papa,  you  said  maybe 
you'd  drive  us  down  to  Rosedale!"  and  Mrs.  Babbitt,  "Care- 


i8  BABBITT 

fill,  Tinka,  your  sleeve  is  in  the  butter."  They  glared,  and 
Verona  hurled,  "Ted,  you're  a  perfect  pig  about  the  car!" 

"Course  you're  not!  Not  a-tall!"  Ted  could  be  mad- 
deningly bland.  "You  just  want  to  grab  it  off,  right  after 
dinner,  and  leave  it  in  front  of  some  skirt's  house  all  evening 
while  you  sit  and  gas  about  lite'ature  and  the  highbrows 
you're  going  to  marry — if  they  only  propose!" 

"Well,  Dad  oughtn't  to  ever  let  you  have  it!  You  and 
those  beastly  Jones  boys  drive  like  maniacs.  The  idea  of 
your  taking  the  turn  on  Chautauqua  Place  at  forty  miles  an 
hour!" 

"Aw,  where  do  you  get  that  stuff!  You're  so  darn  scared 
of  the  car  that  you  drive  up-hill  with  the  emergency  brake 
on!" 

"I  do  not!  And  you —  Always  talking  about  how  much 
you  know  about  motors,  and  Eunice  Littlefield  told  me  you  said 
the  battery  fed  the  generator!" 

"You — why,  my  good  woman,  you  don't  know  a  generator 
from  a  differential."  Not  unreasonably  was  Ted  lofty  with 
her.  He  was  a  natural  mechanic,  a  maker  and  tinker er  of 
machines;  he  lisped  in  blueprints  for  the  blueprints  came. 

"That'll  do  now!"  Babbitt  flung  in  mechanically,  as  he 
lighted  the  gloriously  satisfying  first  cigar  of  the  day  and  tasted 
the  exhilarating  drug  of  the  Advocate-Times  headlines. 

Ted  negotiated:  "Gee,  honest.  Rone,  I  don't  want  to  take 
the  old  boat,  but  I  promised  couple  o'  girls  in  my  class  I'd 
drive  'em  down  to  the  rehearsal  of  the  school  chorus,  and,  gee, 
I  don't  want  to,  but  a  gentleman's  got  to  keep  his  social 
engagements." 

"Well,  upon  my  word!  You  and  your  social  engagements! 
In  high  school!" 

"Oh,  ain't  we  select  since  we  went  to  that  hen  college!  Let 
me  tell  you  there  isn't  a  private  school  in  the  state  that's  got 
as  swell  a  bunch  as  we  got  in  Gamma  Digamma  this  year. 
There's  two  fellows  that  their  dads  are  millionaires.     Say, 


BABBITT  19 

gee,  I  ought  to  have  a  car  of  my  own,  like  lots  of  the  fellows." 

Babbitt  almost  rose.  "A  car  of  your  own!  Don't  you  want 
a  yacht,  and  a  house  and  lot?  That  pretty  nearly  takes  the 
cake!  A  boy  that  can't  pass  his  Latin  examinations,  like  any 
other  boy  ought  to,  and  he  expects  me  to  give  him  a  motor-car, 
and  I  suppose  a  chauffeur,  and  an  areoplane  maybe,  as  a 
reward  for  the  hard  work  he  puts  in  going  to  the  movies  with 
Eunice  Littlefield!    Well,  when  you  see  me  giving  you — " 

Somewhat  later,  after  diplomacies,  Ted  persuaded  Verona  to 
admit  that  she  was  merely  going  to  the  Armory,  that  evening, 
to  see  the  dog  and  cat  show.  She  was  then,  Ted  planned,  to 
park  the  car  in  front  of  the  candy-store  across  from  the  Armory 
and  he  would  pick  it  up.  There  were  masterly  arrangements 
regarding  leaving  the  key,  and  having  the  gasoline  tank  filled; 
and  passionately,  devotees  of  the  Great  God  Motor,  they 
hymned  the  patch  on  the  spare  inner-tube,  and  the  lost  jack- 
handle. 

Their  truce  dissolving,  Ted  observed  that  her  friends  were 
"a  scream  of  a  bimch — stuck-up  gabby  four-flushers."  His 
friends,  she  indicated,  were  "disgusting  imitation  sports,  and 
horrid  little  shrieking  ignorant  girls."  Further:  "It's  disgust- 
ing of  you  to  smoke  cigarettes,  and  so  on  and  so  forth,  and 
those  clothes  you've  got  on  this  morning,  they're  too  utterly 
ridiculous — ^honestly,  simply  disgusting." 

Ted  balanced  over  to  the  low  beveled  mirror  in  the  buffet, 
regarded  his  charms,  and  smirked.  His  suit,  the  latest  thing 
in  Old  Eli  Togs,  was  skin-tight,  with  skimpy  trousers  to  the 
tops  of  his  glaring  tan  boots,  a  chorus-man  waistline,  pattern 
of  an  agitated  check,  and  across  the  back  a  belt  which  belted 
nothing.  His  scarf  was  an  enormous  black  silk  wad.  His 
flaxen  hair  was  ice-smooth,  pasted  back  without  parting. 
When  he  went  to  school  he  would  add  a  cap  with  a  long 
vizor  like  a  shovel-blade.  Proudest  of  all  was  his  waistcoat, 
saved  for,  begged  for,  plotted  for;  a  real  Fancy  Vest  of  fawn 
with  polka  dots  of  a  decayed  red,  the  points  astoundingly  long. 


20  BABBITT 

On  the  lower  edge  of  it  he  wore  a  high-school  button,  a  class 
button,  and  a  fraternity  pin. 

And  none  of  it  mattered.  He  was  supple  and  swift  and 
flushed;  his  eyes  (which  he  believed  to  be  cynical)  were 
candidly  eager.  But  he  was  not  over-gentle.  He  waved  his 
hand  at  poor  dumpy  Verona  and  drawled:  "Yes,  I  guess 
we're  pretty  ridiculous  and  disgusticulus,  and  I  rather  guess 
our  new  necktie  is  some  smear!" 

Babbitt  barked:  "It  is!  And  while  you're  admiring  your- 
self, let  me  tell  you  it  might  add  to  your  manly  beauty  if  you 
wiped  some  of  that  egg  off  your  mouth!" 

Verona  giggled,  momentary  victor  in  the  greatest  of  Great 
Wars,  which  is  the  family  war.  Ted  looked  at  her  hopelessly, 
then  shrieked  at  Tinka:  "For  the  love  o'  Pete,  quit  pouring 
the  whole  sugar  bowl  on  your  corn  flakes!" 

When  Verona  and  Ted  were  gone  and  Tinka  upstairs,  Bab- 
bitt groaned  to  his  wife:  "Nice  family,  I  must  say!  I  don't 
pretend  to  be  any  baa-lamb,  and  maybe  I'm  a  little  cross- 
grained  at  breakfast  sometimes,  but  the  way  they  go  on  jab- 
jab-jabbering,  I  simply  can't  stand  it.  I  swear,  I  feel  like 
going  off  some  place  where  I  can  get  a  little  peace.  I  do 
think  after  a  man's  spent  his  lifetime  trying  to  give  his  kids 
a  chance  and  a  decent  education,  it's  pretty  discouraging  to 
hear  them  all  the  time  scrapping  like  a  bunch  of  hyenas  and 
never — and  never —  Curious;  here  in  the  paper  it  saj^ — 
Never  silent  for  one  mom —    Seen  the  morning  paper  yet?" 

"No,  dear."  In  twenty-three  years  of  married  life,  Mrs. 
Babbitt  had  seen  the  paper  before  her  husband  just  sixty- 
seven  times. 

"Lots  of  news.  Terrible  big  tornado  in  the  South.  Hard 
luck,  all  right.  But  this,  say,  this  is  corking!  Beginning  of 
the  end  for  those  fellows!  New  York  Assembly  has  passed 
some  bills  that  ought  to  completely  outlaw  the  socialists!  And 
there's  an  elevator-runners'  strike  in  New  York  and  a  lot  of 
college  boys  are  taking  their  places.    That's  the  stuff!     And 


BABBITT  21 

a  mass-meeting  in  Birmingham's  demanded  that  this  Mick 
agitator,  this  fellow  De  Valera,  be  deported.  Dead  right,  by 
golly!  All  these  agitators  paid  with  German  gold  anyway. 
And  we  got  no  business  interfering  with  the  Irish  or  any 
other  foreign  government.    Keep  our  hands  strictly  off.    And  5 

there's  another  well-authenticated  rumor  from  Russia  that  ,  t 
Lenin  is  dead.  That's  fine.  It's  beyond  me  why  we  don't  just  "^ 
step  in  there  and  kick  those  Bolshevik  cusses  out." 

"That's  so,"  said  Mrs.  Babbitt. 

"And  it  says  here  a  fellow  was  inaugurated  mayor  in  over- 
alls— a  preacher,  too!     What  do  you  think  of  that!" 

"Humph!     Well!" 

He  searched  for  an  attitude,  but  neither  as  a  Republican,  a 
Presbyterian,  an  Elk,  nor  a  real-estate  broker  did  he  have  any 
doctrine  about  preacher-mayors  laid  down  for  him,  so  he 
grunted  and  went  on.  She  looked  sympathetic  and  did  not 
hear  a  word.  Later  she  would  read  the  headlines,  the  society 
columns,  and  the  department-store  advertisements. 

"What  do  you  know  about  this!  Charley  McKelvey  still 
doing  the  sassiety  stunt  as  heavy  as  ever.  Here's  what  that 
gushy  woman  reporter  says  about  last  night: 


Never  is  Society  with  the  big,  big  S  more  flattered  than  when 
they  are  bidden  to  partake  of  good  cheer  at  the  distinguished  and 
hospitable  residence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  L.  McKelvey  as  they 
were  last  night.  Set  in  its  spacious  lawns  and  landscaping,  one  of 
the  notable  sights  crowning  Royal  Ridge,  but  merry  and  homelike 
despite  its  -mighty  stone  walls  and  its  vast  rooms  famed  for  their 
decoration,  their  home  was  thrown  open  last  night  for  a  dance  in 
honor  of  Mrs.  McKelvey's  notable  guest,  Miss  J.  Sneeth  of  Wash- 
ington. The  wide  hall  is  so  generous  in  its  proportions  that  it 
made  a  perfect  ballroom,  its  hardwood  floor  reflecting  the  charming 
pageant  above  its  polished  surface.  Even  the  delights  of  dancing 
paled  before  the  alluring  opportunities  for  tete-a-tetes  that  invited 
the  soul  to  loaf  in  the  long  library  before  the  baronial  fireplace,  or 
in  the  drawing-room  with  its  deep  comfy  armchairs,  its  shaded  lamps 
just  made  for  a  sly  whisper  of  pretty  nothings  all  a  deux ;  or  even 


22  BABBITT 

in  the  billiard  room  where  one  could  take  a  cue  and  show  a  prowess 
at  still  another  game  than  that  sponsored  by  Cupid  and  Terpsichore. 

There  was  more,  a  great  deal  more,  in  the  best  urban  jour- 
nalistic style  of  Miss  Elnora  Pearl  Bates,  the  popular  society- 
editor  of  the  Advocate-Times.  But  Babbitt  could  not  abide 
it.  He  grunted.  He  wrinkled  the  newspaper.  He  protested: 
"Can  you  beat  it!  I'm  willing  to  hand  a  lot  of  credit  to 
Charley  McKelvey.  When  we  were  in  college  together,  he  was 
just  as  hard  up  as  any  of  us,  and  he's  made  a  million  good 
bucks  out  of  contracting  and  hasn't  been  any  dishonester  or 
bought  any  more  city  councils  than  was  necessary.  And  that's 
a  good  house  of  his — though  it  ain't  any  'mighty  stone  walls' 
and  it  ain't  worth  the  ninety  thousand  it  cost  him.  But  when 
it  comes  to  talking  as  though  Charley  McKelvey  and  all  that 
booze-hoisting  set  of  his  are  any  blooming  bunch  of  of,  of 
Vanderbilts,  why,  it  makes  me  tired!" 

Timidly  from  Mrs.  Babbitt:  "I  would  like  to  see  the  inside 
of  their  house  though.  It  must  be  lovely.  I've  never  been 
inside," 

"Well,  I  have!  Lots  of — couple  o»  times.  To  see  Chaz 
about  business  deals,  in  the  evening.  It's  not  so  much.  I 
wouldn't  want  to  go  there  to  dinner  with  that  gang  of,  of  high- 
binders. And  I'll  bet  I  make  a  whole  lot  more  money  than 
some  of  those  tin-horns  that  spend  all  they  got  on  dress-suits 
and  haven't  got  a  decent  suit  of  underwear  to  their  name! 
Hey!     What  do  you  think  of  this!" 

Mrs,  Babbitt  was  strangely  unmoved  by  the  tidings  from 
the  Real  Estate  and  Building  column  of  the  Advocate-Times: 

Ashtabula  Street,  496 — J.  K.  Dawson  to 
Thomas  !Mullally,  April  17,  15.7x112.2, 
mtg.  $4000 Nom. 

And  this  morning  Babbitt  was  too  disquieted  to  entertain  her 
with  items  from  Mechanics'  Liens,  Mortgages  Recorded,  and 


BABBITT  23 

Contracts  Awarded.  He  rose.  As  he  looked  at  her  his  eye- 
brows seemed  shaggier  than  usual.    Suddenly: 

"Yes,  maybe —  Kind  of  shame  to  not  keep  in  touch  with 
folks  like  the  McKelveys.  We  might  try  inviting  them  to 
dinner,  some  evening.  Oh,  thunder,  let's  not  waste  our  good 
time  thinking  about  'em!  Our  little  bunch  has  a  lot  liver 
times  than  all  those  plutes.  Just  compare  a  real  human  like 
you  with  these  neurotic  birds  like  Lucile  McKelvey — all  high- 
brow talk  and  dressed  up  like  a  plush  horse!  You're  a  great 
old  girl,  hon.!" 

He  covered  his  betrayal  of  softness  with  a  complaining: 
"Say,  don't  let  Tinka  go  and  eat  any  more  of  that  poison  nut- 
fudge.  For  Heaven's  sake,  try  to  keep  her  from  ruining  her 
digestion.  I  tell  you,  most  folk^  don't  appreciate  how  impor- 
tant it  is  to  have  a  good  digestion  and  regular  habits.  Be 
back  'bout  usual  time,  I  guess." 

He  kissed  her — ^he  didn't  quite  kiss  her — ^he  laid  unmoving 
lips  against  her  unflushing  cheek.  He  hurried  out  to  the  garage, 
muttering:  "Lord,  what  a  family!  And  now  Myra  is  going 
to  get  pathetic  on  me  because  we  don't  train  with  this  million- 
aire outfit.  Oh,  Lord,  sometimes  I'd  like  to  quit  the  whole 
game.  And  the  office  worry  and  detail  just  as  bad.  And  I  act 
cranky  and —    I  don't  mean  to,  but  I  get —    So  darn  tired!" 


CHAPTER  ni 


To  George  F.  Babbitt,  as  to  most  prosperous  citizens  of 
Zenith,  his  motor  car  was  poetry  and  tragedy,  love  and  hero- 
ism. The  office  was  his  pirate  ship  but  the  car  his  perilous 
excursion  ashore. 

Among  the  tremendous  crises  of  each  day  none  was  more 
dramatic  than  starting  the  engine.  It  was  slow  on  cold  morn- 
ings; there  was  the  long,  anxious  whirr  of  the  starter;  and 
sometimes  he  had  to  drip  ether  into  the  cocks  of  the  cylin- 
ders, which  was  so  very  interesting  that  at  lunch  he  would 
chronicle  it  drop  by  drop,  and  orally  calculate  how  much  each 
drop  had  cost  him. 

This  morning  he  was  darkly  prepared  to  find  something 
wrong,  and  he  felt  belittled  when  the  mixture  exploded  sweet 
and  strong,  and  the  car  didn't  even  brush  the  door-jamb, 
gouged  and  splintery  with  many  bruisings  by  fenders,  as  he 
backed  out  of  the  garage.  He  was  confused.  He  shouted 
"Morning!"  to  Sam  Doppelbrau  with  more  cordiality  than 
he  had  intended. 

Babbitt's  green  and  white  Dutch  Colonial  house  was  one 
of  three  in  that  block  on  Chatham  Road.  To  the  left  of  it 
was  the  residence  of  Mr.  Samuel  Doppelbrau,  secretary  of 
an  excellent  firm  of  bathroom-fixture  jobbers.  His  was  a 
comfortable  house  with  no  architectural  manners  whatever;  a 
large  wooden  box  with  a  squat  tower,  a  broad  porch,  and 
glossy  paint  yellow  as  a  yolk.  Babbitt  disapproved  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Doppelbrau  as  "Bohemian."  From  their  house 
came  midnight  music  and  obscene  laughter;  there  were 
neighborhood  rumors  of  bootlegged  whisky  and  fast  motor 

24 


BABBITT  25 

"rides.  They  furnished  Babbitt  with  many  happy  evenings  of 
discussion,  during  which  he  announced  firmly,  "I'm  not  strait- 
laced,  and  I  don't  mind  seeing  a  fellow  throw  in  a  drink  once 
in  a  while,  but  when  it  comes  to  deliberately  trying  to  get 
away  with  a  lot  of  hell-raising  all  the  while  like  the  Doppel 
braus  do,  it's  too  rich  for  my  blood!" 

On  the  other  side  of  Babbitt  lived  Howard  Littlefield,  Ph.D., 
in  a  strictly  modern  house  whereof  the  lower  part  was  dark 
red  tapestry  brick,  with  a  leaded  oriel,  the  upper  part  of  pale 
stucco  like  spattered  clay,  and  the  roof  red-tiled.  Littlefield 
was  the  Great  Scholar  of  the  neighborhood;  the  authority  on 
everything  in  the  world  except  babies,  cooking,  and  motors. 
He  was  a  Bachelor  of  Arts  of  Blodgett  College,  and  a  Doctor 
of  Philosophy  in  economics  of  Yale.  He  was  the  employ- 
ment-manager and  publicity-counsel  of  the  Zenith  Street  Trac- 
tion Company.  He  could,  on  ten  hours'  notice,  appear  before 
the  board  of  aldermen  or  the  state  legislature  and  prove,  ab- 
solutely, with  figures  all  in  rows  and  with  precedents  from 
Poland  and  New  Zealand,  that  the  street-car  company  loved 
the  Public  and  yearned  over  its  employees;  that  all  its  stock 
was  owned  by  Widows  and  Orphans;  and  that  whatever  it 
desired  to  do  would  benefit  property-owners  by  increasing 
rental  values,  and  help  the  poor  by  lowering  rents.  All  his 
acquaintances  turned  to  Littlefield  when  they  desired  to  know 
the  date  of  the  battle  of  Saragossa,  the  definition  of  the  word 
"sabotage,"  the  future  of  the  German  mark,  the  translation 
of  "hinc  nice  lachnma"  or  the  number  of  products  of  coal 
tar.  He  awed  Babbitt  by  confessing  that  he  often  sat  up 
till  midnight  reading  the  figures  and  footnotes  in  Government 
reports,  or  skimming  (with  amusement  at  the  author's  mis- 
takes) the  latest  volumes  of  chemistry,  archeology,  and  ich- 
thyology. 

But  Littlefield's  great  value  was  as  a  spiritual  example, 
Despite  his  strange  learnings  he  was  as  strict  a  Presbyterian 
and  as  firm  a  Republican  as  George  F.  Babbitt.    He  con- 


26  BABBITT 

firmed  the  business  men  in  the  faith.  Where  they  knew  only 
by  passionate  instinct  that  their  system  of  industry  and  man- 
ners was  perfect,  Dr.  Howard  Littlefield  proved  it  to  them,  out 
of  history,  economics,  and  the  confessions  of  reformed  radicals. 

Babbitt  had  a  good  deal  of  honest  pride  in  being  the  neigh- 
bor of  such  a  savant,  and  in  Ted's  intimacy  with  Eunice  Lit- 
tlefield. At  sixteen  Eunice  was  interested  in  no  statistics  save 
those  regarding  the  ages  and  salaries  of  motion-picture  stars, 
but — as  Babbitt  definitively  put  it — "she  was  her  father's 
daughter." 

The  difference  between  a  light  man  like  Sam  Doppelbrau 
and  a  really  fine  character  like  Littlefield  was  revealed  in  their 
appearances.  Doppelbrau  was  disturbingly  young  for  a  man 
of  forty-eight.  He  wore  his  derby  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  his  red  face  was  wrinkled  with  meaningless  laughter.  But 
Littlefield  was  old  for  a  man  of  forty-two.  He  was  tall,  broad, 
thick;  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles  were  engulfed  in  the  folds 
of  his  long  face;  his  hair  was  a  tossed  mass  of  greasy  black- 
ness; he  puffed  and  rumbled  as  he  talked;  his  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
key  shone  against  a  spotty  black  vest ;  he  smelled  of  old  pipes ; 
he  was  altogether  funereal  and  archidiaconal ;  and  to  real- 
estate  brokerage  and  the  jobbing  of  bathroom-fixtures  he 
added  an  aroma  of  sanctity. 

This  morning  he  was  in  front  of  his  house,  inspecting  the 
grass  parking  between  the  curb  and  the  broad  cement  side- 
walk. Babbitt  stopped  his  car  and  leaned  out  to  shout 
"Mornin'!"  Littlefield  lumbered  over  and  stood  with  one  foot 
up  on  the  running-board. 

"Fine  morning,"  said  Babbitt,  lighting — illegally  early — 
his  second  cigar  of  the  day. 

"Yes,  it's  a  mighty  fine  morning,"  said  Littlefield. 

"Spring  coming  along  fast  now." 

"Yes,  it's  real  spring  now,  all  right,"  said  Littlefield. 

"Still  cold  nights,  though.  Had  to  have  a  couple  blankets, 
on  the  sleeping-porch  last  night." 


BABBITT  27 

"Yes,  it  wasn't  any  too  warm  last  night,"  said  Littlefield. 

"But  I  don't  anticipate  we'll  have  any  more  real  cold 
weather  now." 

"No,  but  still,  there  was  snow  at  Tiflis,  Montana,  yester- 
day," said  the  Scholar,  "and  you  remember  the  blizzard  they 
had  out  West  three  days  ago — thirty  inches  of  snow  at  Gree- 
ley, Colorado — and  two  years  ago  we  had  a  snow-squall  right 
here  in  Zenith  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  April." 

"Is  that  a  fact!  Say,  old  man,  what  do  you  think  about 
the  Republican  candidate?  Who'll  they  nominate  for  presi- 
dent? Don't  you  think  it's  about  time  we  had  a  real  busi- 
ness administration?" 

"In  my  opinion,  what  the  country  needs,  first  and  foremost, 
is  a  good,  sound,  business-like  conduct  of  its  affairs.  What 
we  need  is — a  business  administration!"  said  Littlefield. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that!  I  certainly  am  glad  to 
hear  you  say  that!  I  didn't  know  how  you'd  feel  about  it, 
with  all  your  associations  with  colleges  and  so  on,  and  I'm 
glad  you  feel  that  way.  What  the  country  needs — just  at  this 
present  juncture — is  neither  a  college  president  nor  a  lot 
of  monkeying  with  foreign  affairs,  but  a  good — sound — eco- 
nomical— business — administration,  that  will  give  us  a  chance 
to  have  something  like  a  decent  turnover." 

"Yes.  It  isn't  generally  realized  that  even  in  China  the 
schoolmen  are  giving  way  to  more  practical  men,  and  of 
course  you  can  see  what  that  implies." 

"Is  that  a  fact!  Well,  well!"  breathed  Babbitt,  feeling 
much  calmer,  and  much  happier  about  the  way  things  were 
going  in  the  world.  "Well,  it's  been  nice  to  stop  and  parleyvoo 
a  second.  Guess  I'll  have  to  get  down  to  the  office  now  and 
sting  a  few  clients.  Well,  so  long,  old  man.  See  you  to- 
night.    So  long." 

n 

They  had  labored,  these  solid  citizens.     Twenty  years  be- 


28  BABBITT 

fore,  the  hill  on  which  Floral  Heights  was  spread,  with  its 
bright  roofs  and  immaculate  turf  and  amazing  comfort,  had 
been  a  wilderness  of  rank  second-growth  elms  and  oaks  and 
maples.  Along  the  precise  streets  were  still  a  few  wooded 
vacant  lots,  and  the  fragment  of  an  old  orchard.  It  was  bril- 
liant to-day;  the  apple  boughs  were  lit  with  fresh  leaves  like 
torches  of  green  fire.  The  first  white  of  cherry  blossoms 
flickered  down  a  gully,  and  robins  clamored. 

Babbitt  sniffed  the  earth,  chuckled  at  the  hysteric  robins 
as  he  would  have  chuckled  at  kittens  or  at  a  comic  movie. 
He  was,  to  the  eye,  the  perfect  office-going  executive — a  well- 
fed  man  in  a  correct  brown  soft  hat  and  frameless  spectacles, 
smoking  a  large  cigar,  driving  a  good  motor  along  a  semi- 
suburban  parkway.  But  in  him  was  some  genius  of  authen- 
tic love  for  his  neighborhood,  his  city,  his  clan.  The  winter  was 
over;  the  time  was  come  for  the  building,  the  visible  growth, 
which  to  him  was  glory.  He  lost  his  dawn  depression;  he  was 
ruddily  cheerful  when  he  stopped  on  Smith  Street  to  leave 
the  brown  trousers,  and  to  have  the  gasoline-tank  filled. 

The  familiarity  of  the  rite  fortified  him:  the  sight  of  the 
tall  red  iron  gasoline-pump,  the  hollow-tile  and  terra-cotta 
garage,  the  window  full  of  the  most  agreeable  accessories — 
shiny  casings,  spark-plugs  with  immaculate  porcelain  jackets, 
tire-chains  of  gold  and  silver.  He  was  flattered  by  the  friend- 
liness with  which  Sylvester  Moon,  dirtiest  and  most  skilled 
of  motor  mechanics,  came  out  to  serve  him.  "Mornin',  Mr. 
Babbitt!"  said  Moon,  and  Babbitt  felt  himself  a  person  of 
importance,  one  whose  name  even  busy  garagemen  remem- 
bered— not  one  of  these  cheap-sports  flying  around  in  flivvers. 
He  admired  the  ingenuity  of  the  automatic  dial,  clicking  off 
gallon  by  gallon;  admired  the  smartness  of  the  sign:  "A  fill 
in  time  saves  getting  stuck — gas  to-day  31  cents";  admired 
the  rhythmic  gurgle  of  the  gasoline  as  it  flowed  into  the  tank, 
and  the  mechanical  regularity  with  which  Moon  turned  the 
handle. 


BABBITT  29 

"How  much  we  takin'  to-day?"  asked  IMoon,  in  a  manner 
which  combined  the  independence  of  the  great  specialist,  the 
friendliness  of  a  familiar  gossip,  and  respect  for  a  man  of 
weight  in  the  community,  like  George  F.  Babbitt. 

"Fill  'er  up." 

"Who  you  rootin'  for  for  Republican  candidate,  Mr,  Bab- 
bitt?" 

"It's  too  early  to  make  any  predictions  yet.  After  all, 
there's  still  a  good  month  and  two  weeks — no,  three  weeks — 
must  be  almost  three  weeks — well,  there's  more  than  six 
weeks  in  all  before  the  Republican  convention,  and  I  feel  a 
fellow  ought  to  keep  an  open  mind  and  give  all  the  candi- 
dates a  show — look  'em  all  over  and  size  'em  up,  and  thee 
decide  carefully." 

"That's  a  fact,  Mr.  Babbitt." 

"But  I'll  tell  you — and  my  stand  on  this  is  just  the  same  as 
it  was  four  years  ago,  and  eight  years  ago,  and  it'll  be  my 
stand  four  years  from  now — ^yes,  and  eight  years  from  now! 
What  I  tell  everybody,  and  it  can't  be  too  generally  under- 
stood, is  that  what  we  need  first,  last,  and  all  the  time  is  a 
good,  sound  business  administration!" 

"By  golly,  that's  right!" 

"How  do  those  front  tires  look  to  you?" 

"Fine!  Fine!  Wouldn't  be  much  work  for  garages  if 
everybody  looked  after  their  car  the  way  you  do." 

"Well,  I  do  try  and  have  some  sense  about  it."  Babbitt 
paid  his  bill,  said  adequately,  "Oh,  keep  the  change,"  and 
drove  off  in  an  ecstasy  of  honest  self-appreciation.  It  was 
with  the  manner  of  a  Good  Samaritan  that  he  shouted  at  a 
respectable-looking  man  who  was  waiting  for  a  trolley  car, 
"Have  a  lift?"  As  the  man  climbed  in  Babbitt  condescended, 
"Going  clear  down-town?  Whenever  I  see  a  fellow  waiting 
for  a  trolley,  I  always  make  it  a  practice  to  give  him  a  lift 
— unless,  of  course,  he  looks  like  a  bum." 

"Wish  there  were  more  folks  that  were  so  generous  with 


30  BABBITT 

their   machines,"    dutifully   said   the  victim   of   benevolence. 

"Oh,  no,  'tain't  a  question  of  generosity,  hardly.  Fact,  I 
always  feel — I  was  saying  to  my  son  just  the  other  night — 
it's  a  fellow's  duty  to  share  the  good  things  of  this  world  with 
his  neighbors,  and  it  gets  my  goat  when  a  fellow  gets  stuck 
on  himself  and  goes  around  tooting  his  horn  merely  because 
he's  charitable." 

The  victim  seemed  unable  to  find  the  right  answer.  Bab- 
bitt boomed  on: 

*Tretty  punk  service  the  Company  giving  us  on  these  car- 
lines.  Nonsense  to  only  run  the  Portland  Road  cars  once 
every  seven  minutes.  Fellow  gets  mighty  cold  on  a  winter 
morning,  waiting  on  a  street  corner  with  the  wind  nipping 
at  his  ankles." 

"That's  right.  The  Street  Car  Company  don't  care  a  damn 
what  kind  of  a  deal  they  give  us.  Something  ought  to  happen 
to  'em." 

Babbitt  was  alarmed.  "But  still,  of  course  it  won't  do 
to  just  keep  knocking  the  Traction  Company  and  not  realize 
the  difficulties  they're  operating  under,  like  these  cranks  that 
want  municipal  ownership.  The  way  these  workmen  hold  up 
the  Company  for  high  wages  is  simply  a  crime,  and  of  course 
the  burden  falls  on  you  and  me  that  have  to  pay  a  seven- 
cent  fare!  Fact,  there's  remarkable  service  on  all  their  lines 
— considering." 

"Well—"  uneasily. 

"Darn  fine  morning,"  Babbitt  explained.  "Spring  coming 
along  fast." 

"Yes,  it's  real  spring  now," 

The  victim  had  no  originality,  no  wit,  and  Babbitt  fell 
into  a  great  silence  and  devoted  himself  to  the  game  of  beat- 
ing trolley  cars  to  the  corner:  a  spurt,  a  tail-chase,  nervous 
speeding  between  the  huge  yellow  side  of  the  trolley  and  the 
jagged  row  of  parked  motors,  shooting  past  just  as  the  trolley 
stopped — a  rare  game  and  valiant. 


BABBITT  31 

And  all  the  while  he  was  conscious  of  the  loveliness  of 
Zenith.  For  weeks  together  he  noticed  nothing  but  clients 
and  the  vexing  To  Rent  signs  of  rival  brokers.  To-day,  in 
mysterious  malaise,  he  raged  or  rejoiced  with  equal  nervous 
swiftness,  and  to-day  the  light  of  spring  was  so  winsome  that 
he  lifted  his  head  and  saw. 

He  admired  each  district  along  his  familiar  route  to  the 
office:  The  bungalows  and  shrubs  and  winding  irregular  drive- 
ways of  Floral  Heights.  The  one-story  shops  on  Smith  Street, 
a  glare  of  plate-glass  and  new  yellow  brick;  groceries  and 
laundries  and  drug-stores  to  supply  the  more  immediate  needs 
of  East  Side  housewives.  The  market  gardens  in  Dutch  Hol- 
low, their  shanties  patched  with  corrugated  iron  and  stolen 
doors.  Billboards  with  crimson  goddesses  nine  feet  tall  ad- 
vertising cinema  films,  pipe  tobacco,  and  talcum  powder.  The 
old  "mansions"  along  Ninth  Street,  S.  E.,  like  aged  dandies 
in  filthy  linen;  wooden  castles  turned  into  boarding-houses, 
with  muddy  walks  and  rusty  hedges,  jostled  by  fast-intruding 
garages,  cheap  apartment-houses,  and  fruit-stands  conducted 
by  bland,  sleek  Athenians.  Across  the  belt  of  railroad-tracks, 
factories  with  high-perched  water-tanks  and  tall  stacks — fac- 
tories producing  condensed  milk,  paper  boxes,  lighting-fixtures, 
motor  cars.  Then  the  business  center,  the  thickening  darting 
traffic,  the  crammed  trolleys  unloading,  and  high  doorways  of 
marble  and  polished  granite. 

It  was  big — and  Babbitt  respected  bigness  in  anything;  in 
mountains,  jewels,  muscles,  wealth,  or  words.  He  was,  for  a 
spring-enchanted  moment,  the  lyric  and  almost  unselfish  lover 
of  Zenith.  He  thought  of  the  outlying  factory  suburbs;  of 
the  Chaloosa  River  with  its  strangely  eroded  banks;  of  the 
orchard-dappled  Tonawanda  Hills  to  the  North,  and  all  the 
fat  dairy  land  and  big  barns  and  comfortable  herds.  As  he 
dropped  his  passenger  he  cried,  "Gosh,  I  feel  pretty  good  this 
morning  1" 


32  BABBITT 

in 

Epochal  as  starting  the  car  was  the  drama  of  parking  it 
before  he  entered  his  office.  As  he  turned  from  Oberlin  Ave- 
nue round  the  corner  into  Third  Street,  N.E.,  he  peered  ahead 
for  a  space  in  the  line  of  parked  cars.  He  angrily  just  missed 
a  space  as  a  rival  driver  slid  into  it.  Ahead,  another  car  was 
leaving  the  curb,  and  Babbitt  slowed  up,  holding  out  his  hand 
to  the  cars  pressing  on  him  from  behind,  agitatedly  motioning 
an  old  woman  to  go  ahead,  avoiding  a  truck  which  bore  down 
on  him  from  one  side.  With  front  wheels  nicking  the  wrought- 
steel  bumper  of  the  car  in  front,  he  stopped,  feverishly  cramped 
his  steering-wheel,  slid  back  into  the  vacant  space  and,  with 
eighteen  inches  of  room,  manoeuvered  to  bring  the  car  level 
with  the  curb.  It  was  a  virile  adventure  masterfully  executed. 
With  satisfaction  he  locked  a  thief-proof  steel  wedge  on  the 
front  wheel,  and  crossed  the  street  to  his  real-estate  office  on 
the  ground  floor  of  the  Reeves  Building. 

The  Reeves  Building  was  as  fireproof  as  a  rock  and  as  ef- 
ficient as  a  typewriter;  fourteen  stories  of  yellow  pressed 
brick,  with  clean,  upright,  unornamented  lines.  It  was  filled 
with  the  offices  of  lawyers,  doctors,  agents  for  machinery,  for 
emery  wheels,  for  wire  fencing,  for  mining-stock.  Their  gold 
signs  shone  on  the  windows.  The  entrance  was  too  modem 
to  be  flamboyant  with  pillars;  it  was  quiet,  shrewd,  neat. 
Along  the  Third  Street  side  were  a  Western  Union  Telegraph 
Office,  the  Blue  Delft  Candy  Shop,  Shotwell's  Stationery 
Shop,  and  the  Babbitt-Thompson  Realty  Company. 

Babbitt  could  have  entered  his  office  from  the  street,  as 
customers  did,  but  it  made  him  feel  an  insider  to  go  through 
the  corridor  of  the  building  and  enter  by  the  back  door. 
Thus  he  was  greeted  by  the  villagers. 

The  little  unknown  people  who  inhabited  the  Reeves  Build- 
ing corridors — elevator-runners,  starter,  engineers,  superintend- 
ent, and  the  doubtful-looking  lame  man  who  conducted  the 


BABBITT  33 

news  and  cigar  stand — ^were  in  no  way  city-dwellers.  They 
were  rustics,  living  in  a  constricted  valley,  interested  only 
in  one  another  and  in  The  Building.  Their  Main  Street  was 
the  entrance  hall,  with  its  stone  floor,  severe  marble  ceiling, 
and  the  inner  windows  of  the  shops.  The  liveliest  place  on 
the  street  was  the  Reeves  Building  Barber  Shop,  but  this  was 
also  Babbitt's  one  embarrassment.  Himself,  he  patronized  the 
glittering  Pompeian  Barber  Shop  in  the  Hotel  Thornleigh, 
and  every  time  he  passed  the  Reeves  shop — ten  times  a  day, 
a  himdred  times — he  felt  untrue  to  his  own  village. 

Now,  as  one  of  the  squirearchy,  greeted  with  honorable 
salutations  by  the  villagers,  he  marched  into  his  office,  and 
peace  and  dignity  were  upon  him,  and  the  morning's  dis- 
sonances all  unheard. 

They  were  heard  again,  immediately. 

Stanley  Graff,  the  outside  salesman,  was  talking  on  the 
telephone  with  tragic  lack  of  that  firm  manner  which  disci- 
plines clients:  "Say,  uh,  I  think  I  got  just  the  house  that  would 
suit  you — the  Percival  House,  in  Linton.  .  .  .  Oh,  you've 
seen  it.  Well,  how'd  it  strike  you?  .  .  .  Huh?  .  .  .  Oh," 
irresolutely,  "oh,  I  see." 

As  Babbitt  marched  into  his  private  room,  a  coop  with  semi- 
partition  of  oak  and  frosted  glass,  at  the  back  of  the  office, 
he  reflected  how  hard  it  was  to  find  employees  who  had  his 
own  faith  that  he  was  going  to  make  sales. 

There  were  nine  members  of  the  staff,  besides  Babbitt  and 
his  partner  and  father-in-law,  Henry  Thompson,  who  rarely 
came  to  the  office.  The  nine  were  Stanley  Graff,  the  outside 
salesman — a  youngish  man  given  to  cigarettes  and  the  playing 
of  pool;  old  Mat  Penniman,  general  utility  man,  collector 
of  rents  and  salesman  of  insurance — broken,  silent,  gray; 
a  mystery,  reputed  to  have  been  a  "crack"  real-estate  man 
with  a  firm  of  his  own  in  haughty  Brooklyn;  Chester  Kirby 
Laylock,  resident  salesman  out  at  the  Glen  Oriole  acreage 
development — an  enthusiastic  person  with  a  silky  mustache 


34  BABBITT 

and  much  family;  Miss  Theresa  McGoim,  the  swift  and  rather 
pretty  stenographer;  Miss  Wilberta  Bannigan,  the  thick,  slow, 
laborious  accountant  and  file-clerk;  and  four  freelance  part- 
time  commission  salesmen. 

As  he  looked  from  his  own  cage  into  the  main  room  Babbitt 
mourned,  "McGoun's  a  good  stenog.,  smart's  a  whip,  but 
Stan  Graff  and  all  those  bums — "  The  zest  of  the  spring 
morning  was  smothered  in  the  stale  office  air. 

Normally  he  admired  the  office,  with  a  pleased  surprise 
that  he  should  have  created  this  sure  lovely  thing;  normally 
he  was  stimulated  by  the  clean  newness  of  it  and  the  air  of 
bustle;  but  to-day  it  seemed  flat — the  tiled  floor,  like  a  bath- 
room, the  ocher-colored  metal  ceiling,  the  faded  maps  on 
the  hard  plaster  walls,  the  chairs  of  varnished  pale  oak,  the 
desks  and  filing-cabinets  of  steel  painted  in  olive  drab.  It 
was  a  vault,  a  steel  chapel  where  loafing  and  laughter  were 
raw  sin. 

He  hadn't  even  any  satisfaction  in  the  new  water-cooler! 
And  it  was  the  very  best  of  water-coolers,  up-to-date,  scien- 
tific, and  right-thinking.  It  had  cost  a  great  deal  of  money 
(in  itself  a  virtue).  It  possessed  a  non-conducting  fiber  ice- 
container,  a  porcelain  water-jar  (guaranteed  hygienic),  a  drip- 
less  non-clogging  sanitary  faucet,  and  machine-painted  deco- 
rations in  two  tones  of  gold.  He  looked  down  the  relentless 
stretch  of  tiled  floor  at  the  water-cooler,  and  assured  himself 
that  no  tenant  of  the  Reeves  Building  had  a  more  expensive 
one,  but  he  could  not  recapture  the  feeling  of  social  superiority 
it  had  given  him.  He  astoundingly  grunted,  "I'd  like  to 
beat  it  off  to  the  woods  right  now.  And  loaf  all  day.  And 
go  to  Gunch's  again  to-night,  and  play  poker,  and  cuss  as 
much  as  I  feel  like,  and  drink  a  himdred  and  nine-thousand 
bottles  of  beer." 

He  sighed;  he  read  through  his  mail;  he  shouted  "Msgoun," 
which  meant  "Miss  McGoun";  and  began  to  dictate. 

This  was  his  own  version  of  his  first  letter: 


BABBITT  35 

"Omar  Gribble,  send  it  to  his  office,  Miss  McGoun,  yours 
of  twentieth  to  hand  and  in  reply  would  say  look  here,  Gribble, 
I'm  awfully  afraid  if  we  go  on  shilly-shallying  like  this  we'll 
just  naturally  lose  the  Allen  sale,  I  had  Allen  up  on  carpet 
day  before  yesterday  and  got  right  down  to  cases  and  think 
I  can  assure  you — uh,  uh,  no,  change  that:  all  my  experience 
indicates  he  is  all  right,  means  to  do  business,  looked  into  his 
financial  record  which  is  fine — that  sentence  seems  to  be  a 
little  balled  up.  Miss  McGoun;  make  a  couple  sentences  out 
of  it  if  you  have  to,  period,  new  paragraph. 

"He  is  perfectly  ■willing  to  pro  rate  the  special  assessment 
and  strikes  me,  am  dead  sure  there  will  be  no  difficulty  in 
getting  him  to  pay  for  title  insurance,  so  now  for  heaven's 
sake  let's  get  busy — no,  make  that:  so  now  let's  go  to  it  and 
get  down — no,  that's  enough — you  can  tie  those  sentences  up 
a  little  better  when  you  type  'em,  Miss  McGoun — ^your  sin- 
cerely, etcetera." 

This  is  the  version  of  his  letter  which  he  received,  typed, 
from  Miss  McGoun  that  afternoon: 

BABBITT-THOMPSON  REALTY  CO. 

Homes  for  Folks 

Reeves  Bldg.,  Oberlin  Avenue  &  3d  St.,  N.E. 

Zenith 

Omar  Gribble,  Esq., 

576  North  American  Building, 

Zenith. 

Dear  Mr.  Gribble : 

Your  letter  of  the  twentieth  to  hand.     I  must 

say  I'm  awfully  afraid  that  if  we  go  on  shilly-shallying  like  this 

we'll  just  naturally  lose  the  Allen   sale.     I   had   Allen   up  on   the 

carpet  day  before  yesterday,  and  got  right  down  to  cases.     All  my 

experience   indicates  that  he  means  to  do  business.     I   have   also 

looked  into  his  financial  record,  which  is  fine. 

He  is  perfectly  willing  to   pro   rate  the   special   assessment  and 

there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  getting  him  to  pay  for  title  insurance. 

So  let's  go! 

Yours  sincerely, 


56  BABBITT 

As  he  read  and  signed  it,  in  his  correct  flowing  business- 
college  hand,  Babbitt  reflected,  "Now  that's  a  good,  strong 
letter,  and  dear's  a  bell.  N9W  what  the —  I  never  told 
McGoun  to  make  a  third  paragraph  there!  Wish  she'd  quit 
trying  to  improve  on  my  dictation!  But  what  I  can't  under- 
stand is:  why  can't  Stan  Graff  or  Chet  Laylock  write  a  letter 
like  that?     With  punch!     With  a  kick!" 

The  most  important  thing  he  dictated  that  morning  was 
the  fortnightly  form-letter,  to  be  mimeographed  and  sent  out 
to  a  thousand  "prospects."  It  was  diligently  imitative  of 
the  best  literary  models  of  the  day;  of  heart-to-heart- talk 
advertisements,  "sales-pulling"  letters,  discourses  on  the  "de- 
velopment of  Will-power,"  and  hand-shaking  house-organs,  as 
richly  poured  forth  by  the  new  school  of  Poets  of  Business. 
He  had  painfully  written  out  a  first  draft,  and  he  intoned  it 
now  like  a  poet  delicate  and  distrait: 

Say,  old  man  ! 

I  just  want  to  know  can  I  do  you  a  whaleuva  favor?  Honest! 
No  kidding!  I  know  you're  interested  in  getting  a  house,  not 
•merely  a  place  where  you  hang  up  the  old  bonnet  but  a  love-nest 
for  the  wife  and  kiddies — and  maybe  for  the  flivver  out  beyant  (be 
sure  and  spell  that  b-e-y-a-n-t.  Miss  McGoun)  the  spud  garden. 
Say,  did  you  ever  stop  to  think  that  we're  here  to  save  you  trouble? 
That's  how  we  make  a  living — folks  don't  pay  us  for  our  lovely 
beauty  I     Now  take  a  look : 

Sit  right  down  at  the  handsome  carved  mahogany  escritoire  and 
shoot  us  in  a  line  telling  us  just  what  you  want,  and  if  we  can 
find  it  we'll  come  hopping  down  your  lane  with  the  good  tidings, 
and  if  we  can't,  we  won't  bother  you.  To  save  your  time,  just  fill 
out  the  blank  enclosed.  On  request  will  also  send  blank  regarding 
store  properties  in  Floral  Heights,  Silver  Grove,  Linton,  Bellevue, 
and  all  East  Side  residential  districts. 

Yours  for  service, 

P.S. — Just  a  hint  of  some  plums  we  can  pick  for  you — some 
genuine  bargains  that  came  in  to-day: 


BABBITT  37 

Silver  Grove. — Cute  four-room  California  bungalow,  a.m.i.,  garage, 
dandy  shade  tree,  swell  neighborhood,  handy  car  line.  $3700,  $780 
down  and  balance  liberal,  Babbitt-Thompson  terms,  cheaper  than 
rent. 

Dorchester. — A  corker!  Artistic  two-family  house,  all  oak  trim, 
parquet  floors,  lovely  gas  log,  big  porches,  colonial.  Heated  All- 
Weather  Garage,  a  bargain  at  $11,250. 

Dictation  over,  withi  its  need  of  sitting  and  thinking  in- 
stead of  bustling  around  and  making  a  noise  and  really  doing 
something,  Babbitt  sat  creakily  back  in  his  revolving  desk- 
chair  and  beamed  on  Miss  McGoun.  He  was  conscious  of 
her  as  a  girl,  of  black  bobbed  hair  against  demure  cheeks. 
A  longing  which  was  indistinguishable  from  loneliness  en- 
feebled him.  While  she  waited,  tapping  a  long,  precise  pen- 
cil-point on  the  desk-tablet,  he  half  identified  her  with  the  fairy 
girl  of  his  dreams.  He  imagined  their  eyes  meeting  with 
terrifying  recognition;  imagined  touching  her  lips  with  fright- 
ened reverence  and —  She  was  chirping,  "Any  more.  Mist' 
Babbitt?"  He  grunted,  "That  winds  it  up,  I  guess,"  and 
turned  heavily  away. 

For  all  his  wandering  thoughts,  they  had  never  been  more 
intimate  than  this.  He  often  reflected,  "Nev'  forget  how  old 
Jake  Offutt  said  a  wise  bird  never  goes  love-making  in  his  own 
office  or  his  own  home.    Start  trouble.     Sure.     But — " 

In  twenty-three  years  of  married  life  he  had  peered  uneas- 
ily at  every  graceful  ankle,  every  soft  shoulder;  in  thought  he 
had  treasured  them;  but  not  once  had  he  hazarded  respecta- 
bility by  adventuring.  Now,  as  he  calculated  the  cost  of  re- 
papering  the  Styles  house,  he  was  restless  again,  discontented 
about  nothing  and  everything,  ashamed  of  his  discontentment, 
and  lonely  for  the  fairy  girl. 


CHAPTER  IV 


It  was  a  morning  of  artistic  creation.  Fifteen  minutes  after 
the  purple  prose  of  Babbitt's  form-letter,  Chester  Kirby  Lay- 
lock,  the  resident  salesman  at  Glen  Oriole,  came  in  to  report 
a  sale  and  submit  an  advertisement.  Babbitt  disapproved  of 
Laylock,  who  sang  in  choirs  and  was  merry  at  home  over 
games  of  Hearts  and  Old  Maid.  He  had  a  tenor  voice,  wavy 
chestnut  hair,  and  a  mustache  like  a  camel's-hair  brush.  Bab- 
bitt considered  it  excusable  in  a  family-man  to  growl,  "Seen 
this  new  picture  of  the  kid — husky  little  devil,  eh?"  but  Lay- 
lock's  domestic  confidences  were  as  bubbling  as  a  girl's. 

"Say,  I  think  I  got  a  peach  of  an  ad  for  the  Glen,  Mr. 
Babbitt.  Why  don't  we  try  something  in  poetry?  Honest, 
it'd  have  wonderful  pulling-power.     Listen: 

'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces, 
Wherever  you  may  roam, 
You  just  provide  the  little  bride 
And  we'll  provide  the  home. 

Do  you  get  it?  See — like  'Home  Sweet  Home.'  Don't  you — " 
"Yes,  yes,  yes,  hell  yes,  of  course  I  get  it.  But —  Oh,  I 
think  we'd  better  use  something  more  dignified  and  forceful, 
like  'We  lead,  others  follow,'  or  'Eventually,  why  not  now?' 
Course  I  believe  in  using  poetry  and  humor  and  all  that  junk 
when  it  turns  the  trick,  but  with  a  high-class  restricted  de- 
velopment like  the  Glen  we  better  stick  to  the  more  dignified 
approach,  see  how  I  mean?  Well,  I  guess  that's  all,  this  morn- 
ing, Chet." 

38 


BABBITT  39 

n 

By  a  tragedy  familiar  to  the  world  of  art,  the  April  en- 
thusiasm of  Chet  Laylock  served  only  to  stimulate  the  talent 
of  the  older  craftsman,  George  F.  Babbitt.  He  grumbled  to 
Stanley  Graff,  "That  tan-colored  voice  of  Chet's  gets  on  my 
nerves,"  yet  he  was  aroused  and  in  one  swoop  he  wrote: 

DO  YOU  RESPECT  YOUR  LOVED  ONES? 

When  the  last  sad  rites  of  bereavement  are  over,  do 
you  know  for  certain  that  you  have  done  your  best  for 
the  Departed?  You  haven't  unless  they  lie  in  the 
Cemetery  Beautiful 

LINDEN  LANE 

the  only  strictly  up-to-date  burial  place  in  or  near 
Zenith,  where  exquisitely  gardened  plots  look  from 
daisy-dotted  hill-slopes  across  the  smiling  fields  of 
Dorchester. 

Sole  agents 

BABBITT-THOMPSON  REALTY  COMPANY 

Reeves  Building 

He  rejoiced,  "I  guess  that'll  show  Chan  Mott  and  his  weedy 
old  Wildwood  Cemetery  something  about  modern  merchan- 
dizing!" 

in 

He  sent  Mat  Penniman  to  the  recorder's  office  to  dig  out  the 
names  of  the  owners  of  houses  which  were  displaying  For  Rent 
signs  of  other  brokers;  he  talked  to  a  man  who  desired  to  lease 
a  store-building  for  a  pool-room;  he  ran  over  the  list  of  home- 
leases  which  were  about  to  expire;  he  sent  Thomas  Bywaters, 
a  street-car  conductor  who  played  at  real  estate  in  spare  time, 
to  call  on  side-street  "prospects"  who  were  unworthy  the  strat- 
egies of  Stanley  Graff.    But  he  had  spent  his  credulous  excite- 


40  BABBITT 

ment  of  creation,  and  these  routine  details  annoyed  him.  One 
moment  of  heroism  he  had,  in  discovering  a  new  way  of  stop- 
ping smoking. 

He  stopped  smoking  at  least  once  a  month.  He  went 
through  with  it  like  the  solid  citizen  he  was:  admitted  the  evils 
of  tobacco,  courageously  made  resolves,  laid  out  plans  to  check 
the  vice,  tapered  off  his  allowance  of  cigars,  and  expounded  the 
pleasures  of  virtuousness  to  every  one  he  met.  He  did  every- 
thing, in  fact,  except  stop  smoking. 

Two  months  before,  by  ruling  out  a  schedule,  noting  down 
the  hour  and  minute  of  each  smoke,  and  ecstatically  increasing 
the  intervals  between  smokes,  he  had  brought  himself  down  to 
three  cigars  a  day.    Then  he  had  lost  the  schedule. 

A  week  ago  he  had  invented  a  system  of  leaving  his  cigar- 
case  and  cigarette-box  in  an  unused  drawer  at  the  bottom  of 
the  correspondence-file,  in  the  outer  office.  "I'll  just  naturally 
be  ashamed  to  go  poking  in  there  all  day  long,  making  a  fool 
of  myself  before  my  own  employees!"  he  reasoned.  By  the 
end  of  three  days  he  was  trained  to  leave  his  desk,  walk  to 
the  file,  take  out  and  light  a  cigar,  without  knowing  that  he 
was  doing  it. 

This  morning  it  was  revealed  to  him  that  it  had  been  too 
easy  to  open  the  file.  Lock  it,  that  was  the  thing!  Inspired, 
he  rushed  out  and  locked  up  his  cigars,  his  cigarettes,  and  even 
his  box  of  safety  matches;  and  the  key  to  the  file  drawer  he 
hid  in  his  desk.  But  the  crusading  passion  of  it  m.ade  him  so 
tobacco-hungry  that  he  immediately  recovered  the  key,  walked 
with  forbidding  dignity  to  the  file,  took  out  a  cigar  and  a 
match — "but  only  one  match;  if  ole  cigar  goes  out,  it'll  by 
golly  have  to  stay  out!"  Later,  when  the  cigar  did  go  out,  he 
took  one  more  match  from  the  file,  and  when  a  buyer  and  a 
seller  came  in  for  a  conference  at  eleven- thirty,  naturally  he 
had  to  offer  them  cigars.  His  conscience  protested,  "Why, 
you're  smoking  with  them!"  but  he  bullied  it,  "Oh,  shut  up! 
I'm  busy  now.     Of  course  by-and-by — "     There  was  no  by- 


BABBITT  41 

and-by,  yet  his  belief  that  he  had  crushed  the  unclean  habit 
made  him  feel  noble  and  very  happy.  When  he  called  up  Paul 
Riesling  he  was,  in  his  moral  splendor,  unusually  eager. 

He  was  fonder  of  Paul  Riesling  than  of  any  one  on  earth 
except  himself  and  his  daughter  Tinka.  They  had  been  class- 
mates, roommates,  in  the  State  University,  but  always  he 
thought  of  Paul  Riesling,  with  his  dark  slimness,  his  precisely 
parted  hair,  his  nose-glasses,  his  hesitant  speech,  his  moodiness, 
his  love  of  music,  as  a  younger  brother,  to  be  petted  and  pro- 
tected. Paul  had  gone  into  his  father's  business,  after  gradua- 
tion; he  was  now  a  wholesaler  and  small  manufacturer  of  pre- 
pared-paper roofing.  But  Babbitt  strenuously  believed  and 
lengthily  announced  to  the  world  of  Good  Fellows  that  Paul 
could  have  been  a  great  violinist  or  painter  or  writer.  "Why 
say,  the  letters  that  boy  sent  me  on  his  trip  to  the  Canadian 
Rockies,  they  just  absolutely  make  you  see  the  place  as  if  you 
were  standing  there.  Believe  me,  he  could  have  given  any  of 
these  bloomin'  authors  a  whale  of  a  run  for  their  money!" 

Yet  on  the  telephone  they  said  only: 

"South  343.  No,  no,  no!  I  said  South — South  343.  Say, 
operator,  what  the  dickens  is  the  trouble?  Can't  you  get  me 
South  343?  Why  certainly  they'll  answer.  Oh,  Hello,  343? 
Wanta  speak  Mist'  Riesling,  Mist'  Babbitt  talking.  .  .  .  'Lo, 
Paul?" 

"Yuh." 

"  'S  George  speaking." 

"Yuh." 

"How's  old  socks?" 

"Fair  to  middlin'.    How  're  you?" 

"Fine,  Paulibus.    Well,  what  do  you  know?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much." 

"Where  you  been  keepin'  yourself?" 

"Oh,  just  stickin'  round.    What's  up,  Georgie?" 

"How  'bout  lil  lunch  's  noon?" 

"Be  all  right  with  me,  I  guess.    Club?" 


42  BABBITT 

"Yuh.     Meet  you  there  twelve-thirty." 

"A'  right.    Twelve-thirty.    S'   long,  Georgie.'' 


IV 

His  morning  was  not  sharply  marked  into  divisions.  Inter- 
woven with  correspondence  and  advertisement-writing  were  a 
thousand  nervous  details:  calls  from  clerks  who  were  inces- 
santly and  hopefully  seeking  five  furnished  rooms  and  bath  at 
sixty  dollars  a  month;  advice  to  Mat  Penniman  on  getting 
money  out  of  tenants  who  had  no  money. 

Babbitt's  virtues  as  a  real-estate  broker — as  the  servant  of 
society  in  the  department  of  finding  homes  for  families  and 
shops  for  distributors  of  food — were  steadiness  and  diligence. 
He  was  conventionally  honest,  he  kept  his  records  of  buyers 
and  sellers  complete,  he  had  experience  with  leases  and  titles 
and  an  excellent  memory  for  prices.  His  shoulders  were  broad 
enough,  his  voice  deep  enough,  his  relish  of  hearty  humor  strong 
enough,  to  establish  him  as  one  of  the  ruling  caste  of  Good 
Fellows.  Yet  his  eventual  importance  to  mankind  was  per- 
haps lessened  by  his  large  and  complacent  ignorance  of  all 
architecture  save  the  types  of  houses  turned  out  by  speculative 
builders ;  all  landscape  gardening  save  the  use  of  curving  roads, 
grass,  and  six  ordinary  shrubs;  and  all  the  commonest  axioms 
of  economics.  He  serenely  believed  that  the  one  purpose  of  the 
Z,*^  real-estate  business  was  to  make  money  for  George  F.  Bab- 
bitt. True,  it  was  a  good  advertisement  at  Boosters'  Club 
lunches,  and  all  the  varieties  of  Annual  Banquets  to  which 
Good  Fellows  were  invited,  to  speak  sonorously  of  Unselfish 
Public  Service,  the  Broker's  Obligation  to  Keep  Inviolate  the 
Trust  of  His  Clients,  and  a  thing  called  Ethics,  whose  nature 
was  confusing  but  if  you  had  it  you  were  a  High-class  Realtor 
and  if  you  hadn't  you  were  a  shyster,  a  piker,  and  a  fly-by- 
night.  These  virtues  awakened  Confidence,  and  enabled  you 
to  handle  Bigger  Propositions.     But  they  didn't  imply  that 


BABBITT  43 

you  were  to  be  impractical  and  refuse  to  take  twice  the  value 
of  a  house  if  a  buyer  was  such  an  idiot  that  he  didn't  jew  you 
down  on  the  asking-price. 

Babbitt  spoke  well — and  often — at  these  orgies  of  commer- 
cial righteousness  about  the  "realtor's  function  as  a  seer  of 
the  future  development  of  the  community,  and  as  a  prophetic 
engineer  clearing  the  pathway  for  inevitable  changes" — which 
meant  that  a  real-estate  broker  could  make  money  by  guess- 
ing which  way  the  town  would  grow.  This  guessing  he  called 
Vision. 

In  an  address  at  the  Boosters'  Club  he  had  admitted,  "It  is 
at  once  the  duty  and  the  privilege  of  the  realtor  to  know  every- 
thing about  his  own  city  and  its  environs.  Where  a  surgeon 
is  a  specialist  on  every  vein  and  mysterious  cell  of  the  human 
body,  and  the  engineer  upon  electricity  in  all  its  phases,  or 
every  bolt  of  some  great  bridge  majestically  arching  o'er  a 
mighty  flood,  the  realtor  must  know  his  city,  inch  by  inch,  and 
all  its  faults  and  virtues." 

Though  he  did  know  the  market-price,  inch  by  inch,  of  cet' 
tain  districts  of  Zenith,  he  did  not  know  whether  the  police 
force  was  too  large  or  too  small,  or  whether  it  was  in  alliance 
with  gambling  and  prostitution.  He  knew  the  means  of  fire- 
proofing  buildings  and  the  relation  of  insurance-rates  to  fire- 
proofing,  but  he  did  not  know  how  many  firemen  there  were  in 
the  city,  how  they  were  trained  and  paid,  or  how  complete 
their  apparatus.  He  sang  eloquently  the  advantages  of  prox- 
imity of  school-buildings  to  rentable  homes,  but  he  did  not 
know — he  did  not  know  that  it  was  worth  while  to  know — 
whether  the  city  schoolrooms  were  properly  heated,  lighted, 
ventilated,  furnished;  he  did  not  know  how  the  teachers  were 
chosen;  and  though  he  chanted  "One  of  the  boasts  of  Zenith 
is  that  we  pay  our  teachers  adequately,"  that  was  because  he 
had  read  the  statement  in  the  Advocate-Times.  Himself,  he 
could  not  have  given  the  average  salary  of  teachers  in  Zenith 
or  anywhere  else. 


44  BABBITT 

He  had  heard  it  said  that  "conditions"  in  the  County  Jail 
and  the  Zenith  City  Prison  were  not  very  "scientific;"  he  had, 
with  indignation  at  the  criticism  of  Zenith,  skimmed  through  a 
report  in  which  the  notorious  pessimist  Seneca  Doane,  the  radi- 
cal lawyer,  asserted  that  to  throw  boys  and  young  girls  into 
a  bull-pen  crammed  with  men  suffering  from  syphilis,  delirium 
tremens,  and  insanity  was  not  the  perfect  way  of  educating 
them.  He  had  controverted  the  report  by  growling,  "Folks 
that  think  a  jail  ought  to  be  a  bloomin'  Hotel  Thornleigh  make 
me  sick.  If  people  don't  like  a  jail,  let  'em  behave  'emselves 
and  keep  out  of  it.  Besides,  these  reform  cranks  always  exag- 
gerate." That  was  the  beginning  and  quite  completely  the 
end  of  his  investigations  into  Zenith's  charities  and  corrections; 
and  as  to  the  "vice  districts"  he  brightly  expressed  it,  "Those 
are  things  that  no  decent  man  monkeys  with.  Besides,  smatter 
fact,  I'll  tell  you  confidentially:  it's  a  protection  to  our  daugh- 
ters and  to  decent  women  to  have  a  district  where  tough  nuts 
can  raise  cain.    Keeps  'em  away  from  our  own  homes." 

As  to  industrial  conditions,  however.  Babbitt  had  thought  a 
great  deal,  and  his  opinions  may  be  coordinated  as  follows: 

"A  good  labor  union  is  of  value  because  it  keeps  out  radical 
unions,  which  would  destroy  property.  No  one  ought  to  be 
forced  to  belong  to  a  union,  however.  All  labor  agitators  who 
try  to  force  men  to  join  a  union  should  be  hanged.  In  fact, 
just  between  ourselves,  there  oughtn't  to  be  any  unions  allowed 
at  all;  and  as  it's  the  best  way  of  fighting  the  unions,  every 
business  man  ought  to  belong  to  an  employers'-association  and 
to  the  Chamber  of  Commerce.  In  union  there  is  strength.  So 
any  selfish  hog  who  doesn't  join  the  Chamber  of  Commerce 
i)ught  to  be  forced  to." 

In  nothing — as  the  expert  on  whose  advice  families  moved 
to  new  neighborhoods  to  live  there  for  a  generation — was  Bab- 
bitt more  splendidly  innocent  than  in  the  science  of  sanitation. 
He  did  not  know  a  malaria-bearing  mosquito  from  a  bat;  he 
knew  nothing  about  tests  of  drinking  water;  and  in  the  mat- 


BABBITT  45 

ters  of  plumbing  and  sewage  he  was  as  unlearned  as  he  was 
voluble.  He  often  referred  to  the  excellence  of  the  bathrooms 
in  the  houses  he  sold.  He  was  fond  of  explaining  why  it  was 
that  no  European  ever  bathed.  Some  one  had  told  him,  when 
he  was  twenty-two,  that  all  cesspools  were  unhealthy,  and  he 
still  denounced  them.  If  a  client  impertinently  wanted  him  to 
sell  a  house  which  had  a  cesspool,  Babbitt  always  spoke  about 
it — before  accepting  the  house  and  selling  it. 

When  he  laid  out  the  Glen  Oriole  acreage  development,  when 
he  ironed  woodland  and  dipping  meadow  into  a  glenless, 
orioleless,  sunburnt  flat  prickly  with  small  boards  displaying 
the  names  of  imaginary  streets,  he  righteously  put  in  a  com- 
plete sewage-system.  It  made  him  feel  superior;  it  enabled  him 
to  sneer  privily  at  the  Martin  Lumsen  development,  Avonlea, 
which  had  a  cesspool;  and  it  provided  a  chorus  for  the  full- 
page  advertisements  in  which  he  announced  the  beauty,  con- 
venience, cheapness,  and  supererogatory  healthfulness  of  Glen 
Oriole.  The  only  flaw  was  that  the  Glen  Oriole  sewers  had 
insufficient  outlet,  so  that  waste  remained  in  them,  not  very 
agreeably,  while  the  Avonlea  cesspool  was  a  Waring  peptic 
tank. 

The  whole  of  the  Glen  Oriole  project  was  a  suggestion  that 
Babbitt,  though  he  really  did  hate  men  recognized  as  swindlers, 
was  not  too  unreasonably  honest.  Operators  and  buyers  pre- 
fer that  brokers  should  not  be  in  competition  with  them  as 
operators  and  buyers  them.selves,  but  attend  to  their  clients' 
interests  only.  It  was  supposed  that  the  Babbitt-Thompson 
Company  were  merely  agents  for  Glen  Oriole,  serving  the  real 
owner,  Jake  Offutt,  but  the  fact  was  that  Babbitt  and  Thomp- 
son owned  sixty-two  per  cent,  of  the  Glen,  the  president  and 
purchasing  agent  of  the  Zenith  Street  Traction  Company  owned 
twenty-eight  per  cent.,  and  Jake  Offutt  (a  gang-politician,  a 
small  manufacturer,  a  tobacco-chewing  old  farceur  who  en- 
joyed dirty  politics,  business  diplomacy,  and  cheating  at  poker) 
had  only  ten  per  cent.,  which  Babbitt  and  the  Traction  officials 


46  BABBITT 

had  given  to  him  for  "fixing"  health  inspectors  and  fire  inspec- 
tors and  a  member  of  the  State  Transportation  Commission. 

But  Babbitt  was  virtuous.  He  advocated,  though  he  did  not 
practise,  the  prohibition  of  alcohol;  he  praised,  though  he  did 
not  obey,  the  laws  against  motor-speeding;  he  paid  his  debts; 
he  contributed  to  the  church,  the  Red  Cross,  and  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.;  he  followed  the  custom  of  his  clan  and  cheated  only 
as  it  was  sanctified  by  precedent;  and  he  never  descended  ta 
trickery — though,  as  he  explained  to  Paul  Riesling: 

"Course  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  every  ad  I  write  is  literally 
true  or  that  I  always  believe  everything  I  say  when  I  give 
some  buyer  a  good  strong  selling-spiel.  You  see — you  see  it's 
like  this:  In  the  first  place,  maybe  the  owner  of  the  property 
exaggerated  when  he  put  it  into  my  hands,  and  it  certainly 
isn't  my  place  to  go  proving  my  principal  a  liar!  And  then 
most  folks  are  so  darn  crooked  themselves  that  they  expect  a 
fellow  to  do  a  little  lying,  so  if  I  was  fool  enough  to  never 
whoop  the  ante  I'd  get  the  credit  for  lying  anyway!  In  self- 
defense  I  got  to  toot  rny  own  horn,  like  a  lawyer  defending  a 
client — his  bounden  duty,  ain't  it,  to  bring  out  the  poor  dub's 
good  points?  Why,  the  Judge  himself  would  bawl  out  a  lawyer 
that  didn't,  even  if  they  both  knew  the  guy  was  guilty!  But 
even  so,  I  don't  pad  out  the  truth  like  Cecil  Roimtree  or 
Thayer  or  the  rest  of  these  realtors.  Fact,  I  think  a  fellow 
that's  willing  to  deliberately  up  and  profit  by  lying  ought  to 
be  shot!" 

Babbitt's  value  to  his  clients  was  rarely  better  shown  than 
this  morning,  in  the  conference  at  eleven-thirty  between  himself, 
Conrad  Lyte,  and  Archibald  Purdy. 


Conrad  Lyte  was  a  real-estate  speculator.  He  was  a  nervous 
speculator.  Before  he  gambled  he  consulted  bankers,  lawyers, 
architects,  contracting  builders,  and  all  of  their  clerks  and 


BABBITT  47 

stenographers  who  were  willing  to  be  cornered  and  give  him 
advice.  He  was  a  bold  entrepreneur,  and  he  desired  nothing 
more  than  complete  safety  in  his  investments,  freedom  from 
attention  to  details,  and  the  thirty  or  forty  per  cent,  profit 
which,  according  to  all  authorities,  a  pioneer  deserves  for  his 
risks  and  foresight.  He  was  a  stubby  man  with  a  cap-like 
mass  of  short  gray  curls  and  clothes  which,  no  matter  how  well 
cut,  seemed  shaggy.  Below  his  eyes  were  semicircular  hollows, 
as  though  silver  dollars  had  been  pressed  against  them  and 
had  left  an  imprint. 

Particularly  and  always  Lyte  consulted  Babbitt,  and  trusted 
in  his  slow  cautiousness. 

Six  months  ago  Babbitt  had  learned  that  one  Archibald 
Purdy,  a  grocer  in  the  indecisive  residential  district  known  as 
Linton,  was  talking  of  opening  a  butcher  shop  beside  his  gro- 
cery. Looking  up  the  ownership  of  adjoining  parcels  of  land, 
Babbitt  found  that  Purdy  owned  his  present  shop  but  did  not 
own  the  one  available  lot  adjoining.  He  advised  Conrad  Lyte 
to  purchase  this  lot,  for  eleven  thousand  dollars,  though  an 
appraisal  on  a  basis  of  rents  did  not  indicate  its  value  as  above 
nine  thousand.  The  rents,  declared  Babbitt,  were  too  low; 
and  by  waiting  they  could  make  Purdy  come  to  their  price. 
(This  was  Vision.)  He  had  to  bully  Lyte  into  buying.  His 
first  act  as  agent  for  Lyte  was  to  increase  the  rent  of  the  bat- 
tered store-building  on  the  lot.  The  tenant  said  a  nimiber  of 
rude  things,  but  he  paid. 

Now,  Purdy  seemed  ready  to  buy,  and  his  delay  was  going 
to  cost  him  ten  thousand  extra  dollars — the  reward  paid  by  the 
community  to  Mr.  Conrad  Lyte  for  the  virtue  of  employing  a 
broker  who  had  Vision  and  who  understood  Talking  Points, 
Strategic  Values,  Key  Situations,  Underappraisals,  and  the 
Psychology  of  Salesmanship. 

Lyte  came  to  the  conference  exultantly.  He  was  fond  of 
Babbitt,  this  morning,  and  called  him  "old  boss."  Purdy,  the 
grocer,  a  long-nosed  man  and  solemn,  seemed  to  care  less  for 


48  BABBITT 

Babbitt  and  for  Vision,  but  Babbitt  met  him  at  the  street  door 
of  the  office  and  guided  him  toward  the  private  room  with  affec- 
tionate little  cries  of  "This  way,  Brother  Purdy!"  He  took 
from  the  correspondence-file  the  entire  box  of  cigars  and  forced 
them  on  his  guests.  He  pushed  their  chairs  two  inches  for- 
ward and  three  inches  back,  which  gave  an  hospitable  note, 
then  leaned  back  in  his  desk-chair  and  looked  plump  and  jolly. 
But  he  spoke  to  the  weakling  grocer  with  firmness. 

"Well,  Brother  Purdy,  we  been  having  some  pretty  tempting 
offers  from  butchers  and  a  slew  of  other  folks  for  that  lot  next 
to  your  store,  but  I  persuaded  Brother  Lyte  that  we  ought  to 
give  you  a  shot  at  the  property  first.  I  said  to  Lyte,  'It'd 
be  a  rotten  shame,'  I  said,  'if  somebody  went  and  opened  a 
combination  grocery  and  meat  market  right  next  door  and 
ruined  Purdy's  nice  little  business.'  Especially — "  Babbitt 
leaned  forward,  and  his  voice  was  harsh,  " — it  would  be  hard 
luck  if  one  of  these  cash-and-carry  chain-stores  got  in  there 
and  started  cutting  prices  below  cost  till  they  got  rid  of  com- 
petition and  forced  you  to  the  wall ! " 

Purdy  snatched  his  thin  hands  from  his  pockets,  pulled  up 
his  trousers,  thrust  his  hands  back  into  his  pockets,  tilted 
in  the  heavy  oak  chair,  and  tried  to  look  amused,  as  he 
struggled: 

"Yes,  they're  bad  competition.  But  I  guess  you  don't  realize 
the  Pulling  Power  that  Personality  has  in  a  neighborhood 
business." 

The  great  Babbitt  smiled.  "That's  so.  Just  as  you  feel, 
old  man.  We  thought  we'd  give  you  first  chance.  All  right 
then—" 

"Now  look  here!"  Purdy  wailed.  "I  know  f'r  a  fact  that 
a  piece  of  property  'bout  same  size,  right  near,  sold  for  less  'n 
eighty-five  hundred,  'twa'n't  two  years  ago,  and  here  you  fel- 
lows are  asking  me  twenty- four  thousand  dollars!  Why,  I'd 
have  to  mortgage —  I  wouldn't  mind  so  much  paying  twelve 
thousand  but —    Why  good  God,  Mr.  Babbitt,  you're  asking 


BABBITT  49 

more  'n  twice  its  value!  And  threatening  to  ruin  me  if  I 
don't  take  it!" 

"Purdy,  I  don't  like  your  way  of  talking!  I  don't  like  it 
one  little  bit!  Supposing  Lyte  and  I  were  stinking  enough 
to  want  to  ruin  any  fellow  human,  don't  you  suppose  we  know 
it's  to  our  own  selfish  interest  to  have  everybody  in  Zenith 
prosperous?  But  all  this  is  beside  the  point.  Tell  you  what 
we'll  do:  We'll  come  down  to  twenty- three  thousand — five 
thousand  down  and  the  rest  on  mortgage — and  if  you  want  to 
wreck  the  old  shack  and  rebuild,  I  guess  I  can  get  Lyte  here 
to  loosen  up  for  a  building-mortgage  on  good  liberal  terms. 
Heavens,  man,  we'd  be  glad  to  oblige  you!  We  don't  like 
these  foreign  grocery  trusts  any  better  'n  you  do!  But  it 
isn't  reasonable  to  expect  us  to  sacrifice  eleven  thousand  or 
more  just  for  neighborliness,  is  it!  How  about  it,  Lyte?  You 
willing  to  come  down?" 

By  warmly  taking  Purdy's  part,  Babbitt  persuaded  the 
benevolent  Mr.  Lyte  to  reduce  his  price  to  twenty-one  thou- 
sand dollars.  At  the  right  moment  Babbitt  snatched  from  a 
drawer  the  agreement  he  had  had  ISIiss  McGoun  type  out  a 
week  ago  and  thrust  it  into  Purdy's  hands.  He  genially  shook 
his  fountain  pen  to  make  certain  that  it  was  flowing,  handed 
it  to  Purdy,  and  approvingly  watched  him  sign. 

The  work  of  the  world  was  being  done.  Lyte  had  made 
something  over  nine  thousand  dollars.  Babbitt  had  made  a  four- 
hundred-and-fifty  dollar  commission,  Purdy  had,  by  the  sensi- 
tive mechanism  of  modern  finance,  been  provided  with  a  busi- 
ness-building, and  soon  the  happy  inhabitants  of  Linton  would 
have  meat  lavished  upon  them  at  prices  only  a  little  higher 
than  those  down-town.  ^ 

It  had  been  a  manly  battle,  but  after  it  Babbitt  drooped. 
This  was  the  only  really  amusing  contest  he  had  been  plan- 
ning. There  was  nothing  ahead  save  details  of  leases,  ap- 
praisals, mortgages. 

He  muttered,  "Makes  me  sick  to  think  of  Lyte  carrying  off 


50  BABBITT 

most  of  the  profit  when  I  did  all  the  work,  the  old  skinflint! 
And —  What  else  have  I  got  to  do  to-day?  .  .  .  Like  to  take 
a  good  long  vacation.    Motor  trip.    Something." 

He  sprang  up,  rekindled  by  the  thought  of  lunching  with 
Paul  Riesling. 


CHAPTER  V 


Babbitt's  preparations  for  leaving  the  office  to  its  feeble  self 
during  the  hour  and  a  half  of  his  lunch-period  were  somewhat 
less  elaborate  than  the  plans  for  a  general  European  war. 

He  fretted  to  Miss  McGoun,  "What  time  you  going  to 
lunch?  Well,  make  sure  Miss  Bannigan  is  in  then.  Explain 
to  her  that  if  Wiedenfeldt  calls  up,  she's  to  tell  him  I'm  al- 
ready having  the  title  traced.  And  oh,  b'  the  way,  remind 
me  to-morrow  to  have  Penniman  trace  it.  Now  if  anybody 
comes  in  looking  for  a  cheap  house,  remember  we  got  to  shove 
that  Bangor  Road  place  off  onto  somebody.  If  you  need  me, 
I'll  be  at  the  Athletic  Club.  And— uh—  And— uh—  I'll 
be  back  by  two." 

He  dusted  the  cigar-ashes  off  his  vest.  He  placed  a  difficult 
unanswered  letter  on  the  pile  of  unfinished  work,  that  he  might 
not  fail  to  attend  to  it  that  afternoon.  (For  three  noons,  now, 
he  had  placed  the  same  letter  on  the  unfinished  pile.)  He 
scrawled  on  a  sheet  of  yellow  backing-paper  the  memorandum: 
"See  abt  apt  h  drs,"  which  gave  him  an  agreeable  feeling  of 
having  already  seen  about  the  apartment-house  doors. 

He  discovered  that  he  was  smoking  another  cigar.  He  threw 
it  away,  protesting,  "Darn  it,  I  thought  you'd  quit  this  darn 
smoking!"  He  courageously  returned  the  cigar-box  to  the 
correspondence-file,  locked  it  up,  hid  the  key  in  a  more  dif- 
ficult place,  and  raged,  "Ought  to  take  care  of  myself.  And 
need  more  exercise — walk  to  the  club,  every  single  noon — just 
what  I'll  do — every  noon — cut  out  this  motoring  all  the  time." 

The  resolution  made  him  feel  exemplary.  Immediately  afte? 
it  he  decided  that  this  noon  it  was  too  late  to  walk. 

51 


52  BABBITT 

It  took  but  little  more  time  to  start  his  car  and  edge  it  into 
the  traffic  than  it  would  have  taken  to  walk  the  three  and 
a  half  blocks  to  the  club. 


n 

As  he  drove  he  glanced  with  the  fondness  of  familiarity  at 
the  buildings. 

A  stranger  suddenly  dropped  into  the  business-center  of 
Zenith  could  not  have  told  whether  he  was  in  a  city  of  Oregon 
or  Georgia,  Ohio  or  Maine,  Oklahoma  or  Manitoba.  But  to 
Babbitt  every  inch  was  individual  and  stirring.  As  always  he 
noted  that  the  California  Building  across  the  way  was  three 
stories  lower,  therefore  three  stories  less  beautiful,  than  his  own 
Reeves  Building.  As  always  when  he  passed  the  Parthenon 
Shoe  Shine  Parlor,  a  one-story  hut  which  beside  the  granite 
and  red-brick  ponderousness  of  the  old  California  Building 
resembled  a  bath-house  under  a  cliff,  he  commented,  ''Gosh, 
ought  to  get  my  shoes  shined  this  afternoon.  Keep  forgetting 
it."  At  the  Simplex  Office  Furniture  Shop,  the  National  Cash 
Register  Agency,  he  yearned  for  a  dictaphone,  for  a  type- 
writer which  would  add  and  multiply,  as  a  poet  yearns  for 
quartos  or  a  physician  for  radium. 

At  the  Nobby  IVIen's  Wear  Shop  he  took  his  left  hand  off 
the  steering-wheel  to  touch  his  scarf,  and  thought  well  of  him- 
self as  one  who  bought  expensive  ties  "and  could  pay  cash 
for  'em,  too,  by  golly;"  and  at  the  United  Cigar  Store,  with 
its  crimson  and  gold  alertness,  he  reflected,  ''Wonder  if  I  need 
some  cigars — idiot — plumb  forgot — going  t'  cut  down  my  fool 
smoking."  He  looked  at  his  bank,  the  Miners'  and  Drovers' 
National,  and  considered  how  clever  and  solid  he  was  to  bank 
with  so  marbled  an  establishment.  His  high  moment  came  in 
the  clash  of  traffic  when  he  was  halted  at  the  corner  beneath 
the  lofty  Second  National  Tower.  His  car  was  banked  with 
four  others  in  a  line  of  steel  restless  as  cavalry,  while  the  cross- 


BABBITT  53 

town  traffic,  limousines  and  enormous  moving-vans  and  insis- 
tent motor-cycles,  poured  by;  on  the  farther  corner,  pneumatic 
riveters  rang  on  the  sun-plated  skeleton  of  a  new  building;  and 
out  of  this  tornado  flashed  the  inspiration  of  a  familiar  face, 
and  a  fellow  Booster  shouted,  "H'  are  you,  George!"  Babbitt 
waved  in  neighborly  affection,  and  slid  on  with  the  traffic  as 
the  policeman  lifted  his  hand.  He  noted  how  quickly  his  car 
picked  up.  He  felt  superior  and  powerful,  like  a  shuttle  of 
polished  steel  darting  in  a  vast  machine. 

As  always  he  ignored  the  next  two  blocks,  decayed  blocks 
Dot  yet  reclaimed  from  the  grime  and  shabbiness  of  the  Zenith 
of  1885.  While  he  was  passing  the  five-and-ten-cent  store,  the 
Dakota  Lodging  House,  Concordia  Hall  with  its  lodge-rooms 
and  the  offices  of  fortune-tellers  and  chiropractors,  he  thought 
of  how  much  money  he  made,  and  he  boasted  a  little  and  wor- 
ried a  little  and  did  old  familiar  sums: 

"Four  hundred  fifty  plunks  this  morning  from  the  Lyte  deal. 
But  taxes  due.  Let's  see:  I  ought  to  pull  out  eight  thousand 
net  this  year,  and  save  fifteen  hundred  of  that — no,  not  if  I 
put  up  garage  and —  Let's  see:  six  hundred  and  forty  clear 
last  month,  and  twelve  times  six-forty  makes — makes — let 
see:  six  times  twelve  is  seventy-two  hundred  and —  Oh  rats, 
anyway,  I'll  make  eight  thousand — gee  now,  that's  not  so  bad; 
Diighty  few  fellows  pulling  down  eight  thousand  dollars  a  year 
— eight  thousand  good  hard  iron  dollars — bet  there  isn't  more 
than  five  per  cent,  of  the  people  in  the  whole  United  States 
that  make  more  than  Uncle  George  does,  by  golly!  Right  up 
at  the  top  of  the  heap!  But —  Way  expenses  are —  Family 
wasting  gasoline,  and  always  dressed  like  millionaires,  and 
sending  that  eighty  a  month  to  Mother —  And  all  these  sten- 
ographers and  salesmen  gouging  me  for  every  cent  they  can 
get—" 

The  effect  of  his  scientific  budget-planning  was  that  he  felt 
at  once  triumphantly  wealthy  and  perilously  poor,  and  in  the 
midst  of  these  dissertations  he  stopped  his  car,  rushed  into  a 


54  BABBITT 

small  news-and-miscellany  shop,  and  bought  the  electric  cigar- 
lighter  which  he  had  coveted  for  a  week.  He  dodged  his  con- 
science by  being  jerky  and  noisy,  and  by  shouting  at  the  clerk, 
"Guess  this  will  prett'  near  pay  for  itself  in  matches,  eh?" 

It  was  a  pretty  thing,  a  nickeled  cylinder  with  an  almost 
silvery  socket,  to  be  attached  to  the  dashboard  of  his  car.  It 
was  not  only,  as  the  placard  on  the  counter  observed,  "a  dandy 
little  refinement,  lending  the  last  touch  of  class  to  a  gentle- 
man's auto,"  but  a  priceless  time-saver.  By  freeing  him  from 
halting  the  car  to  light  a  match,  it  would  in  a  month  or  two 
easily  save  ten  minutes. 

As  he  drove  on  he  glanced  at  it.  "Pretty  nice.  Alwaiys 
wanted  one,"  he  said  wistfully.  "The  one  thing  a  smoker 
needs,  too." 

Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  given  up  smoking. 

"Darn  it!"  he  mourned.  "Oh  well,  I  suppose  I'll  hit  a 
cigar  once  in  a  while.  And —  Be  a  great  convenience  for 
other  folks.  Might  make  just  the  difference  in  getting  chummy 
with  some  fellow  that  would  put  over  a  sale.  And —  Cer- 
tainly looks  nice  there.  Certainly  is  a  mighty  clever  little 
jigger.  Gives  the  last  touch  of  refinement  and  class.  I — 
By  golly,  I  guess  I  can  afford  it  if  I  want  to!  Not  going  to 
be  the  only  member  of  this  family  that  never  has  a  single 
doggone  luxury!" 

Thus,  laden  with  treasure,  after  three  and  a  half  blocks  of 
romantic  adventure,  he  drove  up  to  the  club. 


m  ; 

The  Zenith  Athletic  Club  is  not  athletic  and  it  isn't  exactly 
^  a  club,  but  it  is  Zenith  in  perfection.  It  has  an  active  and 
smoke-misted  billiard  room,  it  is  represented  by  baseball  and 
football  teams,  and  in  the  pool  and  the  gymnasium  a  tenth 
of  the  members  sporadically  try  to  reduce.  But  most  of  its 
three  thousand  members  use  it  as  a  cafe  in  which  to  lunch. 


BABBITT  J  55 

)lay  cards,  tell  stories,  meet  customers,  and  entertain  out-of- 
;own  uncles  at  dinner.  It  is  the  largest  club  in  the  city,  and 
ts  chief  hatred  is  the  conservative  Union  Club,  which  all 
lound  members  of  the  Athletic  call  "a  rotten,  snobbish,  dull, 
jxpensive  old  hole — not  one  Good  Mixer  in  the  place — you 
;ouldn't  hire  me  to  join."  Statistics  show  that  no  member  of 
ie  Athletic  has  ever  refused  election  to  the  Union,  and  of 
iose  who  are  elected,  sixty-seven  per  cent,  resign  from  the 
\thletic  and  are  thereafter  heard  to  say,  in  the  drowsy  sanc- 
jty  of  the  Union  lounge,  "The  Athletic  would  be  a  pretty 
'ood  hotel,  if  it  were  more  exclusive." 

The  Athletic  Club  building  is  nine  stories  high,  yellow  brick 
with  glassy  roof-garden  above  and  portico  of  huge  limestone 
:olumns  below.  The  lobby,  with  its  thick  pillars  of  porous 
Caen  stone,  its  pointed  vaulting,  and  a  brown  glazed-tile  floor 
like  well-baked  bread-crust,  is  a  combination  of  cathedral- 
:rypt  and  rathskellar.  The  members  rush  into  the  lobby  as 
though  they  were  shopping  and  hadn't  much  time  for  it.  Thus 
did  Babbitt  enter,  and  to  the  group  standing  by  the  cigar- 
:ounter  he  whooped,  "How's  the  boys?  How's  the  boys? 
SVell,  well,  fine  day!" 

Jovially  they  whooped  back — Vergil  Gunch,  the  coal-dealer, 
Sidney  Finkelstein,  the  ladies'-ready-to-wear  buyer  for  Parcher 
&  Stein's  department-store,  and  Professor  Joseph  K.  Pumphrey, 
owner  of  the  Riteway  Business  College  and  instructor  in  Public 
Speaking,  Business  English,  Scenario  Writing,  and  Commer- 
cial Law.  Though  Babbitt  admired  this  savant,  and  appre- 
ciated Sidney  Finkelstein  as  "a  mighty  smart  buyer  and  a 
good  liberal  spender,"  it  was  to  Vergil  Gunch  that  he  turned 
with  enthusiasm,  Mr.  Gunch  was  president  of  the  Boosters' 
Club,  a  weekly  lunch-club,  local  chapter  of  a  national  organ- 
ization which  promoted  sound  business  and  friendliness  among 
Regular  Fellows.  He  was  also  no  less  an  official  than  Es- 
teemed Leading  Knight  in  the  Benevolent  and  Protective  Order 
of  Elks,  and  it  was  rumored  that  at  the  next  election  he  would 


56  BABBITT 

be  a  candidate  for  Exalted  Ruler.  He  was  a  jolly  man,  giv^ 
to  oratory  and  to  chumminess  with  the  arts.  He  called  on  the 
famous  actors  and  vaudeville  artists  when  they  came  to  town, 
gave  them  cigars,  addressed  them  by  their  first  names,  and — 
sometimes — succeeded  in  bringing  them  to  the  Boosters'  lunches 
to  give  The  Boys  a  Free  Entertainment.  He  was  a  large  man 
with  hair  en  brosse,  and  he  knew  the  latest  jokes,  but  he 
played  poker  close  to  the  chest.  It  was  at  his  party  that  Bab- 
bitt had  sucked  in  the  virus  of  to-day's  restlessness. 

Gunch  shouted,  "How's  the  old  Bolsheviki?  How  do  you 
feel,  the  morning  after  the  night  before?" 

"Oh,  boy!  Some  head!  That  was  a  regular  party  you 
threw,  Verg!  Hope  you  haven't  forgotten  I  took  that  last 
cute  little  jack-pot!"  Babbitt  bellowed.  (He  was  three  feet 
from  Gunch.) 

"That's  all  right  now!  What  I'll  hand  you  next  time,  Geor- 
gie!  Say,  juh  notice  in  the  paper  the  way  the  New  York 
Assembly  stood  up  to  the  Reds?" 

"You  bet  I  did.    That  was  fine,  eh?    Nice  day  to-day." 

"Yes,  it's  one  mighty  fine  spring  day,  but  nights  still  cold." 

"Yeh,  you're  right  they  are!  Had  to  have  coupla  blankets 
last  night,  out  on  the  sleeping-porch.  Say,  Sid,"  Babbitt 
turned  to  Finkelstein,  the  buyer,  "got  something  wanta  ask 
you  about.  I  went  out  and  bought  me  an  electric  cigar-lighter 
for  the  car,  this  noon,  and — " 

"Good  hunch!"  said  Finkelstein,  while  even  the  learned 
Professor  Pumphrey,  a  bulbous  man  with  a  pepper-and-salt 
cutaway  and  a  pipe-organ  voice,  commented,  "That  makes  a 
dandy  accessory.     Cigar-lighter  gives  tone  to  the  dashboard." 

"Yep,  finally  decided  I'd  buy  me  one.  Got  the  best  on  the 
market,  the  clerk  said  it  was.  Paid  five  bucks  for  it.  Just 
wondering  if  I  got  stuck.  What  do  they  charge  for  'em  at 
the  store,  Sid?" 

Finkelstein  asserted  that  five  dollars  was  not  too  great  a 
sum,  not  for  a  really  high-class  lighter  which  was  suitably 


BABBITT  57 

iiickeled  and  provided  with  connections  of  the  very  best  qual- 
ity. "I  always  say — and  believe  me,  I  base  it  on  a  pretty 
fairly  extensive  mercantile  experience — the  best  is  the  cheapest 
in  the  long  run.  Of  course  if  a  fellow  wants  to  be  a  Jew  about 
it,  he  can  get  cheap  junk,  but  in  the  long  run,  the  cheapest 
thing  is — the  best  you  can  get!  Now  you  take  here  just  th' 
other  day:  I  got  a  new  top  for  my  old  boat  and  some  up- 
holstery, and  I  paid  out  a  hundred  and  twenty-six  fifty,  and 
of  course  a  lot  of  fellows  would  say  that  was  too  much — Lord, 
if  the  Old  Folks — they  live  in  one  of  these  hick  towns  up-state 
and  they  simply  can't  get  onto  the  way  a  city  fellow's  mind 
works,  and  then,  of  course,  they're  Jews,  and  they'd  lie  right 
down  and  die  if  they  knew  Sid  had  anted  up  a  hundred  and 
twenty-six  bones.  But  I  don't  figure  I  was  stuck,  George,  not 
a  bit.  Machine  looks  brand  new  now — not  that  it's  so  darned 
old,  of  course;  had  it  less  'n  three  years,  but  I  give  it  hard 
service;  never  drive  less  'n  a  hundred  miles  on  Sunday  and, 
uh —  Oh,  I  don't  really  think  you  got  stuck,  George.  In  the 
long  run,  the  best  is,  you  might  say,  it's  unquestionably  the 
cheapest." 

"That's  right,"  said  Vergil  Gunch.  "That's  the  way  I  look 
at  it.  If  a  fellow  is  keyed  up  to  what  you  might  call  intensive 
living,  the  way  you  get  it  here  in  Zenith — all  the  hustle  and 
mental  activity  that's  going  on  with  a  bunch  of  live-wires  like 
the  Boosters  and  here  in  the  Z.A.C.,  why,  he's  got  to  save  his 
nerves  by  having  the  best." 

Babbitt  nodded  his  head  at  every  fifth  word  in  the  roaring 
rhythm;  and  by  the  conclusion,  in  Gunch 's  renowned  humor- 
ous vein,  he  was  enchanted: 

"Still,  at  that,  George,  don't  know's  you  can  afford  it.  I've 
heard  your  business  has  been  kind  of  under  the  eye  of  the 
gov'ment  since  you  stole  the  tail  of  Eathorne  Park  and  sold  it! " 

"Oh,  you're  a  great  little  josher,  Verg.  But  when  it  comes 
to  kidding,  how  about  this  report  that  you  stole  the  black 
marble  steps  off  the  post-office  and  sold  'em  for  high-grade 


58  BABBITT 

coal!"    In  delight  Babbitt  patted  Gunch's  back,  stroked  his 
arm. 

"That's  all  right,  but  what  I  want  to  know  is:  who's  the 
real-estate  shark  that  bought  that  coal  for  his  apartment- 
houses?" 

"I  guess  that'll  hold  you  for  a  while,  George!"  said  Finkel- 
stein.  "I'll  tell  you,  though,  boys,  what  I  did  hear:  George's 
missus  went  into  the  gents'  wear  department  at  Parcher's  to 
buy  him  some  collars,  and  before  she  could  give  his  neck-size 
the  clerk  slips  her  some  thirteens.  'How  juh  know  the  size?' 
says  Mrs.  Babbitt,  and  the  clerk  says,  'Men  that  let  their  wives 
buy  collars  for  'em  always  wear  thirteen,  madam.'  How's 
that!  That's  pretty  good,  eh?  How's  that,  eh?  I  guess 
that'll  about  fix  you,  George!" 

"I — I — "  Babbitt  sought  for  amiable  insults  in  answer.  He  ' 
stopped,  stared  at  the  door.  Paul  Riesling  was  coming  in. 
Babbitt  cried,  "See  you  later,  boys,"  and  hastened  across  the 
lobby.  He  was,  just  then,  neither  the  sulky  child  of  the  sleep- 
ing-porch, the  domestic  tyrant  of  the  breakfast  table,  the 
crafty  money-changer  of  the  Lyte-Purdy  conference,  nor  the 
blaring  Good  Fellow,  the  Josher  and  Regular  Guy,  of  the 
Athletic  Club.  He  was  an  older  brother  to  Paul  Riesling, 
swift  to  defend  him,  admiring  him  with  a  proud  and  credulous 
love  passing  the  love  of  women.  Paul  and  he  shook  hands 
solemnly ;  they  smiled  as  shyly  as  though  they  had  been  parted 
three  years,  not  three  days — and  they  said: 

"How's  the  old  horse-thief?" 

"All  right,  I  guess.    How're  you,  you  poor  shrimp?" 

"I'm  first-rate,  you  second-hand  hunk  o'  cheese," 

Reassured  thus  of  their  high  fondness.  Babbitt  grunted, 
"You're  a  fine  guy,  you  are!  Ten  minutes  late!"  Riesling 
snapped,  "Well,  you're  lucky  to  have  a  chance  to  lunch  with 
a  gentleman!"  They  grinned  and  went  into  the  Neronian 
washroom,  where  a  line  of  men  bent  over  the  bowls  inset  along 
a  prodigious  slab  of  marble  as  in  religious  prostration  before 


BABBITT  59 

their  own  images  in  the  massy  mirror.  Voices  thick,  satisfied, 
authoritative,  hurtled  along  the  marble  walls,  bounded  from 
the  ceiling  of  lavender-bordered  milky  tiles,  while  the  lords  of 
the  city,  the  barons  of  insurance  and  law  and  fertilizers  and 
motor  tires,  laid  down  the  law  for  Zenith ;  announced  that  the 
day  was  warm — indeed,  indisputably  of  spring;  that  wages 
were  too  high  and  the  interest  on  mortgages  too  low;  that  Babe 
Ruth,  the  eminent  player  of  baseball,  was  a  noble  man;  and 
that  "those  two  nuts  at  the  Climax  Vaudeville  Theater  this 
week  certainly  are  a  slick  pair  of  actors."  Babbitt,  though 
ordinarily  his  voice  was  the  surest  and  most  episcopal  of  all, 
was  silent.  In  the  presence  of  the  slight  dark  reticence  of 
Paul  Riesling,  he  was  awkward,  he  desired  to  be  quiet  and 
firm  and  deft. 

The  entrance  lobby  of  the  Athletic  Club  was  Gothic,  the 
washroom  Roman  Imperial,  the  lounge  Spanish  Mission,  and 
the  reading-room  in  Chinese  Chippendale,  but  the  gem  of  the 
club  was  the  dining-room,  the  masterpiece  of  Ferdinand  Reit- 
man.  Zenith's  busiest  architect.  It  was  lofty  and  half-tim- 
bered, with  Tudor  leaded  casements,  an  oriel,  a  somewhat  mu- 
sicianless  musicians'-gallery,  and  tapestries  believed  to  illus- 
trate the  granting  of  Magna  Charta.  The  open  beams  had 
been  hand-adzed  at  Jake  Offutt's  car-body  works,  the  hinges 
were  of  hand-wrought  iron,  the  wainscot  studded  with  hand- 
made wooden  pegs,  and  at  one  end  of  the  room  was  a  heraldic 
and  hooded  stone  fireplace  which  the  club's  advertising-pam- 
phlet asserted  to  be  not  only  larger  than  any  of  the  fireplaces 
in  European  castles  but  of  a  draught  incomparably  more  scien- 
tific. It  was  also  much  cleaner,  as  no  fire  had  ever  beeu 
built  in  it. 

Half  of  the  tables  were  mammoth  slabs  which  seated  twenty 
or  thirty  men.  Babbitt  usually  sat  at  the  one  near  the  door, 
with  a  group  including  Gunch,  Finkelstein,  Professor  Pum- 
phrey,  Howard  Littlefield,  his  neighbor,  T.  Cholmondeley 
Frink,  the  poet  and  advertising-agent,  and  Orville  Jones,  whose 


6o  BABBITT 

laundry  was  in  many  ways  the  best  in  Zenith.  They  composed 
a  club  within  the  club,  and  merrily  called  themselves  "The 
Roughnecks."  To-day  as  he  passed  their  table  the  Rough- 
necks greeted  him,  "Come  on,  sit  in!  You  'n'  Paul  too  proud 
to  feed  with  poor  folks?  Afraid  somebody  might  stick  you 
for  a  bottle  of  Bevo,  George?  Strikes  me  you  swells  are  get- 
ting awful  darn  exclusive!" 

He  thundered,  "You  bet!  We  can't  afford  to  have  our  reps 
ruined  by  being  seen  with  you  tightwads!"  and  guided  Paul 
to  one  of  the  small  tables  beneath  the  musicians'-gallery.  He 
felt  guilty.  At  the  Zenith  Athletic  Club,  privacy  was  very 
bad  form.     But  he  wanted  Paul  to  himself. 

That  morning  he  had  advocated  lighter  lunches  and  now  he 
ordered  nothing  but  English  mutton  chop,  radishes,  peas,  deep- 
dish  apple  pie,  a  bit  of  cheese,  and  a  pot  of  coffee  with  cream, 
adding,  as  he  did  invariably,  "And  uh —  Oh,  and  you  might 
give  me  an  order  of  French  fried  potatoes."  When  the  chop 
came  he  vigorously  peppered  it  and  salted  it.  He  always  pep- 
pered and  salted  his  meat,  and  vigorously,  before  tasting  it. 

Paul  and  he  took  up  the  spring-like  quality  of  the  spring, 
the  virtues  of  the  electric  cigar-lighter,  and  the  action  of  the 
New  York  State  Assembly.  It  was  not  till  Babbitt  was  thick 
and  disconsolate  with  mutton  grease  that  he  flung  out: 

"I  wound  up  a  nice  little  deal  with  Conrad  Lyte  this  morn- 
ing that  put  five  hundred  good  round  plunks  in  my  pocket. 
Pretty  nice — pretty  nice!  And  yet —  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter  with  me  to-day.  Maybe  it's  an  attack  of  spring 
fever,  or  staying  up  too  late  at  Verg  Gunch's,  or  maybe  it's 
just  the  winter's  work  piling  up,  but  I've  felt  kind  of  down  in 
the  mouth  all  day  long.  Course  I  wouldn't  beef  about  it  to 
the  fellows  at  the  Roughnecks'  Table  there,  but  you —  Ever 
feel  that  way,  Paul?  Kind  of  comes  over  me:  here  I've  pretty 
much  done  all  the  things  I  ought  to ;  supported  my  family,  and 
got  a  good  house  and  a  six-cylinder  car,  and  built  up  a  nice 
little  business,  and  I  haven't  any  vices  'specially,  except  smok- 


BABBITT  6i 

ing — and  I'm  practically  cutting  that  out,  by  the  way.  And 
I  belong  to  the  church,  and  play  enough  golf  to  keep  in  trim, 
and  I  only  associate  with  good  decent  fellows.  And  yet,  even 
so,  I  don't  know  that  I'm  entirely  satisfied!" 

It  was  drawled  out,  broken  by  shouts  from  the  neighbor- 
ing tables,  by  mechanical  love-making  to  the  waitress,  by  ster- 
torous grunts  as  the  coffee  filled  him  with  dizziness  and  indi- 
gestion. He  was  apologetic  and  doubtful,  and  it  was  Paul, 
with  his  thin  voice,  who  pierced  the  fog: 

"Good  Lord,  George,  you  don't  suppose  it's  any  novelty  to 
me  to  find  that  we  hustlers,  that  think  we're  so  all-fired  suc- 
cessful, aren't  getting  much  out  of  it?  You  look  as  if  you 
expected  me  to  report  you  as  seditious!  You  know  what  my 
own  life's  been." 

"I  know,  old  man." 

"I  ought  to  have  been  a  fiddler,  and  I'm  a  pedler  of  tar- 
roofing!  And  Zilla —  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  squeal,  but  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  about  how  inspiring  a  wife  she  is.  .  ,  . 
Typical  instance  last  evening:  We  went  to  the  movies.  There 
was  a  big  crowd  waiting  in  the  lobby,  us  at  the  tail-end.  She 
began  to  push  right  through  it  with  her  'Sir,  how  dare  you?' 
manner —  Honestly,  sometimes  when  I  look  at  her  and  see 
how  she's  always  so  made  up  and  stinking  of  perfume  and 
looking  for  trouble  and  kind  of  always  yelping,  'I  tell  yuh 
I'm  a  lady,  damn  yuh!' — why,  I  want  to  kill  her!  Well,  she 
keeps  elbowing  through  the  crowd,  me  after  her,  feeling  good 
and  ashamed,  till  she's  almost  up  to  the  velvet  rope  and  ready 
to  be  the  next  let  in.  But  there  was  a  little  squirt  of  a  man 
there — probably  been  waiting  half  an  hour — I  kind  of  ad- 
mired the  little  cuss — and  he  turns  on  Zilla  and  says,  per- 
fectly polite,  'Madam,  why  are  you  trying  to  push  past  me?' 
And  she  simply — God,  I  was  so  ashamed! — she  rips  out  at 
him,  'You're  no  gentleman,'  and  she  drags  me  into  it  and 
hollers,  'Paul,  this  person  insulted  me!'  and  the  poor  skate; 
he  got  ready  to  fight. 


62  BABBITT 

"I  made  out  I  hadn't  heard  them — sure!  same  as  you 
wouldn't  hear  a  boiler-factory! — and  I  tried  to  look  away — I 
can  tell  you  exactly  how  every  tile  looks  in  the  ceiling  of  that 
lobby;  there's  one  with  brown  spots  on  it  like  the  face  of  the 
devil — and  all  the  time  the  people  there — they  were  packed  in 
like  sardines — they  kept  making  remarks  about  us,  and  Zilla 
went  right  on  talking  about  the  little  chap,  and  screeching  that 
'folks  like  him  oughtn't  to  be  admitted  in  a  place  that's  sup- 
posed to  be  for  ladies  and  gentlemen,'  and  'Paul,  will  you  kindly 
call  the  manager,  so  I  can  report  this  dirty  rat?'  and —  Oof! 
Maybe  I  wasn't  glad  when  I  could  sneak  inside  and  hide  in  the 
dark! 

"After  twenty-four  years  of  that  kind  of  thing,  you  don't 
expect  me  to  fall  down  and  foam  at  the  mouth  when  you  hint 
that  this  sweet,  clean,  respectable,  moral  life  isn't  all  it's 
cracked  up  to  be,  do  you?  I  can't  even  talk  about  it,  except 
to  you,  because  anybody  else  would  think  I  was  yellow.  May- 
be I  am.  Don't  care  any  longer.  ...  Gosh,  you've  had  to 
stand  a  lot  of  whining  from  me,  first  and  last,  Georgie!" 

"Rats,  now,  Paul,  you've  never  really  what  you  could  call 
whined.  Sometimes —  I'm  always  blowing  to  Myra  and  the 
kids  about  what  a  whale  of  a  realtor  I  am,  and  yet  sometimes 
I  get  a  sneaking  idea  I'm  not  such  a  Pierpont  Morgan  as  I 
let  on  to  be.  But  if  I  ever  do  help  by  jollying  you  along,  old 
Paulski,  I  guess  maybe  Saint  Pete  may  let  me  in  after  all!" 

"Yuh,  you're  an  old  blow-hard,  Georgie,  you  cheerful  cut- 
throat, but  you've  certainly  kept  me  going." 

"Why  don't  you  divorce  Zilla?" 

"Why  don't  I!  If  I  only  could!  If  she'd  just  give  me  the 
chance!  You  couldn't  hire  her  to  divorce  me,  no,  nor  desert 
me.  She's  too  fond  of  her  three  squares  and  a  few  pounds  of 
nut-center  chocolates  in  between.  If  she'd  only  be  what  they 
call  unfaithful  to  me!  George,  I  don't  want  to  be  too  much  of 
a  stinker;  back  in  college  I'd  've  thought  a  man  who  could 
say  that  ought  to  be  shot  at  sunrise.     But  honestly,  I'd  be 


BABBITT  63 

tickled  to  death  if  she'd  really  go  making  love  with  somebody. 
Fat  chance!  Of  course  she'll  flirt  with  anything — you  know 
how  she  holds  hands  and  laughs — that  laugh — that  horrible 
brassy  laugh — the  way  she  yaps,  'You  naughty  man,  you  bet- 
ter be  careful  or  my  big  husband  will  be  after  you ! ' — and  the 
guy  looking  me  over  and  thinking,  'Why,  you  cute  little  thing, 
you  run  away  now  or  I'll  spank  you!'  And  she'll  let  him  go 
just  far  enough  so  she  gets  some  excitement  out  of  it  and  then 
she'll  begin  to  do  the  injured  innocent  and  have  a  beautiful 
time  wailing,  'I  didn't  think  you  were  that  kind  of  a  person.' 
They  talk  about  these  demi-vierges  in  stories — " 

"These  whats?" 

" — but  the  wise,  hard,  corseted,  old  married  women  like 
Zilla  are  worse  than  any  bobbed-haired  girl  that  ever  went 
boldly  out  into  this-here  storm  of  life — and  kept  her  umbrella 
slid  up  her  sleeve!  But  rats,  you  know  what  Zilla  is.  How 
she  nags — nags — nags.  How  she  wants  everything  I  can  buy 
her,  and  a  lot  that  I  can't,  and  how  absolutely  unreasonable  she 
is,  and  when  I  get  sore  and  try  to  have  it  out  with  her  she 
plays  the  Perfect  Lady  so  well  that  even  I  get  fooled  and  get 
all  tangled  up  in  a  lot  of  'Why  did  you  say's'  and  'I  didn't 
mean's.'  I'll  tell  you,  Georgie:  You  know  my  tastes  are 
pretty  fairly  simple — in  the  matter  of  food,  at  least.  Course, 
as  you're  always  complaining,  I  do  like  decent  cigars — not 
those  Flor  de  Cabagos  you're  smoking — " 

"That's  all  right  now!  That's  a  good  two-for.  By  the  way, 
Paul,  did  I  tell  you  I  decided  to  practically  cut  out  smok — " 

"Yes  you —  At  the  same  time,  if  I  can't  get  what  I  like, 
why,  I  can  do  without  it.  I  don't  mind  sitting  down  to  burnt 
steak,  with  canned  peaches  and  store  cake  for  a  thrilling  little 
dessert  afterwards,  but  I  do  draw  the  line  at  having  to  sympa- 
thize with  Zilla  because  she's  so  rotten  bad-tempered  that  the 
cook  has  quit,  and  she's  been  so  busy  sitting  in  a  dirty  lace 
negligee  all  afternoon,  reading  about  some  brave  manly  West- 
ern hero,  that  she  hasn't  had  time  to  do  any  cooking.    You're 


64  BABBITT 

always  talking  about  'morals' — meaning  monogamy,  I  suppose. 
You've  been  the  rock  of  ages  to  me,  all  right,  but  you're  es- 
sentially a  simp.    You — " 

"Where  d'  you  get  that  'simp,'  little  man?  Let  me  tell 
you — " 

" — love  to  look  earnest  and  inform  the  world  that  it's  the 
'duty  of  responsible  business  men  to  be  strictly  moral,  as  an 
example  to  the  community.'  In  fact  you're  so  earnest  about 
morality,  old  Georgie,  that  I  hate  to  think  how  essentially 
immoral  you  must  be  underneath.    All  right,  you  can — " 

"Wait,  wait  now!     What's—" 

" — talk  about  morals  all  you  want  to,  old  thing,  but  believe 
me,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  and  an  occasional  evening  playing 
the  violin  to  Terrill  O'Farrell's  'cello,  and  three  or  four  darling 
girls  that  let  me  forget  this  beastly  joke  they  call  'respectable 
life,'  I'd  've  killed  myself  years  ago. 

"And  business!  The  roofing  business!  Roofs  for  cow- 
sheds !  Oh,  I  don't  mean  I  haven't  had  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  the 
Game;  out  of  putting  it  over  on  the  labor  unions,  and  seeing 
a  big  check  coming  in,  and  the  business  increasing.  But  what's 
the  use  of  it?  You  know,  my  business  isn't  distributing  roof- 
ing— it's  principally  keeping  my  competitors  from  distributing 
roofing.  Same  with  you.  All  we  do  is  cut  each  other's  throats 
and  make  the  public  pay  for  it!" 

"Look  here  now,  Paul!  You're  pretty  darn  near  talking 
socialism!" 

"Oh  yes,  of  course  I  don't  really  exactly  mean  that — ^I 
s'pose.  Course — competition — brings  out  the  best — survival 
of  the  fittest — but —  But  I  mean:  Take  all  these  fellows 
we  know,  the  kind  right  here  in  the  club  now,  that  seem  to  be 
perfectly  content  with  their  home-life  and  their  businesses, 
and  that  boost  Zenith  and  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  and 
holler  for  a  million  population.  I  bet  if  you  could  cut  into 
their  heads  you'd  find  that  one-third  of  'em  are  sure-enough 
satisfied  with  their  wives  and  kids  and  friends  and  their  offices; 


BABBITT  65 

and  one- third  feel  kind  of  restless  but  won't  admit  it;  and 
one-third  are  miserable  and  know  it.  They  hate  the  whole 
peppy,  boosting,  go-ahead  game,  and  they're  bored  by  their 
wives  and  think  their  families  are  fools — at  least  when  they 
come  to  forty  or  forty-five  they're  bored — and  they  hate  busi- 
ness, and  they'd  go —  Why  do  you  suppose  there's  so  many 
'mysterious'  suicides?  Why  do  you  suppose  so  many  Substan- 
tial Citizens  jumped  right  into  the  war?  Think  it  was  all 
patriotism?" 

Babbitt  snorted,  "What  do  you  expect?  Think  we  were 
sent  into  the  world  to  have  a  soft  time  and — what  is  it? — 
'float  on  flowery  beds  of  ease'?  Think  Man  was  just  made  to 
be  happy?" 

"Why  not?  Though  I've  never  discovered  anybody  that 
knew  what  the  deuce  Man  really  was  made  for!" 

"Well  we  know — not  just  in  the  Bible  alone,  but  it  stands 
to  reason — a  man  who  doesn't  buckle  down  and  do  his  duty, 
even  if  it  does  bore  him  sometimes,  is  nothing  but  a — well,  he's 
simply  a  weakling.  Mollycoddle,  in  fact!  And  what  do  you 
advocate?  Come  down  to  cases!  If  a  man  is  bored  by  his 
wife,  do  you  seriously  mean  he  has  a  right  to  chuck  her  and 
take  a  sneak,  or  even  kill  himself?" 

"Good  Lord,  I  don't  know  what  'rights'  a  man  has!  And 
I  don't  know  the  solution  of  boredom.  If  I  did,  I'd  be  the 
one  philosopher  that  had  the  cure  for  living.  But  I  do  know 
that  about  ten  times  as  many  people  find  their  lives  dull,  and 
unnecessarily  dull,  as  ever  admit  it;  and  I  do  believe  that  if 
we  busted  out  and  admitted  it  sometimes,  instead  of  being 
nice  and  patient  and  loyal  for  sixty  years,  and  then  nice  and 
patient  and  dead  for  the  rest  of  eternity,  why,  maybe,  possibly, 
we  might  make  life  more  fun." 

They  drifted  into  a  maze  of  speculation.  Babbitt  was  ele- 
phantishly  uneasy.  Paul  was  bold,  but  not  quite  sure  about 
what  he  was  being  bold.  Now  and  then  Babbitt  suddenly 
agreed  with  Paul  in  an  admission  which  contradicted  all  his 


66  BABBITT 

defense  of  duty  and  Christian  patience,  and  at  each  admission 
he  had  a  curious  reckless  joy.    He  said  at  last: 

"Look  here,  old  Paul,  you  do  a  lot  of  talking  about  kicking 
things  in  the  face,  but  you  never  kick.    Why  don't  you?" 

"Nobody  does.  Habit  too  strong.  But —  Georgie,  I've 
been  thinking  of  one  mild  bat — oh,  don't  worry,  old  pillar  of 
monogamy;  it's  highly  proper.  It  seems  to  be  settled  now,  isn't 
it — though  of  course  Zilla  keeps  rooting  for  a  nice  expensive 
vacation  in  New  York  and  Atlantic  City,  with  the  bright  lights 
and  the  bootlegged  cocktails  and  a  bunch  of  lounge-lizards  to 
dance  with — but  the  Babbitts  and  the  Rieslings  are  sure- 
enough  going  to  Lake  Sunasquam,  aren't  we?  Why  couldn't 
you  and  I  make  some  excuse — say  business  in  New  York — 
and  get  up  to  INIaine  four  or  five  days  before  they  do,  and 
just  loaf  by  ourselves  and  smoke  and  cuss  and  be  natural?" 

"Great!     Great  idea!"  Babbitt  admired. 

Not  for  fourteen  years  had  he  taken  a  holiday  without  his 
wife,  and  neither  of  them  quite  believed  they  could  commit 
this  audacity.  Many  members  of  the  Athletic  Club  did  go 
camping  without  their  wives,  but  they  were  officially  dedicated 
to  fishing  and  hunting,  whereas  the  sacred  and  unchangeable 
sports  of  Babbitt  and  Paul  Riesling  were  golfing,  motoring, 
and  bridge.  For  either  the  fishermen  or  the  golfers  to  have 
changed  their  habits  would  have  been  an  infraction  of  their 
self-imposed  discipline  which  would  have  shocked  all  right- 
thinking  and  regularized  citizens. 

Babbitt  blustered,  "Why  don't  we  just  put  our  foot  down 
and  say,  'We're  going  on  ahead  of  you,  and  that's  all  there  is 
to  it!'     Nothing  criminal  in  it.     Simply  say  to  Zilla — " 

"You  don't  say  anything  to  Zilla  simply.  Why,  Georgie, 
she's  almost  as  much  of  a  moralist  as  you  are,  and  if  I  told  her 
the  truth  she'd  believe  we  were  going  to  meet  some  dames  in 
New  York.  And  even  Myra — she  never  nags  you,  the  way 
Zilla  does,  but  she'd  worry.  She'd  say,  'Don't  you  want  me 
to  go  to  Maine  with  you?     I  shouldn't  dream  of  going  unless 


BABBITT  67 

you  wanted  me;'  and  you'd  give  in  to  save  her  feelings.  Oh, 
the  devil!     Let's  have  a  shot  at  duck-pins." 

During  the  game  of  duck-pins,  a  juvenile  form  of  bowling, 
Paul  was  silent.  As  they  came  down  the  steps  of  the  club,  not 
more  than  half  an  hour  after  the  time  at  which  Babbitt  had 
sternly  told  Miss  McGoun  he  would  be  back,  Paul  sighed, 
"Look  here,  old  man,  oughtn't  to  talked  about  Zilla  way  I 
did." 

^'Rats,  old  man,  it  lets  off  steam." 

"Oh,  I  know!  After  spending  all  noon  sneering  at  the  con- 
ventional stuff,  I'm  conventional  enough  to  be  ashamed  of  sav- 
ing my  life  by  busting  out  with  my  fool  troubles!" 

"Old  Paul,  your  nerves  are  kind  of  on  the  bum.  I'm  going 
to  take  you  away.  I'm  going  to  rig  this  thing.  I'm  going 
to  have  an  important  deal  in  New  York  and — and  sure,  of 
course! — I'll  need  you  to  advise  me  on  the  roof  of  the  build- 
ing! And  the  ole  deal  will  fall  through,  and  there'll  be  noth- 
ing for  us  but  to  go  on  ahead  to  Maine.  I — Paul,  when  it 
comes  right  down  to  it,  I  don't  care  whether  you  bust  loose 
or  not.  I  do  like  having  a  rep  for  being  one  of  the  Bunch, 
but  if  you  ever  needed  me  I'd  chuck  it  and  come  out  for  you 
every  time!  Not  of  course  but  what  you're — course  I  don't 
mean  you'd  ever  do  anything  that  would  put — that  would  put 
a  decent  position  on  the  fritz  but —  See  how  I  mean?  I'm 
kind  of  a  clumsy  old  codger,  and  I  need  your  fine  Eyetalian 
hand.  We —  Oh,  hell,  I  can't  stand  here  gassing  all  day! 
On  the  job!  S'  long!  Don't  take  any  wooden  money,  Pauli- 
bus!     See  you  soon!     S'  long!" 


CHAPTER  VI 


He  forgot  Paul  Riesling  in  an  afternoon  of  not  unagreeable 
details.  After  a  return  to  his  office,  which  seemed  to  have 
staggered  on  without  him,  he  drove  a  "prospect"  out  to  view 
a  four-fiat  tenement  in  the  Linton  district.  He  was  inspired 
by  the  customer's  admiration  of  the  new  cigar-lighter.  Thrice 
its  novelty  made  him  use  it,  and  thrice  he  hurled  half-smoked 
cigarettes  from  the  car,  protesting,  "I  got  to  quit  smoking  so 
blame  much!" 

Their  ample  discussion  of  every  detail  of  the  cigar-lighter 
led  them  to  speak  of  electric  flat-irons  and  bed-warmers.  Bab- 
bitt apologized  for  being  so  shabbily  old-fashioned  as  still  to 
use  a  hot-water  bottle,  and  he  announced  that  he  would  have 
the  sleeping-porch  wired  at  once.  He  had  enormous  and  poetic 
admiration,  though  very  little  understanding,  of  all  mechanical 
devices.  They  were  his  symbols  of  truth  and  beauty.  Regard- 
ing each  new  intricate  mechanism — metal  lathe,  two-jet  car- 
buretor, machine  gun,  oxyacetylene  welder — he  learned  one 
good  realistic-sounding  phrase,  and  used  it  over  and  over,  with 
a  delightful  feeling  of  being  technical  and  initiated. 

The  customer  joined  him  in  the  worship  of  machinery,  and 
they  came  buoyantly  up  to  the  tenement  and  began  that  exam- 
ination of  plastic  slate  roof,  kalamein  doors,  and  seven-eighths- 
inch  blind-nailed  flooring,  began  those  diplomacies  of  hurt 
surprise  and  readiness  to  be  persuaded  to  do  something  they 
had  already  decided  to  do,  which  would  some  day  result  in 
a  sale. 

On  the  way  back  Babbitt  picked  up  his  partner  and  father- 
in-law,  Henry  T.  Thompson,  at  his  kitchen-cabinet  works,  and 

68 


BABBITT  69 

they  drove  through  South  Zenith,  a  high-colored,  banging,  ex- 
citing  region:  new  factories  of  hollow  tile  with  gigantic  wire- 
glass  windows,  surly  old  red-brick  factories  stained  with  tar, 
high-perched  water-tanks,  big  red  trucks  like  locomotives,  and, 
on  a  score  of  hectic  side-tracks,  far-wandering  freight-cars  from 
the  New  York  Central  and  apple  orchards,  the  Great  Northern 
and  wheat-plateaus,  the  Southern  Pacific  and  orange  groves. 

They  talked  to  the  secretary  of  the  Zenith  Foundry  Company 
about  an  interesting  artistic  project — a  cast-iron  fence  for 
Linden  Lane  Cemetery.  They  drove  on  to  the  Zeeco  Motor 
Company  and  interviewed  the  sales-manager,  Noel  Ryland, 
about  a  discount  on  a  Zeeco  car  for  Thompson.  Babbitt  and 
Ryland  were  fellow-members  of  the  Boosters'  Club,  and  no 
Booster  felt  right  if  he  bought  anything  from  another  Booster 
without  receiving  a  discount.  But  Henry  Thompson  growled^ 
"Oh,  t'  hell  with  'em!  I'm  not  going  to  crawl  around  mooch> 
ing  discounts,  not  from  nobody."  It  was  one  of  the  differences 
between  Thompson,  the  old-fashioned,  lean  Yankee,  rugged, 
traditional,  stage  type  of  American  business  man,  and  Babbitt, 
the  plump,  smooth,  efficient,  up-to-the-minute  and  otherwise 
perfected  modern.  Whenever  Thompson  twanged,  "Put  your 
John  Hancock  on  that  line,"  Babbitt  was  as  much  amused  by 
the  antiquated  provincialism  as  any  proper  Englishman  by  any 
American.  He  knew  himself  to  be  of  a  breeding  altogether 
more  esthetic  and  sensitive  than  Thompson's.  He  was  a  col- 
lege graduate,  he  played  golf,  he  often  smoked  cigarettes  in- 
stead of  cigars,  and  when  he  went  to  Chicago  he  took  a  room 
with  a  private  bath.  "The  whole  thing  is,"  he  explained  to 
Paul  Riesling,  "these  old  codgers  lack  the  subtlety  that  you 
got  to  have  to-day." 

This  advance  in  civilization  could  be  carried  too  far.  Bab- 
bitt perceived.  Noel  Ryland,  sales-manager  of  the  Zeeco,  was 
a  frivolous  graduate  of  Princeton,  while  Babbitt  was  a  sound 
and  standard  ware  from  that  great  department-store,  the  State 
University.     Ryland  wore  spats,  he  wrote  long  letters  about 


70  BABBITT 

City  Planning  and  Community  Singing,  and,  though  he  was  a 
Booster,  he  was  known  to  carry  in  his  pocket  small  volumes 
of  poetry  in  a  foreign  language.  All  this  was  going  too  far. 
Henry  Thompson  was  the  extreme  of  insularity,  and  Noel  Ry- 
land  the  extreme  of  frothiness,  while  between  them,  supporting 
the  state,  defending  the  evangelical  churches  and  domestic 
brightness  and  sound  business,  were  Babbitt  and  his  friends. 

With  this  just  estimate  of  himself — and  with  the  promise  of 
a  discount  on  Thompson's  car — he  returned  to  his  office  in 
triumph. 

But  as  he  went  through  the  corridor  of  the  Reeves  Building 
he  sighed,  "Poor  old  Paul!  I  got  to —  Oh,  damn  Noel  Ry- 
land!  Damn  Charley  McKelvey!  Just  because  they  make 
more  money  than  I  do,  they  think  they're  so  superior.  I 
wouldn't  be  found  dead  in  their  stuffy  old  Union  Club!  I — 
Somehow,  to-day,  I  don't  feel  like  going  back  to  work.'  Oh 
well—" 

n 

He  answered  telephone  calls,  he  read  the  four  o'clock  mail, 
he  signed  his  morning's  letters,  he  talked  to  a  tenant  about 
repairs,  he  fought  with  Stanley  Graff. 

Young  Graff,  the  outside  salesman,  was  always  hinting  that 
he  deserved  an  increase  of  commission,  and  to-day  he  com- 
plained, "I  think  I  ought  to  get  a  bonus  if  I  put  through  tie 
Heiler  sale.  I'm  chasing  around  and  working  on  it  every 
single  evening,  almost." 

Babbitt  frequently  remarked  to  his  wife  that  it  was  better 
to  "con  your  office-help  along  and  keep  'em  happy  'stead  of 
jumping  on  'em  and  poking  'em  up — get  more  work  out  of 
'em  that  way,"  but  this  unexampled  lack  of  appreciation  hurt 
him,  and  he  turned  on  Graff: 

"Look  here,  Stan;  let's  get  this  clear.  You've  got  an  idea 
somehow  that  it's  you  that  do  all  the  selling.  Where  d'  you 
get  that  stuff?    Where  d'  you  think  you'd  be  it  it  wasn't  for 


BABBITT  71 

our  capital  behind  you,  and  our  lists  of  properties,  and  all  the 
prospects  we  find  for  you?  All  you  got  to  do  is  follow  up  our 
tips  and  close  the  deal.  The  hall-porter  could  sell  Babbitt- 
Thompson  listings!  You  say  you're  engaged  to  a  girl,  but 
have  to  put  in  your  evenings  chasing  after  buyers.  Well,  why 
the  devil  shouldn't  you?  What  do  you  want  to  do?  Sit  around 
holding  her  hand?  Let  me  tell  you,  Stan,  if  your  girl  is  worth 
her  salt,  she'll  be  glad  to  know  you're  out  hustling,  making 
some  money  to  furnish  the  home-nest,  instead  of  doing  the 
lovey-dovey.  The  kind  of  fellow  that  kicks  about  working 
overtime,  that  wants  to  spend  his  evenings  reading  trashy 
novels  or  spooning  and  exchanging  a  lot  of  nonsense  and  fool- 
ishness with  some  girl,  he  ain't  the  kind  of  upstanding,  ener- 
getic young  man,  with  a  future — and  with  Vision! — that  we 
want  here.  How  about  it?  What's  your  Ideal,  anyway?  Do 
you  want  to  make  money  and  be  a  responsible  member  of  the 
community,  qr_do  you  want  to  be  a  loafer,  with  no  Inspiration 
or  Pep?" 

Graff  was  not  so  amenable  to  Vision  and  Ideals  as  usual. 
"You  bet  I  want  to  make  money!  That's  why  I  want  that 
bonus!  Honest,  Mr,  Babbitt,  I  don't  want  to  get  fresh,  but 
this  Heiler  house  is  a  terror.  Nobody'll  fall  for  it.  The  floor- 
ing is  rotten  and  the  walls  are  full  of  cracks," 

"That's  exactly  what  I  mean!  To  a  salesman  with  a  love 
for  his  profession,  it's  hard  problems  like  that  that  inspire  him 
to  do  his  best.  Besides,  Stan —  Matter  o'  fact,  Thompson 
and  I  are  against  bonuses,  as  a  matter  of  principle.  We  like 
you,  and  we  want  to  help  you  so  you  can  get  married,  but  we 
can't  be  unfair  to  the  others  on  the  staff.  If  we  start  giving 
you  bonuses,  don't  you  see  we're  going  to  hurt  the  feeling  and 
be  unjust  to  Penniman  and  Laylock?  Right's  right,  and  dis- 
crimination is  unfair,  and  there  ain't  going  to  be  any  of  it  in 
this  office!  Don't  get  the  idea,  Stan,  that  because  during  the 
war  salesmen  were  hard  to  hire,  now,  when  there's  a  lot  of  men 
out  of  work,  there  aren't  a  slew  of  bright  young  fellows  that 


72  BABBITT 

would  be  glad  to  step  in  and  enjoy  your  opportunities,  and  not 
act  as  if  Thompson  and  I  were  his  enemies  and  not  do  any 
work  except  for  bonuses.    How  about  it,  heh?    How  about  it?" 

"Oh — well — gee — of  course — "  sighed  Graff,  as  he  went 
out,  crabwise. 

Babbitt  did  not  often  squabble  with  his  employees.  He 
liked  to  like  the  people  about  him;  he  was  dismayed  when  they 
did  not  like  him.  It  was  only  when  they  attacked  the  sacred 
purse  that  he  was  frightened  into  fury,  but  then,  being  a  man 
given  to  oratory  and  high  principles,  he  enjoyed  the  sound  of 
his  own  vocabulary  and  the  warmth  of  his  own  virtue.  To- 
day he  had  so  passionately  indulged  in  self-approval  that  he 
wondered  whether  he  had  been  entirely  just: 

"After  all,  Stan  isn't  a  boy  any  more.  Oughtn't  to  call  him 
so  hard.  But  rats,  got  to  haul  folks  over  the  coals  now  and 
then  for  their  own  good.  Unpleasant  duty,  but —  I  wonder 
if  Stan  is  sore?    What's  he  saying  to  McGoun  out  there?" 

So  chill  a  wind  of  hatred  blew  from  the  outer  office  that 
the  normal  comfort  of  his  evening  home-going  was  ruined.  He 
was  distressed  by  losing  that  approval  of  his  employees  to 
which  an  executive  is  always  slave.  Ordinarily  he  left  the 
office  with  a  thousand  enjoyable  fussy  directions  to  the  effect 
that  there  would  undoubtedly  be  important  tasks  to-morrow, 
and  Miss  McGoun  and  Miss  Bannigan  would  do  well  to  be 
there  early,  and  for  heaven's  sake  remind  him  to  call  up  Conrad 
Lyte  soon  's  he  came  in.  To-night  he  departed  with  feigned 
and  apologetic  liveliness.  He  was  as  afraid  of  his  still-faced 
clerks — of  the  eyes  focused  on  him,  Miss  ISIcGoun  staring  with 
head  lifted  from  her  typing,  Miss  Bannigan  looking  over  her 
ledger.  Mat  Penniman  craning  around  at  his  desk  in  the  dark 
alcove,  Stanley  Graff  sullenly  expressionless — as  a  parvenu  be- 
fore the  bleak  propriety  of  his  butler.  He  hated  to  expose 
his  back  to  their  laughter,  and  in  his  effort  to  be  casually  merry 
he  stammered  and  was  raucously  friendly  and  oozed  wretchedly 
out  of  the  door. 


BABBITT  73 

But  he  forgot  his  misery  when  he  saw  from  Smith  Street 
the  charms  of  Floral  Heights;  the  roofs  of  red  tile  and  green 
slate,  the  shining  new  sun-parlors,  and  the  stainless  walls. 


in 

He  stopped  to  inform  Howard  Littlefield,  his  scholarly  neigh- 
bor, that  though  the  day  had  been  springlike  the  evening  might 
be  cold.  He  went  in  to  shout  "Where  are  you?"  at  his  wife, 
with  no  very  definite  desire  to  know  where  she  was.  He 
examined  the  lawn  to  see  whether  the  furnace-man  had  raked 
it  properly.  With  some  satisfaction  and  a  good  deal  of  discus- 
sion of  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Babbitt,  Ted,  and  Howard  Little- 
field,  he  concluded  that  the  furnace-man  had  not  raked  it 
properly.  He  cut  two  tufts  of  wild  grass  with  his  wife's  larg- 
est dressmaking-scissors;  he  informed  Ted  that  it  was  all 
nonsense  having  a  furnace-man — ''big  husky  fellow  like  you 
ought  to  do  all  the  work  around  the  house;"  and  privately  he 
meditated  that  it  was  agreeable  to  have  it  known  throughout 
the  neighborhood  that  he  was  so  prosperous  that  his  son  never 
worked  around  the  house. 

He  stood  on  the  sleeping-porch  and  did  his  day's  exercises: 
arms  out  sidewise  for  two  minutes,  up  for  two  minutes,  while 
he  muttered,  "Ought  take  more  exercise;  keep  in  shape;" 
then  went  in  to  see  whether  his  collar  needed  changing  before 
dinner.    As  usual  it  apparently  did  not. 

The  Lettish-Croat  maid,  a  powerful  woman,  beat  the  dinner- 
gong. 

The  roast  of  beef,  roasted  potatoes,  and  string  beans  were 
excellent  this  evening  and,  after  an  adequate  sketch  of  the 
day's  progressive  weather-states,  his  four-hundred-and-fifty- 
dollar  fee,  his  lunch  with  Paul  Riesling,  and  the  proven  merits 
of  the  new  cigar-lighter,  he  was  moved  to  a  benign,  "Sort 
o'  thinking  about  buying  a  new  car.  Don't  believe  we'll  get 
one  till  next  year,  but  still,  we  might." 


74 


BABBITT 


■f 


Verona,  the  older  daughter,  cried,  ^'Oh,  Dad,  if  you  do,  why 
don't  you  get  a  sedan?  That  would  be  perfectly  slick!  A 
closed  car  is  so  much  more  comfy  than  an  open  one." 

"Well  now,  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  kind  of  like  an  open 
car.    You  get  more  fresh  air  that  way." 

"Oh,  shoot,  that's  just  because  you  never  tried  a  sedan. 
Let's  get  one.    It's  got  a  lot  more  class,"  said  Ted. 

"A  closed  car  does  keep  the  clothes  nicer,"  from  Mrs.  Bab- 
bitt; "You  don't  get  your  hair  blown  all  to  pieces,"  from  Ver- 
ona; "It's  a  lot  sportier,"  from  Ted;  and  from  Tinka,  the 
youngest,  "Oh,  let's  have  a  sedan!  Mary  Ellen's  father  has 
got  one."  Ted  wound  up,  "Oh,  everybody's  got  a  closed  car  - 
now,  except  us!"  * 

Babbitt  faced  them:  "I  guess  you  got  nothing  very  terrible 
to  complain  about!  Anyway,  I  don't  keep  a  car  just  to  enable 
you  children  to  look  like  millionaires!  And  I  like  an  open  car,  ^ 
so  you  can  put  the  top  down  on  summer  evenings  and  go  out 
for  a  drive  and  get  some  good  fresh  air.  Besides —  A  closed 
car  costs  more  money." 

"Aw,  gee  whiz,  if  the  Doppelbraus  can  afford  a  closed  car, 
I  guess  we  can!"  prodded  Ted. 

"Humph!  I  make  eight  thousand  a  year  to  his  seven!  But 
I  don't  blow  it  all  in  and  waste  it  and  throw  it  around,  the 
way  he  does!  Don't  believe  in  this  business  of  going  and 
spending  a  whole  lot  of  money  to  show  off  and — " 

They  went,  with  ardor  and  some  thoroughness,  into  the  mat- 
ters of  streamline  bodies,  hill-climbing  power,  wire  wheels, 
chrome  steel,  ignition  systems,  and  body  colors.  It  was  much 
more  than  a  study  of  transportation.  It  was  an  aspiration 
for  knightly  rank.  In  the  city  of  Zenith,  in  the  barbarous 
twentieth  century,  a  family's  motor  indicated  its  social  rank 
as  precisely  as  the  grades  of  the  peerage  determined  the  rank 
of  an  English  family — indeed,  more  precisely,  considering  the 
opinion  of  old  county  families  upon  newly  created  brewery 
barons  and  woolen-mill  viscounts.    The  details  of  precedence 


BABBITT  75 

were  never  officially  determined.  There  was  no  court  to  de- 
cide whether  the  second  son  of  a  Pierce  Arrow  limousine  should 
go  in  to  dinner  before  the  first  son  of  a  Buick  roadster,  but 
of  their  respective  social  importance  there  was  no  doubt;  and 
where  Babbitt  as  a  boy  had  aspired  to  the  presidency,  his  son 
Ted  aspired  to  a  Packard  twin-six  and  an  established  position 
in  the  motored  gentry. 

The  favor  which  Babbitt  had  won  from  his  family  by  speak- 
ing of  a  new  car  evaporated  as  they  realized  that  he  didn't 
intend  to  buy  one  this  year.  Ted  lamented,  "Oh,  pimk!  The 
old  boat  looks  as  if  it'd  had  fleas  and  been  scratching  its  varnish 
off."  Mrs.  Babbitt  said  abstractedly,  "Snoway  talkcher 
father,"  Babbitt  raged,  "If  you're  too  much  of  a  high-class 
gentleman,  and  you  belong  to  the  bon  ton  and  so  on,  why, 
you  needn't  take  the  car  out  this  evening."  Ted  explained, 
"I  didn't  mean — "  and  dinner  dragged  on  with  normal  domestic 
delight  to  the  inevitable  point  at  which  Babbitt  protested, 
"Come,  come  now,  we  can't  sit  here  all  evening.  Give  the 
girl  a  chance  to  clear  away  the  table." 

He  was  fretting,  "What  a  family!  I  don't  know  how  we 
all  get  to  scrapping  this  way.  Like  to  go  off  some  place  and 
be  able  to  hear  myself  think.  .  .  .  Paul  .  .  .  Maine  .  .  . 
Wear  old  pants,  and  loaf,  and  cuss."  He  said  cautiously  to 
his  wife,  "I've  been  in  correspondence  with  a  man  in  New  York 
— wants  me  to  see  him  about  a  real-estate  trade — may  not 
come  off  till  summer.  Hope  it  doesn't  break  just  when  we 
and  the  Rieslings  get  ready  to  go  to  Maine.  Be  a  shame  if 
we  couldn't  make  the  trip  there  together.  Well,  no  use  wor- 
rying now." 

Verona  escaped,  immediately  after  dinner,  with  no  discus- 
sion save  an  automatic  "Why  don't  you  ever  stay  home?" 
from  Babbitt. 

In  the  living-room,  in  a  corner  of  the  davenport,  Ted  set- 
tled down  to  his  Home  Study;  plain  geometry,  Cicero,  and  the 
agonizing  metaphors  of  Comus. 


76  BABBITT 

"I  don't  see  why  they  give  us  this  old-fashioned  junk  by 
Milton  and  Shakespeare  and  Wordsworth  and  all  these  has- 
beens,"  he  protested.  "Oh,  I  guess  I  could  stand  it  to  see  a 
show  by  Shakespeare,  if  they  had  swell  scenery  and  put  on  a 
lot  of  dog,  but  to  sit  down  in  cold  blood  and  read  'em — 
These  teachers — how  do  they  get  that  way?" 

Mrs.  Babbitt,  darning  socks,  speculated,  ''Yes,  I  wonder  why. 
Of  course  I  don't  want  to  fly  in  the  face  of  the  professors  and 
everybody,  but  I  do  think  there's  things  in  Shakespeare — not 
that  I  read  him  much,  but  when  I  was  young  the  girls  used  to 
show  me  passages  that  weren't,  really,  they  weren't  at  all  nice." 

Babbitt  looked  up  irritably  from  the  comic  strips  in  the 
Evening  Advocate.  They  composed  his  favorite  literature  and 
art,  these  illustrated  chronicles  in  which  Mr.  Mutt  hit  Mr. 
Jeff  with  a  rotten  egg,  and  Mother  corrected  Father's  vulgar- 
isms by  means  of  a  rolling-pin.  With  the  solemn  face  of  a 
devotee,  breathing  heavily  through  his  open  mouth,  he  plodded 
nightly  through  every  picture,  and  during  the  rite  he  detested 
interruptions.  Furthermore,  he  felt  that  on  the  subject  of 
Shakespeare  he  wasn't  really  an  authority.  Neither  the  Ad- 
vocate-Times, the  Evening  Advocate,  nor  the  Bulletin  of  the 
Zenith  Chamber  of  Commerce  had  ever  had  an  editorial  on 
the  matter,  and  until  one  of  them  had  spoken  he  found  it  hard 
to  form  an  original  opinion.  But  even  at  risk  of  floundering 
in  strange  bogs,  he  could  not  keep  out  of  an  open  controversy. 

"I'll  tell  you  why  you  have  to  study  Shakespeare  and  those. 
It's  because  they're  required  for  college  entrance,  and  that's 
all  there  is  to  it!  Personally,  I  don't  see  myself  why  they 
stuck  'em  into  an  up-to-date  high-school  system  like  we  have 
in  this  state.  Be  a  good  deal  better  if  you  took  Business  Eng- 
lish, and  learned  how  to  write  an  ad,  or  letters  that  would  pull. 
But  there  it  is,  and  there's  no  talk,  argument,  or  discussion 
about  it!  Trouble  with  you,  Ted,  is  you  always  want  to  do 
something  different!  If  you're  going  to  law-school — and  you 
are! — I  never  had  a  chance  to,  but  I'll  see  that  you  do — 


BABBITT  77 

why,  you'll  want  to  lay  in  all  the  English  and  Latin  you 
can  get." 

"Oh  punk.  I  don't  see  what's  the  use  of  law-school — or 
even  finishing  high  school.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  college  'spe- 
cially. Honest,  there's  lot  of  fellows  that  have  graduated  from 
colleges  that  don't  begin  to  make  as  much  money  as  fellows 
that  went  to  work  early.  Old  Shim.my  Peters,  that  teaches 
Latin  in  the  High,  he's  a  what-is-it  from  Columbia  and  he  sits 
up  all  night  reading  a  lot  of  greasy  books  and  he's  always 
spieling  about  the  'value  of  languages,'  and  the  poor  soak 
doesn't  make  but  eighteen  hundred  a  year,  and  no  traveling 
salesman  would  think  of  working  for  that,  I  know  what  I'd 
like  to  do.  I'd  like  to  be  an  aviator,  or  own  a  corking  big 
garage,  or  else — a  fellow  was  telling  me  about  it  yesterday — 
I'd  like  to  be  one  of  these  fellows  that  the  Standard  Oil  Com- 
pany sends  out  to  China,  and  you  live  in  a  compound  and 
don't  have  to  do  any  work,  and  you  get  to  see  the  world  and 
pagodas  and  the  ocean  and  everything!  And  then  I  could 
take  up  correspondence-courses.  That's  the  real  stuff!  You 
don't  have  to  recite  to  some  frosty-faced  old  dame  that's  trying 
to  show  off  to  the  principal,  and  you  can  study  any  subject 
you  want  to.  Just  listen  to  these!  I  clipped  out  the  ads  of 
some  swell  courses." 

He  snatched  from  the  back  of  his  geometry  half  a  himdred 
advertisements  of  those  home-study  courses  which  the  energy 
and  foresight  of  American  commerce  have  contributed  to  the 
science  of  education.  The  first  displayed  the  portrait  of  a 
young  man  with  a  pure  brow,  an  iron  jaw,  silk  socks,  and  hair 
like  patent  leather.  Standing  with  one  hand  in  his  trousers- 
pocket  and  the  other  extended  with  chiding  forefinger,  he  was 
bewitching  an  audience  of  men  with  gray  beards,  paunches, 
bald  heads,  and  every  other  sign  of  wisdom  and  prosperity. 
Above  the  picture  was  an  inspiring  educational  symbol — no 
antiquated  lamp  or  torch  or  owl  of  Minerva,  but  a  row  of  dol- 
lar signs.     The  text  ran: 


78 


BABBITT 


S^«p>l>«p«p«p*p«{> 


POWER  AND  PROSPERITY  IN  PUBLIC  SPEAKING 


A  Yarn  Told  at  the  Club 


Who  do  you  think  I  ran  into  the  other  evening  at  the  De  Luxe 
Restaurant?  Why,  old  Freddy  Durkee,  that  used  to  be  a  dead- 
er-alive shipping  clerk  in  my  old  place — Mr.  Mouse-Man  we  used 
to  laughingly  call  the  dear  fellow.  One  time  he  was  so 
timid  he   was   plumb   scared   of  the    Super,    and   never  got   credit 

for  the  dandy  work  he  did.  Him 
at  the  De  Luxe!  And  if  he  wasn't 
ordering  a  tony  feed  with  all  the 
"fixings"  from  celery  to  nuts !  And 
instead  of  being  embarrassed  by  the 
waiters,  like  he  used  to  be  at  the 
little  dump  where  we  lunched  in 
Old  Lang  Syne,  he  was  bossing  them 
around  like  he  was  a  millionaire  I 

I  cautiously  asked  him  what  he 
was  doing.  Freddy  laughed  and 
said,  "Say,  old  chum,  I  guess  you're 
wondering  what's  come  over  me. 
You'll  be  glad  to  know  I'm  now 
Assistant  Super  at  the  old  shop,  and 
right  on  the  High  Road  to  Pros- 
perity and  Domination,  and  I  look 
forward  with  confidence  to  a  twelve- 
cylinder  car,  and  the  wife  is  making 
things  hum  in  the  best  society  and 
the  kiddies  getting  a  first-class  edu- 
cation. 


WHAT   WE    TEACH 

YOU! 

How   to    address   your 

lodge. 

How   to   give   toasts. 

How     to     tell     dialect 

stories. 

How   to   propose   to   a 

lady. 

How  to  entertain  ban- 

quets. 

How  to  make  convinc- 

ing selling-talks. 

How   to   build   big  vo- 

cabulary. 

How  to  create  a  strong 

personality. 

How   to  become  a   ra- 

tional,     powerful      and 

original  thinker. 

How  to  be  a  MASTER 

MAN! 

BABBITT 


79 


"Here's  how  it  happened.  I  ran 
across  an  ad  of  a  course  that  claimed 
to  teach  people  how  to  talk  easily 
and  on  their  feet,  how  to  answer 
complaints,  how  to  lay  a  proposition 
before  the  Boss,  how  to  hit  a  bank 
for  a  loan,  how  to  hold  a  big  audi- 
ence spellbound  with  wit,  humor, 
anecdote,  inspiration,  etc.  It  was 
compiled  by  the  Master  Orator,  Prof. 
Waldo  F.  Peet.  I  was  skeptical,  too, 
but  I  wrote  (just  on  a  postcard,  with 
name  and  address)  to  the  publisher 
for  the  lessons — sent  On  Trial, 
money  back  if  you  are  not  abso- 
lutely satisfied.  There  were  eight 
simple  lessons  in  plain  language 
anybody  could  understand,  and  I 
studied  them  just  a  few  hours  a 
night,  then  started  practising  on  the 
wife.  Soon  found  I  could  talk  right 
up  to  the  Super  and  get  due  credit 
for  all  the  good  work  I  did.  They 
began  to  appreciate  me  and  advance 
me  fast,  and  say,  old  doggo,  what  do  you  think  they're  paying  me 
now?  $6,500  per  year!  And  say,  I  find  I  can  keep  a  big  audience 
fascinated,  speaking  on  any  topic.  As  a  friend,  old  boy,  I  advise 
you  to  send  for  circular  (no  obligation)  and  valuable  free  Art 
Picture  to: — 


PROF.   V»\   F.    PEET 

author  of  the  Short- 
cut Course  in  Public- 
Speaking,  is  easily  the 
foremost  figure  in  prac- 
tical literature,  psy- 
chology &  oratory.  A 
graduate  of  some  of 
our  leading  universities, 
lecturer,  extensive  trav- 
eler, author  of  books, 
poetry,  etc.,  a  man 
with  the  unique  PER- 
SONALITY OF  THE 
MASTER  MINDS,  he 
is  ready  to  give  YOU 
all  the  secrets  of  his 
culture  and  hammer- 
ing Force,  in  a  few 
easy  lessons  that  will 
not  interfere  with  other 
occupations. 


Shortcut  Educational  Pub.  Co. 
Desk  WA  Sandpit,  Iowa. 


ARE  YOU  A  100  PERCENTER  OR  A  10  PERCENTER? 


8o  BABBITT 

Babbitt  was  again  without  a  canon  which  would  enable  him 
to  speak  with  authority.  Nothing  in  motoring  or  real  estate 
had  indicated  what  a  Solid  Citizen  and  Regular  Fellow  ought 
to  think  about  culture  by  mail.     He  began  with  hesitation: 

"Well — sounds  as  if  it  covered  the  groimd.  It  certainly  is  a 
fine  thing  to  be  able  to  orate,  I've  sometimes  thought  I  had 
a  little  talent  that  way  myself,  and  I  know  darn  well  that  one 
reason  why  a  fourflushing  old  back-number  like  Chan  Mott 
can  get  away  with  it  in  real  estate  is  just  because  he  can  make 
a  good  talk,  even  when  he  hasn't  got  a  doggone  thing  to  say! 
And  it  certainly  is  pretty  cute  the  way  they  get  out  all  these 
courses  on  various  topics  and  subjects  nowadays.  I'll  tell 
you,  though:  No  need  to  blow  in  a  lot  of  good  money  on  this 
stuff  when  you  can  get  a  first-rate  course  in  eloquence  and 
English  and  all  that  right  in  your  own  school — and  one  of  the 
biggest  school  buildings  in  the  entire  country!" 

"That's  so,"  said  Mrs.  Babbitt  comfortably,  while  Ted  com- 
plained : 

"Yuh,  but  Dad,  they  just  teach  a  lot  of  old  junk  that  isn't 
any  practical  use — except  the  manual  training  and  typewriting 
and  basketball  and  dancing — and  in  these  correspondence- 
courses,  gee,  you  can  get  all  kinds  of  stuff  that  would  come  in 
handy.    Say,  listen  to  this  one: 

CAN  YOU  PLAY  A  MAN'S  PART? 

If  you  are  walking  with  your  mother,  sister  or  best 
girl  and  some  one  passes  a  slighting  remark  or  uses 
improper  language,  won't  you  be  ashamed  if  you  can't 
take  her  part?    Well,  can  you? 

We  teach  boxing  and  self-defense  by  mail.  Many 
pupils  have  written  saying  that  after  a  few  lessons 
they've  outboxed  bigger  and  heavier  opponents.  The 
lessons  start  with  simple  movements  practised  before 
your  mirror — holding  out  your  hand  for  a  coin,  the 
breast-stroke  in  swimming,  etc.  Before  you  realize  it 
you  are  striking  scientifically,  ducking,  guarding  and 
feintinfi,  just  as  if  you  had  a  real  opponent  before  you. 


BABBITT  8i 

"Oh,  baby,  maybe  I  wouldn't  like  thatl "  Ted  chanted.  "I'll 
tell  the  world!  Gosh,  I'd  like  to  take  one  fellow  I  know  in 
school  that's  always  shooting  off  his  mouth,  and  catch  him 
alone — " 

"Nonsense!  The  idea!  Most  useless  thing  I  ever  heard 
of!"  Babbitt  fulminated. 

"Well,  just  suppose  I  was  walking  with  Mama  or  Rone, 
and  somebody  passed  a  slighting  remark  or  used  improper 
language.    What  would  I  do?" 

"Why,  you'd  probably  bust  the  record  for  the  hundred-yard 
dash!" 

"I  would  not!  I'd  stand  right  up  to  any  mucker  that  passed 
a  slighting  remark  on  my  sister  and  I'd  show  him — " 

"Look  here,  young  Dempsey!  If  I  ever  catch  you  fighting 
I'll  whale  the  everlasting  daylights  out  of  you — and  I'll  do  it 
without  practising  holding  out  my  hand  for  a  coin  before  the 
mirror,  too!" 

"Why,  Ted  dear,"  Mrs.  Babbitt  said  placidly,  "it's  not  at 
all  nice,  your  talking  of  fighting  this  way!" 

"Well,  gosh  almighty,  that's  a  fine  way  to  appreciate —  And 
then  suppose  I  was  walking  with  you,  Ma,  and  somebody 
passed  a  slighting  remark — " 

"Nobody's  going  to  pass  no  slighting  remarks  on  nobody,** 
Babbitt  observed,  "not  if  they  stay  home  and  study  their 
geometry  and  mind  their  own  affairs  instead  of  hanging  around 
a  lot  of  poolrooms  and  soda-fountains  and  places  where  no- 
body's got  any  business  to  be!" 

"But  gooooooosh,  Dad,  if  they  DID ! " 

Mrs.  Babbitt  chirped,  "Well,  if  they  did,  I  wouldn't  do  them 
the  honor  of  paying  any  attention  to  them!  Besides,  they 
never  do.  You  always  hear  about  these  women  that  get  fol- 
lowed and  insulted  and  all,  but  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  or 
it's  their  own  fault,  the  way  some  women  look  at  a  person.  I 
certainly  never  've  been  insulted  by — " 

"Aw  shoot.  Mother,  just  suppose  you  were  sometime!     Just 


82  BABBITT 

suppose!  Can't  you  suppose  something?  Can't  you  imagine 
things?" 

"Certainly  I  can  imagine  things!     The  idea!" 

"Certainly  your  mother  can  imagine  things — and  suppose 
things!  Think  you're  the  only  member  of  this  household  that's 
got  an  imagination?"  Babbitt  demanded.  "But  what's  the  use 
of  a  lot  of  supposing?  Supposing  never  gets  you  anywhere. 
No  sense  supposing  when  there's  a  lot  of  real  facts  to  take  into 
considera — " 

"Look  here,  Dad.  Suppose — I  mean,  just — just  suppose  you 
were  in  your  office  and  some  rival  real-estate  man — " 

"Realtor!" 

" — some  realtor  that  you  hated  came  in — " 

"I  don't  hate  any  realtor." 

*'But  suppose  you  did!" 

"I  don't  intend  to  suppose  anything  of  the  kind!  There's 
plenty  of  fellows  in  my  profession  that  stoop  and  hate  their 
competitors,  but  if  you  were  a  little  older  and  understood  busi- 
ness, instead  of  always  going  to  the  movies  and  running  around 
with  a  lot  of  fool  girls  with  their  dresses  up  to  their  knees  and 
powdered  and  painted  and  rouged  and  God  knows  what  all 
as  if  they  were  chorus-girls,  then  you'd  know — and  you'd  sup- 
pose— that  if  there's  any  one  thing  that  I  stand  for  in  the  real- 
estate  circles  of  Zenith,  it  is  that  we  ought  to  always  speak 
of  each  other  only  in  the  friendliest  terms  and  institute  a  spirit 
of  brotherhood  and  cooperation,  and  so  I  certainly  can't  sup- 
pose and  I  can't  imagine  my  hating  any  realtor,  not  even  that 
dirty,  fourfiushing  society  sneak,  Cecil  Rountree!" 

"But—" 

"And  there's  no  If,  And  or  But  about  it!  But  if  I  were 
going  to  lambaste  somebody,  I  wouldn't  require  any  fancy 
ducks  or  swimming-strokes  before  a  mirror,  or  any  of  these 
doodads  and  flipfiops!  Suppose  you  were  out  some  place  and 
a  fellow  called  you  vile  names.    Think  you'd  want  to  box  and 


BABBITT  83 

jump  around  like  a  dancing-master?  You'd  just  lay  him  out 
cold  (at  least  I  certainly  hope  any  son  of  mine  would!)  and 
then  you'd  dust  off  your  hands  and  go  on  about  your  business, 
and  that's  all  there  is  to  it,  and  you  aren't  going  to  have  any 
boxing-lessons  by  mail,  either!" 

"Well  but —  Yes —  I  just  wanted  to  show  how  many  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  correspondence-courses  there  are,  instead  of  all 
the  camembert  they  teach  us  in  the  High." 

"But  I  thought  they  taught  boxing  in  the  school  gymnasium." 

"That's  different.  They  stick  you  up  there  and  some  big 
stiff  amuses  himself  pounding  the  stuffin's  out  of  you  before 
you  have  a  chance  to  learn.  Hunka!  Not  any!  But  any- 
way—    Listen  to  some  of  these  others." 

The  advertisements  were  truly  philanthropic.  One  of  them 
bore  the  rousing  headline:  "Money!  Money!!  Money!!!" 
The  second  announced  that  "Mr.  P.  R.,  formerly  making  only 
eighteen  a  week  in  a  barber  shop,  writes  to  us  that  since  taking 
our  course  he  is  now  pulling  down  $5,000  as  an  Osteo-vitalic 
Physician;"  and  the  third  that  "Miss  J.  L.,  recently  a  wrapper 
in  a  store,  is  now  getting  Ten  Real  Dollars  a  day  teaching  our 
Hindu  System  of  Vibratory  Breathing  and  Mental  Control." 

Ted  had  collected  fifty  or  sixty  announcements,  from  annual 
reference-books,  from  Sunday  School  periodicals,  fiction-mag- 
azines, and  journals  of  discussion.  One  benefactor  implored, 
"Don't  be  a  Wallflower — Be  More  Popular  and  Make  More 
Money — You  Can  Ukulele  or  Sing  Yourself  into  Society!  By 
the  secret  principles  of  a  Newly  Discovered  System  of  Music 
Teaching,  any  one — man,  lady  or  child — can,  without  tiresome 
exercises,  special  training  or  long  drawn  out  study,  and  with- 
out waste  of  time,  money  or  energy,  learn  to  play  by  note, 
piano,  banjo,  cornet,  clarinet,  saxophone,  violin  or  drum,  and 
learn  sight-singing." 

The  next,  under  the  wistful  appeal  "Finger  Prmt  Detectives 
Wanted — Big  Incomes!"   confided:    "YOU   red-blooded   men 


84  BABBITT 

and  women — this  is  the  PROFESSION  you  have  been  looking 
for.  There's  MONEY  in  it,  BIG  money,  and  that  rapid  change 
of  scene,  that  entrancing  and  compelling  interest  and  fascina- 
tion, which  your  active  mind  and  adventurous  spirit  crave. 
Think  of  being  the  chief  figure  and  directing  factor  in  solv- 
ing strange  mysteries  and  baffling  crimes.  This  wonderful 
profession  brings  you  into  contact  with  influential  men  on 
the  basis  of  equality,  and  often  calls  upon  you  to  travel  every- 
where, maybe  to  distant  lands — all  expenses  paid.  NO  SPE- 
CL\L  EDUCATION  REQUIRED." 

"Oh,  boy!  I  guess  that  wins  the  fire-brick  necklace! 
Wouldn't  it  be  swell  to  travel  everywhere  and  nab  some 
famous  crook!"  whooped  Ted. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  that.  Doggone  likely  to  get 
hurt.  Still,  that  music-study  stunt  might  be  pretty  fair, 
though.  There's  no  reason  why,  if  efficiency-experts  put  their 
minds  to  it  the  way  they  have  to  routing  products  in  a  factory, 
they  couldn't  figure  out  some  scheme  so  a  person  wouldn't 
have  to  monkey  with  all  this  practising  and  exercises  that  you 
get  in  music."  Babbitt  was  impressed,  and  he  had  a  delight- 
ful parental  feeling  that  they  two,  the  men  of  the  family,  un- 
derstood each  other. 

He  listened  to  the  notices  of  mail-box  universities  which 
taught  Short-story  Writing  and  Improving  the  Memory,  Mo- 
tion-picture-acting and  Developing  the  Soul-power,  Banking 
and  Spanish,  Chiropody  and  Photography,  Electrical  Engi- 
neering and  Window-trimming,  Poultry-raising  and  Chemistry. 

"Well — well — "  Babbitt  sought  for  adequate  expression  of 
his  admiration.  "I'm  a  son  of  a  gun!  I  knew  this  correspond- 
ence-school business  had  become  a  mighty  profitable  game — 
makes  suburban  real-estate  look  like  two  cents! — but  I  didn't 
realize  it'd  got  to  be  such  a  reg'lar  key-industry!  Must  rank 
right  up  with  groceries  and  movies.  Always  figured  somebody 'd 
come  along  with  the  brains  to  not  leave  education  to  a  lot  of 


BABBITT  85 

bookworms  and  impractical  theorists  but  make  a  big  thing  out 
of  it.  Yes,  I  can  see  how  a  lot  of  these  courses  might  interest 
you.  I  must  ask  the  fellows  at  the  Athletic  if  they  ever  real- 
ized—  But  same  time,  Ted,  you  know  how  advertisers,  I 
means  some  advertisers,  exaggerate.  I  don't  know  as  they'd 
be  able  to  jam  you  through  these  courses  as  fast  as  they  claim 
they  can." 

*'0h  sure,  Dad;  of  course."  Ted  had  the  immense  and  joy- 
ful maturity  of  a  boy  who  is  respectfully  listened  to  by  his 
elders.    Babbitt  concentrated  on  him  with  grateful  affection: 

"I  can  see  what  an  influence  these  courses  might  have  on  the 
whole  educational  works.  Course  I'd  never  admit  it  pub- 
licly— fellow  like  myself,  a  State  U.  graduate,  it's  only  decent 
and  patriotic  for  him  to  blow  his  horn  and  boost  the  Alma 
Mater — but  smatter  of  fact,  there's  a  whole  lot  of  valuable 
time  lost  even  at  the  U.,  studying  poetry  and  French  and  sub- 
jects that  never  brought  in  anybody  a  cent.  I  don't  know  but 
what  maybe  these  correspondence-courses  might  prove  to  be 
one  of  the  most  important  American  inventions. 

"Trouble  with  a  lot  of  folks  is:  they're  so  blame  material; 
they  don't  see  the  spiritual  and  mental  side  of  American  su- 
premacy; they  think  that  inventions  like  the  telephone  and 
the  areoplane  and  wireless — no,  that  was  a  Wop  invention, 
but  anyway:  they  think  these  mechanical  improvements  are  all 
that  we  stand  for ;  whereas  to  a  real  thinker,  he  sees  that  spir- 
itual and,  uh,  dominating  movements  like  Efficiency,  and  Ro- 
tarianism,  and  Prohibition,  and  Democracy  are  what  com- 
pose our  deepest  and  truest  wealth.  And  maybe  this  new 
principle  in  education-at-home  may  be  another — may  be  an- 
other factor.    I  tell  you,  Ted,  we've  got  to  have  Vision — " 

"I  think  those  correspondence-courses  are  terrible!" 

The  philosophers  gasped.  It  was  Mrs.  Babbitt  who  had 
made  this  discord  in  their  spiritual  harmony,  and  one  of  Mrs. 
Babbitt's  virtues  was  that,  except  during  dinner-parties,  when 


86  BABBITT 

she  was  transformed  into  a  raging  hostess,  she  took  care  of 
the  house  and  didn't  bother  the  males  by  thinking.  She  went 
on  firmly: 

"It  sounds  awful  to  me,  the  way  they  coax  those  poor  young 
folks  to  think  they're  learning  something,  and  nobody  'round 
to  help  them  and —  You  two  learn  so  quick,  but  me,  I  always 
was  slow.    But  just  the  same — "  11 

Babbitt  attended  to  her:  "Nonsense!  Get  just  as  much, 
studying  at  home.  You  don't  think  a  fellow  learns  any  more 
because  he  blows  in  his  father's  hard-earned  money  and  sits 
around  in  Morris  chairs  in  a  swell  Harvard  dormitory  with 
pictures  and  shields  and  table-covers  and  those  doodads,  do 
you?  I  tell  you,  I'm  a  college  man — I  know!  There  is  one 
objection  you  might  make  though.  I  certainly  do  protest 
against  any  effort  to  get  a  lot  of  fellows  out  of  barber  shops 
and  factories  into  the  professions.  They're  too  crowded 
already,  and  what'll  we  do  for  workmen  if  all  those  fellows 
go  and  get  educated?" 

Ted  was  leaning  back,  smoking  a  cigarette  without  reproof. 
He  was,  for  the  moment,  sharing  the  high  thin  air  of  Babbitt's 
speculation  as  though  he  were  Paul  Riesling  or  even  Dr.  How- 
ard Littlefield.    He  hinted: 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  then,  Dad?  Wouldn't  it  be 
a  good  idea  if  I  could  go  off  to  China  or  some  peppy  place, 
and  study  engineering  or  something  by  mail?" 

"No,  and  I'll  tell  you  why,  son.  I've  foimd  out  it's  a  mighty 
nice  thing  to  be  able  to  say  you're  a  B.A.  Some  client  that 
doesn't  know  what  you  are  and  thinks  you're  just  a  plug  busi- 
ness man,  he  gets  to  shooting  off  his  mouth  about  economics 
or  literature  or  foreign  trade  conditions,  and  you  just  ease  in 
something  like,  'When  I  was  in  college — course  I  got  my  B.A. 
in  sociology  and  all  that  junk — '  Oh,  it  puts  an  awful  crimp 
in  their  style!  But  there  wouldn't  be  any  class  to  saying  'I 
got  the  degree  of  Stamp-licker  from  the  Bezuzus  Mail-order 
University!'    You  see —    My  dad  was  a  pretty  good  old  coot, 


BABBITT  87 

but  he  never  had  much  style  to  him,  and  I  had  to  work  darn 
hard  to  earn  my  way  through  college.  Well,  it's  been  worth  it, 
to  be  able  to  associate  with  the  finest  gentlemen  in  Zenith, 
at  the  clubs  and  so  on,  and  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  drop  out 
of  the  gentlemen  class — the  class  that  are  just  as  red-blooded 
as  the  Common  People  but  still  have  power  and  personality. 
It  would  kind  of  hurt  me  if  you  did  that,  old  man!" 

"I  know.  Dad!  Sure!  All  right.  I'll  stick  to  it.  Say! 
Gosh!  Gee  whiz!  I  forgot  all  about  those  kids  I  was  going 
to  take  to  the  chorus  rehearsal.    I'll  have  to  duck!" 

"But  you  haven't  done  all  your  home-work." 

"Do  it  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"Well—" 

Six  times  in  the  past  sixty  days  Babbitt  had  stormed,  "You 
will  not  'do  it  first  thing  in  the  morning'!  You'll  do  it  right 
now!"  but  to-night  he  said,  "Well,  better  hustle,"  and  his 
smile  was  the  rare  shy  radiance  he  kept  for  Paul  Riesling. 

IV 

"Ted's  a  good  boy,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Babbitt. 

"Oh,  he  is!" 

"Who's  these  girls  he's  going  to  pick  up?  Are  they  nice 
decent  girls?" 

"I  don't  know.  Oh  dear,  Ted  never  tells  me  anything  any 
more.  I  don't  understand  what's  come  over  the  children  of 
this  generation.  I  used  to  have  to  tell  Papa  and  Mama  every- 
thing, but  seems  like  the  children  to-day  have  just  slipped  away 
from  all  control." 

"I  hope  they're  decent  girls.  Course  Ted's  no  longer  a  kid, 
and  I  wouldn't  want  him  to,  uh,  get  mixed  up  and  everything." 

"George:  I  wonder  if  you  oughtn't  to  take  him  aside  and 
tell  him  about — Things!"    She  blushed  and  lowered  her  eyes. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Way  I  figure  it,  Myra,  no  sense  sug- 
gesting a  lot  of  Things  to  a  boy's  mind.     Think  up  enough 


88  BABBITT 

devilment  by  himself.  But  I  wonder —  It's  kind  of  a  hard 
question.    Wonder  what  Littlefield  thinks  about  it?" 

"Course  Papa  agrees  with  you.  He  says  all  this — Instruc- 
tion— is —    He  says  'tisn't  decent." 

"Oh,  he  does,  does  he!  Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  whatever 
Henry  T.  Thompson  thinks — about  morals,  I  mean,  though 
course  you  can't  beat  the  old  duffer — " 

"Why,  what  a  way  to  talk  of  Papa!" 

" — simply  can't  beat  him  at  getting  in  on  the  ground  floor 
of  a  deal,  but  let  me  tell  you  whenever  he  springs  any  ideas 
about  higher  things  and  education,  then  I  know  I  think  just 
the  opposite.  You  may  not  regard  me  as  any  great  brain- 
shark,  but  believe  me,  I'm  a  regular  college  president,  compared 
with  Henry  T.!  Yes  sir,  by  golly,  I'm  going  to  take  Ted 
aside  and  tell  him  why  I  lead  a  strictly  moral  life." 

"Oh,  will  you?     When?" 

"When?  When?  What's  the  use  of  trying  to  pin  me  down 
to  When  and  Why  and  Where  and  How  and  When?  That's 
the  trouble  with  women,  that's  why  they  don't  make  high-class 
executives;  they  haven't  any  sense  of  diplomacy.  When  the 
proper  opportunity  and  occasion  arises  so  it  just  comes  in  nat- 
ural, why  then  I'll  have  a  friendly  little  talk  with  him  and — 
and —  Was  that  Tinka  hollering  up-stairs?  She  ought  to  been 
asleep,  long  ago." 

He  prowled  through  the  living-room,  and  stood  in  the  sun- 
parlor,  that  glass-walled  room  of  wicker  chairs  and  swinging 
couch  in  which  they  loafed  on  Sunday  afternoons.  Outside, 
only  the  lights  of  Doppelbrau's  house  and  the  dim  presence 
of  Babbitt's  favorite  elm  broke  the  softness  of  April  night. 

"Good  visit  with  the  boy.  Getting  over  feeling  cranky, 
way  I  did  this  morning.  And  restless.  Though,  by  golly,  I  will 
have  a  few  days  alone  with  Paul  in  Maine!  .  .  .  That  devil 
Zilla!  .  .  .  But  .  .  .  Ted's  all  right.  Whole  family  all  right. 
And  good  business.  Not  many  fellows  make  four  hundred  and 
fifty  bucks,  practically  half  of  a  thousand  dollars,  easy  as  I 


BABBITT  89 


did  to-day  1  Maybe  when  we  all  get  to  rowing  it's  just  as  much 
my  fault  as  it  is  theirs.  Oughtn't  to  get  grouchy  like  I  do. 
But —  Wish  I'd  been  a  pioneer,  same  as  my  grand-dad.  But 
then,  wouldn't  have  a  house  like  this.  I —  Oh,  gosh,  /  don't 
know!" 

He  thought  moodily  of  Paul  Riesling,  of  their  youth  together, 
of  the  girls  they  had  known. 

When  Babbitt  had  graduated  from  the  State  University, 
twenty-four  years  ago,  he  had  intended  to  be  a  lawyer.  He 
had  been  a  ponderous  debater  in  college;  he  felt  that  he  was  an 
orator;  he  saw  himself  becoming  governor  of  the  state.  While 
he  read  law  he  worked  as  a  real-estate  salesman.  He  saved 
money,  lived  in  a  boarding-house,  supped  on  poached  egg  on 
hash.  The  lively  Paul  Riesling  (who  was  certainly  going  off 
to  Europe  to  study  violin,  next  month  or  next  year)  was  his 
refuge  till  Paul  was  bespelled  by  Zilla  Colbeck,  who  laughed 
and  danced  and  drew  men  after  her  plump  and  gaily  wagging 
finger. 

Babbitt's  evenings  were  barren  then,  and  he  found  comfort 
only  in  Paul's  second  cousin,  Myra  Thompson,  a  sleek  and  gen- 
tle girl  who  showed  her  capacity  by  agreeing  with  the  ardent 
young  Babbitt  that  of  course  he  was  going  to  be  governor  some 
day.  Where  Zilla  mocked  him  as  a  country  boy,  Myra  said 
indignantly  that  he  was  ever  so  much  solider  than  the  young 
dandies  who  had  been  born  in  the  great  city  of  Zenith — an 
ancient  settlement  in  1897,  o^e  hundred  and  five  years  old, 
with  two  hundred  thousand  population,  the  queen  and  wonder 
of  all  the  state  and,  to  the  Catawba  boy,  George  Babbitt,  so 
vast  and  thunderous  and  luxurious  that  he  was  flattered  to 
know  a  girl  ennobled  by  birth  in  Zenith. 

Of  love  there  was  no  talk  between  them.  He  knew  that  if  he 
was  to  study  law  he  could  not  marry  for  years;  and  Myra 
was  distinctly  a  Nice  Girl — one  didn't  kiss  her,  one  didn't 
"think  about  her  that  way  at  all"  unless  one  was  going  to 
marry  her.    But  she  was  a  dependable  companion.     She  was 


go  BABBITT 

always  ready  to  go  skating,  walking;  always  content  to  hear 
his  discourses  on  the  great  things  he  was  going  to  do,  the  dis- 
tressed poor  whom  he  would  defend  against  the  Unjust  Rich, 
the  speeches  he  would  make  at  Banquets,  the  inexactitudes 
of  popular  thought  which  he  would  correct. 

One  evening  when  he  was  weary  and  soft-minded,  he  saw 
that  she  had  been  weeping.  She  had  been  left  out  of  a  party 
given  by  Zilla.  Somehow  her  head  was  on  his  shoulder  and  he 
was  kissing  away  the  tears — and  she  raised  her  head  to  say 
trustingly,  "Now  that  we're  engaged,  shall  we  be  married  soon 
or  shall  we  wait?" 

Engaged?  It  was  his  first  hint  of  it.  His  affection  for  this 
brown  tender  woman  thing  went  cold  and  fearful,  but  he 
could  not  hurt  her,  could  not  abuse  her  trust.  He  mumbled 
something  about  waiting,  and  escaped.  He  walked  for  an  hour, 
trying  to  find  a  way  of  telling  her  that  it  was  a  mistake.  Often, 
in  the  month  after,  he  got  near  to  telling  her,  but  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  have  a  girl  in  his  arms,  and  less  and  less  could  he  insult 
her  by  blurting  that  he  didn't  love  her.  He  himself  had  no 
doubt.  The  evening  before  his  marriage  was  an  agony,  and 
the  morning  wild  with  the  desire  to  flee. 

She  made  him  what  is  known  as  a  Good  Wife.  She  was 
loyal,  industrious,  and  at  rare  times  merry.  She  passed  from 
a  feeble  disgust  at  their  closer  relations  into  what  promised  to 
be  ardent  affection,  but  it  drooped  into  bored  routine.  Yet 
she  existed  only  for  him  and  for  the  children,  and  she  was  as 
sorry,  as  worried  as  himself,  when  he  gave  up  the  law  and 
trudged  on  in  a  rut  of  listing  real  estate. 

'Toor  kid,  she  hasn't  had  much  better  time  than  I  have," 
Babbitt  reflected,  standing  in  the  dark  sun-parlor.  "But —  T 
wish  I  could  've  had  a  whirl  at  law  and  politics.  Seen  what 
1  could  do.    Well —    Maybe  I've  made  more  money  as  it  is." 

He  returned  to  the  living-room  but  before  he  settled  down 
he  smoothed  his  wife's  hair,  and  she  glanced  up,  happy  and 
somewhat  surprised. 


CHAPTER  VII 


He  solemnly  finished  the  last  copy  of  the  American  Maga- 
zine, while  his  wife  sighed,  laid  away  her  darning,  and  looked 
enviously  at  the  lingerie  designs  in  a  women's  magazine.  The 
room  was  very  still. 

It  was  a  room  which  observed  the  best  Floral  Heights 
standards.  The  gray  walls  were  divided  into  artificial  panel- 
ing by  strips  of  white-enameled  pine.  From  the  Babbitts' 
former  house  had  come  two  much-carved  rocking-chairs,  but 
the  other  chairs  were  new,  very  deep  and  restful,  upholstered 
in  blue  and  gold-striped  velvet.  A  blue  velvet  davenport  faced 
the  fireplace,  and  behind  it  was  a  cherrywood  table  and  a  tall 
piano-lamp  with  a  shade  of  golden  silk.  (Two  out  of  every 
three  houses  in  Floral  Heights  had  before  the  fireplace  a  daven- 
port, a  mahogany  table  real  or  imitation,  and  a  piano-lamp 
or  a  reading-lamp  with  a  shade  of  yellow  or  rose  silk.) 

On  the  table  was  a  runner  of  gold-threaded  Chinese  fabric, 
four  magazines,  a  silver  box  containing  cigarette-crumbs,  and 
three  "gift-books" — large,  expensive  editions  of  fairy-tales  illus- 
trated by  English  artists  and  as  yet  unread  by  any  Babbitt 
save  Tinka. 

In  a  corner  by  the  front  windows  was  a  large  cabinet  Vic- 
trola.  (Eight  out  of  every  nine  Floral  Heights  houses  had 
a  cabinet  phonograph.) 

Among  the  pictures,  hung  in  the  exact  center  of  each  gray 
panel,  were  a  red  and  black  imitation  English  hunting-print, 
an  anemic  imitation  boudoir-print  with  a  French  caption  of 
whose  morality  Babbitt  had  always  been  rather  suspicious, 
apd  a  "hand-colored"  photograph  of  a  Colonial  room — rag  rug. 

91 


92  BABBITT 

maiden  spinning,  cat  demure  before  a  white  fireplace.  (Nine- 
teen out  of  every  twenty  houses  in  Floral  Heights  had  either 
a  hunting-print,  a  Madame  Fait  la  Toilette  print,  a  colored 
photograph  of  a  New  England  house,  a  photograph  of  a  Rocky 
Mountain,  or  all  four.) 

It  was  a  room  as  superior  in  comfort  to  the  "parlor"  of 
Babbitt's  boyhood  as  his  motor  was  superior  to  his  father's 
buggy.  Though  there  was  nothing  in  the  room  that  waS  in- 
teresting, there  was  nothing  that  was  offensive.  It  was  as 
neat,  and  as  negative,  as  a  block  of  artificial  ice.  The  fire- 
place was  unsoftened  by  downy  ashes  or  by  sooty  brick;  the 
brass  fire-irons  were  of  immaculate  polish;  and  the  grenadier 
andirons  were  like  samples  in  a  shop,  desolate,  unwanted,  life- 
less things  of  commerce. 

Against  the  wall  was  a  piano,  with  another  piano-lamp,  but 
no  one  used  it  save  Tinka.  The  hard  briskness  of  the  phono- 
graph contented  them;  their  store  of  jazz  records  made  them 
feel  wealthy  and  cultured;  and  all  they  knew  of  creating  music 
was  the  nice  adjustment  of  a  bamboo  needle.  The  books  on 
the  table  were  unspotted  and  laid  in  rigid  parallels;  not  one 
corner  of  the  carpet-rug  was  curled;  and  nowhere  was  there 
a  hockey-stick,  a  torn  picture-book,  an  old  cap,  or  a  gregarious 
and  disorganizing  dog. 


n 

At  home.  Babbitt  never  read  with  absorption.  He  was  con-  ) 
centrated  enough  at  the  office  but  here  he  crossed  his  legs  and 
fidgeted.  When  his  story  was  interesting  he  read  the  best, 
that  is  the  funniest,  paragraphs  to  his  wife;  when  it  did  not 
hold  him  he  coughed,  scratched  his  ankles  and  his  right  ear, 
thrust  his  left  thumb  into  his  vest  pocket,  jingled  his  silver, 
whirled  the  cigar-cutter  and  the  keys  on  one  end  of  his  watch- 
chain,  yawned,  rubbed  his  nose,  and  found  errands  to  do. 
He  went  upstairs  to  put  on  his  slippers — his  elegant  slippers 


BABBITT  93 

of  seal-brown,  shaped  like  medieval  shoes.  He  brought  up  an 
apple  from  the  barrel  which  stood  by  the  trunk-closet  in  the 
basement. 

"An  apple  a  day  keeps  the  doctor  away,"  he  enlightened 
Mrs.  Babbitt,  for  quite  the  first  time  in  fourteen  hours. 

"That's  so." 

'An  apple  is  Nature's  best  regulator." 

"Yes,  it—" 

'Trouble  with  women  is,  they  never  have  sense  enough  to 
form  regular  habits." 

"Well,  I—" 

"Always  nibbling  and  eating  between  meals." 

"George!"  She  looked  up  from  her  reading.  "Did  you 
have  a  light  lunch  to-day,  like  you  were  going  to?     I  did!" 

This  malicious  and  unprovoked  attack  astounded  him. 
"Well,  maybe  it  wasn't  as  light  as —  Went  to  lunch  with 
Paul  and  didn't  have  much  chance  to  diet.  Oh,  you  needn't 
to  grin  like  a  chessy  cat!  If  it  wasn't  for  me  watching  out 
and  keeping  an  eye  on  our  diet —  I'm  the  only  member  of 
this  family  that  appreciates  the  value  of  oatmeal  for  break- 
fast.   I—" 

She  stooped  over  her  story  while  he  piously  sliced  and 
gulped  down  the  apple,  discoursing: 

"One  thing  I've  done:  cut  down  my  smoking. 

"Had  kind  of  a  run-in  with  Graff  in  the  office.  He's  get- 
ting too  darn  fresh.  I'll  stand  for  a  good  deal,  but  once  in 
a  while  I  got  to  assert  my  authority,  and  I  jumped  him.  'Stan,' 
I  said —    Well,  I  told  him  just  exactly  where  he  got  off. 

"Funny  kind  of  a  day.     Makes  you  feel  restless. 

"Wellllllllll,  uh— "  That  sleepiest  sound  in  the  world,  the 
terminal  yawn.  Mrs.  Babbitt  yawned  with  it,  and  looked 
grateful  as  he  droned,  "How  about  going  to  bed,  eh?  Don't 
suppose  Rone  and  Ted  will  be  in  till  all  hours.  Yep,  funny 
kind  of  a  day;  not  terribly  warm  but  yet —  Gosh,  I'd  like — 
Some  day  I'm  going  to  take  a  long  motor  trip." 


94  BABBITT 

"Yes,  we'd  enjoy  that,"  she  yawned. 

He  looked  away  from  her  as  he  realized  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  have  her  go  with  him.  As  he  locked  doors  and  tried 
windows  and  set  the  heat  regulator  so  that  the  furnace- 
drafts  would  open  automatically  in  the  morning,  he  sighed  a 
little,  heavy  with  a  lonely  feeling  which  perplexed  and  fright- 
ened him.  So  absent-minded  was  he  that  he  could  not  re- 
member which  window-catches  he  had  inspected,  and  through 
the  darkness,  fumbling  at  unseen  perilous  chairs,  he  crept  back 
to  try  them  all  over  again.  His  feet  were  loud  on  the  steps 
as  he  clumped  upstairs  at  the  end  of  this  great  and  treach- 
erous day  of  veiled  rebellions. 

Ill 

Before  breakfast  he  always  reverted  to  up-state  village  boy- 
hood, and  shrank  from  the  complex  urban  demands  of  shaving, 
bathing,  deciding  whether  the  current  shirt  was  clean  enough 
for  another  day.  Whenever  he  stayed  home  in  the  evening 
he  went  to  bed  early,  and  thriftily  got  ahead  in  those  dismal 
duties.  It  was  his  luxurious  custom  to  shave  while  sitting 
snugly  in  a  tubful  of  hot  water.  He  may  be  viewed  to-night 
as  a  plump,  smooth,  pink,  baldish,  podgy  goodman,  robbed 
of  the  importance  of  spectacles,  squatting  in  breast-high  water, 
scraping  his  lather-smeared  cheeks  with  a  safety-razor  like  a 
tiny  lawn-mower,  and  with  melancholy  dignity  clawing  through 
the  water  to  recover  a  slippery  and  active  piece  of  soap. 

He  was  lulled  to  dreaming  by  the  caressing  warmth.  The 
light  fell  on  the  inner  surface  of  the  tub  in  a  pattern  of  deli- 
cate wrinkled  lines  which  slipped  with  a  green  sparkle  over 
the  curving  porcelain  as  the  clear  water  trembled.  Babbitt 
lazily  watched  it;  noted  that  along  the  silhouette  of  his  legs 
against  the  radiance  on  the  bottom  of  the  tub,  the  shadows  of 
the  air-bubbles  clinging  to  the  hairs  were  reproduced  as  strange 
jungle  mosses.     He  patted  the  water,  and  the  reflected  light 


BABBITT  95 

capsized  and  leaped  and  volleyed.  He  was  content  and 
childish.  He  played.  He  shaved  a  swath  down  the  calf  of 
one  plump  leg. 

The  drain-pipe  was  dripping,  a  dulcet  and  lively  song:  drip- 
pety  drip  drip  dribble,  drippety  drip  drip  drip.  He  was  en- 
chanted by  it.  He  looked  at  the  solid  tub,  the  beautiful  nickel 
taps,  the  tiled  walls  of  the  room,  and  felt  virtuous  in  the  pos- 
session of  this  splendor. 

He  roused  himself  and  spoke  gruffly  to  his  bath-things. 
"Come  here!  You've  done  enough  fooling!"  he  reproved  the 
treacherous  soap,  and  defied  the  scratchy  nail-brush  with  "Oh, 
you  would,  would  you!"  He  soaped  himself,  and  rinsed  him- 
self, and  austerely  rubbed  himself;  he  noted  a  hole  in  the 
Turkish  towel,  and  meditatively  thrust  a  finger  through  it,  and 
marched  back  to  the  bedroom,  a  grave  and  unbending  citizen. 

There  was  a  moment  of  gorgeous  abandon,  a  flash  of  melo- 
drama such  as  he  found  in  traffic-driving,  when  he  laid  out  a 
clean  collar,  discovered  that  it  was  frayed  in  front,  and  tore 
it  up  with  a  magnificent  yeeeeeing  sound. 

Most  important  of  all  was  the  preparation  of  his  bed  and 
the  sleeping-porch. 

It  is  not  known  whether  he  enjoyed  his  sleeping-porch  be- 
cause of  the  fresh  air  or  because  it  was  the  standard  thing  to 
have  a  sleeping-porch. 

Just  as  he  was  an  Elk,  a  Booster,  and  a  member  of  the 
Chamber  of  Commerce,  just  as  the  priests  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church  determined  his  every  religious  belief  and  the  senators 
who  controlled  the  Republican  Party  decided  in  little  smoky 
rooms  in  Washington  what  he  should  think  about  disarma- 
ment, tariff,  and  Germany,  so  did  the  large  national  adver- 
tisers fix  the  surface  of  his  life,  fix  what  he  believed  to  be  his 
individuality.  These  standard  advertised  wares — toothpastes, 
socks,  tires,  cameras,  instantaneous  hot-water  heaters — were 
his  symbols  and  proofs  of  excellence;  at  first  the  signs,  then 
the  substitutes,  for  joy  and  passion  and  wisdom. 


96  BABBITT 

But  none  of  these  advertised  tokens  of  financial  and  social 
success  was  more  significant  than  a  sleeping-porch  with  a  sun- 
parlor  below. 

The  rites  of  preparing  for  bed  were  elaborate  and  un- 
changing. The  blankets  had  to  be  tucked  in  at  the  foot  of 
his  cot.  (Also,  the  reason  why  the  maid  hadn't  tucked  in  the 
blankets  had  to  be  discussed  with  Mrs.  Babbitt.)  The  rag 
rug  was  adjusted  so  that  his  bare  feet  would  strike  it  when 
he  arose  in  the  morning.  The  alarm  clock  was  wound.  The 
hot-water  bottle  was  filled  and  placed  precisely  two  feet  from 
the  bottom  of  the  cot. 

These  tremendous  undertakings  yielded  to  his  determina- 
tion; one  by  one  they  were  announced  to  Mrs.  Babbitt  and 
smashed  through  to  accomplishment.  At  last  his  brow  cleared, 
and  in  his  "Gnight!"  rang  virile  power.  But  there  was  yet 
need  of  courage.  As  he  sank  into  sleep,  just  at  the  first  ex- 
quisite relaxation,  the  Doppelbrau  car  came  home.  He 
bovmced  into  wakefulness,  lamenting,  "Why  the  devil  can't 
some  people  never  get  to  bed  at  a  reasonable  hour?"  So 
familiar  was  he  with  the  process  of  putting  up  his  own  car 
that  he  awaited  each  step  like  an  able  executioner  condemned 
to  his  own  rack. 

The  car  insultingly  cheerful  on  the  driveway.  The  car 
door  opened  and  banged  shut,  then  the  garage  door  slid  open, 
grating  on  the  sill,  and  the  car  door  again.  The  motor  raced 
for  the  climb  up  into  the  garage  and  raced  once  more,  explo- 
sively, before  it  was  shut  off.  A  final  opening  and  slamming 
of'  the  car  door.  Silence  then,  a  horrible  silence  filled  with 
waiting,  till  the  leisurely  Mr.  Doppelbrau  had  examined  the 
state  of  his  tires  and  had  at  last  shut  the  garage  door.  In- 
stantly, for  Babbitt,  a  blessed  state  of  oblivion. 

rv 

At  that  moment  m  the  city  of  Zenith,  Horace  Updike  was 
making  love  to  Lucile  McKelvey  in  her  mauve  drawing-room 


BABBITT  97 

on  Royal  Ridge,  after  their  return  from  a  lecture  by  an 
eminent  English  novelist.  Updike  was  Zenith's  professional 
bachelor;  a  slim-waisted  man  of  forty-six  with  an  effeminate 
voice  and  taste  in  flowers,  cretonnes,  and  flappers.  Mrs.  Mc- 
Kelvey  was  red-haired,  creamy,  discontented,  exquisite,  rude, 
and  honest.  Updike  tried  his  invariable  first  maneuver — 
touching  her  nervous  wrist. 

"Don't  be  an  idiot!"  she  said. 

"Do  you  mind  awfully?" 

"No!     That's  what  I  mind!" 

He  changed  to  conversation.  He  was  famous  at  conversa- 
tion. He  spoke  reasonably  of  psychoanalysis,  Long  Island 
polo,  and  the  Ming  platter  he  had  found  in  Vancouver.  She 
promised  to  meet  him  in  Deauville,  the  coming  summer, 
"though,"  she  sighed,  "it's  becoming  too  dreadfully  banal; 
nothing  but  Americans  and  frowsy  English  baronesses." 

And  at  that  moment  in  Zenith,  a  cocaine-runner  and  a 
prostitute  were  drinking  cocktails  in  Healey  Hanson's  saloon 
on  Front  Street.  Since  national  prohibition  was  now  in  force, 
and  since  Zenith  was  notoriously  law-abiding,  they  were  com- 
pelled to  keep  the  cocktails  innocent  by  drinking  them  out  of 
tea-cups.  The  lady  threw  her  cup  at  the  cocaine-runner's  head. 
He  worked  his  revolver  out  of  the  pocket  in  his  sleeve,  and 
casually  murdered  her. 

At  that  moment  in  Zenith,  two  men  sat  in  a  laboratory. 
For  thirty-seven  hours  now  they  had  been  working  on  a  report 
of  their  investigations  of  synthetic  rubber. 

At  that  moment  in  Zenith,  there  was  a  conference  of  four 
union  officials  as  to  whether  the  twelve  thousand  coal-miners 
within  a  hundred  miles  of  the  city  should  strike.  Of  these 
men  one  resembled  a  testy  and  prosperous  grocer,  one  a 
Yankee  carpenter,  one  a  soda-clerk,  and  one  a  Russian  Jewish 
actor.  The  Russian  Jew  quoted  Kautsky,  Gene  Debs,  and 
Abraham  Lincoln. 

At  that  moment  a  G.  A.  R.  veteran  was  dying.    He  had 


98  BABBITT 

come  from  the  Civil  War  straight  to  a  farm  which,  though  it 
was  officially  within  the  city-limits  of  Zenith,  was  primitive 
as  the  backwoods.  He  had  never  ridden  in  a  motor  car,  never 
seen  a  bath-tub,  never  read  any  book  save  the  Bible,  Mc- 
Guffey's  readers,  and  religious  tracts;  and  he  believed  that  the 
earth  is  flat,  that  the  English  are  the  Lost  Ten  Tribes  of 
Israel,  and  that  the  United  States  is  a  democracy. 

At  that  moment  the  steel  and  cement  town  which  composed 
the  factory  of  the  Pullmore  Tractor  Company  of  Zenith  was 
running  on  night  shift  to  fill  an  order  of  tractors  for  the  Polish 
army.  It  hummed  like  a  million  bees,  glared  through  its  wide 
windows  like  a  volcano.  Along  the  high  wire  fences,  search- 
lights played  on  cinder-lined  yards,  switch-tracks,  and  armed 
guards  on  patrol. 

At  that  moment  Mike  Monday  was  finishing  a  meeting. 
Mr.  Monday,  the  distinguished  evangelist,  the  best-known 
Protestant  pontiff  in  America,  had  once  been  a  prize-fighter. 
Satan  had  not  dealt  justly  with  him.  As  a  prize-fighter  he 
gained  nothing  but  his  crooked  nose,  his  celebrated  vocabu- 
lary, and  his  stage-presence.  The  service  of  the  Lord  had 
been  more  profitable.  He  was  about  to  retire  with  a  fortune. 
It  had  been  well  earned,  for,  to  quote  his  last  report,  "Rev. 
Mr.  Monday,  the  Prophet  with  a  Punch,  has  shown  that  he 
is  the  world's  greatest  salesman  of  salvation,  and  that  by 
efficient  organization  the  overhead  of  spiritual  regeneration 
may  be  kept  down  to  an  unprecedented  rock-bottom  basis. 
He  has  converted  over  two  hundred  thousand  lost  and  price- 
less souls  at  an  average  cost  of  less  than  ten  dollars  a  head." 

Of  the  larger  cities  of  the  land,  only  Zenith  had  hesitated 
to  submit  its  vices  to  Mike  Monday  and  his  expert  reclama- 
tion corps.  The  more  enterprising  organizations  of  the  city 
had  voted  to  invite  him — Mr.  George  F.  Babbitt  had  once 
praised  him  in  a  speech  at  the  Boosters'  Club.  But  there  was 
opposition  from  certain  Episcopalian  and  Congregationalist 
ministers,  those  renegades  whom  Mr.  Monday  so  finely  called 


BABBITT  99 

"a  bunch  of  gospel-pushers  with  dish-water  instead  of  blood, 
a  gang  of  squealers  that  need  more  dust  on  the  knees  of  their 
pants  and  tnore  hair  on  their  skinny  old  chests."  This  oppo- 
sition had  been  crushed  when  the  secretary  of  the  Chamber 
of  Commerce  had  reported  to  a  committee  of  manufacturers 
that  in  every  city  where  he  had  appeared,  Mr.  Monday  had 
turned  the  minds  of  workmen  from  wages  and  hours  to  higher 
things,  and  thus  averted  strikes.    He  was  immediately  invited. 

An  expense  fund  of  forty  thousand  dollars  had  been  under- 
written; out  on  the  County  Fair  Grounds  a  Mike  Monday 
Tabernacle  had  been  erected,  to  seat  fifteen  thousand  people. 
In  it  the  prophet  was  at  this  moment  concluding  his  message: 

"There's  a  lot  of  smart  college  professors  and  tea-guzzling 
slobs  in  this  burg  that  say  I'm  a  roughneck  and  a  never- wuzzer 
and  my  knowledge  of  history  is  not-yet.  Oh,  there's  a  gang 
of  woolly-whiskered  book-lice  that  think  they  know  more  than 
Almighty  God,  and  prefer  a  lot  of  Hun  science  and  smutty 
German  criticism  to  the  straight  and  simple  Word  of  God. 
Oh,  there's  a  swell  bunch  of  Lizzie  boys  and  lemon-suckers 
and  pie-faces  and  infidels  and  beer-bloated  scribblers  that  love 
to  fire  off  their  filthy  mouths  and  yip  that  Mike  Monday  is 
vulgar  and  full  of  mush.  Those  pups  are  saying  now  that  I 
hog  the  gospel-show,  that  I'm  in  it  for  the  coin.  Well,  now 
listen,  folks!  I'm  going  to  give  those  birds  a  chance!  They 
can  stand  right  up  here  and  tell  me  to  my  face  that  I'm  a 
galoot  and  a  liar  and  a  hick!  Only  if  they  do — if  they  do!  — 
don't  faint  with  surprise  if  some  of  those  rum-dumm  liars 
get  one  good  swift  poke  from  Mike,  with  all  the  kick  of  God's 
Flaming  Righteousness  behind  the  wallop!  Well,  come  on, 
folks!  Who  says  it?  Who  says  Mike  Monday  is  a  four- 
flush  and  a  yahoo?  Huh?  Don't  I  see  anybody  standing 
up?  Well,  there  you  are!  Now  I  guess  the  folks  in  this 
man's  town  will  quit  listening  to  all  this  kyoodling  from  be- 
hind the  fence;  I  guess  you'll  quit  listening  to  the  guys  that 
pan  and  roast  and  kick  and  beef,  and  vomit  out  filthy  atheism; 


lOO  BABBITT 

and  all  of  you  '11  come  in,  with  every  grain  of  pep  and  rever- 
ence you  got,  and  boost  all  together  for  Jesus  Christ  and  his 
everlasting  mercy  and  tenderness!" 


At  that  moment  Seneca  Doane,  the  radical  lawyer,  and  Dr. 
Kurt  Yavitch,  the  histologist  (whose  report  on  the  destruction 
of  epithelial  cells  under  radium  had  made  the  name  of 
Zenith  known  in  Munich,  Prague,  and  Rome),  were  talking  in 
Doane's  library. 

"Zenith's  a  city  with  gigantic  power — gigantic  buildings, 
gigantic  machines,  gigantic  transportation,"  meditated  Doane. 

"I  hate  your  city.  It  has  standardized  all  the  beauty  out 
of  life.  It  is  one  big  railroad  station — with  all  tlie  people 
taking  tickets  for  the  best  cemeteries,"  Dr.  Yavitch  said 
placidly. 

Doane  roused.  "I'm  hanged  if  it  is!  You  make  me  sick, 
Kurt,  with  your  perpetual  whine  about  'standardization.' 
Don't  you  suppose  any  other  nation  is  'standardized?'  Is  any- 
thing more  standardized  than  England,  with  every  house  that 
can  afford  it  having  the  same  muffins  at  the  same  tea-hour, 
and  every  retired  general  going  to  exactly  the  same  evensong 
at  the  same  gray  stone  church  with  a  square  tower,  and 
every  golfing  prig  in  Harris  tweeds  saying  'Right  you  are!' 
to  every  other  prosperous  ass?  Yet  I  love  England.  And  for 
standardization — just  look  at  the  sidewalk  cafes  in  France 
and  the  love-making  in  Italy! 

"Standardization  is  excellent,  per  se.  When  I  buy  an  Inger- 
soll  watch  or  a  Ford,  I  get  a  better  tool  for  less  money,  and 
I  know  precisely  what  I'm  getting,  and  that  leaves  me  more 
time  and  energy  to  be  individual  in.  And —  I  remember 
once  in  London  I  saw  a  picture  of  an  American  suburb,  in 
a  toothpaste  ad  on  the  back  of  the  Saturday  Evening  Post — 
an  elm-lined  snowy  street  of  these  new  houses,  Georgian  some 


BABBITT  loi 

of  'em,  or  with  low  raking  roofs  and —  The  kind  of  street 
you'd  find  here  in  Zenith,  say  in  Floral  Heights.  Open. 
Trees.  Grass.  And  I  was  homesick  I  There's  no  other  coun- 
try in  the  world  that  has  such  pleasant  houses.  And  I  don't 
care  if  they  are  standardized.    It's  a  corking  standard! 

"No,  what  I  fight  in  Zenith  is  standardization  of  thought, 
and,  of  course,  the  traditions  of  competition.  The  real  vil- 
lains of  the  piece  are  the  clean,  kind,  industrious  Family  Men 
who  use  every  known  brand  of  trickery  and  cruelty  to  insure 
the  prosperity  of  their  cubs.  The  worst  thing  about  these 
fellows  is  that  they're  so  good  and,  in  their  work  at  least,  so 
intelligent.  You  can't  hate  them  properly,  and  yet  their 
standardized  minds  are  the  enemy. 

"Then  this  boosting —  Sneakingly  I  have  a  notion  that 
Zenith  is  a  better  place  to  live  in  than  Manchester  or  Glasgow 
or  Lyons  or  Berlin  or  Turin — " 

"It  is  not,  and  I  have  lift  in  most  of  them,"  murmured 
Dr.  Yavitch. 

"Well,  matter  of  taste.  Personally,  I  prefer  a  city  with  a 
future  so  unknown  that  it  excites  my  imagination.  But  what 
I  particularly  want — " 

"You,"  said  Dr.  Yavitch,  "are  a  middle-road  liberal,  and 
you  haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  you  want.  I,  being  a  revo- 
lutionist, know  exactly  what  I  want — and  what  I  want  now 
is  a  drink." 

VI 

At  that  moment  in  Zenith,  Jake  Offutt,  the  politician,  and 
Henry  T.  Thompson  were  in  conference.  Offutt  suggested, 
"The  thing  to  do  is  to  get  your  fool  son-in-law,  Babbitt,  to 
put  it  over.  He's  one  of  these  patriotic  guys.  When  he 
grabs  a  piece  of  property  for  the  gang,  he  makes  it  look  like 
we  were  dyin'  of  love  for  the  dear  peepul,  and  I  do  love  to 
buy  respectability — reasonable.  Wonder  how  long  we  can 
keep  it  up,  Hank?    We're  safe  as  long  as  the  good  little  boys 


I02  BABBITT 

like  George  Babbitt  and  all  the  nice  respectable  labor-leaders 
think  you  and  me  are  rugged  patriots.  There's  swell  pickings 
for  an  honest  politician  here,  Hank:  a  whole  city  working  to 
provide  cigars  and  fried  chicken  and  dry  martinis  for  us,  and 
rallying  to  our  banner  with  indignation,  oh,  fierce  indignation, 
whenever  some  squealer  like  this  fellow  Seneca  Doane  comes 
along!  Honest,  Hank,  a  smart  codger  like  me  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself  if  he  didn't  milk  cattle  like  them,  when 
they  come  around  mooing  for  it!  But  the  Traction  gang 
can't  get  away  with  grand  larceny  like  it  used  to.  I  wonder 
when —  Hank,  I  wish  we  could  fix  some  way  to  run  this 
fellow  Seneca  Doane  out  of  town.    It's  him  or  us!" 

At  that  moment  in  Zenith,  three  hundred  and  forty  or 
fifty  thousand  Ordinary  People  were  asleep,  a  vast  unpene- 
trated  shadow.  In  the  slum  beyond  the  railroad  tracks,  a 
young  mian  who  for  six  months  had  sought  work  turned  on 
the  gas  and  killed  himself  and  his  wife. 

At  that  moment  Lloyd  Mallam,  the  poet,  owner  of  the 
Hafiz  Book  Shop,  was  finishing  a  rondeau  to  show  how  divert- 
ing was  life  amid  the  feuds  of  medieval  Florence,  but  how 
dull  it  was  in  so  obvious  a  place  as  Zenith. 

And  at  that  moment  George  F.  Babbitt  turned  ponderously 
in  bed — the  last  turn,  signifying  that  he'd  had  enough  of  this 
worried  business  of  falling  asleep  and  was  about  it  in  earnest. 

Instantly  he  was  in  the  magic  dream.  He  was  somewhere 
among  unknown  people  who  laughed  at  him.  He  slipped 
away,  ran  down  the  paths  of  a  midnight  garden,  and  at  the 
gate  the  fairy  child  was  waiting.  Her  dear  and  tranquil  hand 
caressed  his  cheek.  He  was  gallant  and  wise  and  well-beloved; 
warm  ivory  were  her  arms;  and  beyond  perilous  moors  the 
brave  sea  glittered. 


i 


CHAPTER  VIII 


The  great  events  of  Babbitt's  spring  were  the  secret  buying 
of  real-estate  options  in  Linton  for  certain  street-traction  offi- 
cials, before  the  public  announcement  that  the  Linton  Avenue 
Car  Line  would  be  extended,  and  a  dinner  which  was,  as  he 
rejoiced  to  his  wife,  not  only  ''a  regular  society  spread  but  a 
real  sure-enough  highbrow  affair,  with  some  of  the  keenest 
intellects  and  the  brightest  bunch  of  little  women  in  town." 
It  was  so  absorbing  an  occasion  that  he  almost  forgot  his 
desire  to  run  off  to  Maine  with  Paul  Riesling. 

Though  he  had  been  born  in  the  village  of  Catawba,  Babbitt 
had  risen  to  that  metropolitan  social  plane  on  which  hosts 
have  as  many  as  four  people  at  dinner  without  planning  it  for 
more  than  an  evening  or  two.  But  a  dinner  of  twelve,  with 
flowers  from  the  florist's  and  all  the  cut-glass  out,  staggered 
even  the  Babbitts. 

For  two  weeks  they  studied,  debated,  and  arbitrated  the  list 
of  guests. 

Babbitt  marveled,  "Of  course  we're  up-to-date  ourselves,  but 
still,  think  of  us  entertaining  a  famous  poet  like  Chum  Frink, 
a  fellow  that  on  nothing  but  a  poem  or  so  every  day  and  just 
writing  a  few  advertisements  pulls  down  fifteen  thousand  ber- 
ries a  year!" 

"Yes,  and  Howard  Littlefield.  Do  you  know,  the  other  eve- 
ning Eunice  told  me  her  papa  speaks  three  languages!"  said 
Mrs.  Babbitt. 

"Huh!  That's  nothing!  So  do  I — American,  baseball,  and 
poker!" 

"I  don't  think  it's  nice  to  be  funny  about  a  matter  like  that. 

103 


/ 


I04  BABBITT 

Think  how  wonderful  it  must  be  to  speak  three  languages,  and 
so  useful  and —  And  with  people  like  that,  I  don't  see  why  we 
invite  the  Orville  Joneses." 

"Well  now,  Orville  is  a  mighty  up-and-coming  fellow!" 

"Yes,  I  know,  but —    A  laundry ! " 

"I'll  admit  a  laundry  hasn't  got  the  class  of  poetry  or  real 
estate,  but  just  the  same,  Orvy  is  mighty  deep.  Ever  start 
him  spieling  about  gardening?  Say,  that  fellow  can  tell  you 
the  name  of  every  kind  of  tree,  and  some  of  their  Greek  and 
Latin  names  too!  Besides,  we  owe  the  Joneses  a  dinner.  Be- 
sides, gosh,  we  got  to  have  some  boob  for  audience,  when  a 
bunch  of  hot-air  artists  like  Frink  and  Littlefield  get  going." 

"Well,  dear — I  meant  to  speak  of  this — I  do  think  that  as 
host  you  ought  to  sit  back  and  listen,  and  let  your  guests  have 
a  chance  to  talk  once  in  a  while!" 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you!  Sure!  I  talk  all  the  time!  And  I'm 
just  a  business  man — oh  sure! — I'm  no  Ph.D.  like  Littlefield, 
and  no  poet,  and  I  haven't  anything  to  spring!  Well,  let  me 
tell  you,  just  the  other  day  your  darn  Chum  Frink  comes  up 
to  me  at  the  club  begging  to  know  what  I  thought  about  the 
Springfield  school-bond  issue.  And  who  told  him?  I  did! 
You  bet  your  life  I  told  him!  Little  me!  I  certainly  did!  He 
came  up  and  asked  me,  and  I  told  him  all  about  it!  You  bet! 
And  he  was  darn  glad  to  listen  to  me  and —  Duty  as  a  host! 
I  guess  I  know  my  duty  as  a  host  and  let  me  tell  you — " 

In  fact,  the  Orville  Joneses  were  invited. 

n 

On  the  morning  of  the  dinner,  Mrs.  Babbitt  was  restive. 

"Now,  George,  I  want  you  to  be  sure  and  be  home  early  to- 
night.    Remember,  you  have  to  dress." 

"Uh-huh.  I  see  by  the  Advocate  that  the  Presbyterian  Gen- 
eral Assembly  has  voted  to  quit  the  Interchurch  World  Move- 
ment.    That—" 


BABBITT  105 

"George!  Did  you  hear  what  I  said?  You  must  be  home 
in  time  to  dress  to-night." 

"Dress?  Hell!  I'm  dressed  now!  Think  I'm  going  down 
to  the  office  in  my  B.V.D.'s?" 

"I  will  not  have  you  talking  indecently  before  the  children! 
And  you  do  have  to  put  on  your  dinner-jacket!" 

"I  guess  you  mean  my  Tux.  I  tell  you,  of  all  the  doggone 
nonsensical  nuisances  that  was  ever  invented — " 

Three  minutes  later,  after  Babbitt  had  wailed,  "Well,  I 
don't  know  whether  I'm  going  to  dress  or  not"  in  a  manner 
which  showed  that  he  was  going  to  dress,  the  discussion 
moved  on. 

"Now,  George,  you  mustn't  forget  to  call  in  at  Vecchia's 
on  the  way  home  and  get  the  ice  cream.  Their  delivery-wagon 
is  broken  down,  and  I  don't  want  to  trust  them  to  send  it 
by—" 

"All  right!     You  told  me  that  before  breakfast!" 

"Well,  I  don't  want  you  to  forget.  I'll  be  working  my  head 
off  all  day  long,  training  the  girl  that's  to  help  with  the  din- 
ner— " 

"All  nonsense,  anyway,  hiring  an  extra  girl  for  the  feed. 
Matilda  could  perfectly  well — " 

" — and  I  have  to  go  out  and  buy  the  flowers,  and  fix  them, 
and  set  the  table,  and  order  the  salted  almonds,  and  look  at  the 
chickens,  and  arrange  for  the  children  to  have  their  supper  up- 
stairs and —  And  I  simply  must  depend  on  you  to  go  to  Vec- 
chia's for  the  ice  cream." 

"All  riiiiiight!     Gosh,  I'm  going  to  get  it!" 

"All  you  have  to  do  is  to  go  in  and  say  you  want  the  ice 
cream  that  Mrs.  Babbitt  ordered  yesterday  by  'phone,  and  it 
will  be  all  ready  for  you." 

At  ten-thirty  she  telephoned  to  him  not  to  forget  the  ice 
cream  from  Vecchia's. 

He  was  surprised  and  Wasted  then  oy  a  thought.  He  won- 
dered whether  Floral  Heights  dinners  were  worth  the  hideous 


io6  BABBITT 

toil  involved.    But  he  repented  the  sacrilege  in  the  excitement    « 
of  buying  the  materials  for  cocktails.  " 

Now  this  was  the  manner  of  obtaining  alcohol  imder  the 
reign  of  righteousness  and  prohibition: 

He  drove  from  the  severe  rectangular  streets  of  the  mod- 
ern business  center  into  the  tangled  byways  of  Old  Town —  ^ 
Jagged  blocks  filled  with  sooty  warehouses  and  lofts;  on  into 
The  Arbor,  once  a  pleasant  orchard  but  now  a  morass  of 
lodging-houses,  tenements,  and  brothels.  Exquisite  shivers 
chilled  his  spine  and  stomach,  and  he  looked  at  every  police- 
man with  intense  innocence,  as  one  who  loved  the  law,  and 
admired  the  Force,  and  longed  to  stop  and  play  with  them. 
He  parked  his  car  a  block  from  Healey  Hanson's  saloon,  worry- 
ing, "Well,  rats,  if  anybody  did  see  me,  they'd  think  I  was 
here  on  business." 

He  entered  a  place  curiously  like  the  saloons  of  ante-prohi- 
bition days,  with  a  long  greasy  bar  with  sawdust  in  front  and 
streaky  mirror  behind,  a  pine  table  at  which  a  dirty  old  man 
dreamed  over  a  glass  of  something  which  resembled  whisky, 
and  with  two  men  at  the  bar,  drinking  something  which  re- 
sembled beer,  and  giving  that  impression  of  forming  a  large 
crowd  which  two  men  always  give  in  a  saloon.  The  barten- 
der, a  tall  pale  Swede  with  a  diamond  in  his  lilac  scarf,  stared 
at  Babbitt  as  he  stalked  plumply  up  to  the  bar  and  whispered, 
"I'd,  uh —  Friend  of  Hanson's  sent  me  here.  Like  to  get  some 
gin." 

The  bartender  gazed  down  on  him  in  the  manner  of  an  out- 
raged bishop.  "I  guess  you  got  the  wrong  place,  my  friend.  We 
sell  nothing  but  soft  drinks  here."  He  cleaned  the  bar  with  a 
rag  which  would  itself  have  done  with  a  little  cleaning,  and 
glared  across  his  mechanically  moving  elbow.  I 

The  old  dreamer  at  the  table  petitioned  the  bartender,  "Say,  1 
Oscar,  listen." 

Oscar  did  not  listen. 


BABBITT  107 

"Aw,  say,  Oscar,  listen,  will  yuh?    Say,  lis-sen!" 

The  decayed  and  drowsy  voice  of  the  loafer,  the  agreeable 
stink  of  beer-dregs,  threw  a  spell  of  inanition  over  Babbitt. 
The  bartender  moved  grimly  toward  the  crowd  of  two  men. 
Babbitt  followed  him  as  delicately  as  a  cat,  and  wheedled, 
"Say,  Oscar,  I  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Hanson." 

"Whajuh  wanta  see  him  for?" 

"I  just  want  to  talk  to  him.    Here's  my  card." 

It  was  a  beautiful  card,  an  engraved  card,  a  card  in  the 
blackest  black  and  the  sharpest  red,  announcing  that  Mr. 
George  F.  Babbitt  was  Estates,  Insurance,  Rents.  The  bar- 
tender held  it  as  though  it  weighed  ten  pounds,  and  read  it 
as  though  it  were  a  hundred  words  long.  He  did  not  bend 
from  his  episcopal  dignity,  but  he  growled,  "I'll  see  if  he's 
around." 

From  the  back  room  he  brought  an  immensely  old  young 
man,  a  quiet  sharp-eyed  man,  in  tan  silk  shirt,  checked  vest 
hanging  open,  and  burning  brown  trousers — Mr.  Healey  Han- 
son. Mr.  Hanson  said  only  "Yuh?"  but  his  implacable  and 
contemptuous  eyes  queried  Babbitt's  soul,  and  he  seemed  not  at 
all  impressed  by  the  new  dark-gray  suit  for  which  (as  he  had 
admitted  to  every  acquaintance  at  the  Athletic  Club)  Babbitt 
had  paid  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars. 

"Glad  meet  you,  Mr.  Hanson.  Say,  uh —  I'm  George  Bab- 
bitt of  the  Babbitt-Thompson  Realty  Company.  I'm  a  great 
friend  of  Jake  Offutt's." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Say,  uh,  I'm  going  to  have  a  party,  and  Jake  told  me  you'd 
be  able  to  fix  me  up  with  a  little  gin."  In  alarm,  in  obsequi- 
ousness, as  Hanson's  eyes  grew  more  bored,  "You  telephone 
to  Jake  about  me,  if  you  want  to." 

Hanson  answered  by  jerking  his  head  to  indicate  the  en- 
trance to  the  back  room,  and  strolled  away.  Babbitt  melo- 
dramatically crept  into  an  apartment  containing  four  round 


io8  BABBITT 

tables,  eleven  chairs,  a  brewery  calendar,  and  a  smell.  He 
waited.  Thrice  he  saw  Healey  Hanson  saunter  through,  hum- 
ming, hands  in  pockets,  ignoring  him. 

By  this  time  Babbitt  had  modified  his  valiant  morning  vow,-, 
"I  won't  pay  one  cent  over  seven  dollars  a  quart"  to  "I  might 
pay  ten."  On  Hanson's  next  weary  entrance  he  besought, 
"Could  you  fix  that  up?"  Hanson  scowled,  and  grated,  "Just 
a  minute — Pete's  sake — just  a  min-ute!"  In  growing  meekness 
Babbitt  went  on  waiting  till  Hanson  casually  reappeared  with 
a  quart  of  gin — what  is  euphemistically  known  as  a  quart — ia 
his  disdainful  long  white  hands. 

"Twelve  bucks,"  he  snapped. 

"Say,  uh,  but  say,  cap'n,  Jake  thought  you'd  be  able  to  fix 
me  up  for  eight  or  nine  a  bottle." 

"Nup.  Twelve.  This  is  the  real  stuff,  smuggled  from  Can- 
ada. This  is  none  o'  your  neutral  spirits  with  a  drop  of 
juniper  extract,"  the  honest  merchant  said  virtuously.  "Twelve 
bones — if  you  want  it.  Course  y'  understand  I'm  just  doing 
this  anyway  as  a  friend  of  Jake's." 

"Sure!  Sure!  I  understand!"  Babbitt  gratefully  held  out 
twelve  dollars.  He  felt  honored  by  contact  with  greatness  as 
Hanson  yawned,  stuffed  the  bills,  tmcounted,  into  his  radiant 
vest,  and  swaggered  away. 

He  had  a  number  of  titillations  out  of  concealing  the  gin- 
bottle  under  his  coat  and  out  of  hiding  it  in  his  desk.  All 
afternoon  he  snorted  and  chuckled  and  gurgled  over  his  ability 
to  "give  the  Boys  a  real  shot  in  the  arm  to-night."  He  was, 
in  fact,  so  exhilarated  that  he  was  within  a  block  of  his  house 
before  he  remembered  that  there  was  a  certain  matter,  men- 
tioned by  his  wife,  of  fetching  ice  cream  from  Vecchia's.  He 
explained,  "Well,  darn  it — "  and  drove  back. 

Vecchia  was  not  a  caterer,  he  was  The  Caterer  of  Zenith. 
Most  coming-out  parties  were  held  in  the  white  and  gold  ball- 
room of  the  Maison  Vecchia;  at  all  nice  teas  the  guests  recog- 
nized the  five  kinds  of  Vecchia  sandwiches  and  the  seven  kinds 


BABBITT  \" 

of  Vecchia  cakes;  and  all  really  smart  dinners  ended,  as  oh 
a  resolving  chord,  in  Vecchia  Neapolitan  ice  cream  in  one  of 
the  three  reliable  molds — the  melon  mold,  the  round  mold  like 
a  layer  cake,  and  the  long  brick. 

Vecchia's  shop  had  pale  blue  woodwork,  tracery  of  plaster 
roses,  attendants  in  frilled  aprons,  and  glass  shelves  of  "kisses" 
with  all  the  reiinement  that  inheres  in  whites  of  eggs.  Babbitt 
felt  heavy  and  thick  amid  this  professional  daintiness,  and  as 
he  waited  for  the  ice  cream  he  decided,  with  hot  prickles  at 
the  back  of  his  neck,  that  a  girl  customer  was  giggling  at  him. 
He  went  home  in  a  touchy  temper.  The  first  thing  he  heard 
was  his  wife's  agitated: 

"George!  Did  you  remember  to  go  to  Vecchia's  and  get  the 
ice  cream?" 

"Say!     Look  here!     Do  I  ever  forget  to  do  things?" 

"Yes!     Often!" 

"Well  now,  it's  darn  seldom  I  do,  and  it  certainly  makes  me 
tired,  after  going  into  a  pink-tea  joint  like  Vecchia's  and  hav- 
ing to  stand  around  looking  at  a  lot  of  half-naked  young  girls, 
all  rouged  up  like  they  were  sixty  and  eating  a  lot  of  stuff  that 
simply  ruins  their  stomachs — " 

"Oh,  it's  too  bad  about  you!  I've  noticed  how  you  hate  to 
look  at  pretty  girls!" 

With  a  jar  Babbitt  realized  that  his  wife  was  too  busy  to 
be  impressed  by  that  moral  indignation  with  which  males  rule 
the  world,  and  he  went  humbly  up-stairs  to  dress.  He  had 
an  impression  of  a  glorified  dining-room,  of  cut-glass,  candles, 
polished  wood,  lace,  silver,  roses.  With  the  awed  swelling  of 
the  heart  suitable  to  so  grave  a  business  as  giving  a  dinner,  he 
slew  the  temptation  to  wear  his  plaited  dress-shirt  for  a  fourth 
time,  took  out  an  entirely  fresh  one,  tightened  his  black  bow, 
and  rubbed  his  patent-leather  pumps  with  a  handkerchief. 
He  glanced  with  pleasure  at  his  garnet  and  silver  studs.  He 
smoothed  and  patted  his  ankles,  transformed  by  silk  socks 
from  the  sturdy  shanks  of  George  Babbitt  to  the  elegant  limbs 


loPj  BABBITT 

of  what  is  called  a  Clubman.  He  stood  before  the  pier-glass, 
viewing  his  trim  dinner-coat,  his  beautiful  triple-braided  trou- 
sers; and  murmured  in  lyric  beatitude,  "By  golly,  I  don't  look 
so  bad.  I  certainly  don't  look  like  Catawba.  If  the  hicks  back 
home  could  see  me  in  this  rig,  they'd  have  a  fit!" 

He  moved  majestically  down  to  mix  the  cocktails.  As  he 
chipped  ice,  as  he  squeezed  oranges,  as  he  collected  vast  stores 
of  bottles,  glasses,  and  spoons  at  the  sink  in  the  pantry,  he 
felt  as  authoritative  as  the  bartender  at  Healey  Hanson's  sa- 
loon. True,  Mrs.  Babbitt  said  he  was  under  foot,  and  Ma- 
tilda and  the  maid  hired  for  the  evening  brushed  by  him, 
elbowed  him,  shrieked  "Pleasopn  door,"  as  they  tottered 
through  with  trays,  but  in  this  high  moment  he  ignored  them. 

Besides  the  new  bottle  of  gin,  his  cellar  consisted  of  one 
half-bottle  of  Bourbon  whisky,  a  quarter  of  a  bottle  of  Italian 
vermouth,  and  approximately  one  hundred  drops  of  orange 
bitters.  He  did  not  possess  a  cocktail-shaker.  A  shaker  was 
proof  of  dissipation,  the  symbol  of  a  Drinker,  and  Babbitt  dis- 
liked being  known  as  a  Drinker  even  more  than  he  liked  a 
Drink.  He  mixed  by  pouring  from  an  ancient  gravy-boat  into 
a  handleless  pitcher;  he  poured  with  a  noble  dignity,  holding 
his  alembics  high  beneath  the  powerful  Mazda  globe,  his  face 
hot,  his  shirt-front  a  glaring  white,  the  copper  sink  a  scoured 
red-gold. 

He  tasted  the  sacred  essence.  "Now,  by  golly,  if  that  isn't 
pretty  near  one  fine  old  cocktail!  Kind  of  a  Bronx,  and  yet 
like  a  Manhattan.  Ummmmmm!  Hey,  Myra,  want  a  little 
nip  before  the  folks  come?" 

Bustling  into  the  dining-room,  moving  each  glass  a  quarter 
of  an  inch,  rushing  back  with  resolution  implacable  on  her  face, 
her  gray  and  silver-lace  party  frock  protected  by  a  denim 
towel,  Mrs.  Babbitt  glared  at  him,  and  rebuked  him,  "Certainly 
not!" 

"Well,"  in  a  loose,  jocose  manner,  "I  think  the  old  man 
will!" 


BABBITT  III 

The  cocktail  filled  him  with  a  whirling  exhilaration  behind 
which  he  was  aware  of  devastating  desires — to  rush  places  in 
fast  motors,  to  kiss  girls,  to  sing,  to  be  witty.  He  sought  to 
regain  his  lost  dignity  by  announcing  to  Matilda: 

"I'm  going  to  stick  this  pitcher  of  cocktails  in  the  refrigera- 
tor.   Be  sure  you  don't  upset  any  of  'em." 

"Yeh." 

"Well,  be  sure  now.  Don't  go  putting  anything  on  this 
top  shelf." 

"Yeh." 

"Well,  be — "  He  was  dizzy.  His  voice  was  thin  and  distant. 
"Whee!"  With  enormous  impressiveness  he  commanded, 
"Well,  be  sure  now,"  and  minced  into  the  safety  of  the  living- 
room.  He  wondered  whether  he  could  persuade  "as  slow  a 
bunch  as  Myra  and  the  Littlefields  to  go  some  place  aft'  dinner 
and  raise  Cain  and  maybe  dig  up  smore  booze."  He  perceived 
that  he  had  gifts  of  profligacy  which  had  been  neglected. 

By  the  time  the  guests  had  come,  including  the  inevitable 
late  couple  for  whom  the  others  waited  with  painful  amiability, 
a  great  gray  emptiness  had  replaced  the  purple  swirling  in  Bab- 
bitt's head,  and  he  had  to  force  the  tumultuous  greetings  suit- 
able to  a  host  on  Floral  Heights. 

The  guests  were  Howard  Littlefield,  the  doctor  of  philosophy 
who  furnished  publicity  and  comforting  economics  to  the  Street 
Traction  Company ;  Vergil  Gunch,  the  coal-dealer,  equally  pow- 
erful in  the  Elks  and  in  the  Boosters'  Club;  Eddie  Swanson 
th^  agent  for  the  Javelin  Motor  Car,  who  lived  across  the 
street;  and  Orville  Jones,  owner  of  the  Lily  White  Laundry, 
which  justly  announced  itself  "the  biggest,  busiest,  bulliest 
cleanerie  shoppe  in  Zenith."  But,  naturally,  the  most  distin- 
guished of  all  was  T.  Cholmondeley  Frink,  who  was  not  only 
the  author  of  "Poemulations,"  which,  syndicated  daily  in 
sixty-seven  leading  newspapers,  gave  him  one  of  the  largest 
audiences  of  any  poet  in  the  world,  but  also  an  optimistic  lec- 
turer and  the  creator  of  "Ads  that  Add."    Despite  the  search- 


fi2  BABBITT 

ing  philosophy  and  high  morality  of  his  verses,  they  were 
humorous  and  easily  understood  by  any  child  of  twelve;  and 
it  added  a  neat  air  of  pleasantry  to  them  that  they  were  set 
not  as  verse  but  as  prose.  Mr.  Frink  was  known  from  Coast 
to  Coast  as  "Chum." 

With  them  were  six  wives,  more  or  less — it  was  hard  to  tell, 
so  early  in  the  evening,  as  at  first  glance  they  all  looked  alike, 
and  as  they  all  said,  "Oh,  isit't  this  nice!"  in  the  same  tone  of 
determined  liveliness.  To  the  eye,  the  men  were  less  similar: 
Littlefield,  a  hedge-scholar,  tall  and  horse-faced;  Chum  Frink, 
a  trifle  of  a  man  with  soft  and  mouse-like  hair,  advertising  his 
profession  as  poet  by  a  silk  cord  on  his  eye-glasses;  Vergil 
Gunch,  broad,  with  coarse  black  hair  'en  brosse;  Eddie  Swan- 
son,  a  bald  and  bouncing  young  man  who  showed  his  taste  for 
elegance  by  an  evening  waistcoat  of  figured  black  silk  with 
glass  buttons;  Orville  Jones,  a  steady-looking,  stubby,  not 
very  memorable  person,  with  a  hemp-colored  toothbrush  mus- 
tache. Yet  they  were  all  so  well  fed  and  clean,  they  all 
shouted  "  'Evenin',  Georgie!"  with  such  robustness,  that  they 
seemed  to  be  cousins,  and  the  strange  thing  is  that  the  longer 
one  knew  the  women,  the  less  alike  they  seemed;  while  the 
longer  one  knew  the  men,  the  more  alike  their  bold  patterns 
appeared. 

The  drinking  of  the  cocktails  was  as  canonical  a  rite  as  the 
mixing.  The  company  waited,  uneasily,  hopefully,  agreeing  in 
a  strained  manner  that  the  weather  had  been  rather  warm  and 
slightly  cold,  but  still  Babbitt  said  nothing  about  drinks.  They 
became  despondent.  But  when  the  late  couple  (the  Swansons) 
had  arrived,  Babbitt  hinted,  "Well,  folks,  do  you  think  you 
could  stand  breaking  the  law  a  little?" 

They  looked  at  Chum  Frink,  the  recognized  lord  of  lan- 
guage. Frink  pulled  at  his  eye-glass  cord  as  at  a  bell-rope, 
he  cleared  his  throat  and  said  that  which  was  the  custom: 

"111  tell  you,  George:  I'm  a  law-abiding  man,  but  they  do 
say  Verg  Gunch  is  a  regular  yegg,  and  of  course  he's  bigger  'n 


BABBITT  113 

I  am,  and  I  just  can't  figure  out  what  I'd  do  if  he  tried  to 
force  me  into  anything  criminal!" 

Gunch  was  roaring,  "Well,  I'll  take  a  chance — "  when  Frink 
held  up  his  hand  and  went  on,  "So  if  Verg  and  you  insist, 
Georgie,  I'll  park  my  car  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  street,  be- 
cause I  take  it  for  granted  that's  the  crime  you're  hinting  at!" 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  laughter.  Mrs.  Jones  asserted, 
"Mr.  Frink  is  simply  too  killing!  You'd  think  he  was  so  in- 
nocent!" 

Babbitt  clamored,  "How  did  you  guess  it,  Chum?  Well, 
you-ali  just  wait  a  moment  while  I  go  out  and  get  the — keys 
to  your  cars!"  Through  a  froth  of  merriment  he  brought  the 
shining  promise,  the  mighty  tray  of  glasses  with  the  cloudy 
yellow  cocktails  in  the  glass  pitcher  in  the  center.  The  men 
babbled,  "Oh,  gosh,  have  a  look!"  and  "This  gets:,  me  right 
where  I  live!"  and  "Let  me  at  it!"  But  Chum  Frink,  a  trav- 
eled man  and  not  unused  to  woes,  was  stricken  by  the  thought 
that  the  potion  might  be  merely  fruit-juice  with  a  little  neutral 
spirits.  He  looked  timorous  as  Babbitt,  a  moist  and  ecstatic 
almoner,  held  out  a  glass,  but  as  he  tasted  it  he  piped,  "Oh, 
man,  let  me  dream  on!  It  ain't  true,  but  don't  waken  me! 
Jus'  lemme  slumber!" 

Two  hours  before,  Frink  had  completed  a  newspaper  lyric 
beginning: 

/  sat  alone  and  groused  and  thunk,  and  scratched  my  head 
and  sighed  and  wunk,  and  groaned,  "There  still  are  boobs, 
alack,  who'd  like  the  old-time  gin-mill  back;  that  den  that 
makes  a  sage  a  loon,  the  vile  and  smelly  old  saloon!"  I'll 
never  miss  their  poison  booze,  whilst  I  the  bubbling  spring 
can  use,  that  leaves  my  head  at  merry  morn  as  clear  as  any 
babe  new-born! 

Babbitt  drank  with  the  others;  his  moment's  depression  was 
gone;  he  perceived  that  these  were  the  best  fellows  in  the 
world;  he  wanted  to  give  them  a  thousand  cocktails.  "Think 
you  could  stand  another?"  he  cried.    The  wives  refused,  with 


114  BABBITT 

giggles,  but  the  men,  speaking  in  a  wide,  elaborat-e,  enjoyable 
manner,  gloated,  "Well,  sooner  than  have  you  get  sore  at  me, 
Georgie — " 

"You  got  a  little  dividend  coming,"  said  Babbitt  to  each 
-Df  them,  and  each  intoned,  "Squeeze  it,  Georgie,  squeeze  it!" 

When,  beyond  hope,  the  pitcher  was  empty,  they  stood  and 
talked  about  prohibition.  The  men  leaned  back  on  their  heels, 
put  their  hands  in  their  trousers-pockets,  and  proclaimed  their 
views  with  the  booming  profundity  of  a  prosperous  male  repeat- 
ing a  thoroughly  hackneyed  statement  about  a  matter  of  which 
he  knows  nothing  whatever. 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Vergil  Gunch;  "way  I  figure  it  is 
this,  and  I  can  speak  by  the  book,  because  I've  talked  to  a 
lot  of  doctors  and  fellows  that  ought  to  know,  and  the  way  I 
see  it  is  that  it's  a  good  thing  to  get  rid  of  the  saloon,  but 
they  ought  to  let  a  fellow  have  beer  and  light  wines." 

Howard  Littlefield  observed,  "What  isn't  generally  realized 
is  that  it's  a  dangerous  prop'sition  to  invade  the  rights  of  per- 
sonal liberty.  Now,  take  this  for  instance:  The  King  of — 
Bavaria?  I  think  it  was  Bavaria — ^yes,  Bavaria,  it  was — in 
1862,  March,  1862,  he  issued  a  proclamation  against  public 
grazing  of  live-stock.  The  peasantry  had  stood  for  overtaxation 
without  the  slightest  complaint,  but  when  this  proclamation 
came  out,  they  rebelled.  Or  it  may  have  been  Saxony.  But 
it  just  goes  to  show  the  dangers  of  invading  the  rights  of  per- 
sonal liberty." 

"That's  it — no  one  got  a  right  to  invade  personal  liberty," 
said  Orville  Jones. 

"Just  the  same,  you  don't  want  to  forget  prohibition  is  a 
mighty  good  thing  for  the  working-classes.  Keeps  'em  from 
wasting  their  money  and  lowering  their  productiveness,"  said 
Vergil  Gunch. 

"Yes,  that's  so.  But  the  trouble  is  the  manner  of  enforce- 
ment," insisted  Howard  Littlefield.  "Congress  didn't  under- 
stand the  right  system.    Now,  if  I'd  been  running  the  thing,. 


BABBITT  115 

I'd  have  arranged  it  so  that  the  drinker  himself  was  licensed, 
and  then  we  could  have  taken  care  of  the  shiftless  workman — 
kept  him  from  drinking — and  yet  not  've  interfered  with  the 
rights — with  the  personal  liberty — of  fellows  like  ourselves." 

They  bobbed  their  heads,  looked  admiringly  at  one  another, 
and  stated,  'That's  so,  that  would  be  the  stunt." 

'The  thing  that  worries  me  is  that  a  lot  of  these  guys  will 
take  to  cocaine,"  sighed  Eddie  Swanson. 

They  bobbed  more  violently,  and  groaned,  "That's  so,  there 
is  a  danger  of  that." 

Chum  Frink  chanted,  "Oh,  say,  I  got  hold  of  a  swell  new 
receipt  for  home-made  beer  the  other  day.    You  take — " 

Gunch  interrupted,  "Wait!  Let  me  tell  you  mine!"  Little- 
field  snorted,  "Beer!  Rats!  Thing  to  do  is  to  ferment  cider!" 
Jones  insisted,  "I've  got  the  receipt  that  does  the  business!" 
Swanson  begged,  "Oh,  say,  lemme  tell  you  the  story — "  But 
Frink  went  on  resolutely,  "You  take  and  save  the  shells  from 
peas,  and  pour  six  gallons  of  water  on  a  bushel  of  shells  and 
boil  the  mixture  till — " 

Mrs.  Babbitt  turned  toward  them  with  yearning  sweetness; 
Frink  hastened  to  finish  even  his  best  beer-recipe;  and  she 
said  gaily,  "Dinner  is  served." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  friendly  argument  among  the  men 
as  to  which  should  go  in  last,  and  while  they  were  crossing  the 
hall  from  the  living-room  to  the  dining-room  Vergil  Gunch 
made  them  laugh  by  thundering,  "If  I  can't  sit  next  to  Myra 
Babbitt  and  hold  her  hand  under  the  table,  I  won't  play — I'm 
goin'  home."  In  the  dining-room  they  stood  embarrassed  while 
Mrs.  Babbitt  fluttered,  "Now,  let  me  see —  Oh,  I  was  going 
to  have  some  nice  hand-painted  place-cards  for  you  but —  Oh, 
let  me  see;  Mr.  Frink,  you  sit  there." 

The  dinner  was  in  the  best  style  of  women's-magazine  art, 
whereby  the  salad  was  served  in  hollowed  apples,  and  every- 
thing but  the  invincible  fried  chicken  resembled  something 
else. 


ii6  BABBITT 

Ordinarily  the  men  found  it  hard  to  talk  to  the  women; 
flirtation  was  an  art  unknown  on  Floral  Heights,  and  the 
realms  of  offices  and  of  kitchens  had  no  alliances.  But  under 
the  inspiration  of  the  cocktails,  conversation  was  violent.  Each 
of  the  men  still  had  a  number  of  important  things  to  say  about 
prohibition,  and  now  that  each  had  a  loyal  listener  in  his 
dinner-partner  he  burst  out: 

"I  found  a  place  where  I  can  get  all  the  hootch  I  want  at 
eight  a  quart — " 

"Did  you  read  about  this  fellow  that  went  and  paid  a  thou- 
sand dollars  for  ten  cases  of  red-eye  that  proved  to  be  noth- 
ing but  water?  Seems  this  fellow  was  standing  on  the  corner 
and  fellow  comes  up  to  him — " 

"They  say  there's  a  whole  raft  of  stuff  being  smuggled  across 
at  Detroit—" 

"What  I  always  say  is — ^what  a  lot  of  folks  don't  realize 
about  prohibition — " 

"And  then  you  get  all  this  awful  poison  stuff — wood  alcohol 
and  everything — " 

"Course  I  believe  in  it  on  principle,  but  I  don't  propose 
to  have  anybody  telling  me  what  I  got  to  think  and  do.  No 
American  '11  ever  stand  for  that!" 

But  they  all  felt  that  it  was  rather  in  bad  taste  for  Orville 
Jones — and  he  not  recognized  as  one  of  the  wits  of  the  occasion 
anyway — to  say,  "In  fact,  the  whole  thing  about  prohibition  is 
this:  it  isn't  the  initial  cost,  it's  the  humidity." 

Not  till  the  one  required  topic  had  been  dealt  with  did  the 
conversation  become  general. 

It  was  often  and  admiringly  said  of  Vergil  Gunch,  "Gee,  that 
fellow  can  get  away  with  murder!  Why,  he  can  pull  a  Raw 
One  in  mixed  company  and  all  the  ladies  '11  laugh  their  heads 
off,  but  me,  gosh,  if  I  crack  anything  that's  just  the  least  bit 
off  color  I  get  the  razz  for  fair!"  Now  Gunch  delighted  them 
by  crying  to  Mrs.  Eddie  Swanson,  youngest  of  the  women, 
"Louetta!     I  managed  to  pinch  Eddie's  doorkey  out  of  his 


BABBITT  117 

pocket,  and  what  say  you  and  me  sneak  across  the  street  when 
the  folks  aren't  looking?  Got  something,"  with  a  gorgeous 
leer,  "awful  important  to  tell  you!" 

The  women  wriggled,  and  Babbitt  was  stirred  to  like  naugh- 
tiness. "Say,  folks,  I  wished  I  dared  show  you  a  book  I  bor- 
rowed from  Doc  Patten!" 

"Now,  George!     The  idea!"    Mrs.  Babbitt  warned  him. 

"This  book — racy  isn't  the  word!  It's  some  kind  of  an 
anthropological  report  about — about  Customs,  in  the  South 
Seas,  and  what  it  doesn't  sayt  It's  a  book  you  can't  buy. 
Verg,  I'll  lend  it  to  you." 

"Me  j&rst!"  insisted  Eddie  Swanson.    "Sounds  spicy!" 

Orville  Jones  announced,  "Say,  I  heard  a  Good  One  the 
other  day  about  a  coupla  Swedes  and  their  wives,"  and,  in  the 
best  Jewish  accent,  he  resolutely  carried  the  Good  One  to  a 
slightly  disinfected  ending.  Gunch  capped  it.  But  the  cock- 
tails waned,  the  seekers  dropped  back  into  cautious  reality. 

Chum  Frink  had  recently  been  on  a  lecture-tour  among  the 
small  towns,  and  he  chuckled,  "Awful  good  to  get  back  to  civ- 
ilization! I  certainly  been  seeing  some  hick  towns!  I  mean — 
Course  the  folks  there  are  the  best  on  earth,  but,  gee  whiz, 
those  Main  Street  burgs  are  slow,  and  you  fellows  can't  hardly 
appreciate  what  it  means  to  be  here  with  a  bunch  of  live  ones! " 

"You  bet!"  exulted  Orville  Jones.  "They're  the  best  folks 
on  earth,  those  small-town  folks,  but,  oh,  mama!  what  con- 
versation! Why,  say,  they  can't  talk  about  anything  but  the 
weather  and  the  ne-00  Ford,  by  heckalorum!" 

"That's  right.  They  all  talk  about  just  the  same  things," 
said  Eddie  Swanson. 

"Don't  they,  though!  They  just  say  the  same  thmgs  over 
and  over,"  said  Vergil  Gunch. 

"Yes,  it's  really  remarkable.  They  seem  to  lack  all  power 
of  looking  at  things  impersonally.  They  simply  go  over  and 
over  the  same  talk  about  Fords  and  the  weather  and  so  on,*' 
said  Howard  Littlefield. 


ii8  BABBITT 

"Still,  at  that,  you  can't  blame  'em.  They  haven't  got  any 
intellectual  stimulus  such  as  you  get  up  here  in  the  city," 
said  Chum  Frink. 

"Gosh,  that's  right,"  said  Babbitt.  "I  don't  want  you  high- 
brows to  get  stuck  on  yourselves  but  I  must  say  it  keeps  a 
fellow  right  up  on  his  toes  to  sit  in  with  a  poet  and  with  How- 
ard, the  guy  that  put  the  con  in  economics!  But  these  small- 
town boobs,  with  nobody  but  each  other  to  talk  to,  no  wonder 
they  get  so  sloppy  and  uncultured  in  their  speech,  and  so 
balled-up  in  their  thinking!" 

Orville  Jones  commented,  "And,  then  take  our  other  advan- 
tages— the  movies,  frinstance.  These  Yapville  sports  think 
they're  all-get-out  if  they  have  one  change  of  bill  a  week, 
where  here  in  the  city  you  got  your  choice  of  a  dozen  diff'rent 
movies  any  evening  you  want  to  name!" 

"Sure,  and  the  inspiration  we  get  from  rubbing  up  against 
high-class  hustlers  every  day  and  getting  jam  full  of  ginger," 
said  Eddie  Swanson. 

"Same  time,"  said  Babbitt,  "no  sense  excusing  these  rube 
burgs  too  easy.  Fellow's  own  fault  if  he  doesn't  show  the 
initiative  to  up  and  beat  it  to  the  city,  like  we  done — did.  And, 
just  speaking  in  confidence  among  friends,  they're  jealous  as 
the  devil  of  a  city  man.  Every  time  I  go  up  to  Catawba  I 
have  to  go  around  apologizing  to  the  fellows  I  was  brought  up 
with  because  I've  more  or  less  succeeded  and  they  haven't. 
And  if  you  talk  natural  to  'em,  way  we  do  here,  and  show 
finesse  and  what  you  might  call  a  broad  point  of  view,  why, 
they  think  you're  putting  on  side.  There's  my  own  half- 
brother  Martin — runs  the  little  ole  general  store  my  Dad  used 
to  keep.  Say,  I'll  bet  he  don't  know  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
a  Tux — as  a  dinner-jacket.  If  he  was  to  come  in  here  now, 
he'd  think  we  were  a  bunch  of — of —  Why,  gosh,  I  swear,  he 
wouldn't  know  what  to  think!     Yes,  sir,  they're  jealous!" 

Chum  Frink  agreed,  "That's  so.  But  what  I  mind  is  their 
iack  of  culture  and  appreciation  of  the  Beautiful — if  you'll 


BABBITT  119 

excuse  me  for  being  highbrow.  Now,  I  like  to  give  a  high-class 
lecture,  and  read  some  of  my  best  poetry — not  the  newspaper 
stuff  but  the  magazine  things.  But  say,  when  I  get  out  in 
the  tall  grass,  there's  nothing  will  take  but  a  lot  of  cheesy 
old  stories  and  slang  and  junk  that  if  any  of  us  were  to  indulge 
in  it  here,  he'd  get  the  gate  so  fast  it  would  make  his  head 
swim." 

Vergil  Gunch  summed  it  up:  "Fact  is,  we're  mighty  lucky 
to  be  living  among  a  bunch  of  city-folks,  that  recognize  artistic 
things  and  business-punch  equally.  We'd  feel  pretty  glum  if 
we  got  stuck  in  some  Main  Street  burg  and  tried  to  wise  up 
the  old  codgers  to  the  kind  of  life  we're  used  to  here.  But, 
by  golly,  there's  this  you  got  to  say  for  'em:  Every  small 
American  town  is  trying  to  get  population  and  modern  ideals. 
And  darn  if  a  lot  of  'em  don't  put  it  across!  Somebody 
starts  panning  a  rube  crossroads,  telling  how  he  was  there  in 
1900  and  it  consisted  of  one  muddy  street,  count  'em,  one, 
and  nine  hundred  human  clams.  Well,  you  go  back  there  in 
1920,  and  you  find  pavements  and  a  swell  little  hotel  and  a 
first-class  ladies'  ready-to-wear  shop — real  perfection,  in  fact! 
You  don't  want  to  just  look  at  what  these  small  towns  are, 
you  want  to  look  at  what  they're  aiming  to  become,  and  they 
all  got  an  ambition  that  in  the  long  run  is  going  to  make  'em 
the  finest  spots  on  earth — they  all  want  to  be  just  like  Zenith!" 

Ill 

However  intimate  they  might  be  with  T.  Cholmondeley 
Frink  as  a  neighbor,  as  a  borrower  of  lawn-mowers  and  mon- 
key-wrenches, they  knew  that  he  was  also  a  Famous  Poet 
and  a  distinguished  advertising-agent;  that  behind  his  easiness 
were  sultry  literary  mysteries  which  they  could  not  penetrate. 
But  to-night,  in  the  gin-evolved  confidence,  he  admitted  them 
to  the  arcanum: 

"I've  got  a  literary  problem  that's  worrying  me  to  death. 


I120  BABBITT 

I'm  doing  a  series  of  ads  for  the  Zeeco  Car  and  I  want  to 
make  each  of  'em  a  real  little  gem — reg'lar  stylistic  stuff.  I'm 
all  for  this  theory  that  perfection  is  the  stunt,  or  nothing  at 
all,  and  these  are  as  tough  things  as  I  ever  tackled.  You 
might  think  it'd  be  harder  to  do  my  poems — all  these  Heart 
Topics:  home  and  fireside  and  happiness —  but  they're  cinches. 
You  can't  go  wrong  on  'em;  you  know  what  sentiments  any 
decent  go-ahead  fellow  must  have  if  he  plays  the  game,  and 
you  stick  right  to  'em.  But  the  poetry  of  industrialism,  now 
there's  a  literary  line  where  you  got  to  open  up  new  territory. 
Do  you  know  the  fellow  who's  really  the  American  genius? 
The  fellow  who  you  don't  know  his  name  and  I  don't  either, 
but  his  work  ought  to  be  preserved  so's  future  generations  can 
judge  our  American  thought  and  originality  to-day?  Why, 
the  fellow  that  writes  the  Prince  Albert  Tobacco  ads!  Just 
listen  to  this: 

It's  P.A.  that  jams  such  joy  in  jimmy  pipes.  Say — bet 
you've  often  bent-an-ear  to  that  spill-of-speech  about 
hopping  from  five  to  f-i-f-t-y  p-e-r  by  "stepping  on  her 
a  bit  I"  Guess  that's  going  some,  all  right — BUT — 
just  among  ourselves,  you  better  start  a  rapidwhiz  sys- 
tem to  keep  tabs  as  to  how  fast  j^ou'Il  buzz  from  low 
smoke  spirits  to  tip-top-high — once  you  line  up  behind 
a  jimmy  pipe  that's  all  aglow  with  that  peach-of-a- 
pal,  Prince  Albert. 

Prince  Albert  is  john-on-the-job — always  joy'usly 
more-u/t  in  flavor;  always  delightfully  cool  and  fra- 
grant! For  a  fact,  you  never  hooked  such  double- 
decked,  copper-riveted,  two-fisted   smoke  enjoyment! 

Go  to  a  pipe — speed-o-quick  like  you  light  on  a  good 
thing!  Why — packed  with  Prince  Albert  you  can  play 
a  joy'us  jimmy  straight  across  the  boards!  And  you 
know  what  that  means!" 

"Now  that,"  caroled  the  motor  agent,  Eddie  Swanson,  "that's 
what  I  call  he-literature!    That  Prince  Albert  fellow— though,  « 


BABBITT  121 

gosh,  there  can't  be  just  one  fellow  that  writes  'em;  must  be 
a  big  board  of  classy  ink-slingers  in  conference,  but  anyway: 
now,  him,  he  doesn't  write  for  long-haired  pikers,  he  writes 
for  Regular  Guys,  he  writes  for  me,  and  I  tip  my  benny  to 
him!  The  only  thing  is:  I  wonder  if  it  sells  the  goods? 
Course,  like  all  these  poets,  this  Prince  Albert  fellow  lets  his 
idea  run  away  with  him.  It  makes  elegant  reading,  but  it 
don't  say  nothing.  I'd  never  go  out  and  buy  Prince  Albert 
Tobacco  after  reading  it,  because  it  doesn't  tell  me  anything 
about  the  stuff.    It's  just  a  bunch  of  fluff." 

Frink  faced  him:  "Oh,  you're  crazy!  Have  I  got  to  sell 
you  the  idea  of  Style?  Anyway,  that's  the  kind  of  stuff  I'd 
like  to  do  for  the  Zeeco.  But  I  simply  can't.  So  I  decided 
to  stick  to  the  straight  poetic,  and  I  took  a  shot  at  a  highbrow 
ad  for  the  Zeeco.    How  do  you  like  this: 

The  long  white  trail  is  calling — calling — and  it's  over 
the  hills  and  far  away  for  every  man  or  woman  that 
has  red  blood  in  his  veins  and  on  his  lips  the  ancient 
song  of  the  buccaneers.  It's  away  with  dull  drudging, 
and  a  fig  for  care.  Speed — glorious  Speed — it's  more 
than  just  a  moment's  exhilaration — it's  Life  for  you 
and  me !  This  great  new  truth  the  makers  of  the  Zeeco 
Car  have  considered  as  much  as  price  and  style.  It's 
fleet  as  the  antelope,  smooth  as  the  glide  of  a  swallow, 
yet  powerful  as  the  charge  of  a  bull-elephant.  Class 
breathes  in  every  line.  Listen,  brother !  You'll  never 
know  what  the  high  art  of  hiking  is  till  you  TRY 
LIFE'S  ZIPPINGEST  ZEST— THE  ZEECO  1 

"Yes,"  Frink  mused,  "that's  got  an  elegant  color  to  it,  if  1 

do  say  so,  but  it  ain't  got  the  originality  of  'spill-of-speech!"" 

The  whole  company  sighed  with  sympathy  and  admiration. 


CHAPTER  IX 


Babbitt  was  fond  of  his  friends,  he  loved  the  importance 
of  being  host  and  shouting,  "Certainly,  you're  going  to  have 
smore  chicken — the  idea!"  and  he  appreciated  the  genius  of 
T.  Cholmondeley  Frink,  but  the  vigor  of  the  cocktails  was 
gone,  and  the  more  he  ate  the  less  joyful  he  felt.  Then  the 
amity  of  the  dinner  was  destroyed  by  the  nagging  of  the  Swan- 
sons. 

In  Floral  Heights  and  the  other  prosperous  sections  of  Zen- 
ith, especially  in  the  "young  married  set,"  there  were  many 
women  who  had  nothing  to  do.  Though  they  had  few  servants, 
yet  with  gas  stoves,  electric  ranges  and  dish-washers  and 
vacuum  cleaners,  and  tiled  kitchen  walls,  their  houses  were 
so  convenient  that  they  had  little  housework,  and  much  of 
their  food  came  from  bakeries  and  delicatessens.  They  had 
but  two,  one,  or  no  children;  and  despite  the  myth  that  the 
Great  War  had  made  work  respectable,  their  husbands  ob- 
jected to  their  "wasting  time  and  getting  a  lot  of  crank  ideas" 
in  unpaid  social  work,  and  still  more  to  their  causing  a  rumor, 
by  earning  money,  that  they  were  not  adequately  supported. 
They  worked  perhaps  two  hours  a  day,  and  the  rest  of  the 
time  they  ate  chocolates,  went  to  the  motion-pictures,  went 
window-shopping,  went  in  gossiping  twos  and  threes  to  card- 
parties,  read  magazines,  thought  timorously  of  the  lovers  who 
never  appeared,  and  accumulated  a  splendid  restlessness  which 
they  got  rid  of  by  nagging  their  husbands.  The  husbands 
nagged  back. 

Of  these  naggers  the  Swansons  were  perfect  specimens. 

Throughout  the  dinner  Eddie  Swanson  had  been  complaining, 

122 


BABBITT  123 

publicly,  about  his  wife's  new  frock.  It  was,  he  submitted, 
too  short,  too  low,  too  immodestly  thin,  and  much  too  expen- 
sive.   He  appealed  to  Babbitt: 

"Honest,  George,  what  do  you  think  of  that  rag  Louetta 
went  and  bought?    Don't  you  think  it's  the  limit?" 

"What's  eating  you,  Eddie?     I  call  it  a  swell  little  dress." 

"Oh,  it  is,  Mr.  Swanson.  It's  a  sweet  frock,"  Mrs.  Babbitt 
protested. 

"There  now,  do  you  see,  smarty!  You're  such  an  authority 
on  clothes!"  Louetta  raged,  while  the  guests  ruminated  and 
peeped  at  her  shoulders. 

"That's  all  right  now,"  said  Swanson.  "I'm  authority  enough 
so  I  know  it  was  a  waste  of  money,  and  it  makes  me  tired  to 
see  you  not  wearing  out  a  whole  closetful  of  clothes  you  got 
already.  I've  expressed  my  idea  about  this  before,  and  you 
know  good  and  well  you  didn't  pay  the  least  bit  of  attention. 
I  have  to  camp  on  your  trail  to  get  you  to  do  anything — " 

There  was  much  more  of  it,  and  they  all  assisted,  all  but 
Babbitt.  Everything  about  him  was  dim  except  his  stomach, 
and  that  was  a  bright  scarlet  disturbance.  "Had  too  much 
grub;  oughtn't  to  eat  this  stuff,"  he  groaned — while  he  went 
on  eating,  while  he  gulped  down  a  chill  and  glutinous  slice  of 
the  ice-cream  brick,  and  cocoanut  cake  as  oozy  as  shaving- 
cream.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  been  stuffed  with  clay;  his 
body  was  bursting,  his  throat  was  bursting,  his  brain  was  hot 
mud;  and  only  with  agony  did  he  continue  to  smile  and  shout 
as  became  a  host  on  Floral  Heights. 

He  would,  except  for  his  guests,  have  fled  outdoors  and 
walked  ofif  the  intoxication  of  food,  but  in  the  haze  which 
filled  the  room  they  sat  forever,  talking,  talking,  while  he 
agonized,  "Darn  fool  to  be  eating  all  this — not  'nother  mouth- 
ful," and  discovered  that  he  was  again  tasting  the  sickly  welter 
of  melted  ice  cream  on  his  plate.  There  was  no  magic  in  his 
friends;  he  was  not  uplifted  when  Howard  Littlefaeld  produced 
from  his  treasure-house  of  scholarship  the  information  that  the 


124  BABBITT 

chemical  symbol  for  raw  rubber  is  CjoHig,  which  turns  into 
isoprene,  or  2C5H8.  Suddenly,  without  precedent,  Babbitt  was 
not  merely  bored  but  admitting  that  he  was  bored.  It  was 
ecstasy  to  escape  from  the  table,  from  the  torture  of  a  straight 
chair,  and  loll  on  the  davenport  in  the  living-room. 

The  others,  from  their  fitful  unconvincing  talk,  their  expres- 
sions of  being  slowly  and  painfully  smothered,  seemed  to  be 
suffering  from  the  toil  of  social  life  and  the  horror  of  good 
food  as  much  as  himself.  All  of  them  accepted  with  relief 
the  suggestion  of  bridge. 

Babbitt  recovered  from  the  feeling  of  being  boiled.  He  won 
at  bridge.  He  was  again  able  to  endure  Vergil  Gunch's  inex- 
orable heartiness.  But  he  pictured  loafing  with  Paul  Riesling 
beside  a  lake  in  Maine.  It  was  as  overpowering  and  imagina- 
tive as  homesickness.  He  had  never  seen  Maine,  yet  he  beheld 
the  shrouded  mountains,  the  tranquil  lake  of  evening.  "That 
boy  Paul's  worth  all  these  ballyhooing  highbrows  put  together," 
he  muttered;  and,  "I'd  like  to  get  away  from — everything." 

Even  Louetta  Swanson  did  not  rouse  him. 

Mrs.  Swanson  was  pretty  and  pliant.  Babbitt  was  not  an 
analyst  of  women,  except  as  to  their  tastes  in  Furnished  Houses 
to  Rent.  He  divided  them  into  Real  Ladies,  Working  Women, 
Old  Cranks,  and  Fly  Chickens.  He  mooned  over  their  charms 
but  he  was  of  opinion  that  all  of  them  (save  the  women  of  his 
own  family)  were  "different"  and  "mysterious."  Yet  he  had 
known  by  instinct  that  Louetta  Swanson  could  be  approached. 
Her  eyes  and  lips  were  moist.  Her  face  tapered  from  a  broad 
forehead  to  a  pointed  chin,  her  mouth  was  thin  but  strong  and 
avid,  and  between  her  brows  were  two  outcurving  and  passion- 
ate wrinkles.  She  was  thirty,  perhaps,  or  younger.  Gossip 
had  never  touched  her,  but  every  man  naturally  and  instantly 
rose  to  fiirtatiousness  when  he  spoke  to  her,  and  every  woman 
watched  her  with  stilled  blankness. 

Between  games,  sitting  on  the  davenport.  Babbitt  spoke  to 
her  with  the  requisite  gallantry,  that  sonorous  Floral  Heights 


BABBITT  125 

gallantry  which  is  not  flirtation  but  a  terrified  flight  from  it: 

"You're  looking  like  a  new  soda-fountain  to-night,  Louetta." 

"Am  I?" 

"Ole  Eddie  kind  of  on  the  rampage." 

"Yes.    I  get  so  sick  of  it." 

"Well,  when  you  get  tired  of  hubby,  you  can  run  off  with 
Uncle  George." 

"If  I  ran  away—    Oh,  well—" 

"Anybody  ever  tell  you  your  hands  are  awful  pretty?" 

She  looked  down  at  them,  she  pulled  the  lace  of  her  sleeves 
over  them,  but  otherwise  she  did  not  heed  him.  She  was  lost 
in  unexpressed  imaginings. 

Babbitt  was  too  languid  this  evening  to  pursue  his  duty  of 
being  a  captivating  (though  strictly  moral)  male.  He  ambled 
back  to  the  bridge-tables.  He  was  not  much  thrilled  when 
Mrs.  Frink,  a  small  twittering  woman,  proposed  that  they 
"try  and  do  some  spiritualism  and  table-tipping — you  know 
Chum  can  make  the  spirits  come — honest,  he  just  scares  me!" 

The  ladies  of  the  party  had  not  emerged  all  evening,  but 
now,  as  the  sex  given  to  things  of  the  spirit  while  the  men 
warred  against  base  things  material,  they  took  command  and 
cried,  "Oh,  let's!"  In  the  dimness  the  men  were  rather  solemn 
and  foolish,  but  the  goodwives  quivered  and  adored  as  they 
sat  about  the  table.  They  laughed,  "Now,  you  be  good  or 
I'll  tell ! "  when  the  men  took  their  hands  in  the  circle. 

Babbitt  tingled  with  a  slight  return  of  interest  in  life  as 
Louetta  Swanson's  hand  closed  on  his  with  quiet  firmness. 

All  of  them  hunched  over,  intent.  They  startled  as  some  one 
drew  a  strained  breath.  In  the  dusty  light  from  the  hall  they 
looked  unreal,  they  felt  disembodied.  Mrs.  Gunch  squeaked, 
and  they  jumped  with  unnatural  jocularity,  but  at  Frink's  hiss 
they  sank  into  subdued  awe.  Suddenly,  incredibly,  they  heard 
a  knocking.  They  stared  at  Frink's  half-revealed  hands  and 
found  them  lying  still.  They  wriggled,  and  pretended  not  to 
be  impressed. 


126  BABBITT 

Frink  spoke  with  gravity:  "Is  some  one  there?"  A  thud. 
*'Is  one  knock  to  be  the  sign  for  'yes'?"  A  thud.  "And  two 
for  'no'?"    A  thud. 

"Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  shall  we  ask  the  guide  to  put 
us  into  communication  with  the  spirit  of  some  great  one  passed 
over?"  Frink  mumbled. 

Mrs.  Orville  Jones  begged,  "Oh,  let's  talk  to  Dante!  We 
studied  him  at  the  Reading  Circle.  You  know  who  he  was, 
Orvy." 

"Certainly  I  know  who  he  was!  The  Wop  poet.  Where  do 
you  think  I  was  raised?"  from  her  insulted  husband. 

"Sure— the  fellow  that  took  the  Cook's  Tour  to  Hell.  I've 
never  waded  through  his  po'try,  but  we  learned  about  him  in 
the  U.,"  said  Babbitt. 

"Page  Mr.  Dannnnnty!"  intoned  Eddie  Swanson. 

"You  ought  to  get  him  easy,  Mr.  Frink,  you  and  he  being 
fellow-poets,"  said  Louetta  Swanson. 

-  "Fellow-poets,  rats!  Where  d'  you  get  that  stuff?"  pro- 
tested Vergil  Gunch.  "I  suppose  Dante  showed  a  lot  of  speed 
for  an  old-timer — not  that  I've  actually  read  him,  of  course — 
but  to  come  right  down  to  hard  facts,  he  wouldn't  stand  one- 
two-three  if  he  had  to  buckle  down  to  practical  literature  and 
turn  out  a  poem  for  the  newspaper-syndicate  every  day,  like 
Chum  does!" 

"That's  so,"  from  Eddie  Swanson.  "Those  old  birds  could 
take  their  time,  Judas  Priest,  I  could  write  poetry  myself  if 
I  had  a  whole  year  for  it,  and  just  wrote  about  that  old-fash- 
ioned junk  like  Dante  wrote  about." 

Frink  demanded,  "Hush,  now!  I'll  call  him.  .  .  .  O,  Laugh- 
ing Eyes,  emerge  forth  into  the,  uh,  the  ultimates  and  bring 
hither  the  spirit  of  Dante,  that  we  mortals  may  list  to  his 
words  of  wisdom." 

"You  forgot  to  give  um  the  address:  1658  Brimstone  Ave- 
nue, Fiery  Heights,  Hell,"  Gunch  chuckled,  but  the  others 
felt  that  this  was  irreligious.    And  besides — "probably  it  was 


BABBITT  127 

just  Chum  making  the  knocks,  but  still,  if  there  did  happen  to 
be  something  to  all  this,  be  exciting  to  talk  to  an  old  fellow 
belonging  to — way  back  in  early  times — " 

A  thud.  The  spirit  of  Dante  had  come  to  the  parlor  of 
George  F.  Babbitt. 

He  was,  it  seemed,  quite  ready  to  answer  their  questions. 
He  was  "glad  to  be  with  them,  this  evening." 

Frink  spelled  out  the  messages  by  running  through  the  alpha- 
bet till  the  spirit  interpreter  knocked  at  the  right  letter. 

Littlefield  asked,  in  a  learned  tone,  "Do  you  like  it  in  the 
Paradiso,  Messire?" 

"We  are  very  happy  on  the  higher  plane,  Signor.  We  are 
glad  that  you  are  studying  this  great  truth  of  spiritualism," 
Dante  replied. 

The  circle  moved  with  an  awed  creaking  of  stays  and  shirt- 
fronts.     "Suppose — suppose  there  were  something  to  this?" 

Babbitt  had  a  different  worry.  "Suppose  Chum  Frink  was 
really  one  of  these  spiritualists  1  Chum  had,  for  a  literary 
fellow,  always  seemed  to  be  a  Regular  Guy;  he  belonged  to 
the  Chatham  Road  Presbyterian  Church  and  went  to  the 
Boosters'  lunches  and  liked  cigars  and  motors  and  racy  stories. 
But  suppose  that  secretly —  After  all,  you  never  could  tell 
about  these  darn  highbrows;  and  to  be  an  out-and-out  spirit- 
ualist would  be  almost  like  being  a  socialist!" 

No  one  could  long  be  serious  in  the  presence  of  Vergil  Gunch. 
"Ask  Dant'  how  Jack  Shakespeare  and  old  Verg' — the  guy 
they  named  after  me — are  gettin'  along,  and  don't  they  wish 
they  could  get  into  the  movie  game!"  he  blared,  and  instantly 
all  was  mirth.  Mrs.  Jones  shrieked,  and  Eddie  Swanson  de- 
sired to  know  whether  Dante  didn't  catch  cold  with  nothing 
on  but  his  wreath. 

The  pleased  Dante  made  humble  answer. 

But  Babbitt — the  curst  discontent  was  torturing  him  again, 
and  heavily,  in  the  impersonal  darkness,  he  pondered,  "I 
don't —    We're  all  so  flip  and  think  we're  so  smart.    There'd 


128  BABBITT 

be —  A  fellow  like  Dante —  I  wish  I'd  read  some  of  his 
pieces.    I  don't  suppose  I  ever  will,  now." 

He  had,  without  explanation,  the  impression  of  a  slaggy  cliff 
and  on  it,  in  silhouette  against  menacing  clouds,  a  lone  and 
austere  figure.  He  was  dismayed  by  a  sudden  contempt  for 
his  surest  friends.  He  grasped  Louetta  Swanson's  hand,  and 
found  the  comfort  of  human  warmth.  Habit  came,  a  veteran 
warrior;  and  he  shook  himself.  "What  the  deuce  is  the  mat- 
ter with  me,  this  evening?" 

He  patted  Louetta's  hand,  to  indicate  that  he  hadn't  meant 
anything  improper  by  squeezing  it,  and  demanded  of  Frink, 
"Say,  see  if  you  can  get  old  Dant'  to  spiel  us  some  of  his 
poetry.  Talk  up  to  him.  Tell  him,  'Buena  giorna,  senor,  com 
sa  va,  wie  geht's?    Keskersaykersa  a  little  pome,  sehor?' " 

n 

The  lights  were  switched  on ;  the  women  sat  on  the  fronts  of 
their  chairs  in  that  determined  suspense  whereby  a  wife  indi- 
cates that  as  soon  as  the  present  speaker  has  finished,  she  is 
going  to  remark  brightly  to  her  husband,  "Well,  dear,  I  think 
per-haps  it's  about  time  for  us  to  be  saying  good-night."  For 
once  Babbitt  did  not  break  out  in  blustering  efforts  to  keep 
the  party  going.  He  had — there  was  something  he  wished  to 
think  out —  But  the  psychical  research  had  started  them  off 
again.  ("Why  didn't  they  go  home!  Why  didn't  they  go 
home!")  Though  he  was  impressed  by  the  profundity  of  the 
statement,  he  was  only  half-enthusiastic  when  Howard  Little- 
field  lectured,  "The  United  States  is  the  only  nation  in  which 
the  government  is  a  Moral  Ideal  and  not  just  a  social  ar- 
rangement." ("True — true — ^weren't  they  ever  going  home?") 
He  was  usually  delighted  to  have  an  "inside  view"  of  the  mo- 
mentous world  of  motors  but  to-night  he  scarcely  listened  to 
Eddie  Swanson's  revelation:  "If  you  want  to  go  above  the 
Javelin  class,  the  Zeeco  is  a  mighty  good  buy.    Couple  weeks 


BABBITT  129 

ago,  and  mind  you,  this  was  a  fair,  square  test,  they  took  a 
Zeeco  stock  touring-car  and  they  sHd  up  the  Tonawanda  hill 
on  high,  and  fellow  told  me — "  ("Zeeco — good  boat  but — ■ 
Were  they  planning  to  stay  all  night?") 

They  really  were  going,  with  a  flutter  of  "We  did  have  the 
best  time!" 

Most  aggressively  friendly  of  all  was  Babbitt,  yet  as  he  bur- 
bled he  was  reflecting,  "I  got  through  it,  but  for  a  while  there 
I  didn't  hardly  think  I'd  last  out."  He  prepared  to  taste  that 
most  delicate  pleasure  of  the  host:  making  fun  of  his  guests 
in  the  relaxation  of  midnight.  As  the  door  closed  he  yawned 
voluptuously,  chest  out,  shoulders  wriggling,  and  turned  cyn- 
ically to  his  wife. 

She  was  beaming.  "Oh,  it  was  nice,  wasn't  it!  I  know  they 
enjoyed  every  minute  of  it.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

He  couldn't  do  it.  He  couldn't  mock.  It  would  have  been 
like  sneering  at  a  happy  child.  He  lied  ponderously:  "You 
bet!     Best  party  this  year,  by  a  long  shot." 

"Wasn't  the  dinner  good!  And  honestly  I  thought  the  fried 
chicken  was  delicious!" 

"You  bet!  Fried  to  the  Queen's  taste.  Best  fried  chicken 
I've  tasted  for  a  coon's  age." 

"Didn't  Matilda  fry  it  beautifully!  And  don't  you  think 
the  soup  was  simply  delicious?" 

"It  certainly  was!  It  was  corking!  Best  soup  I've  tasted 
since  Heck  was  a  pup!"  But  his  voice  was  seeping  away. 
They  stood  in  the  hall,  under  the  electric  light  in  its  square 
box-like  shade  of  red  glass  bound  with  nickel.  She  stared  at 
him. 

"Why,  George,  you  don't  sound — ^you  sound  as  if  you  hadn't 
really  enjoyed  it." 

"Sure  I  did!     Course  I  did!" 

"George!    What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  I'm  kind  of  tired,  I  guess.  Been  pounding  pretty  hard 
at  the  office.    Need  to  get  away  and  rest  up  a  little." 


I30  BABBITT 

"Well,  we're  going  to  Maine  in  just  a  few  weeks  now,  dear." 

"Yuh — "  Then  he  was  pouring  it  out  nakedly,  robbed  of 
reticence.  "Myra:  I  think  it'd  be  a  good  thing  for  me  to 
get  up  there  early." 

"But  you  have  this  man  you  have  to  meet  in  New  York 
about  business." 

"What  man?  Oh,  sure.  Him.  Oh,  that's  all  off.  But  I 
want  to  hit  Maine  early — get  in  a  little  fishing,  catch  me  a 
big  trout,  by  golly!"    A  nervous,  artificial  laugh. 

"Well,  why  don't  we  do  it?  Verona  and  Matilda  can  run 
the  house  between  them,  and  you  and  I  can  go  any  time,  if 
you  think  we  can  afford  it." 

"But  that's —  I've  been  feeling  so  jumpy  lately,  I  thought 
maybe  it  might  be  a  good  thing  if  I  kind  of  got  off  by  myself 
and  sweat  it  out  of  me." 

"George!  Don't  you  want  me  to  go  along?"  She  was  too 
wretchedly  in  earnest  to  be  tragic,  or  gloriously  insulted,  or 
anything  save  dumpy  and  defenseless  and  flushed  to  the  red 
steaminess  of  a  boiled  beet. 

"Of  course  I  do!  I  just  meant — "  Remembering  that  Paul 
Riesling  had  predicted  this,  he  was  as  desperate  as  she.  "I 
mean,  sometimes  it's  a  good  thing  for  an  old  grouch  like  me 
to  go  off  and  get  it  out  of  his  system."  He  tried  to  sound 
paternal.  "Then  when  you  and  the  kids  arrive — I  figured 
maybe  I  might  skip  up  to  Maine  just  a  few  days  ahead  of  you — 
I'd  be  ready  for  a  real  bat,  see  how  I  mean?"  He  coaxed  her 
with  large  booming  sounds,  with  affable  smiles,  like  a  popular 
preacher  blessing  an  Easter  congregation,  like  a  humorous  lec- 
turer completing  his  stint  of  eloquence,  like  all  perpetrators 
of  masculine  wiles. 

She  stared  at  him,  the  joy  of  festival  drained  from  her  face. 
"Do  I  bother  you  when  we  go  on  vacations?  Don't  I  add  any- 
thing to  your  fun?" 

He  broke.  Suddenly,  dreadfully,  he  was  hysterical,  he  was 
a  yelping  baby.     "Yes,  yes,  yes!     Hell,  yes!     But  can't  you 


BABBITT  131 

understand  I'm  shot  to  pieces?  I'm  all  in!  I  got  to  take 
care  of  myself!  I  tell  you,  I  got  to —  I'm  sick  of  everything 
and  everybody!     I  got  to — " 

It  was  she  who  was  mature  and  protective  now.  "Why,  of 
course!  You  shall  run  off  by  yourself!  Why  don't  you  get 
Paul  to  go  along,  and  you  boys  just  fish  and  have  a  good  time?" 
She  patted  his  shoulder — reaching  up  to  it — while  he  shook 
with  palsied  helplessness,  and  in  that  moment  was  not  merely 
by  habit  fond  of  her  but  clung  to  her  strength. 

She  cried  cheerily,  "Now  up-stairs  you  go,  and  pop  into 
bed.    We'll  fix  it  all  up.    I'll  see  to  the  doors.    Now  skip!" 

For  many  minutes,  for  many  hours,  for  a  bleak  eternity,  he 
lay  awake,  shivering,  reduced  to  primitive  terror,  comprehend- 
ing that  he  had  won  freedom,  and  wondering  what  he  could 
do  with  anything  so  unknown  and  so  embarrassing  as  freedom. 


CHAPTER  X 


No  apartment-house  in  Zenith  had  more  resolutely  experi- 
mented in  condensation  than  the  Revelstoke  Arms,  in  which 
Paul  and  Zilla  Riesling  had  a  flat.  By  sliding  the  beds  into 
low  closets  the  bedrooms  were  converted  into  living-rooms. 
The  kitchens  were  cupboards  each  containing  an  electric  range, 
a  copper  sink,  a  glass  refrigerator,  and,  very  intermittently,  a 
Balkan  maid.  Everything  about  the  Arms  was  excessively 
modern,  and  everything  was  compressed — except  the  garages. 

The  Babbitts  were  calling  on  the  Rieslings  at  the  Arms.  It 
was  a  speculative  venture  to  call  on  the  RiesHngs;  interesting 
and  sometimes  disconcerting.  Zilla  was  an  active,  strident, 
full-blown,  high-bosomed  blonde.  When  she  condescended  to 
be  good-humored  she  was  nervously  amusing.  Her  comments 
on  people  were  saltily  satiric  and  penetrative  of  accepted  hy- 
pocrisies. "That's  so!"  you  said,  and  looked  sheepish.  She 
danced  wildly,  and  called  on  the  world  to  be  merry,  but  in  the 
midst  of  it  she  would  turn  indignant.  She  was  always  becom- 
ing indignant.  Life  was  a  plot  against  her,  and  she  exposed 
it  furiously. 

She  was  affable  to-night.  She  merely  hinted  that  Orville 
Jones  wore  a  toupe,  that  Mrs.  T.  Cholmondeley  Frink's  sing- 
ing resembled  a  Ford  going  into  high,  and  that  the  Hon.  Otis 
Deeble,  mayor  of  Zenith  and  candidate  for  Congress,  was  a 
flatulent  fool  (which  was  quite  true).  The  Babbitts  and 
Rieslings  sat  doubtfully  on  stone-hard  brocade  chairs  in  the 
small  living-room  of  the  flat,  with  its  mantel  unprovided  with 
a  fireplace,  and  its  strip  of  heavy  gilt  fabric  upon  a  glaring 
new  player-piano,  till  Mrs.  Riesling  shrieked,  "Come  on!    Let's 

132 


BABBITT  133 

put  some  pep  in  it!  Get  out  your  fiddle,  Paul,  and  I'll  try 
to  make  Georgie  dance  decently." 

The  Babbitts  were  in  earnest.  They  were  plotting  for  the 
escape  to  Maine.  But  when  Mrs.  Babbitt  hinted  with  plump 
smilingness,  "Does  Paul  get  as  tired  after  the  winter's  work 
as  Georgie  does?"  then  Zilla  remembered  an  injury;  and  when 
Zilla  Riesling  remembered  an  injury  the  world  stopped  till 
something  had  been  done  about  it. 

"Does  he  get  tired?  No,  he  doesn't  get  tired,  he  just  goes 
crazy,  that's  all!  You  think  Paul  is  so  reasonable,  oh,  yes,  and 
he  loves  to  make  out  he's  a  little  lamb,  but  he's  stubborn  as 
a  mule.  Oh,  if  you  had  to  live  with  him- — !  You'd  find  out 
how  sweet  he  is !  He  just  pretends  to  be  meek  so  he  can  have 
his  own  way.  And  me,  I  get  the  credit  for  being  a  terrible  old 
crank,  but  if  I  didn't  blow  up  once  in  a  while  and  get  some- 
thing started,  we'd  die  of  dry-rot.  He  never  wants  to  go  any 
place  and —  Why,  last  evening,  just  because  the  car  was  out 
of  order — and  that  was  his  fault,  too,  because  he  ought  to  have 
taken  it  to  the  service-station  and  had  the  battery  looked  at — 
and  he  didn't  want  to  go  down  to  the  movies  on  the  trolley. 
But  we  went,  and  then  there  was  one  of  those  impudent  conduc- 
tors, and  Paul  wouldn't  do  a  thing. 

"I  was  standing  on  the  platform  waiting  for  the  people  to 
let  me  into  the  car,  and  this  beast,  this  conductor,  hollered  at 
me,  'Come  on,  you,  move  up!'  Why,  I've  never  had  anybody 
speak  to  me  that  way  in  all  my  life!  I  was  so  astonished  I 
just  turned  to  him  and  said — I  thought  there  must  be  some 
mistake,  and  so  I  said  to  him,  perfectly  pleasant,  'Were  you 
speaking  to  me?'  and  he  went  on  and  bellowed  at  me,  'Yes, 
I  was!  You're  keeping  the  whole  car  from  starting!'  he  said, 
and  then  I  saw  he  was  one  of  these  dirty  ill-bred  hogs  that 
kindness  is  wasted  on,  and  so  I  stopped  and  looked  right  at 
him,  and  I  said,  'I — beg — your — ^pardon,  I  am  not  doing  any- 
thing of  the  kind,'  I  said,  'it's  the  people  ahead  of  me,  who 
won't  move  up,'  I  said,  'and  furthermore,  let  me  tell  you,  young 


134  BABBITT 

man,  that  you're  a  low-down,  foul-mouthed,  impertinent  skunk,' 
I  said,  'and  you're  no  gentleman!  I  certainly  intend  to  report 
you,  and  we'll  see,'  I  said,  'whether  a  lady  is  to  be  insulted  by 
any  drunken  bum  that  chooses  to  put  on  a  ragged  uniform,  and 
I'd  thank  you,'  I  said,  'to  keep  your  filthy  abuse  to  yourself.' 
And  then  I  waited  for  Paul  to  show  he  was  half  a  man  and 
come  to  my  defense,  and  he  just  stood  there  and  pretended  he 
hadn't  heard  a  word,  and  so  I  said  to  him,  'Well,'  I  said — " 

"Oh,  cut  it,  cut  it,  Zill!"  Paul  groaned.  "We  all  know  I'm 
a  mollycoddle,  and  you're  a  tender  bud,  and  let's  let  it  go  at 
that." 

"Let  it  go?"  Zilla's  face  was  wrinkled  like  the  Medusa,  her 
voice  was  a  dagger  of  corroded  brass.  She  was  full  of  the  joy 
of  righteousness  and  bad  temper.  She  was  a  crusader  and, 
like  every  crusader,  she  exulted  in  the  opportunity  to  be  vicious 
in  the  name  of  virtue.  "Let  it  go?  If  people  knew  how  many 
things  I've  let  go — " 

"Oh,  quit  being  such  a  bully." 

"Yes,  a  fine  figure  you'd  cut  if  I  didn't  bully  you!  You'd 
lie  abed  till  noon  and  play  your  idiotic  fiddle  till  midnight! 
You're  born  lazy,  and  you're  born  shiftless,  and  you're  born 
cowardly,  Paul  Riesling — " 

"Oh,  now,  don't  say  that,  Zilla;  you  don't  mean  a  word  of 
iti"  protested  Mrs.  Babbitt. 

"I  will  say  that,  and  I  mean  every  single  last  word  of  it!" 

"Oh,  now,  Zilla,  the  idea!"  Mrs.  Babbitt  was  maternal 
and  fussy.  She  was  no  older  than  Zilla,  but  she  seemed  so — 
at  first.  She  was  placid  and  puffy  and  mature,  where  Zilla, 
at  forty-five,  was  so  bleached  and  tight-corseted  that  you  knew 
only  that  she  was  older  than  she  looked.  "The  idea  of  talking 
to  poor  Paul  like  that!" 

"Poor  Paul  is  right!  We'd  both  be  poor,  we'd  be  in  the 
poorhouse,  if  I  didn't  jazz  him  up!" 

"Why,  now,  Zilla,  Georgie  and  I  were  just  saying  how  hard 
Paul's  been  working  all  year,  and  we  were  thinking  it  would 


BABBITT  135 

be  lovely  if  the  Boys  could  run  off  by  themselves.  I've  been 
coaxing  George  to  go  up  to  Maine  ahead  of  the  rest  of  us^, 
and  get  the  tired  out  of  his  system  before  we  come,  and  I 
think  it  would  be  lovely  if  Paul  could  manage  to  get  away  and 
join  him." 

At  this  exposure  of  his  plot  to  escape,  Paul  was  startled  out 
of  impassivity.     He  rubbed  his  fingers.     His  hands  twitched. 

Zilla  bayed,  "Yes!  You're  lucky!  You  can  let  George  go, 
and  not  have  to  watch  him.  Fat  old  Georgie!  Never  peeps 
at  another  woman!     Hasn't  got  the  spunk!" 

"The  hell  I  haven't!"  Babbitt  was  fervently  defending  his 
priceless  immorality  when  Paul  interrupted  him — and  Paul 
looked  dangerous.    He  rose  quickly;  he  said  gently  to  Zilla: 

"I  suppose  you  imply  I  have  a  lot  of  sweethearts." 

"Yes,  I  do!" 

"Well,  then,  my  dear,  since  you  ask  for  it —  There  hasn't 
been  a  time  in  the  last  ten  years  when  I  haven't  found  some 
nice  little  girl  to  comfort  me,  and  as  long  as  you  continue  your 
amiability  I  shall  probably  continue  to  deceive  you.  It  isn't 
hard.    You're  so  stupid." 

Zilla  gibbered ;  she  howled ;  words  could  not  be  distinguished 
in  her  slaver  of  abuse. 

Then  the  bland  George  F.  Babbitt  was  transformed.  If 
Paul  was  dangerous,  if  Zilla  was  a  snake-locked  fury,  if  the 
neat  emotions  suitable  to  the  Revelstoke  Arms  had  been  slashed 
into  raw  hatreds,  it  was  Babbitt  who  was  the  most  formidable. 
He  leaped  up.  He  seemed  very  large.  He  seized  Zilla's  shoul- 
der. The  cautions  of  the  broker  were  wiped  from  his  face,  and 
his  voice  was  cruel: 

"I've  had  enough  of  all  this  damn  nonsense!  I've  known 
you  for  twenty-five  years,  Zil,  and  I  never  knew  you  to  miss  a 
chance  to  take  your  disappointments  out  on  Paul.  You're  not 
wicked.  You're  worse.  You're  a  fool.  And  let  me  tell  you 
that  Paul  is  the  finest  boy  God  ever  made.  Every  decent 
person  is  sick  and  tired  of  your  taking  advantage  of  being  e 


136  BABBITT 

woman  and  springing  every  mean  innuendo  you  can  think  of. 
Who  the  hell  are  you  that  a  person  like  Paul  should  have  to 
ask  your  permission  to  go  with  me?  You  act  like  you  were  a 
combination  of  Queen  Victoria  and  Cleopatra.  You  fool,  can't 
you  see  how  people  snicker  at  you,  and  sneer  at  you?" 

Zilla  was  sobbing,  "I've  never — I've  never — nobody  ever 
talked  to  me  like  this  in  all  my  life!" 

"No,  but  that's  the  way  they  talk  behind  your  back!  Al- 
ways!   They  say  you're  a  scolding  old  woman.    Old,  by  God!" 

That  cowardly  attack  broke  her.  Her  eyes  were  blank.  She 
wept.  But  Babbitt  glared  stolidly.  He  felt  that  he  was  the 
all-powerful  official  in  charge;  that  Paul  and  Mrs.  Babbitt 
looked  on  him  with  awe;  that  he  alone  could  handle  this  case. 

Zilla  writhed.    She  begged,  "Oh,  they  don't! " 

"They  certainly  do!" 

"I've  been  a  bad  woman!  I'm  terribly  sorry!  I'll  kill  my- 
self!   I'll  do  anything.    Oh,  I'll—    What  do  you  want?" 

She  abased  herself  completely.  Also,  she  enjoyed  it.  To 
the  connoisseur  of  scenes,  nothing  is  more  enjoyable  than  a 
thorough,  melodramatic,  egoistic  humility. 

"I  want  you  to  let  Paul  beat  it  off  to  Maine  ^vith  me,"  Bab- 
bitt demanded. 

"How  can  I  help  his  going?  You've  just  said  I  was  an  idiot 
and  nobody  paid  any  attention  to  me." 

"Oh,  you  can  help  it,  all  right,  all  right!  What  you  got  to 
do  is  to  cut  out  hinting  that  the  minute  he  gets  out  of  your 
sight,  he'll  go  chasing  after  some  petticoat.  Matter  fact,  that's 
the  way  you  start  the  boy  off  wrong.  You  ought  to  have  more 
sense — " 

"Oh,  I  will,  honestly,  I  will,  George.  I  know  I  was  bad. 
Oh,  forgive  me,  all  of  you,  forgive  me — " 

She  enjoyed  it. 

So  did  Babbitt.  He  condemned  magnificently  and  forgave 
piously,  and  as  he  went  parading  out  with  his  wife  he  was 
grandly  explanatory  to  her: 


BABBITT  137 

"Kind  of  a  shame  to  bully  Zilla,  but  course  it  was  the  only 
way  to  handle  her.    Gosh,  I  certainly  did  have  her  crawling!" 

She  said  calmly,  "Yes.  You  were  horrid.  You  were  show- 
ing off.  You  were  having  a  lovely  time  thinking  what  a  great 
fine  person  you  were!" 

"Well,  by  golly!  Can  you  beat  it!  Of  course  I  might  of 
expected  you  to  not  stand  by  me!  I  might  of  expected  you'd 
stick  up  for  your  own  sex!" 

"Yes.  Poor  Zilla,  she's  so  unhappy.  She  takes  it  out  on 
Paul.  She  hasn't  a  single  thing  to  do,  in  that  little  fiat.  And 
she  broods  too  much.  And  she  used  to  be  so  pretty  and  gay, 
and  she  resents  losing  it.  And  you  were  just  as  nasty  and  mean 
as  you  could  be.  I'm  not  a  bit  proud  of  you — or  of  Paul, 
boasting  about  his  horrid  love-affairs!" 

He  was  sulkily  silent;  he  maintained  his  bad  temper  at  a 
high  level  of  outraged  nobility  all  the  four  blocks  home.  At 
the  door  he  left  her,  in  self-approving  haughtiness,  and  tramped 
the  lawn. 

With  a  shock  it  was  revealed  to  him:  "Gosh,  I  wonder  if 
she  was  right — if  she  was  partly  right?"  Overwork  must  have 
flayed  him  to  abnormal  sensitiveness;  it  was  one  of  the  few 
times  in  his  life  when  he  had  queried  his  eternal  excellence; 
and  he  perceived  the  summer  night,  smelled  the  wet  grass. 
Then:  "I  don't  care!  I've  pulled  it  off.  We're  going  to  have 
our  spree.    And  for  Paul,  I'd  do  anything." 

n 

They  were  buying  their  Maine  tackle  at  IJams  Brothers', 
the  Sporting  Goods  Mart,  with  the  help  of  Willis  Ijams,  fellow 
member  of  the  Boosters'  Club.  Babbitt  was  completely  mad. 
He  trumpeted  and  danced.  He  muttered  to  Paul,  "Say,  this 
is  pretty  good,  eh?  To  be  buying  the  stuff,  eh?  And  good 
old  Willis  Ijams  himself  coming  down  on  the  floor  to  wait  on 
us!     Say,  if  those  fellows  that  are  getting  their  kit  for  the 


138  BABBITT 

North  Lakes  knew  we  were  going  clear  up  to  Maine,  they'd 
have  a  fit,  eh?  .  .  .  Well,  come  on,  Brother  Ijams — Willis, 
I  mean.  Here's  your  chance!  We're  a  couple  of  easy  marks! 
Whee!     Let  me  at  it!     I'm  going  to  buy  out  the  store!" 

He  gloated  on  fly-rods  and  gorgeous  rubber  hip-boots,  on 
tents  with  celluloid  windows  and  folding  chairs  and  ice-boxes. 
He  simple-heartedly  wanted  to  buy  all  of  them.  It  was  the 
Paul  whom  he  was  always  vaguely  protecting  who  kept  him 
from  his  drunken  desires. 

But  even  Paul  lightened  when  Willis  Ijams,  a  salesman  with 
poetry  and  diplomacy,  discussed  flies.  "Now,  of  course,  you 
boys  know,"  he  said,  "the  great  scrap  is  between  dry  flies 
and  wet  flies.    Personally,  I'm  for  dry  flies.    More  sporting." 

''That's  so.  Lots  more  sporting,"  fulminated  Babbitt,  who 
knew  very  little  about  flies  either  wet  or  dry. 

"Now  if  you'll  take  my  advice,  Georgie,  you'll  stock  up  well 
on  these  pale  evening  dims,  and  silver  sedges,  and  red  ants. 
Oh,  boy,  there's  a  fly,  that  red  ant ! " 

"You  bet!     That's  what  it  is— a  fly!"  rejoiced  Babbitt. 

"Yes,  sir,  that  red  ant,"  said  Ijams,  "is  a  real  honest-to-God 
fly!" 

"Oh,  I  guess  ole  Mr.  Trout  won't  come  a-hustling  when  I 
drop  one  of  those  red  ants  on  the  water! "  asserted  Babbitt,  and 
his  thick  wrists  made  a  rapturous  motion  of  casting. 

"Yes,  and  the  landlocked  salmon  will  take  it,  too,"  said 
Ijams,  who  had  never  seen  a  landlocked  salmon. 

"Salmon!  Trout!  Say,  Paul,  can  you  see  Uncle  George 
with  his  khaki  pants  on  haulin'  'em  in,  some  morning  'bout 
seven?    Whee!" 


ni 

They  were  on  the  New  York  express,  incredibly  bound  for 
Maine,  incredibly  without  their  families.  They  were  free,  in 
a  man's  world,  in  the  smoking-compartment  of  the  Pullman. 


BABBITT  139 

Outside  the  car  window  was  a  glaze  of  darkness  stippled 
with  the  gold  of  infrequent  mysterious  lights.  Babbitt  was 
immensely  conscious,  in  the  sway  and  authoritative  clatter  of 
the  train,  of  going,  of  going  on.  Leaning  toward  Paul  he 
grunted,  "Gosh,  pretty  nice  to  be  hiking,  eh?" 

The  small  room,  with  its  walls  of  ocher-colored  steel,  was 
filled  mostly  with  the  sort  of  men  he  classified  as  the  Best 
Fellows  You'll  Ever  Meet — Real  Good  Mixers.  There  were 
four  of  them  on  the  long  seat;  a  fat  man  with  a  shrewd  fat  face, 
a  knife-edged  man  in  a  green  velour  hat,  a  very  young  young 
man  with  an  imitation  amber  cigarette-holder,  and  Babbitt. 
Facing  them,  on  two  movable  leather  chairs,  were  Paul  and  a 
lanky,  old-fashioned  man,  very  cunning,  with  wrinkles  bracket- 
ing his  mouth.  They  all  read  newspapers  or  trade  journals, 
boot-and-shoe  journals,  crockery  journals,  and  waited  for  the 
joys  of  conversation.  It  was  the  very  young  man,  now  mak- 
ing his  first  journey  by  Pullman,  who  began  it. 

"Say,  gee,  I  had  a  wild  old  time  in  Zenith!"  he  gloried, 
"Say,  if  a  fellow  knows  the  ropes  there  he  can  have  as  wild  a 
time  as  he  can  in  New  York!" 

"Yuh,  I  bet  you  simply  raised  the  old  Ned.  I  figured  you 
were  a  bad  man  when  I  saw  you  get  on  the  train ! "  chuckled  the 
fat  one. 

The  others  delightedly  laid  down  their  papers. 

"Well,  that's  all  right  now!  I  guess  I  seen  some  things  in 
the  Arbor  you  never  seen!"  complained  the  boy. 

"Oh,  I'll  bet  you  did!  I  bet  you  lapped  up  the  malted  milk 
like  a  reg'lar  little  devil!" 

Then,  the  boy  having  served  as  introduction,  they  ignored 
him  and  charged  into  real  talk.  Only  Paul,  sitting  by  himself, 
reading  at  a  serial  story  in  a  newspaper,  failed  to  join  them, 
and  all  but  Babbitt  regarded  him  as  a  snob,  an  eccentric,  a  per- 
son of  no  spirit. 

Which  of  them  said  which  has  never  been  determined,  and 
does  not  matter,  since  they  all  had  the  same  ideas  and  expressed 


I40  BABBITT 

them  always  with  the  same  ponderous  and  brassy  assurance. 
If  it  was  not  Babbitt  who  was  delivering  any  given  verdict,  at 
least  he  was  beaming  on  the  chancellor  who  did  deliver  it. 

"At  that,  though,"  announced  the  first  "they're  selling  quite 
some  booze  in  Zenith.  Guess  they  are  everywhere.  I  don't 
know  how  you  fellows  feel  about  prohibition,  but  the  way  it 
strikes  me  is  that  it's  a  mighty  beneficial  thing  for  the  poor 
zob  that  hasn't  got  any  will-power  but  for  fellows  like  us, 
it's  an  infringement  of  personal  liberty." 

"That's  a  fact.  Congress  has  got  no  right  to  interfere  with 
a  fellow's  personal  liberty,"  contended  the  second. 

A  man  came  in  from  the  car,  but  as  all  the  seats  were  full 
he  stood  up  while  he  smoked  his  cigarette.  He  was  an  Out- 
sider; he  was  not  one  of  the  Old  Families  of  the  smoking- 
compartment.  They  looked  upon  him  bleakly  and,  after  try- 
ing to  appear  at  ease  by  examining  his  chin  in  the  mirror,  he 
gave  it  up  and  went  out  in  silence. 

"Just  been  making  a  trip  through  the  South.  Business 
conditions  not  very  good  down  there,"  said  one  of  the  council. 

"Is  that  a  fact!     Not  very  good,  eh?" 

"No,  didn't  strike  me  they  were  up  to  normal." 

"Not  up  to  normal,  eh?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't  hardly  say  they  were." 

The  whole  council  nodded  sagely  and  decided,  "Yimip,  not 
hardly  up  to  snuff." 

"Well,  business  conditions  ain't  what  they  ought  to  be  out 
West,  neither,  not  by  a  long  shot." 

"That's  a  fact.  And  I  guess  the  hotel  business  feels  it. 
That's  one  good  thing,  though:  these  hotels  that've  been  charg- 
ing five  bucks  a  day — yes,  and  maybe  six-seven! — for  a  rotten 
room  are  going  to  be  darn  glad  to  get  four,  and  maybe  give  you 
a  little  service." 

"That's  a  fact.  Say,  uh,  speaknubout  hotels,  I  hit  the  St. 
Francis  at  San  Francisco  for  the  first  time,  the  other  day,  and, 
say,  it  certainly  is  a  first-class  place." 


BABBITT  141 

"You're  right,  brother!  The  St.  Francis  is  a  swell  place — 
absolutely  Ai." 

"That's  a  fact.    I'm  right  with  you.    It's  a  first-class  place." 

"Yuh,  but  say,  any  of  you  fellows  ever  stay  at  the  Ripple- 
ton,  in  Chicago?  I  don't  want  to  knock — I  believe  in  boosting 
wherever  you  can — but  say,  of  all  the  rotten  dumps  that  pass 
'emselves  off  as  first-class  hotels,  that's  the  worst.  I'm  going 
to  get  those  guys,  one  of  these  days,  and  I  told  'em  so.  You 
know  how  I  am — well,  maybe  you  don't  know,  but  I'm  accus- 
tomed to  first-class  accommodations,  and  I'm  perfectly  willing 
to  pay  a  reasonable  price.  I  got  into  Chicago  late  the  other 
night,  and  the  Rippleton's  near  the  station — I'd  never  been 
there  before,  but  I  says  to  the  taxi-driver — I  always  believe 
in  taking  a  taxi  when  you  get  in  late;  may  cost  a  little  more 
money,  but,  gosh,  it's  worth  it  when  you  got  to  be  up  early 
next  morning  and  out  selling  a  lot  of  crabs — and  I  said  to 
him,  'Oh,  just  drive  me  over  to  the  Rippleton.' 

"Well,  we  got  there,  and  I  breezed  up  to  the  desk  and  said 
to  the  clerk,  'Well,  brother,  got  a  nice  room  with  bath  for 
Cousin  Bill?'  Saaaayl  You'd  'a'  thought  I'd  sold  him  a 
second,  or  asked  him  to  work  on  Yom  Kippur!  He  hands  me 
the  cold-boiled  stare  and  yaps,  'I  dunno,  friend,  I'll  see,'  and 
he  ducks  behind  the  rigamajig  they  keep  track  of  the  rooms 
on.  Well,  I  guess  he  called  up  the  Credit  Association  and 
the  American  Security  League  to  see  if  I  was  all  right — ^he 
certainly  took  long  enough — or  maybe  he  just  went  to  sleep; 
but  finally  he  comes  out  and  looks  at  me  like  it  hurts  him,  and 
croaks,  'I  think  I  can  let  you  have  a  room  with  bath.'  'Well, 
that's  awful  nice  of  you — sorry  to  trouble  you — how  much  '11 
it  set  me  back?'  I  says,  real  sweet.  'It'll  cost  you  seven  bucks 
a  day,  friend,'  he  says. 

j  "Well,  it  was  late,  and  anyway,  it  went  down  on  my  expense- 
account — gosh,  if  I'd  been  paying  it  instead  of  the  firm,  I'd 
fa'  tramped  the  streets  all  night  before  I'd  'a'  let  any  hick 
tavern  stick  me  seven  great  big  round  dollars,  believe  me  I     So 


142  BABBITT 

I  lets  it  go  at  that.  Well,  the  clerk  wakes  a  nice  young  bell- 
hop— fine  lad — not  a  day  over  seventy-nine  years  old — fought 
at  the  Battle  of  Gettysburg  and  doesn't  know  it's  over  yet- 
thought  I  was  one  of  the  Confederates,  I  guess,  from  the  way 
he  looked  at  me — and  Rip  van  Winkle  took  me  up  to  some- 
thing— X  found  out  afterwards  they  called  it  a  room,  but  first 
I  thought  there'd  been  some  mistake — I  thought  they  were 
putting  me  in  the  Salvation  Army  collection-box!  At  seven 
per  each  and  every  diem!     Gosh!" 

"Yuh,  I've  heard  the  Rippleton  was  pretty  cheesy.  Now, 
when  I  go  to  Chicago  I  always  stay  at  the  Blackstone  or  the 
La  Salle — first-class  places." 

"Say,  any  of  you  fellows  ever  stay  at  the  Birchdale  at  Terra 
Haute?    How  is  it?" 

"Oh,  the  Birchdale  is  a  first-class  hotel." 

(Twelve  minutes  of  conference  on  the  state  of  hotels  in 
South  Bend,  Flint,  Dayton,  Tulsa,  Wichita,  Fort  Worth,  Wi- 
nona, Erie,  Fargo,  and  Moose  Jaw.) 

"Speaknubout  prices,"  the  man  in  the  velour  hat  observed, 
fingering  the  elk-tooth  on  his  heavy  watch-chain,  "I'd  like  to: 
know  where  they  get  this  stuff  about  clothes  coming  down. 
Now,  you  take  this  suit  I  got  on."  He  pinched  his  trousers- 
leg.  "Four  years  ago  I  paid  forty-two  fifty  for  it,  and  it  was 
real  sure-'nough  value.  Well,  here  the  other  day  I  went  into 
a  store  back  home  and  asked  to  see  a  suit,  and  the  fellow  yanks 
out  some  hand-me-downs  that,  honest,  I  wouldn't  put  on  a 
hired  man.  Just  out  of  curiosity  I  asks  him,  'What  you 
charging  for  that  junk?'  'Junk,'  he  says,  'what  d'  you  mean 
junk?  That's  a  swell  piece  of  goods,  all  wool — '  Like  hell! 
It  was  nice  vegetable  wool,  right  off  the  Ole  Plantation! 
'It's  all  wool,'  he  says,  'and  we  get  sixty-seven  ninety  for  it.' 
'Oh,  you  do,  do  you!'  I  says.  'Not  from  me  you  don't,'  I 
says,  and  I  walks  right  out  on  him.  You  bet !  I  says  to  the  | 
ivife,  'Well,'  I  said,  'as  long  as  your  strength  holds  out  and 


BABBITT  143 

you  can  go  on  putting  a  few  more  patches  on  papa's  pants^ 
we'll  just  pass  up  buying  clothes.' " 

"That's  right,  brother.  And  just  look  at  collars,  frin« 
stance — " 

"Hey!  Wait!"  the  fat  man  protested.  "What's  the  mattei' 
with  collars?  I'm  selling  collars  I  D'  you  realize  the  cost 
of  labor  on  collars  is  still  two  hundred  and  seven  per  cent, 
above — " 

They  voted  that  if  their  old  friend  the  fat  man  sold  col- 
lars, then  the  price  of  collars  was  exactly  what  it  should  be; 
but  all  other  clothing  was  tragically  too  expensive.  They  ad- 
mired and  loved  one  another  now.  They  went  profoundly 
into  the  science  of  business,  and  indicated  that  the  purpose  of 
manufacturing  a  plow  or  a  brick  was  so  that  it  might  be  sold. 
To  them,  the  Romantic  Hero  was  no  longer  the  knight,  the  wan- 
dering poet,  the  cowpuncher,  the  aviator,  nor  the  brave  young 
district  attorney,  but  the  great  sales-manager,  who  had  an 
Analysis  of  Merchandizing  Problems  on  his  glass-topped  desk, 
whose  title  of  nobility  was  "Go-getter,"  and  who  devoted  him« 
self  and  all  his  young  samurai  to  the  cosmic  purpose  of  Sell- 
ing— not  of  selling  anything  in  particular,  for  or  to  anybody 
in  particular,  but  pure  Selling. 

The  shop-talk  roused  Paul  Riesling.  Though  he  was  a 
player  of  violins  and  an  interestingly  unhappy  husband,  he 
was  also  a  very  able  salesman  of  tar-roofing.  He  listened  to 
the  fat  man's  remarks  on  "the  value  of  house-organs  and  bul- 
letins as  a  method  of  jazzing-up  the  Boys  out  on  the  road;" 
and  he  himself  offered  one  or  two  excellent  thoughts  on  the 
use  of  two-cent  stamps  on  circulars.  Then  he  committed  an 
offense  against  the  holy  law  of  the  Clan  of  Good  Fellows.  He 
became  highbrow. 

They  were  entering  a  city.  On  the  outskirts  they  passed 
a  steel-mill  which  flared  in  scarlet  and  orange  flame  that  licked 
at  the  cadaverous  stacks,  at  the  iron-sheathed  walls  and  sullen 
converters. 


144  BABBITT 

"My  Lord,  look  at  that — ^beautiful!"  said  Paul. 

"You  bet  it's  beautiful,  friend.  That's  the  Shelling-Horton 
Steel  Plant,  and  they  tell  me  old  John  Shelling  made  a  good 
three  million  bones  out  of  munitions  during  the  war!"  the 
man  with  the  velour  hat  said  reverently. 

"I  didn't  mean — I  mean  it's  lovely  the  way  the  light  pulls 
that  picturesque  yard,  all  littered  with  junk,  right  out  of  the 
darkness,"  said  Paul. 

They  stared  at  him,  while  Babbitt  crowed,  "Paul  there  has 
certainly  got  one  great  little  eye  for  picturesque  places  and 
quaint  sights  and  all  that  stuff.  'D  of  been  an  author  or  some- 
thing if  he  hadn't  gone  into  the  roofing  line." 

Paul  looked  annoyed.  (Babbitt  sometimes  wondered  if 
Paul  appreciated  his  loyal  boosting.)  The  man  in  the  velour 
hat  grunted,  "Well,  personally,  I  think  Shelling-Horton  keep 
their  works  awful  dirty.  Bum  routing.  But  I  don't  suppose 
there's  any  law  against  calling  'em  'picturesque'  if  it  gets  you 
that  way!" 

Paul  sulkily  returned  to  his  newspaper  and  the  conversation 
logically  moved  on  to  trains, 

"What  time  do  we  get  into  Pittsburg?"  asked  Babbitt. 

"Pittsburg?  I  think  we  get  in  at — no,  that  was  last  year's 
schedule — wait  a  minute — let's  see — got  a  time-table  right 
here." 

"I  wonder  if  we're  on  time?" 

"Yuh,  sure,  we  must  be  just  about  on  time." 

"No,  we  aren't — we  were  seven  minutes  late,  last  station." 

"Were  we?  Straight?  Why,  gosh,  I  thought  we  were  right 
ion  time." 

"No,  we're  about  seven  minutes  late." 

"Yuh,  that's  right;  seven  minutes  late." 

The  porter  entered — a.  negro  in  white  jacket  with  brass' 
buttons. 

"How  late  are  we,  George?"  growled  the  fat  man. 

"  'Deed,  I  don't  know,  sir.    I  think  we're  about  on  time," 


BABBITT  145 

said  the  porter,  folding  towels  and  deftly  tossing  them  up  on 
the  rack  above  the  washbowls.  The  council  stared  at  him 
gloomily  and  when  he  was  gone  they  wailed: 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  over  these  niggers,  nowadays. 
They  never  give  you  a  civil  answer," 

'That's  a  fact.    They're  getting  so  they  don't  have  a  single 
bit  of  respect  for  you.    The  old-fashioned  coon  was  a  fine  old 
cuss — he  knew  his  place — but  these  young  dinges  don't  want 
to  be  porters  or  cotton-pickers.    Oh,  no!     They  got  to  be  law- 
yers and  professors  and  Lord  knows  what  all!     I  tell  you,  it's 
becoming  a  pretty  serious  problem.    We  ought  to  get  together 
and  show  the  black  man,  yes,  and  the  yellow  man,  his  place. 
Now,  I  haven't  got  one  particle  of  race-prejudice.    I'm  the  first      . 
to  be  glad  when  a  nigger  succeeds — so  long  as  he  stays  where      1    L^|^^ 
he  belongs  and  doesn't  try  to  usurp  the  rightful  authority  and      \    V 
business  ability  of  the  white  man." 

"That's  the  i.!  And  another  thing  we  got  to  do,"  said  the 
man  with  the  velour  hat  (whose  name  was  Koplinsky),  "is  to 
keep  these  damn  foreigners  out  of  the  country.  Thank  the 
Lord,  we're  putting  a  limit  on  immigration.  These  Dagoes 
and  Hunkies  have  got  to  learn  that  this  is  a  white  man's 
:ountry,  and  they  ain't  wanted  here.  When  we've  assimilated 
the  foreigners  we  got  here  now  and  learned  'em  the  principles 
di  Americanism  and  turned  'em  into  regular  folks,  why  then 
maybe  we'll  let  in  a  few  more." 

"You  bet.  That's  a  fact,"  they  observed,  and  passed  on  to 
lighter  topics.  They  rapidly  reviewed  motor-car  prices,  tire- 
mileage,  oil-stocks,  fishing,  and  the  prospects  for  the  wheat- 
crop  in  Dakota. 

But  the  fat  man  was  impatient  at  this  waste  of  time.  He 
was  a  veteran  traveler  and  free  of  illusions.  Already  he  had 
asserted  that  he  was  "an  old  he-one."  He  leaned  forward, 
gathered  in  their  attention  by  his  expression  of  sly  humor,  and 
grumbled,  "Oh,  hell,  boys,  let's  cut  out  the  formality  and  get 
down  to  the  stories!" 


cJ 


146  BABBITT 

They  became  very  lively  and  intimate. 

Paul  and  the  boy  vanished.  The  others  slid  forward  on  the 
long  seat,  unbuttoned  their  vests,  thrust  their  feet  up  on  the 
chairs,  pulled  the  stately  brass  cuspidors  nearer,  and  ran  the 
green  window-shade  down  on  its  little  trolley,  to  shut  them 
in  from  the  uncomfortable  strangeness  of  night.  After  each 
bark  of  laughter  they  cried,  "Say,  jever  hear  the  one  about — " 
Babbitt  was  expansive  and  virile.  When  the  train  stopped  at 
an  important  station,  the  four  men  walked  up  and  down  the 
cement  platform,  under  the  vast  smoky  train-shed  roof,  like  a 
stormy  sky,  under  the  elevated  footways,  beside  crates  of 
ducks  and  sides  of  beef,  in  the  mystery  of  an  unknown  city. 
They  strolled  abreast,  old  friends  and  well  content.  At  the 
long-drawn  "Alllll  aboarrrrrd" — like  a  mountain  call  at  dusk— 
they  hastened  back  into  the  smoking-compartment,  and  till 
two  of  the  morning  continued  the  droll  tales,  their  eyes  damp 
with  cigar-smoke  and  laughter.  When  they  parted  they  shook 
hands,  and  chuckled,  "Well,  sir,  it's  been  a  great  session. 
Sorry  to  bust  it  up.     Mighty  glad  to  met  you." 

Babbitt  lay  awake  in  the  close  hot  tomb  of  his  Pullman 
berth,  shaking  with  remembrance  of  the  fat  man's  limerick 
about  the  lady  who  wished  to  be  wild.  He  raised  the  shade; 
he  lay  with  a  puffy  arm  tucked  between  his  head  and  the 
skimpy  pillow,  looking  out  on  the  sliding  silhouettes  of  trees, 
and  village  lamps  like  exclamation-points.  He  was  very 
happy. 


CHAPTER  XI 


They  had  four  hours  in  New  York  between  trains.  The 
one  thing  Babbitt  wished  to  see  was  the  Pennsylvania  Hotel, 
which  had  been  built  since  his  last  visit.  He  stared  up  at  it, 
muttering,  "Twenty-two  hundred  rooms  and  twenty-two  hun- 
dred baths!  That's  got  everything  in  the  world  beat.  Lord, 
their  turnover  must  be — well,  suppose  price  of  rooms  is  four 
to  eight  dollars  a  day,  and  I  suppose  maybe  some  ten  and — 
four  times  twenty-two  hundred — say  six  times  twenty-two  hun- 
dred— well,  anyway,  with  restaurants  and  everything,  say  sum- 
mers between  eight  and  fifteen  thousand  a  day.  Every  day! 
I  never  thought  I'd  see  a  thing  like  that!  Some  town!  Of 
course  the  average  fellow  in  Zenith  has  got  more  Individual 
Initiative  than  the  fourflushers  here,  but  I  got  to  hand  it  to 
New  York.  Yes,  sir,  town,  you're  all  right — some  ways.  Well, 
old  Paulski,  I  guess  we've  seen  everything  that's  worth  while, 
How'll  we  kill  the  rest  of  the  time?  Movie?" 
•  But  Paul  desired  to  see  a  liner.  "Always  wanted  to  go  to 
Europe — and,  by  thunder,  I  will,  too,  some  day  before  I  pas^: 
out,"  he  sighed. 

From  a  rough  wharf  on  the  North  River  they  stared  at  the 
stern  of  the  Aquitania  and  her  stacks  and  wireless  antennae 
lifted  above  the  dock-house  which  shut  her  in. 

"By  golly,"  Babbitt  droned,  "wouldn't  be  so  bad  to  go  over 
to  the  Old  Country  and  take  a  squint  at  all  these  ruins,  and 
the  place  where  Shakespeare  was  born.  And  think  of  being 
able  to  order  a  drink  whenever  you  wanted  one!  Just  range 
up  to  a  bar  and  holler  out  loud,  'Gimme  a  cocktail,  and  darn 
the  police! '  Not  bad  at  all.  What  juh  like  to  see,  over  there, 
Paulibus?" 

147 


148  BABBITT 

Paul  did  not  answer.  Babbitt  turned.  Paul  was  standing 
with  clenched  fists,  head  drooping,  staring  at  the  liner  as  in 
terror.  His  thin  body,  seen  against  the  summer-glaring  planks 
of  the  wharf,  was  childishly  meager. 

Again,  "What  would  you  hit  for  on  the  other  side,  Paul?" 

Scowling  at  the  steamer,  his  breast  heaving,  Paul  whispered, 
"Oh,  my  God!"  While  Babbitt  watched  him  anxiously  he 
snapped,  "Come  on,  let's  get  out  of  this,"  and  hastened  down 
the  wharf,  not  looking  back. 

"That's  funny,"  considered  Babbitt.  "The  boy  didn't  care 
for  seeing  the  ocean  boats  after  all.  I  thought  he'd  be  inter- 
ested in  'em." 

n 

Though  he  exulted,  and  made  sage  speculations  about  loco- 
motive horse-power,  as  their  train  climbed  the  Maine  mountain- 
ridge  and  from  the  summit  he  looked  down  the  shining  way 
among  the  pines;  though  he  remarked,  "Well,  by  golly!"  when 
he  discovered  that  the  station  at  Katadumcook,  the  end  of 
the  line,  was  an  aged  freight-car;  Babbitt's  moment  of  impas- 
sioned release  came  when  they  sat  on  a  tiny  wharf  on  Lake 
Sunasquam,  awaiting  the  launch  from  the  hotel.  A  raft  had 
floated  down  the  lake;  between  the  logs  and  the  shore,  the 
water  was  transparent,  thin-looking,  flashing  with  minnows. 
A  guide  in  black  felt  hat  with  trout-flies  in  the  band,  and 
flannel  shirt  of  a  peculiarly  daring  blue,  sat  on  a  log  and  whit- 
tled and  was  silent.  A  dog,  a  good  country  dog,  black  and 
woolly  gray,  a  dog  rich  in  leisure  and  in  meditation,  scratched 
and  grunted  and  slept.  The  thick  sunlight  was  lavish  on  the 
bright  water,  on  the  rim  of  gold-green  balsam  boughs,  the 
silver  birches  and  tropic  ferns,  and  across  the  lake  it  burned 
on  the  sturdy  shoulders  of  the  mountains.  Over  everything 
was  a  holy  peace. 

Silent,  they  loafed  on  the  edge  of  the  wharf,  swinging  their 
legs  above  the  water.     The  immense  tenderness  of  the  place 


BABBITT  149 

sank  into  Babbitt,  and  he  murmuted,  "I'd  just  like  to  sit  here 
— the  rest  of  my  life — and  whittle — and  sit.  And  never  hear 
a  typewriter.  Or  Stan  Graff  fussing  in  the  'phone.  Or  Rone 
and  Ted  scrapping.    Just  sit.     Gosh!" 

He  patted  Paul's  shoulder.  "How  does  it  strike  you,  old 
snoozer?" 

"Oh,  it's  darn  good,  Georgie.  There's  something  sort  of 
eternal  about  it." 

For  once,  Babbitt  understood  him. 

ni 

Their  launch  rounded  the  bend;  at  the  head  of  the  lake, 
under  a  mountain  slope,  they  saw  the  little  central  dining- 
shack  of  their  hotel  and  the  crescent  of  squat  log  cottages 
which  served  as  bedrooms.  They  landed,  and  endured  the  crit- 
ical examination  of  the  habitues  who  had  been  at  the  hotel  for 
a  whole  week.  In  their  cottage,  with  its  high  stone  fireplace, 
they  hastened,  as  Babbitt  expressed  it,  to  "get  into  some  reg- 
ular he-togs."  They  came  out;  Paul  in  an  old  gray  suit  and 
soft  white  shirt;  Babbitt  in  khaki  shirt  and  vast  and  flapping 
khaki  trousers.  It  was  excessively  new  khaki;  his  rimless 
spectacles  belonged  to  a  city  office ;  and  his  face  was  not  tanned 
but  a  city  pink.  He  made  a  discordant  noise  in  the  place.  But 
with  infinite  satisfaction  he  slapped  his  legs  and  crowed,  "Say, 
this  is  getting  back  home,  eh?" 

They  stood  on  the  wharf  before  the  hotel.  He  winked  at 
Paul  and  drew  from  his  back  pocket  a  plug  of  chewing-to- 
bacco, a  vulgarism  forbidden  in  the  Babbitt  home.  He  took  a 
chew,  beaming  and  wagging  his  head  as  he  tugged  at  it.  "Um! 
Um!  Maybe  I  haven't  been  hungry  for  a  wad  of  eating- to- 
bacco!    Have  some?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  a  grin  of  understanding.  Pau] 
took  the  plug,  gnawed  at  it.  They  stood  quiet,  their  jaws 
working.  They  solemnly  spat,  one  after  the  other,  into  the 
placid  water.     They  stretched  voluptuously,  with  lifted  arms 


«50  BABBITT 

and  arched  backs.  From  beyond  the  mountains  came  the 
shuffling  sound  of  a  far-off  train.  A  trout  leaped,  and  fell 
back  in  a  silver  circle.     They  sighed  together. 


IV 

They  had  a  week  before  their  families  came.  Each  evening 
they  planned  to  get  up  early  and  fish  before  breakfast.  Each 
morning  they  lay  abed  till  the  breakfast-bell,  pleasantly  con- 
scious that  there  were  no  efficient  wives  to  rouse  them.  The 
mornings  were  cold;  the  fire  was  kindly  as  they  dressed. 

Paul  was  distressingly  clean,  but  Babbitt  reveled  in  a  good 
sound  dirtiness,  in  not  having  to  shave  till  his  spirit  was  moved 
to  it.  He  treasured  every  grease  spot  and  fish-scale  on  his 
new  khaki  trousers. 

All  morning  they  fished  unenergetically,  or  tramped  the  dim 
and  aqueous-lighted  trails  among  rank  ferns  and  moss  sprin- 
kled with  crimson  bells.  They  slept  all  afternoon,  and  till 
midnight  played  stud-poker  with  the  guides.  Poker  was  a 
serious  business  to  the  guides.  They  did  not  gossip;  they 
shuffled  the  thick  greasy  cards  with  a  deft  ferocity  menacing 
to  the  "sports;"  and  Joe  Paradise,  king  of  guides,  was  sar-. 
castic  to  loiterers  who  halted  the  game  even  to  scratch. 

At  midnight,  as  Paul  and  he  blundered  to  their  cottage  over 
the  pungent  wet  grass,  and  pine-roots  confusing  in  the  dark- 
ness, Babbitt  rejoiced  that  he  did  not  have  to  explain  to  his 
wife  where  he  had  been  all  evening. 

They  did  not  talk  much.  The  nervous  loquacity  and  opin- 
ionation  of  the  Zenith  Athletic  Club  dropped  from  them.  But 
when  they  did  talk  they  slipped  into  the  naive  intimacy  of 
college  days.  Once  they  drew  their  canoe  up  to  the  bank  of 
Sunasquam  Water,  a  stream  walled  in  by  the  dense  green  of 
the  hardback.  The  sun  roared  on  the  green  jungle  but  in  the 
shade  was  sleepy  peace,  and  the  water  was  golden  and  rippling. 
Babbitt  drew  his  hand  through  the  cool  flood,  and  mused: 


BABBITT  151 

"We  never  thought  we'd  come  to  Maine  together!" 

"No.  We've  never  done  anything  the  way  we  thought  we 
would.  I  expected  to  live  in  Germany  with  my  granddad's 
people,  and  study  the  fiddle." 

"That's  so.  And  remember  how  I  wanted  to  be  a  lawyer 
and  go  into  politics?  I  still  think  I  might  have  made  a  go  of  it. 
I've  kind  of  got  the  gift  of  the  gab — anyway,  I  can  think  on 
my  feet,  and  make  some  kind  of  a  spiel  on  most  anything, 
and  of  course  that's  the  thing  you  need  in  politics.  By  golly^ 
Ted's  going  to  law-school,  even  if  I  didn't!  Well —  I  guess 
it's  worked  out  all  right.  Myra's  been  a  fine  wife.  And  Zilla 
means  well,  Paulibus." 

"Yes.  Up  here,  I  figure  out  all  sorts  of  plans  to  keep  her 
amused.  I  kind  of  feel  life  is  going  to  be  different,  now  that 
we're  getting  a  good  rest  and  can  go  back  and  start  over 
again," 

"I  hope  so,  old  boy,"  Shyly:  "Say,  gosh,  it's  been  awful 
nice  to  sit  around  and  loaf  and  gamble  and  act  regular,  with 
you  along,  you  old  horse-thief!" 

"Well,  you  know  what  it  means  to  me,  Georgie.  Saved  my 
life." 

The  shame  of  emotion  overpowered  them;  they  cursed  a 
little,  to  prove  they  were  good  rough  fellows;  and  in  a  mellow 
silence.  Babbitt  whistling  while  Paul  hummed,  they  paddled 
back  to  the  hotel. 


Though  it  was  Paul  who  had  seemed  overwrought,  Babbitt 
who  had  been  the  protecting  big  brother,  Paul  became  clear- 
eyed  and  merry,  while  Babbitt  sank  into  irritability.  He  un- 
covered layer  on  layer  of  hidden  weariness.  At  first  he  had 
played  nimble  jester  to  Paul  and  for  him  sought  amusements; 
by  the  end  of  the  week-  Paul  was  nurse,  and  Babbitt  accepted 
favors  with  the  condescension  one  always  shows  a  patient 
nurse. 


152  BABBITT 

The  day  before  their  families  arrived,  the  women  guests  at 
the  hotel  bubbled,  "Oh,  isn't  it  nice!  You  must  be  so  excited;" 
and  the  proprieties  compelled  Babbitt  and  Paul  to  look  ex- 
cited.   But  they  went  to  bed  early  and  grumpy. 

WTien  Myra  appeared  she  said  at  once,  "Now,  we  want 
you  boys  to  go  on  playing  around  just  as  if  we  weren't  here." 

The  first  evening,  he  stayed  out  for  poker  with  the  guides, 
and  she  said  in  placid  merriment,  "My!  You're  a  regular 
bad  one!"  The  second  evening,  she  groaned  sleepily,  "Good 
heavens,  are  you  going  to  be  out  every  single  night?"  The 
third  evening,  he  didn't  play  poker. 

He  was  tired  now  in  every  cell.  "Funny!  Vacation  doesn't 
seem  to  have  done  me  a  bit  of  good,"  he  lamented.  "Paul's 
frisky  as  a  colt,  but  I  swear,  I'm  crankier  and  nervouser  than 
when  I  came  up  here." 

He  had  three  weeks  of  !Maine.  At  the  end  of  the  second  week 
he  began  to  feel  calm,  and  interested  in  life.  He  planned  an  ex- 
pedition to  climb  Sachem  Mountain,  and  wanted  to  camp  over- 
night at  Box  Car  Pond.  He  was  curiously  weak,  yet  cheerful, 
as  though  he  had  cleansed  his  veins  of  poisonous  energy  and 
was  filling  them  with  wholesome  blood. 

He  ceased  to  be  irritated  by  Ted's  infatuation  with  a  wait- 
ress (his  seventh  tragic  affair  this  year);  he  played  catch 
with  Ted,  and  with  pride  taught  him  to  cast  a  fly  in  the 
pine-shadowed  silence  of  Skowtuit  Pond. 

At  the  end  he  sighed,  "Hang  it,  I'm  just  beginning  to  enjoy 
my  vacation.  But,  well,  I  feel  a  lot  better.  And  it's  going  to 
be  one  great  year!  Maybe  the  Real  Estate  Board  will  elect 
me  president,  instead  of  some  fuzzy  old-fashioned  faker  like 
Chan  Mott." 

On  the  way  home,  whenever  he  went  into  the  smoking- 
compartment  he  felt  guilty  at  deserting  his  wife  and  angry  at 
being  expected  to  feel  guilty,  but  each  time  he  triumphed, 
"Oh,  this  is  going  to  be  a  great  year,  a  great  old  year!" 


CHAPTER  XII 


All  the  way  home  from  Maine,  Babbitt  was  certain  that  he 
vas  a  changed  man.  He  was  converted  to  serenity.  He  was 
joing  to  cease  worrying  about  business.  He  was  going  to  have 
nore  "interests" — theaters,  public  affairs,  reading.  And  sud- 
ienly,  as  he  finished  an  especially  heavy  cigar,  he  was  going 
:o  stop  smoking. 

He  invented  a  new  and  perfect  method.  He  would  buy 
10  tobacco;  he  would  depend  on  borrowing  it;  and,  of  course, 
36  would  be  ashamed  to  borrow  often.  In  a  spasm  of  right- 
eousness he  ilung  his  cigar-case  out  of  the  smoking-compart- 
tnent  window.  He  went  back  and  was  kind  to  his  wife  about 
nothing  in  particular;  he  admired  his  own  purity,  and  decided, 
■'Absolutely  simple.  Just  a  matter  of  will-power."  He  started 
a  magazine  serial  about  a  scientific  detective.  Ten  miles  on,  he 
was  conscious  that  he  desired  to  smoke.  He  ducked  his  head, 
like  a  turtle  going  into  its  shell;  he  appeared  uneasy;  he 
skipped  two  pages  in  his  story  and  didn't  know  it.  Five  miles 
later,  he  leaped  up  and  sought  the  porter.  "Say,  uh,  George, 
have  you  got  a — "  The  porter  looked  patient.  "Have  you 
got  a  time-table?"  Babbitt  finished.  At  the  next  stop  he  went 
out  and  bought  a  cigar.  Since  it  was  to  be  his  last  before 
he  reached  Zenith,  he  finished  it  down  to  an  inch  stub. 

Four  days  later  he  again  remembered  that  he  had  stopped 
smoking,  but  he  was  too  busy  catching  up  with  his  office- 
work  to  keep  it  remembered. 

n 

Baseball,  he  determined,  would  be  an  excellent  hobby.  "No 
sense  a  man's  working  his  fool  head  off.    I'm  going  out  to  the 

153 


154  BABBITT 

Game  three  times  a  week.  Besides,  fellow  ought  to  support 
the  home  team." 

He  did  go  and  support  the  team,  and  enhance  the  glory  of 
Zenith,  by  yelling  "Attaboy!"  and  "Rotten!"  He  performed 
the  rite  scrupulously.  He  wore  a  cotton  handkerchief  about 
his  collar;  he  became  sweaty;  he  opened  his  mouth  in  a  wide 
loose  grin;  and  drank  lemon  soda  out  of  a  bottle.  He  went 
to  the  Game  three  times  a  week,  for  one  week.  Then  he  com- 
promised on  watching  the  Advocate-Times  bulletin-board.  He 
stood  in  the  thickest  and  steamiest  of  the  crowd,  and  as  the 
boy  up  on  the  lofty  platform  recorded  the  achievements  of 
Big  Bill  Bostwick,  the  pitcher,  Babbitt  remarked  to  complete 
strangers,  "Pretty  nice!  Good  work!"  and  hastened  back  to 
the  office. 

He  honestly  believed  that  he  loved  baseball.  It  is  true  that 
he  hadn't,  in  twenty-five  years,  himself  played  any  baseball 
except  back-lot  catch  with  Ted — very  gentle,  and  strictly  lim- 
ited to  ten  minutes.  But  the  game  was  a  custom  of  his  clan, 
and  it  gave  outlet  for  the  homicidal  and  sides-taking  instincts 
which  Babbitt  called  "patriotism"  and  "love  of  sport." 

As  he  approached  the  office  he  walked  faster  and  faster,  mut- 
tering, "Guess  better  hustle."  All  about  him  the  city  was 
hustling,  for  bustling's  sake.  Men  in  motors  were  hustling  to 
pass  one  another  in  the  hustling  traffic.  Men  were  hustling  to 
catch  trolleys,  with  another  trolley  a  minute  behind,  and  to 
leap  from  the  trolleys,  to  gallop  across  the  sidewalk,  to  hurl 
themselves  into  buildings,  into  hustling  express  elevators.  Men 
in  dairy  lunches  were  hustling  to  gulp  down  the  food  which 
cooks  had  hustled  to  fry.  Men  in  barber  shops  were  snapping, 
"Jus'  shave  me  once  over.  Gotta  hustle."  Men  were  fever- 
ishly getting  rid  of  visitors  in  offices  adorned  with  the  signs, 
"This  Is  My  Busy  Day"  and  "The  Lord  Created  the  World  in 
Six  Days— You  Can  Spiel  All  You  Got  to  Say  in  Six  Minutes." 
Men  who  had  made  five  thousand,  year  before  last,  and  ten 
thousand  last  year,  were  urging  on  nerve-yelping  bodies  and 


BABBITT  155 

parched  brains  so  that  they  might  make  twenty  thousand  this 
year;  and  the  men  who  had  broken  down  immediately  after 
making  their  twenty  thousand  dollars  were  hustling  to  catch 
trains,  to  hustle  through  the  vacations  which  the  hustling  doc- 
tors had  ordered. 

Among  them  Babbitt  hustled  back  to  his  office,  to  sit  down 
with  nothing  much  to  do  except  see  that  the  staff  looked  as 
though  they  were  hustling. 

Every  Saturday  afternoon  he  hustled  out  to  his  country 
club  and.  hustled  through  nine  holes  of  golf  as  a  rest  after 
the  week's  hustle. 

In  Zenith  it  was  as  necessary  for  a  Successful  Man  to 
belong  to  a  country  club  as  it  was  to  wear  a  linen  collar. 
Babbitt's  was  the  Outing  Golf  and  Country  Club,  a  pleasant 
gray-shingled  building  with  a  broad  porch,  on  a  daisy-starred 
cliff  above  Lake  Kennepoose,  There  was  another,  the  Tona- 
wanda  Country  Club,  to  which  belonged  Charles  McKelvey, 
Horace  Updike,  and  the  other  rich  men  who  lunched  not  at 
the  Athletic  but  at  the  Union  Club.  Babbitt  explained  with 
frequency,  "You  couldn't  hire  me  to  join  the  Tonawanda,  even 
if  I  did  have  a  hundred  and  eighty  bucks  to  throw  away  on 
the  initiation  fee.  At  the  Outing  we've  got  a  bunch  of  real 
human  fellows,  and  the  finest  lot  of  little  women  in  town — 
just  as  good  at  joshing  as  the  men — ^but  at  the  Tonawanda 
there's  nothing  but  these  would-be's  in  New  York  get-ups, 
drinking  tea!  Too  much  dog  altogether.  Why,  I  wouldn't 
join  the  Tonawanda  even  if  they —  I  wouldn't  join  it  on 
a  bet!" 

When  he  had  played  four  or  five  holes,  he  relaxed  a  bit,  his 
tobacco-fluttering  heart  beat  more  normally,  and  his  voice 
slowed  to  the  drawling  of  his  hundred  generations  of  peasant 
ancestors. 


156  BABBITT 

IV 

At  least  once  a  week  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Babbitt  and  Tinka  went 
to  the  movies.  Their  favorite  motion-picture  theater  was  the 
Chateau,  which  held  three  thousand  spectators  and  had  an 
orchestra  of  fifty  pieces  which  played  Arrangements  from  the 
Operas  and  suites  portraying  a  Day  on  the  Farm,  or  a  Four- 
alarm  Fire.  In  the  stone  rotunda,  decorated  with  crown- 
embroidered  velvet  chairs  and  almost  medieval  tapestries, 
parrakeets  sat  on  gilded  lotos  columns. 

With  exclamations  of  "Well,  by  golly!"  and  "You  got  to 
go  some  to  beat  this  dump!"  Babbitt  admired  the  Chateau. 
As  he  stared  across  the  thousands  of  heads,  a  gray  plain  in 
the  dimness,  as  he  smelled  good  clothes  and  mild  perfume 
and  chewing-gum,  he  felt  as  when  he  had  first  seen  a  moun- 
tain and  realized  how  very,  very  much  earth  and  rock  there 
was  in  it. 

He  liked  three  kinds  of  films:  pretty  bathing  girls  with  bare 
legs;  policemen  or  cowboys  and  an  industrious  shooting  of 
revolvers;  and  funny  fat  men  who  ate  spaghetti.  He  chuckled 
with  immense,  moist-eyed  sentimentality  at  interludes  portray- 
ing puppies,  kittens,  and  chubby  babies;  and  he  wept  at  death- 
beds and  old  mothers  being  patient  in  mortgaged  cottages. 
Mrs.  Babbitt  preferred  the  pictures  in  which  handsome  young 
women  in  elaborate  frocks  moved  through  sets  ticketed  as  the 
drawing-rooms  of  New  York  millionaires.  As  for  Tinka,  she 
preferred,  or  was  believed  to  prefer,  whatever  her  parents  told 
her  to. 

All  his  relaxations — baseball,  golf,  movies,  bridge,  motoring, 
long  talks  with  Paul  at  the  Athletic  Club,  or  at  the  Good  Red 
Beef  and  Old  English  Chop  House — were  necessary  to  Babbitt, 
for  he  was  entering  a  year  of  such  activity  as  he  had  never 
known. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


It  was  by  accident  that  Babbitt  had  his  opportunity  to 
address  the  S.  A.  R.  E.  B. 

The  S.  A.  R.  E.  B.,  as  its  members  called  it,  with  the  uni- 
versal passion  for  mysterious  and  important-sounding  initials, 
was  the  State  Association  of  Real  Estate  Boards;  the  organi- 
zation of  brokers  and  operators.  It  was  to  hold  its  annual 
convention  at  Monarch,  Zenith's  chief  rival  among  the  cities 
of  the  state.  Babbitt  was  an  official  delegate;  another  was 
Cecil  Rountree,  whom  Babbitt  admJred  for  his  picaresque 
speculative  building,  and  hated  for  his  social  position,  for 
being  present  at  the  smartest  dances  on  Royal  Ridge.  Roun- 
tree was  chairman  of  the  convention  program-committee. 

Babbitt  had  growled  to  him,  "Makes  me  tired  the  way  these 
doctors  and  profs  and  preachers  put  on  lugs  about  being  'pro- 
fessional men.'  A  good  realtor  has  to  have  more  knowledge 
and  finesse  than  any  of  'em." 

"Right  you  are!  I  say:  Why  don't  you  put  that  into  a 
paper,  and  give  it  at  the  S.  A.  R.  E.  B.?"  suggested  Rountree. 

''Well,  if  it  would  help  you  in  making  up  the  program — 
Tell  you:  the  way  I  look  at  it  is  this:  First  place,  we  ought 
to  insist  that  folks  call  us  'realtors'  and  not  'real-estate  men.' 
Sounds  more  Hke  a  reg'lar  profession.  Second  place —  What 
is  it  distinguishes  a  profession  from  a  mere  trade,  business, 
or  occupation?  What  is  it?  Why,  it's  the  public  service 
and  the  skill,  the  trained  skill,  and  the  knowledge  and,  uh, 
all  that,  whereas  a  fellow  that  merely  goes  out  for  the  jack, 
he  never  considers  the — public  service  and  trained  skill  and 
so  on.    Now  as  a  professional — " 

"Rather!    That's  perfectly  bully!    Perfectly  corking!    Now 

157 


158  BABBITT 

you  write  it  in  a  paper,"  said  Rountree,  as  he  rapidly  and 
firmly  moved  away. 

n 

However  accustomed  to  the  literary  labors  of  advertisements 
and  correspondence,  Babbitt  was  dismayed  on  the  evening 
when  he  sat  down  to  prepare  a  paper  which  would  take  a 
whole  ten  minutes  to  read. 

He  laid  out  a  new  fifteen-cent  school  exercise-book  on  his 
wife's  collapsible  sewing-table,  set  up  for  the  event  in  the 
living-room.  The  household  had  been  bullied  into  silence; 
Verona  and  Ted  requested  to  disappear,  and  Tinka  threatened 
with  "If  I  hear  one  sound  out  of  you — if  you  holler  for  a 
glass  of  water  one  single  solitary  time —  You  better  not,  that's 
all!"  Mrs.  Babbitt  sat  over  by  the  piano,  making  a  iiight- 
gown  and  gazing  with  respect  while  Babbitt  wrote  in  the 
exercise-book,  to  the  rhythmical  wiggling  and  squeaking  of  the 
sewing-table. 

When  he  rose,  damp  and  jumpy,  and  his  throat  dusty  from 
cigarettes,  she  marveled,  "I  don't  see  how  you  can  just  sit 
down  and  make  up  things  right  out  of  your  own  head!" 

"Oh,  it's  the  training  in  constructive  imagination  that  a 
fellow  gets  in  modern  business  life." 

He  had  written  seven  pages,  whereof  the  first  page  set  forth: 


3fe«* 


*- 


O^Tf9— 


Cx^^^ 


-^iUJUtt^ 


BABBITT  159 

The  other  six  pages  were  rather  like  the  first. 

For  a  week  he  went  about  looking  important.  Every  morn- 
ing, as  he  dressed,  he  thought  aloud:  "Jever  stop  to  consider, 
Myra,  that  before  a  town  can  have  buildings  or  prosperity  or 
any  of  those  things,  some  realtor  has  got  to  sell  'em  the  land? 
All  civilization  starts  with  him.  Jever  realize  that?"  At  the 
Athletic  Club  he  led  unwilling  men  aside  to  inquire,  "Say,  if 
you  had  to  read  a  paper  before  a  big  convention,  would  you 
start  in  with  the  funny  stories  or  just  kind  of  scatter  'em  all 
through?"  He  asked  Howard  Littlefield  for  a  "set  of  statistics 
about  real-estate  sales;  something  good  and  impressive,"  and 
Littlefield  provided  something  exceedingly  good  and  impressive. 

But  it  was  to  T.  Cholmondeley  Frink  that  Babbitt  most 
often  turned.  He  caught  Frink  at  the  club  every  noon,  and 
demanded,  while  Frink  looked  hunted  and  evasive,  "Say, 
Chum — you're  a  shark  on  this  writing  stuff — how  would  you 
put  this  sentence,  see  here  in  my  manuscript — manuscript — 
now  where  the  deuce  is  that? — oh,  yes,  here.  Would  you  say 
*We  ought  not  also  to  alone  think?'  or  'We  ought  also  not 
to  think  alone?'  or — " 

One  evening  when  his  wife  was  away  and  he  had  no  one 
to  impress,  Babbitt  forgot  about  Style,  Order,  and  the  other 
mysteries,  and  scrawled  off  what  he  really  thought  about  the 
real-estate  business  and  about  himself,  and  he  found  the 
paper  written.  When  he  read  it  to  his  wife  she  yearned, 
"Why,  dear,  it's  splendid;  beautifully  written,  and  so  clear 
and  interesting,  and  such  splendid  ideas!  Why,  it's  just — it's 
just  splendid!" 

Next  day  he  cornered  Chum  Frink  and  crowed,  "Well,  old 
son,  I  finished  it  last  evening!  Just  lammed  it  out!  I  used 
to  think  you  writing-guys  must  have  a  hard  job  making  up 
pieces,  but  Lord,  it's  a  cinch.  Pretty  soft  for  you  fellows; 
you  certainly  earn  your  money  easy!  Some  day  when  I  get 
ready  to  retire,  guess  I'll  take  to  writing  and  show  you  boys 
how  to  do  it.     I  always  used  to  think  I  could  write  better 


i6o  BABBITT 

stuff,  and  more  punch  and  originality,  than  all  this  stuff  you 
see  printed,  and  now  I'm  doggone  sure  of  itl" 

He  had  four  copies  of  the  paper  typed  in  black  with  a 
gorgeous  red  title,  had  them  bound  in  pale  blue  manilla,  and 
affably  presented  one  to  old  Ira  Runyon,  the  managing  editor 
of  the  Advocate-Times,  who  said  yes,  indeed  yes,  he  was  very 
glad  to  have  it,  and  he  certainly  would  read  it  all  through — 
as  soon  as  he  could  find  time. 

Mrs.  Babbitt  could  not  go  to  Monarch.  She  had  a  women's- 
club  meeting.     Babbitt  said  that  he  was  very  sorry. 

Ill 

Besides  the  five  official  delegates  to  the  convention — Babbitt, 
Rountree,  W.  A.  Rogers,  Alvin  Thayer,  and  Elbert  Wing — 
there  were  fifty  unofficial  delegates,  most  of  them  with  their 
wives. 

They  met  at  the  Union  Station  for  the  midnight  train  to 
Monarch.  All  of  them,  save  Cecil  Rountree,  who  was  such  a 
snob  that  he  never  wore  badges,  displayed  celluloid  buttons 
the  size  of  dollars  and  lettered  "We  zoom  for  Zenith."  The 
official  delegates  were  magnificent  with  silver  and  magenta 
ribbons.  Martin  Lumsen's  little  boy  Willy  carried  a  tasseled 
banner  inscribed  "Zenith  the  Zip  City — Zeal,  Zest  and  Zowie 
— 1,000,000  in  1935."  As  the  delegates  arrived,  not  in  taxi- 
cabs  but  in  the  family  automobile  driven  by  the  oldest  son 
or  by  Cousin  Fred,  they  formed  impromptu  processions 
through  the  station  waiting-room. 

It  was  a  new  and  enormous  waiting-room,  with  marble 
pilasters,  and  frescoes  depicting  the  exploration  of  the  Chaloosa 
River  Valley  by  Pere  Emile  Fauthoux  in  1740.  The  benches 
were  shelves  of  ponderous  mahogany ;  the  news-stand  a  marble 
kiosk  with  a  brass  grill.  Down  the  echoing  spaces  of  the  hall 
the  delegates  paraded  after  Willy  Lumsen's  banner,  the  men 
waving  their  cigars,  the  women  conscious  of  their  new  frocks 


BABBITT  i6i 

and  strings  of  beads,  all  singing  to  the  tune  of  Auld  Lang 
Syne   the  official  City  Song,  written  by  Chum  Frink: 

Good  old  Zenith, 

Our  kin  and  kith. 
Wherever  we  may  be. 

Hats  in  the  ring. 

We  bhthely  sing 
Of   thy    Prosperity. 

Warren  Whitby,  the  broker,  who  had  a  gift  of  verse  for 
banquets  and  birthdays,  had  added  to  Frink's  City  Song  a 
special  verse  for  the  realtors'  convention: 

Oh,  here  we  come. 

The  fellows  from 
Zenith,  the  Zip  Citee. 

We  wish  to  state 

In    real    estate 
There's  none  so  live  as  we. 

Babbitt  was  stirred  to  hysteric  patriotism.  He  leaped  on 
a  bench,  shouting  to  the  crowd: 

"What's  the  matter  with  Zenith?" 

"She's  all  right!" 

"What's  best  ole  town  in  the  U.  S.  A.?" 

"Zeeeeeen-ith!" 

The  patient  poor  people  waiting  for  the  midnight  train 
stared  in  unenvious  wonder — Italian  women  with  shawls,  old 
weary  men  with  broken  shoes,  roving  road-wise  boys  in  suits 
which  had  been  flashy  when  they  were  new  but  which  were 
faded  now  and  wrinkled. 

Babbitt  perceived  that  as  an  official  delegate  he  must  be 
more  dignified.  With  Wing  and  Rogers  he  tramped  up  and 
down  the  cement  platform  beside  the  waiting  Pullmans. 
Motor-driven  baggage-trucks  and  red-capped  porters  carrying 
bags  sped  down  the  platform  with  an  agreeable  effect  of  ac- 
tivity.   Arc-Hghts  glared  and  stammered  overhead.    The  glossy 


i62  BABBITT 

yellow  deeping-cars  shone  impressively.  Babbitt  made  his 
voice  to  be  measured  and  lordly;  he  thrust  out  his  abdomen 
and  rumbled,  "We  got  to  see  to  it  that  the  convention  lets 
the  Legislature  understand  just  where  they  get  off  in  this 
matter  of  taxing  realty  transfers."  Wing  uttered  approving 
grunts  and  Babbitt  swelled — gloated — 

The  blind  of  a  Pullman  compartment  was  raised,  and  Bab- 
bitt looked  into  an  unfamiliar  world.  The  occupant  of  the 
compartment  was  Lucile  McKelvey,  the  pretty  wife  of  the 
millionaire  contractor.  Possibly,  Babbitt  thrilled,  she  was 
going  to  Europe!  On  the  seat  beside  her  was  a  bunch  of 
orchids  and  violets,  and  a  yellow  paper-bound  book  which 
seemed  foreign.  While  he  stared,  she  picked  up  the  book, 
then  glanced  out  of  the  window  as  though  she  was  bored. 
She  must  have  looked  straight  at  him,  and  he  had  met  her, 
but  she  gave  no  sign.  She  languidly  pulled  down  the  blind, 
and  he  stood  still,  a  cold  feeling  of  insignificance  in  his  heart. 

But  on  the  train  his  pride  was  restored  by  meeting  delegates 
from  Sparta,  Pioneer,  and  other  smaller  cities  of  the  state, 
who  listened  respectfully  when,  as  a  magnifico  from  the 
metropolis  of  Zenith,  he  explained  politics  and  the  value  of  a 
Good  Sound  Business  Administration.  They  fell  joyfully  into 
shop-talk,  the  purest  and  most  rapturous  form  of  conversation: 

"How'd  this  fellow  Rountree  make  out  with  this  big  apart- 
ment-hotel he  was  going  to  put  up?  WTiadde  do?  Get  out 
bonds  to  finance  it?"  asked  a  Sparta  broker. 

"Well,  I'U  tell  you,"  said  Babbitt.  "Now  if  I'd  been 
handling  it — " 

"So,"  Elbert  Wing  was  droning,  "I  hired  this  shop-window 
for  a  week,  and  put  up  a  big  sign,  'Toy  Town  for  Tiny  Tots,' 
and  stuck  in  a  lot  of  doll  houses  and  some  dinky  little  trees, 
and  then  down  at  the  bottom,  'Baby  Likes  This  Dollydale, 
but  Papa  and  Mama  Will  Prefer  Our  Beautiful  Bungalows,' 
and  you  know,  that  certainly  got  folks  talking,  and  first  week 
we  sold — " 


BABBITT  163 

The  trucks  sang  "lickety-lick,  lickety-lick"  as  the  train  ran 
through  the  factory  district.  Furnaces  spurted  flame,  and 
power-hammers  were  clanging.  Red  lights,  green  lights, 
furious  white  lights  rushed  past,  and  Babbitt  was  important 
again,  and  eager. 


IV 

He  did  a  voluptuous  thing:  he  had  his  clothes  pressed  on 
the  train.  In  the  morning,  half  an  hour  before  they  reached 
Monarch,  the  porter  came  to  his  bertii  and  whispered,  "There's 
a  drawing-room  vacant,  sir.  I  put  your  suit  in  there."  In 
tan  autumn  overcoat  over  his  pajamas,  Babbitt  slipped  down 
the  green-curtain-lined  aisle  to  the  glory  of  his  first  private 
compartment.  The  porter  indicated  that  he  knew  Babbitt 
was  used  to  a  man-servant;  he  held  the  ends  of  Babbitt's 
trousers,  that  the  beautifully  sponged  garment  might  not  be 
soiled,  filled  the  bowl  in  the  private  washroom,  and  waited 
with  a  towel. 

To  have  a  private  washroom  was  luxurious.  However  en- 
livening a  Pullman  smoking-compartment  was  by  night,  even 
to  Babbitt  it  was  depressing  in  the  morning,  when  it  was 
jammed  with  fat  men  in  woolen  undershirts,  every  hook  filled 
with  wrinkled  cottony  shirts,  the  leather  seat  piled  with  dingy 
toilet-kits,  and  the  air  nauseating  with  the  smell  of  soap  and 
toothpaste.  Babbitt  did  not  ordinarily  think  much  of  pri- 
vacy, but  now  he  reveled  in  it,  reveled  in  his  valet,  and  purred 
with  pleasure  as  he  gave  the  man  a  tip  of  a  dollar  and  a 
half. 

He  rather  hoped  that  he  was  being  noticed  as,  in  bis  newly 
pressed  clothes,  with  the  adoring  porter  carrying  his  suit-case, 
he  disembarked  at  Monarch. 

He  was  to  share  a  room  at  the  Hotel  Sedgwick  with  W.  A. 
Rogers,  that  shrewd,  rustic-looking  Zenith  dealer  in  farm-lands. 
Together  they  had  a  noble  breakfast,  with  waffles,  and  coffee 


i64  BABBITT 

not  in  exiguous  cups  but  in  large  pots.  Babbitt  grew  expan- 
sive, and  told  Rogers  about  the  art  of  writing;  he  gave  a  bell- 
boy a  quarter  to  fetch  a  morning  newspaper  from  the  lobby, 
and  sent  to  Tinka  a  post-card:  "Papa  wishes  you  were  here 
to  bat  round  with  him." 


The  meetings  of  the  convention  were  held  in  the  ballroom 
of  the  Allen  House.  In  an  anteroom  was  the  office  of  the 
chairman  of  the  executive  committee.  He  was  the  busiest  man 
in  the  convention;  he  was  so  lausy  that  he  got  nothing  done 
whatever.  He  sat  at  a  marquetry  table,  in  a  room  littered 
with  crumpled  paper  and,  all  day  long,  town-boosters  and 
lobbyists  and  orators  who  wished  to  lead  debates  came  and 
whispered  to  him,  whereupon  he  looked  vague,  and  said  rap- 
idly, "Yes,  yes,  that's  a  fine  idea;  we'll  do  that,"  and  instantly 
forgot  all  about  it,  lighted  a  cigar  and  forgot  that  too,  while 
the  telephone  rang  mercilessly  and  about  him  men  kept  be- 
seeching, "Say,  Mr.  Chairman — say,  Mr.  Chairman!"  without 
penetrating  his  exhausted  hearing. 

In  the  exhibit-room  were  plans  of  the  new  suburbs  of  Sparta, 
pictures  of  the  new  state  capitol,  at  Galop  de  Vache,  and 
large  ears  of  corn  with  the  label,-  "Nature's  Gold,  from  Shelby 
County,  the  Garden  Spot  of  God's  Own  Country." 

The  real  convention  consisted  of  men  muttering  in  hotel 
bedrooms  or  in  groups  amid  the  badge-spotted  crowd  in  the 
hotel-lobby,  but  there  was  a  show  of  public  meetings. 

The  first  of  them  opened  with  a  welcome  by  the  mayor 
of  Monarch.  The  pastor  of  the  First  Christian  Church  of 
Monarch,  a  large  man  with  a  long  damp  frontal  lock,  in- 
formed God  that  the  real-estate  men  were  here  now. 

The  venerable  Minnemagantic  realtor.  Major  Carlton  Tuke, 
read  a  paper  in  which  he  denounced  cooperative  stores.  Wil- 
liam A.  Larkin  of  Eureka  gave  a  comforting  prognosis  of 


BABBITT  165 

"The  Prospects  for  Increased  Construction,"  and  reminded 
them  that  plate-glass  prices  were  two  points  lower. 

The  convention  was  on. 

The  delegates  were  entertained,  incessantly  and  firmly.  The 
Monarch  Chamber  of  Commerce  gave  them  a  banquet,  and 
the  Manufacturers'  Association  an  afternoon  reception,  at 
which  a  chrysanthemum  was  presented  to  each  of  the  ladies, 
and  to  each  of  the  men  a  leather  bill-fold  inscribed  "From 
Monarch  the  Mighty  Motor  Mart." 

Mrs.  Crosby  Knowlton,  wife  of  the  manufacturer  of  Fleet- 
wing  Automobiles,  opened  her  celebrated  Italian  garden  and 
served  tea.  Six  hundred  real-estate  men  and  wives  ambled 
down  the  autumnal  paths.  Perhaps  three  hundred  of  them 
were  quietly  inconspicuous;  perhaps  three  hundred  vigorously 
exclaimed,  "This  is  pretty  slick,  eh?"  surreptitiously  picked  the 
late  asters  and  concealed  them  in  their  pockets,  and  tried  to 
get  near  enough  to  Mrs.  Knowlton  to  shake  her  lovely  hand. 
Without  request,  the  Zenith  delegates  (except  Rountree)  gath- 
ered round  a  marble  dancing  nymph  and  sang  "Here  we  come, 
the  fellows  from  Zenith,  the  Zip  Citee." 

It  chanced  that  all  the  delegates  from  Pioneer  belonged  to 
the  Brotherly  and  Protective  Order  of  Elks,  and  they  pro- 
duced an  enormous  banner  lettered:  "B.  P.  O.  E. — Best  Peo- 
ple on  Earth — Boost  Pioneer,  Oh  Eddie."  Nor  was  Galop 
de  Vache,  the  state  capital,  to  be  slighted.  The  leader  of  the 
Galop  de  Vache  delegation  was  a  large,  reddish,  roundish  man, 
but  active.  He  took  off  his  coat,  hurled  his  broad  black  felt 
hat  on  the  ground,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  climbed  upon  the  sun- 
dial, spat,  and  bellowed: 

"We'll  tell  the  world,  and  the  good  lady  who's  giving  the 
show  this  afternoon,  that  the  bonniest  burg  in  this  man's  state 
is  Galop  de  Vache.  You  boys  can  talk  about  your  zip,  but 
jus'  lemme  murmur  that  old  Galop  has  the  largest  proportion 
of  home-owning  citizens  in  the  state ;  and  when  folks  own  their 
homes,  they  ain't  starting  labor-troubles,  and  they're  raising 


i66  BABBITT 

kids  instead  of  raising  hell!  Galop  de  Vachel  The  town 
for  homey  folks!  The  town  that  eats  'em  alive  oh,  Bosco! 
We'll— tell— the— world! " 

The  guests  drove  off;  the  garden  shivered  into  quiet.  But 
Mrs.  Crosby  Knowlton  sighed  as  she  looked  at  a  marble  seat 
warm  from  five  hundred  summers  of  Amalfi.  On  the  face  of 
a  vdnged  sphinx  which  supported  it  some  one  had  drawn  a 
mustache  in  lead-pencil.  Crumpled  paper  napkins  were 
dumped  among  the  Michaelmas  daisies.  On  the  walk,  like 
shredded  lovely  flesh,  were  the  petals  of  the  last  gallant  rose. 
Cigarette  stubs  floated  in  the  goldfish  pool,  trailing  an  evil 
stain  as  they  swelled  and  disintegrated,  and  beneath  the  marble 
seat,  the  fragments  carefully  put  together,  was  a  smashed 
teacup. 

VI 

As  he  rode  back  to  the  hotel  Babbitt  reflected,  "Myra  would 
have  enjoyed  all  this  social  agony."  For  himself  he  cared  less 
for  the  garden  party  than  for  the  motor  tours  which  the 
Monarch  Chamber  of  Commerce  had  arranged,  Indefatigably 
he  viewed  water-reservoirs,  suburban  trolley-stations,  and  tan- 
neries. He  devoured  the  statistics  which  were  given  to  him, 
and  marveled  to  his  roommate,  W.  A.  Rogers,  "Of  course  this 
town  isn't  a  patch  on  Zenith;  it  hasn't  got  our  outlook  and 
natural  resources;  but  did  you  know — I  nev'  did  till  to-day 
— that  they  manufactured  seven  hundred  and  sixty-three  mil- 
lion feet  of  lumber  last  year?     What  d'  you  think  of  that!" 

He  was  nervous  as  the  time  for  reading  his  paper  ap- 
proached. When  he  stood  on  the  low  platform  before  the 
convention,  he  trembled  and  saw  only  a  purple  haze.  But  he 
was  in  earnest,  and  when  he  had  finished  the  formal  paper 
he  talked  to  them,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  spectacled 
face  a  flashing  disk,  like  a  plate  set  up  on  edge  in  the  lamp- 
light.   They  shouted  "That's  the  stuff!"  and  in  the  discus- 


BABBITT  167 

sion  afterward  they  referred  with  impressiveness  to  "our 
friend  and  brother,  Mr.  George  F,  Babbitt."  He  had  in  fifteen 
minutes  changed  from  a  minor  delegate  to  a  personage  almost 
as  well  known  as  that  diplomat  of  business,  Cecil  Rountree. 
After  the  meeting,  delegates  from  all  over  the  state  said, 
"Hower  you.  Brother  Babbitt?"  Sixteen  complete  strangers 
called  him  "George,"  and  three  men  took  him  into  corners 
to  confide,  "Mighty  glad  you  had  the  courage  to  stand  up 
and  give  the  Profession  a  real  boost.  Now  I've  always  main- 
tained—" 

Next  morning,  with  tremendous  casualness,  Babbitt  asked 
the  girl  at  the  hotel  news-stand  for  the  newspapers  from 
Zenith.  There  was  nothing  in  the  Press,  but  in  the  Advocate- 
Times,  on  the  third  page —  He  gasped.  They  had  printed 
his  picture  and  a  half-column  account.  The  heading  was 
"Sensation  at  Annual  Land-men's  Convention.  G,  F.  Babbitt, 
Prominent  Ziptown  Realtor,  Keynoter  in  Fine  Address." 

He  murmured  reverently,  "I  guess  some  of  the  folks  on 
Floral  Heights  will  sit  up  and  take  notice  now,  and  pay  a 
little  attention  to  old  Georgie!" 


vn 

It  was  the  last  meeting.  The  delegations  were  presenting 
the  claims  of  their  several  cities  to  the  next  year's  convention. 
Orators  were  announcing  that  "Galop  de  Vache,  the  Capital 
City,  the  site  of  Kremer  College  and  of  the  Upholtz  Knitting 
Works,  is  the  recognized  center  of  culture  and  high-class  enter- 
prise;" and  that  "Hamburg,  the  Big  Little  City  with  the 
Logical  Location,  where  every  man  is  open-handed  and  every 
woman  a  heaven-born  hostess,  throws  wide  to  you  her  hos- 
pitable gates." 

In  the  midst  of  these  more  diffident  invitations,  the  golden 
doors  of  the  ballroom  opened  with  a  blatting  of  trumpets,  and 
a  circus  parade  rolled  in.     It  was  composed  of  the  Zenith 


i68  BABBITT 

brokers,  dressed  as  cowpunchers,  bareback  riders,  Japanese 
jugglers.  At  the  head  was  big  Warren  Whitby,  in  the  bear- 
skin and  gold-and-crimson  coat  of  a  drum-major.  Behind 
him,  as  a  clown,  beating  a  bass  drum,  extraordinarily  happy 
and  noisy,  was  Babbitt. 

Warren  Whitby  leaped  on  the  platform,  made  merry  play 
with  his  baton,  and  observed,  "Boyses  and  girlses,  the  time 
has  came  to  get  down  to  cases.  A  dyed-in-the-wool  Zenithite 
sure  loves  his  neighbors,  but  we've  made  up  our  minds  to  grab 
this  convention  off  our  neighbor  burgs  like  we've  grabbed  the 
condensed-milk  business  and  the  paper-box  business  and — " 

J.  Harry  Barmhill,  the  convention  chairman,  hinted,  ''We're 
grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Uh,  but  you  must  give  the  other  boys  a 
chance  to  hand  in  their  bids  now." 

A  fog-horn  voice  blared,  "In  Eureka  we'll  promise  free 
motor  rides  through  the  prettiest  country — " 

Running  down  the  aisle,  clapping  his  hands,  a  lean  bald 
young  man  cried,  "I'm  from  Sparta!  Our  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce has  wired  me  they've  set  aside  eight  thousand  dollars, 
in  real  money,  for  the  entertainment  of  the  convention!" 

A  clerical-looking  man  rose  to  clamor,  "Money  talks!  Move 
we  accept  the  bid  from  Sparta!" 

It  was  accepted, 

VIII 

The  Committee  on  Resolutions  was  reporting.  They  said 
that  Whereas  Almighty  God  in  his  beneficent  mercy  had  seen 
fit  to  remove  to  a  sphere  of  higher  usefulness  some  thirty-six 
realtors  of  the  state  the  past  year.  Therefore  it  was  the  senti- 
ment of  this  convention  assembled  that  they  were  sorry  God 
had  done  it,  and  the  secretary  should  be,  and  hereby  was, 
instructed  to  spread  these  resolutions  on  the  minutes,  and  to 
console  the  bereaved  families  by  sending  them  each  a  copy. 

A    second    resolution    authorized    the    president    of    the 


BABBITT  169 

S.A.R.E.B.  to  spend  fifteen  thousand  dollars  in  lobbying  for 
sane  tax  measures  in  the  State  Legislature.  This  resolution 
had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  Menaces  to  Sound  Business  and 
clearing  the  Wheels  of  Progress  from  ill-advised  and  short- 
sighted obstacles. 

The  Committee  on  Committees  reported,  and  with  startled 
awe  Babbitt  learned  that  he  had  been  appointed  a  member 
of  the  Committee  on  Torrens  Titles. 

He  rejoiced,  "I  said  it  was  going  to  be  a  great  year!  Georgia, 
old  son,  you  got  big  things  ahead  of  you!  You're  a  natural- 
born  orator  and  a  good  mixer  and —    Zowie!" 

IX 

—  There  was  no  formal  entertainment  provided  for  the  last 
evening.  Babbitt  had  planned  to  go  home,  but  that  after- 
noon the  Jered  Sassburgers  of  Pioneer  suggested  that  Babbitt 
and  W.  A.  Rogers  have  tea  with  them  at  the  Catalpa  Inn. 

Teas  were  not  unknown  to  Babbitt — his  wife  and  he 
earnestly  attended  them  at  least  twice  a  year — but  they  were 
sufficiently  exotic  to  make  him  feel  important.  He  sat  at  a 
glass-covered  table  in  the  Art  Room  of  the  Inn,  with  its 
painted  rabbits,  mottoes  lettered  on  birch  bark,  and  waitresses 
being  artistic  in  Dutch  caps;  he  ate  insufficient  lettuce  sand- 
wiches, and  was  lively  and  naughty  with  Mrs.  Sassburger,  who 
was  as  smooth  and  large-eyed  as  a  cloak-model.  Sassburger 
and  he  had  met  two  days  before,  so  they  were  calling  each 
other   "Georgie"  and   "Sassy." 

Sassburger  said  prayerfully,  "Say,  boys,  before  you  go, 
seeing  this  is  the  last  chance,  I've  got  it,  up  in  my  room,  and 
Miriam  here  is  the  best  little  mixologist  in  the  Stati  Unidos, 
like  us  Italians  say." 

With  wide  flowing  gestures,  Babbitt  and  Rogers  followed 
the  Sassburgers  to  their  room.  Mrs.  Sassburger  shrieked^ 
"Oh,  how  terrible!"  when  she  saw  that  she  had  left  a  chemise 


170  BABBITT 

of  sheer  lavender  crepe  on  the  bed.  She  tucked  it  into  a  bag, 
while  Babbitt  giggled,  "Don't  mind  us;  we're  a  couple  o' 
little  diwils!" 

Sassburger  telephoned  for  ice,  and  the  bell-boy  who  brought 
it  said,  prosaically  and  unprompted,  "Highball  glasses  or  cock- 
tail?" Miriam  Sassburger  mixed  the  cocktails  in  one  of  those 
dismal,  nakedly  white  water-pitchers  which  exist  only  in  hotels. 
When  they  had  finished  the  first  round  she  proved  by  intoning 
"Think  you  boys  could  stand  another — ^you  got  a  dividend 
coming"  that,  though  she  was  but  a  woman,  she  knew  the 
complete  and  perfect  rite  of  cocktail-drinking. 

Outside,  Babbitt  hinted  to  Rogers,  "Say,  W.  A.,  old  rooster, 
it  comes  over  me  that  I  could  stand  it  if  we  didn't  go  back 
to  the  lovin'  wives,  this  handsome  Abend,  but  just  kind  of 
stayed  in  Monarch  and  threw  a  party,  heh?" 

"George,  you  speak  with  the  tongue  of  wisdom  and  sagashi- 
teriferousness.  El  Wing's  wife  has  gone  on  to  Pittsburg. 
Let's  see  if  we  can't  gather  him  in." 

At  half-past  seven  they  sat  in  their  room,  with  Elbert  Wing 
and  two  up-state  delegates.  Their  coats  were  off,  their  vests 
open,  their  faces  red,  their  voices  emphatic.  They  were  finish- 
ing a  bottle  of  corrosive  bootlegged  whisky  and  imploring  the 
bell-boy,  "Say,  son,  can  you  get  us  some  more  of  this  em- 
balming fluid?"  They  were  smoking  large  cigars  and  dropping 
ashes  and  stubs  on  the  carpet.  With  windy  guffaws  they  were 
telling  stories.  They  were,  in  fact,  males  in  a  happy  state 
of  nature. 

Babbitt  sighed,  "I  don't  know  how  it  strikes  you  hellions, 
but  personally  I  like  this  busting  loose  for  a  change,  and  kick- 
ing over  a  couple  of  mountains  and  climbing  up  on  the  North 
Pole  and  waving  the  aurora  borealis  around." 

The  man  from  Sparta,  a  grave,  intense  youngster,  babbled, 
"Say!  I  guess  I'm  as  good  a  husband  as  the  run  of  the  mill, 
but  God,  I  do  get  so  tired  of  going  home  every  evening,  and 
nothing  to  see  but  the  movies.    That's  why  I  go  out  and  drill 


BABBITT  171 

with  the  National  Guard.  I  guess  I  got  the  nicest  little  wife 
in  my  burg,  but —  Say!  Know  what  I  wanted  to  do  as  a 
kid?  Know  what  I  wanted  to  do?  Wanted  to  be  a  big 
chemist.  Tha's  what  I  wanted  to  do.  But  Dad  chased  me 
out  on  the  road  selling  kitchenware,  and  here  I'm  settled 
down — settled  for  life — not  a  chance!  Oh,  who  the  devil 
started  this  funeral  talk?  How  'bout  'nother  lil  drink?  'And 
a-noth-er  drink  wouldn'  do  's  'ny  harmmmmmmm.' " 

"Yea.  Cut  the  sob-stuff,"  said  W.  A.  Rogers  genially. 
"You  boys  know  I'm  the  village  songster?  Come  on  now — • 
sing  up: 

Said  the  old  Obadiah  to  the  young  Obadiah, 
*I  am  dry,  Obadiah,  I  am  dr>'.' 
Said  the  young  Obadiah  to  the  old  Obadiah, 
'So  am  I,  Obadiah,  so  am  I.' " 


They  had  dinner  in  the  Moorish  Grillroom  of  the  Hotel 
Sedgwick.  Somewhere,  somehow,  they  seemed  to  have  gath- 
ered in  two  other  comrades:  a  manufacturer  of  fly-paper  and 
a  dentist.  They  all  drank  whisky  from  tea-cups,  and  they 
were  humorous,  and  never  listened  to  one  another,  except  when 
W.  A.  Rogers  "kidded"  the  Italian  waiter. 

"Say,  Gooseppy,"  he  said  innocently,  "I  want  a  couple  o' 
fried  elephants'  ears." 

"Sorry,  sir,  we  haven't  any." 

"Huh?  No  elephants'  ears?  What  do  you  know  about 
that!"  Rogers  turned  to  Babbitt.  "Pedro  says  the  elephants' 
ears  are  all  out!" 

"Well,  I'll  be  switched!"  said  the  man  from  Sparta,  with 
difficulty  hiding  his  laughter. 

"Well,  in  that  case,  Carlo,  just  bring  me  a  hunk  o'  steak 
and  a  couple  o'  bushels  o'  French  fried  potatoes  and  some 
peas,"  Rogers  went  on.    "I  suppose  back  in  dear  old  sunny 


172  BABBITT 

It'  the  Eyetalians  get  their  fresh  garden  peas  out  of  the  ean.** 

"No,  sir,  we  have  very  nice  peas  in  Italy." 

"Is  that  a  fact!  Georgie,  do  you  hear  that?  They  get  their 
fresh  garden  peas  out  of  the  garden,  in  Italy!  By  golly,  you 
live  and  learn,  don't  you,  Antonio,  you  certainly  do  live  and 
learn,  if  you  live  long  enough  and  keep  your  strength.  All 
right.  Garibaldi,  just  shoot  me  in  that  steak,  with  about  two 
printers'-reams  of  French  fried  spuds  on  the  promenade  deck, 
comprehenez-vous,  Michelovitch  Angeloni?" 

Afterward  Elbert  Wing  admired,  "Gee,  you  certainly  did 
have  that  poor  Dago  going,  W.  A.  He  couldn't  make  you 
out  at  all!" 

In  the  Monarch  Herald,  Babbitt  found  an  advertisement 
which  he  read  aloud,  to  applause  and  laughter: 

Old  Colony  Theatre 

Shake  the  Old  Dogs  to  the 

WROLLICKING  WRENS 

The  bonniest  bevy  of  beauteous 

bathing  babes  in  burlesque. 

Pete  Menutti  and  his 

Oh,  Gee,  Kids. 

This  is  the  straight  steer,  Benny,  the  painless  chicklets 
of  the  WroUicking  Wrens  are  the  cuddlingest  bunch 
that  ever  hit  town.  Steer  the  feet,  get  the  card  board, 
and  twist  the  pupils  to  the  PDQest  show  ever.  You 
will  get  111%  on  your  kale  in  this  fun-fest.  The 
Calroza  Sisters  are  sure  some  lookers  and  will  give 
you  a  run  for  your  gelt.  Jock  Silbersteen  is  one  of 
the  pepper  lads  and  slips  you  a  dose  of  real  laughter. 
Shoot  the  up  and  down  to  Jackson  and  West  for  grace- 
ful tappers.  They  run  1-2  under  the  wire.  Provin  and 
Adams  will  blow  the  blues  in  their  laugh  skit  "Hootch 
Mon  1"  Something  doing,  boys.  Listen  to  what  the 
Hep   Bird  twitters. 

"Sounds  like  a  juicy  show  to  me.    Let's  all  take  it  in,"  said 

Babbitt. 


BABBITT  173 

But  they  put  off  departure  as  long  as  they  could.  They 
were  safe  while  they  sat  here,  legs  firmly  crossed  under  the 
table,  but  they  felt  unsteady;  they  were  afraid  of  navigating 
the  long  and  slippery  floor  of  the  grillroom  under  the  eyes  of 
the  other  guests  and  the  too-attentive  waiters. 

When  they  did  venture,  tables  got  in  their  way,  and  they 
sought  to  cover  embarrassment  by  heavy  jocularity  at  the  coat- 
room.  As  the  girl  handed  out  their  hats,  they  smiled  at  her, 
and  hoped  that  she,  a  cool  and  expert  judge,  would  feel  that 
they  were  gentlemen.  They  croaked  at  one  another,  "Who 
owns  the  bum  lid?"  and  "You  take  a  good  one,  George;  I'll 
take  what's  left,"  and  to  the  check-girl  they  stammered,  "Bet- 
ter come  along,  sister!  High,  wide,  and  fancy  evening  ahead!" 
All  of  them  tried  to  tip  her,  urging  one  another,  "No!  Wait! 
Here!  I  got  it  right  here!"  Among  them,  they  gave  her 
three  dollars. 


Flamboyantly  smoking  cigars  they  sat  in  a  box  at  the  bur- 
lesque show,  their  feet  up  on  the  rail,  while  a  chorus  of  twenty 
daubed,  worried,  and  inextinguishably  respectable  grandams 
swung  their  legs  in  the  more  elementary  chorus-evolutions, 
and  a  Jewish  comedian  made  vicious  fun  of  Jews.  In  the 
entr'actes  they  met  other  lone  delegates.  A  dozen  of  them 
went  in  taxicabs  out  to  Bright  Blossom  Inn,  where  the  blos- 
soms were  made  of  dusty  paper  festooned  along  a  room  low 
and  stinking,  like  a  cow-stable  no  longer  wisely  used. 

Here,  whisky  was  served  openly,  in  glasses.  Two  or  three 
clerks,  who  on  pay-day  longed  to  be  taken  for  millionaires, 
sheepishly  danced  with  telephone-girls  and  manicure-girls  in 
the  narrow  space  between  the  tables.  Fantastically  whirled 
the  professionals,  a  young  man  in  sleek  evening-clothes  and  a 
slim  mad  girl  in  emerald  silk,  with  amber  hair  flung  up  as 
jaggedly  as  flames.     Babbitt  tried  to  dance  with  her.     He 


174  BABBITT 

shuffled  along  the  floor,  too  bulky  to  be  guided,  his  steps 
unrelated  to  the  rhythm  of  the  jungle  music,  and  in  his  stag- 
gering he  would  have  fallen,  had  she  not  held  him  with  supple 
kindly  strength.  He  was  blind  and  deaf  from  prohibition-era 
alcohol;  he  could  not  see  the  tables,  the  faces.  But  he  was 
overwhelmed  by  the  girl  and  her  young  pliant  warmth. 

When  she  had  firmly  returned  him  to  his  group,  he  remem- 
bered, by  a  connection  quite  untraceable,  that  his  mother's 
mother  had  been  Scotch,  and  with  head  thrown  back,  eyes 
closed,  wide  mouth  indicating  ecstasy,  he  sang,  very  slowly 
and  richly,  "Loch  Lomond." 

But  that  was  the  last  of  his  mellowness  and  jolly  companion- 
ship. The  man  from  Sparta  said  he  was  a  "bum  singer,"  and 
for  ten  minutes  Babbitt  quarreled  with  him,  in  a  loud,  un- 
steady, heroic  indignation.  They  called  for  drinks  till  the 
manager  insisted  that  the  place  was  closed.  All  the  while 
Babbitt  felt  a  hot  raw  desire  for  more  brutal  amusements. 
When  W.  A.  Rogers  drawled,  "What  say  we  go  down  the  line 
and  look  over  the  girls?"  he  agreed  savagely.  Before  they 
went,  three  of  them  secretly  made  appointments  with  the  pro- 
fessional dancing  girl,  who  agreed  "Yes,  yes,  sure,  darling"  to 
everything  they  said,  and  amiably  forgot  them. 

As  they  drove  back  through  the  outskirts  of  Monarch,  down 
streets  of  small  brown  wooden  cottages  of  workmen,  charac- 
terless as  cells,  as  they  rattled  across  warehouse-districts  which 
by  drunken  night  seemed  vast  and  perilous,  as  they  were  borne 
toward  the  red  lights  and  violent  automatic  pianos  and  the 
stocky  women  who  simpered.  Babbitt  was  frightened.  He 
wanted  to  leap  from  the  taxicab,  but  all  his  body  was  a  murky 
fire,  and  he  groaned,  "Too  late  to  quit  now,"  and  knew  that 
he  did  not  want  to  quit. 

There  was,  they  felt,  one  very  humorous  incident  on  the 
tvay.  A  broker  from  Minnemagantic  said,  "Monarch  is  a  lot 
ksportier  than  Zenith.  You  Zenith  tightwads  haven't  got  any 
joints  like  these  here."     Babbitt  raged,  "That's  a  dirty  liel 


BABBITT  175 

Snothin'  you  can't  find  in  Zenith.  Believe  me,  we  got  more 
houses  and  hootch-parlors  an'  all  kinds  o'  dives  than  any  burg 
in  the  state." 

He  realized  they  were  laughing  at  him;  he  desired  to  fight; 
and  forgot  it  in  such  musty  unsatisfying  experiments  as  he 
had  not  known  since  college. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  returned  to  Zenith,  his  desire  for 
rebellion  was  partly  satisfied.  He  had  retrograded  to  a  shame- 
faced contentment.  He  was  irritable.  He  did  not  smile  when 
W.  A.  Rogers  complained,  "Ow,  what  a  head!  I  certainly  do 
feel  like  the  wrath  of  God  this  morning.  Say!  I  know  what 
was  the  trouble!  Somebody  went  and  put  alcohol  in  my 
booze  last  night." 

Babbitt's  excursion  was  never  known  to  his  family,  nor  to 
any  one  in  Zenith  save  Rogers  and  Wing.  It  was  not  officially 
recognized  even  by  himself.  If  it  had  any  consequences,  they 
have  not  been  discovered. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


This  autumn  a  Mr.  W.  G.  Harding,  of  Marion,  Ohio,  was 
appointed  President  of  the  United  States,  but  Zenith  was  less 
interested  in  the  national  campaign  than  in  the  local  election. 
Seneca  Doane,  though  he  was  a  lawyer  and  a  graduate  of  the 
State  University,  was  candidate  for  mayor  of  Zenith  on  an 
alarming  labor  ticket.  To  oppose  him  the  Democrats  and 
Republicans  united  on  Lucas  Prout,  a  mattress-manufacturer 
with  a  perfect  record  for  sanity.  Mr.  Prout  was  supported  by 
the  banks,  the  Chamber  of  Commerce,  all  the  decent  news- 
papers, and  George  F.  Babbitt. 

Babbitt  was  precinct-leader  on  Floral  Heights,  but  his  dis- 
trict was  safe  and  he  longed  for  stouter  battling.  His  conven- 
tion paper  had  given  him  the  beginning  of  a  reputation  for 
oratory,  so  the  Republican-Democratic  Central  Committee 
sent  him  to  the  Seventh  Ward  and  South  Zenith,  to  address 
small  audiences  of  workmen  and  clerks,  and  wives  uneasy 
with  their  new  votes.  He  acquired  a  fame  enduring  for  weeks. 
Now  and  then  a  reporter  was  present  at  one  of  his  meetings, 
and  the  headlines  (though  they  were  not  very  large)  indicated 
that  George  F.  Babbitt  had  addressed  Cheering  Throng,  and 
Distinguished  Man  of  Affairs  had  pointed  out  the  Fallacies  of 
Doane.  Once,  in  the  rotogravure  section  of  the  Sunday 
Advocate-Times,  there  was  a  photograph  of  Babbitt  and  a 
dozen  other  business  men,  with  the  caption  "Leaders  of  Zenith 
Finance  and  Commerce  Who  Back  Prout." 

He  deserved  his  glory.  He  was  an  excellent  campaigner. 
He  had  faith;  he  was  certain  that  if  Lincoln  were  alive,  he 
would  be  electioneering  for  Mr.  W.  G.  Harding — unless  he 

176 


BABBITT  177 

came  to  Zenith  and  electioneered  for  Lucas  Prout.    He  did  not  "^"i 
confuse  audiences  by  silly  subtleties;  Prout  represented  honest    / 
industry,  Seneca  Doane  represented  whining  laziness,  and  you   / 
could  take  your  choice.  With  his  broad  shoulders  and  vigorous  \ 
voice,  he  was  obviously  a  Good  Fellow;  and,  rarest  of  all,  he^ 
really  liked  people.    He  almost  liked  common  workmen.    He 
wanted  them  to  be  well  paid,  and  able  to  afford  high  rents — 
though,  naturally,  they  must  not  interfere  with  the  reasonable 
profits  of  stockholders.    Thus  nobly  endowed,  and  keyed  high 
by  the  discovery  that  he  was  a  natural  orator,  he  was  popular 
with  audiences,  and  he  raged  through  the  campaign,  renowned 
not  only  in  the  Seventh  and  Eighth  Wards  but  even  in  parts 
of  the  Sixteenth. 


n 

Crowded  in  his  car,  they  came  driving  up  to  Turnverein 
Hall,  South  Zenith — Babbitt,  his  wife,  Verona,  Ted,  and  Paul 
and  Zilla  Riesling.  The  hall  was  over  a  delicatessen  shop,  in 
a  street  banging  with  trolleys  and  smelling  of  onions  and 
gasoline  and  fried  fish.  A  new  appreciation  of  Babbitt  filled 
all  of  them,  including  Babbitt. 

"Don't  know  how  you  keep  it  up,  talking  to  three  bunches 
in  one  evening.  Wish  I  had  your  strength,"  said  Paul;  and 
Ted  exclaimed  to  Verona,  "The  old  man  certainly  does  know 
how  to  kid  these  roughnecks  along!" 

Men  in  black  sateen  shirts,  their  faces  new-washed  but  with 
a  hint  of  grime  under  their  eyes,  were  loitering  on  the  broad 
stairs  up  to  the  hall.  Babbitt's  party  politely  edged  through 
them  and  into  the  whitewashed  room,  at  the  front  of  which 
was  a  dais  with  a  red-plush  throne  and  a  pine  altar  painted 
watery  blue,  as  used  nightly  by  the  Grand  Masters  and  Su- 
preme Potentates  of  innumerable  lodges.  The  hall  was  full. 
As  Babbitt  pushed  through  the  fringe  standing  at  the  back, 
he  heard  the  precious  tribute,  "That's  him!"    The  chairman 


178  BABBITT 

bustled  down  the  center  aisle  with  an  impressive,  "The  speaker? 
All  ready,  sir!     Uh — let's  see — what  was  the  name,  sir?" 

Then  Babbitt  slid  into  a  sea  of  eloquence: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  Sixteenth  Ward,  there  is  one 
who  cannot  be  with  us  here  to-night,  a  man  than  whom  there 
is  no  more  stalwart  Trojan  in  all  the  political  arena — I  refer 
to  our  leader,  the  Honorable  Lucas  Prout,  standard-bearer  of 
the  city  and  county  of  Zenith.  Since  he  is  not  here,  I  trust 
that  you  will  bear  with  me  if,  as  a  friend  and  neighbor,  as 
one  who  is  proud  to  share  with  you  the  common  blessing 
of  being  a  resident  of  the  great  city  of  Zenith,  I  tell  you  in 
all  candor,  honesty,  and  sincerity  how  the  issues  of  this  critical 
campaign  appear  to  one  plain  man  of  business — to  one  who, 
brought  up  to  the  blessings  of  poverty  and  of  manual  labor, 
has,  even  when  Fate  condemned  him  to  sit  at  a  desk,  yet 
never  forgotten  how  it  feels,  by  heck,  to  be  up  at  five-thirty 
and  at  the  factory  with  the  ole  dinner-pail  in  his  hardened 
mitt  when  the  whistle  blew  at  seven,  unless  the  owner  sneaked 
in  ten  minutes  on  us  and  blew  it  early!  (Laughter.)  To 
come  down  to  the  basic  and  fundamental  issues  of  this  cam- 
paign, the  great  error,  insincerely  promulgated  by  Seneca 
Doane — " 

There  were  workmen  who  jeered — ^young  cynical  workmen, 
for  the  most  part  foreigners,  Jews,  Swedes,  Irishmen,  Italians 
— but  the  older  men,  the  patient,  bleached,  stooped  carpenters 
and  mechanics,  cheered  him;  and  when  he  worked  up  to  his 
anecdote  of  Lincoln  their  eyes  were  wet. 

Modestly,  busily,  he  hurried  out  of  the  hall  on  delicious 
applause,  and  sped  off  to  his  third  audience  of  the  evening. 
"Ted,  you  better  drive,"  he  said.  "Kind  of  all  in  after  that 
spiel.    Well,  Paul,  how'd  it  go?     Did  I  get  'em?" 

"Bully!     Corking!      You  had  a  lot  of  pep." 

Mrs.  Babbitt  worshiped,  "Oh,  it  was  fine!  So  clear  and 
interesting,  and  such  nice  ideas.  When  I  hear  you  orating  I 
realize  I  don't  appreciate  how  profoundly  you  think  and  what 


BABBITT  179 

a  splendid  brain  and  vocabulary  you  have.    Just — splendid," 
But  Verona  was  irritating.     "Dad,"  she  worried,  "how  do 
you  know  that  public  ownership  of  utilities  and  so  on  and  so 
forth  will  always  be  a  failure?" 

Mrs.  Babbitt  reproved,  "Rone,  I  should  think  you  could  see 
and  realize  that  when  your  father's  all  worn  out  with  orating, 
it's  no  time  to  expect  him  to  explain  these  complicated  sub- 
jects. I'm  sure  when  he's  rested  he'll  be  glad  to  explain  it  to 
you  Now  let's  all  be  quiet  and  give  Papa  a  chance  to  get 
ready  for  his  next  speech.  Just  think!  Right  now  they're 
gathering  in  Maccabee  Temple,  and  waiting  for  us!" 

m 

Mr,  Lucas  Prout  and  Sound  Business  defeated  Mr.  Seneca 
Doane  and  Class  Rule,  and  Zenith  was  again  saved.  Babbitt 
was  offered  several  minor  appointments  to  distribute  among 
poor  relations,  but  he  preferred  advance  information  about  the 
extension  of  paved  highways,  and  this  a  grateful  administration 
gave  to  him.  Also,  he  was  one  of  only  nineteen  speakers  at 
the  dinner  with  which  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  celebrated 
the  victory  of  righteousness. 

His  reputation  for  oratory  established,  at  the  dinner  of  the 
Zenith  Real  Estate  Board  he  made  the  Annual  Address,  The 
Advocate-Times  reported  this  speech  with  unusual  fullness: 

"One  of  the  livest  banquets  that  has  recently  been  pulled 
off  occurred  last  night  in  the  annual  Get-Together  Fest  of 
the  Zenith  Real  Estate  Board,  held  in  the  Venetian  Ball  Room 
of  the  O'Hearn  House.  Mine  host  Gil  O'Hearn  had  as  usual 
done  himself  proud  and  those  assembled  feasted  on  such  an 
assemblage  of  plates  as  could  be  rivaled  nowhere  west  of  New 
York,  if  there,  and  washed  down  the  plenteous  feed  with  the 
cup  which  inspired  but  did  not  inebriate  in  the  shape  of  cider 
from  the  farm  of  Chandler  Mott,  president  of  the  board  and 
who  acted  as  witty  and  efficient  chairman.  ^ 


i8o  BABBITT 

"As  Mr.  Mott  was  suffering  from  slight  infection  and  sore 
throat,  G.  F.  Babbitt  made  the  principal  talk.  Besides  out- 
lining the  progress  of  Torrensing  real  estate  titles,  Mr.  Babbitt 
spoke  in  part  as  follows: 

"  'In  rising  to  address  you,  with  my  impromptu  speech  care- 
fully tucked  into  my  vest  pocket,  I  am  reminded  of  the  story 
of  the  two  Irishmen,  Mike  and  Pat,  who  were  riding  on  the 
Pullman.  Both  of  them,  I  forgot  to  say,  were  sailors  in  the 
Navy.  It  seems  Mike  had  the  lower  berth  and  by  and  by  he 
heard  a  terrible  racket  from  the  upper,  and  when  he  yelled  up 
to  find  out  what  the  trouble  was,  Pat  answered,  "Shure  an' 
bedad  an'  how  can  I  ever  get  a  night's  sleep  at  all,  at  all?  I 
been  trying  to  get  into  this  darned  little  hammock  ever  since 
eight  bells!" 

"  'Now,  gentlemen,  standing  up  here  before  you,  I  feel  a  good 
deal  like  Pat,  and  maybe  after  I've  spieled  along  for  a  while, 
I  may  feel  so  darn  small  that  I'll  be  able  to  crawl  into  a  Pull- 
man hammock  with  no  trouble  at  all,  at  all! 

"  'Gentlemen,  it  strikes  me  that  each  year  at  this  annual 
occasion  when  friend  and  foe  get  together  and  lay  down  the 
battle-ax  and  let  the  waves  of  good-fellowship  waft  them  up 
the  flowery  slopes  of  amity,  it  behooves  us,  standing  together 
eye  to  eye  and  shoulder  to  shoulder  as  fellow-citizens  of  the 
best  city  in  the  world,  to  consider  where  we  are  both  as  re- 
gards ourselves  and  the  common  weal. 

"  *It  is  true  that  even  vsdth  our  361,000,  or  practically  362- 
000,  population,  there  are,  by  the  last  census,  almost  a  score 
of  larger  cities  in  the  United  States.  But,  gentlemen,  if  by 
the  next  census  we  do  not  stand  at  least  tenth,  then  I'll  be  the 
first  to  request  any  knocker  to  remove  my  shirt  and  to  eat  the 
same,  with  the  compliments  of  G.  F.  Babbitt,  Esquire!  It  may 
be  true  that  New  York,  Chicago,  and  Philadelphia  will  continue 
to  keep  ahead  of  us  in  size.  But  aside  from  these  three  cities, 
which  are  notoriously  so  overgrown  that  no  decent  white  man, 


BABBITT  i8i 

nobody  who  loves  his  wife  and  kiddies  and  God's  good  out-o - 
doors  and  likes  to  shake  the  hand  of  his  neighbor  in  greeting, 
would  want  to  live  in  them — and  let  me  tell  you  right  here  and 
now,  I  wouldn't  trade  a  high-class  Zenith  acreage  development 
for  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  Broadway  or  State  Street! 
— aside  from  these  three,  it's  evident  to  any  one  with  a  head 
for  facts  that  Zenith  is  the  finest  example  of  American  life 
and  prosperity  to  be  found  anywhere. 

"T  don't  mean  to  say  we're  perfect.  We've  got  a  lot  to 
do  in  the  way  of  extending  the  paving  of  motor  boulevards,  for, 
believe  me,  it's  the  fellow  with  four  to  ten  thousand  a  year, 
say,  and  an  automobile  and  a  nice  little  family  in  a  bungalow 
on  the  edge  of  town,  that  makes  the  wheels  of  progress  go 
round! 

"'That's  the  type  of  fellow  that's  ruling  America  to-day; 
in  fact,  it's  the  ideal  type  to  which  the  entire  world  must 
tend,  if  there's  to  be  a  decent,  well-balanced,  Christian,  go- 
ahead  future  for  this  little  old  planet!  Once  in  a  while  I  just 
naturally  sit  back  and  size  up  this  Solid  American  Citizen, 
with  a  whale  of  a  lot  of  satisfaction. 

*'  'Our  Ideal  Citizen — I  picture  him  first  and  foremost  as 
being  busier  than  a  bird-dog,  not  wasting  a  lot  of  good  time  in 
day-dreaming  or  going  to  sassiety  teas  or  kicking  about  things 
that  are  none  of  his  business,  but  putting  the  zip  into  some  store 
or  profession  or  art.  At  night  he  lights  up  a  good  cigar,  and 
climbs  into  the  little  old  'bus,  and  maybe  cusses  the  carburetor, 
and  shoots  out  home.  He  mows  the  lawn,  or  sneaks  in  some 
practice  putting,  and  then  he's  ready  for  dinner.  After  dinner 
he  tells  the  kiddies  a  story,  or  takes  the  family  to  the  movies, 
or  plays  a  few  fists  of  bridge,  or  reads  the  evening  paper,  and 
a  chapter  or  two  of  some  good  lively  Western  novel  if  he  has 
a  taste  for  literature,  and  maybe  the  folks  next-door  drop  in 
and  they  sit  and  visit  about  their  friends  and  the  topics  of  the 
day.    Then  he  goes  happily  to  bed,  his  conscience  clear,  having 


i82  BABBITT 

contributed  his  mite  to  the  prosperity  of  the  city  and  to  his 
own  bank-account. 

"  'In  politics  and  religion  this  Sane  Citizen  is  the  canniest 
man  on  earth;  and  in  the  arts  he  invariably  has  a  natural 
taste  which  makes  him  pick  out  the  best,  every  time.  In 
no  country  in  the  world  will  you  find  so  many  reproductions 
of  the  Old  Masters  and  of  well-known  paintings  on  parlor 
walls  as  in  these  United  States.  No  country  has  anything  like 
our  number  of  phonographs,  with  not  only  dance  records  and 
comic  but  also  the  best  operas,  such  as  Verdi,  rendered  by  the 
world's  highest-paid  singers. 

"  'In  other  countries,  art  and  literature  are  left  to  a  lot  of 
shabby  bums  living  in  attics  and  feeding  on  booze  and  spa- 
ghetti, but  in  America  the  successful  writer  or  picture-painter 
is  indistinguishable  from  any  other  decent  business  man;  and 
I,  for  one,  am  only  too  glad  that  the  man  who  has  the  rare 
skill  to  season  his  message  with  interesting  reading  matter  and 
who  shows  both  purpose  and  pep  in  handling  his  literary  wares 
has  a  chance  to  drag  down  his  fifty  thousand  bucks  a  year,  to 
mingle  with  the  biggest  executives  on  terms  of  perfect  equality, 
and  to  show  as  big  a  house  and  as  swell  a  car  as  any  Captain 
of  Industry!  But,  mind  you,  it's  the  appreciation  of  the  Reg- 
ular Guy  who  I  have  been  depicting  which  has  made  this  pos- 
sible, and  you  got  to  hand  as  much  credit  to  him  as  to  the 
authors  themselves. 

"  'Finally,  but  most  important,  our  Standardized  Citizen, 
even  if  he  is  a  bachelor,  is  a  lover  of  the  Little  Ones,  a  sup- 
porter of  the  hearthstone  which  is  the  basic  foundation  of  our 
civilization,  first,  last,  and  all  the  time,  and  the  thing  that 
most  distinguishes  us  from  the  decayed  nations  of  Europe. 

"  'I  have  never  yet  toured  Europe — and  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
[  don't  know  that  I  care  to  such  an  awful  lot,  as  long  as  there's 
our  own  mighty  cities  and  mountains  to  be  seen — but,  the  way 
I  figure  it  out,  there  must  be  a  good  many  of  our  own  sort 
of  folks  abroad.    Indeed,  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic  Rotarians 


BABBITT  183 

I  ever  met  boosted  the  tenets  of  one-hundred-per-cent  pep  in  a 
burr  that  smacked  o'  bonny  Scutlond  and  all  ye  bonny  braes  0' 
Bobby  Burns.  But  same  time,  one  thing  that  distinguishes  us 
from  our  good  brothers,  the  hustlers  over  there,  is  that  they're 
willing  to  take  a  lot  off  the  snobs  and  journalists  and  politi- 
cians, while  the  modern  American  business  man  knows  how  to 
talk  right  up  for  himself,  knows  how  to  make  it  good  and 
plenty  clear  that  he  intends  to  run  the  works.  He  doesn't 
have  to  call  in  some  highbrow  hired-man  when  it's  necessary 
for  him  to  answer  the  crooked  critics  of  the  sane  and  efficient 
life.  He's  not  dumb,  like  the  old-fashioned  merchant.  He's 
got  a  vocabulary  and  a  punch. 

"  'With  all  modesty,  I  want  to  stand  up  here  as  a  repre- 
sentative business  man  and  gently  whisper,  "Here's  our  kind 
of  folks!  Here's  the  specifications  of  the  Standardized  Ameri- 
can Citizen!  Here's  the  new  generation  of  Americans:  fellows 
with  hair  on  their  chests  and  smiles  in  their  eyes  and  adding- 
machines  in  their  offices.  We're  not  doing  any  boasting,  but 
we  like  ourselves  first-rate,  and  if  you  don't  like  us,  look  out — 
better  get  under  cover  before  the  cyclone  hits  town!" 

"  'So!  In  my  clumsy  way  I  have  tried  to  sketch  the  Real 
He-man,  the  fellow  with  Zip  and  Bang.  And  it's  because 
Zenith  has  so  large  a  proportion  of  such  men  that  it's  the  most 
stable,  the  greatest  of  our  cities.  New  York  also  has  its 
thousands  of  Real  Folks,  but  New  York  is  cursed  with  unnum- 
bered foreigners.  So  are  Chicago  and  San  Francisco.  Oh, 
we  have  a  golden  roster  of  cities — Detroit  and  Cleveland  with 
their  renowned  factories,  Cincinnati  with  its  great  machine- 
tool  and  soap  products,  Pittsburg  and  Birmingham  with  their 
steel,  Kansas  City  and  Minneapolis  and  Omaha  that  open  their 
bountiful  gates  on  the  bosom  of  the  ocean-like  wheatlands,  and 
countless  other  magnificent  sister-cities,  for,  by  the  last  census, 
there  were  no  less  than  sixty-eight  glorious  American  burgs 
with  a  population  of  over  one  hundred  thousand!  And  all 
these  cities  stand  together  for  power  and  purity,  and  against 


i84  BABBITT 

foreign  ideas  and  communism — Atlanta  with  Hartford,  Roches- 
ter with  Denver,  Milwaukee  with  Indianapolis,  Los  Angeles 
with  Scranton,  Portland,  Maine,  with  Portland,  Oregon.  A 
good  live  wire  from  Baltimore  or  Seattle  or  Duluth  is  the  twin- 
brother  of  every  like  fellow  booster  from  Buffalo  or  Akron, 
Fort  Worth  or  Oskaloosa! 

"  'But  it's  here  in  Zenith,  the  home  for  manly  men  and 
womanly  women  and  bright  kids,  that  you  find  the  largest 
proportion  of  these  Regular  Guys,  and  that's  what  sets  it 
in  a  class  by  itself;  that's  why  Zenith  will  be  remembered  in 
history  as  having  set  the  pace  for  a  civilization  that  shall  en- 
dure when  the  old  time-killing  ways  are  gone  forever  and  the 
day  of  earnest  efficient  endeavor  shall  have  dawned  all  round 
the  world! 

"  'Some  time  I  hope  folks  will  quit  handing  all  the  credit 
to  a  lot  of  moth-eaten,  mildewed,  out-of-date,  old,  European 
dumps,  and  give  proper  credit  to  the  famous  Zenith  spirit, 
thai  clean  fighting  determination  to  win  Success  that  has 
made  the  little  old  Zip  City  celebrated  in  every  land  and 
clime,  wherever  condensed  milk  and  pasteboard  cartons  are 
known!  Believe  me,  the  world  has  fallen  too  long  for  these 
worn-out  countries  that  aren't  producing  anything  but  boot- 
blacks and  scenery  and  booze,  that  haven't  got  one  bathroom 
per  hundred  people,  and  that  don't  know  a  loose-leaf  ledger 
from  a  slip-cover;  and  it's  just  about  time  for  some  Zenithite 
to  get  his  back  up  and  holler  for  a  show-down! 

"  'I  tell  you.  Zenith  and  her  sister-cities  are  producing  a 
new  type  of  civilization.  There  are  many  resemblances  between 
Zenith  and  these  other  burgs,  and  I'm  darn  glad  of  it!  The 
extraordinary,  growing,  and  sane  standardization  of  stores, 
offices,  streets,  hotels,  clothes,  and  newspapers  throughout  the 
United  States  shows  how  strong  and  enduring  a  type  is  ours. 

"  'I  always  like  to  remember  a  piece  that  Chum  Frink  wrote 
for  the  newspapers  about  his  lecture-tours.  It  is  doubtless 
familiar  to  many  of  you,  but  if  you  will  permit  me,  I'll  take 


BABBITT  185 

a  chance  and  read  it.  It's  one  of  the  classic  poems,  hke  "If" 
by  Kipling,  or  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox's  "The  Man  Worth  While"; 
and  I  always  carry  this  clipping  of  it  in  my  note-book: 

When  I  am  out  upon  the  road,  a  poet  with  a  pedler's  load, 
I  mostly  sing  a  hearty  song,  and  take  a  chew  and  hike  along, 
a-handing  out  my  samples  fine  of  Cheero  Brand  of  sweet  sun- 
shine, and  peddling  optimistic  pokes  and  stable  lines  of  japes 
and  jokes  to  Lyceums  and  other  folks,  to  Rotarys,  Kiwanis' 
Clubs,  and  feel  I  ain't  like  other  dubs.  And  then  old  Major 
Silas  Satan,  a  brainy  cuss  who's  always  waitin',  he  gives  his 
tail  a  lively  quirk,  and  gets  in  quick  his  dirty  work.  He  fills 
me  up  with  mully grubs ;  my  hair  the  backward  way  he  rubs; 
he  makes  me  lonelier  than  a  hound,  on  Stmday  when  the  folks 
ain't  round.  And  then  b'  gosh,  I  would  prefer  to  never  be 
a  lecturer,  a-ridin'  round  in  classy  cars  and  smoking  fifty-cent 
cigars,  and  never  more  I  want  to  roam;  I  simply  want  to  be 
back  home,  a-eatin'  flap-jacks,  hash,  and  ham,  with  folks  who 
savvy  whom- 1  am! 

But  when  I  get  that  lonely  spell,  I  simply  seek  the  best 
hotel,  no  matter  in  what  town  I  be — St.  Paul,  Toledo,  or  K.C., 
in  Washington,  Schenectady,  in  Louisville  or  Albany.  And  at 
that  inn  it  hits  my  dome  that  I  again  am  right  at  home.  If 
I  should  stand  a  lengthy  spell  in  front  of  that  first-class  hotel, 
that  to  the  drummers  loves  to  cater,  across  from  some  big  film 
theayter;  if  I  should  look  around  and  buzz,  and  wonder  in 
what  town  I  was,  I  swear  that  I  could  never  tell!  For  all  the 
crowd  would  be  so  swell,  in  just  the  same  fine  sort  of  jeans 
they  wear  at  home,  and  all  the  queens  with  spiffy  bonnets  on 
their  beans,  and  all  the  fellows  standing  round  a-talkin'  always, 
I'll  be  bound,  the  same  good  jolly  kind  of  guff,  'bout  autos,  poli- 
tics and  stuff  and  baseball  players  of  renown  that  Nice  Guys 
talk  in  my  home  town! 

Then  when  I  entered  that  hotel,  I'd  look  around  and  say, 
"Well,  well!"    For  there  would  be  the  same  news-stand,  same 


i86  BABBITT 

magazines  and  candies  grand,  same  smokes  of  famous  standard 
brand,  I'd  find  at  home,  I'll  tell!  And  when  I  saw  the  jolly 
bunch  come  waltzing  in  for  eats  at  lunch,  and  squaring  up  in 
natty  duds  to  platters  large  of  French  Fried  spuds,  why  then 
I'd  stand  right  up  and  bawl,  "I've  never  left  my  home  at  all!" 
And  all  replete  I'd  sit  me  down  beside  some  guy  in  derby  brown 
upon  a  lobby  chair  of  plush,  and  murmur  to  him  in  a  rush, 
"Hello,  Bill,  tell  me,  good  old  scout,  how  is  your  stock  a-holdin' 
out?"  Then  we'd  be  off,  two  solid  pals,  a-chatterin'  like  giddy 
gals  of  flivvers,  weather,  home,  and  wives,  lodge-brothers  then 
for  all  our  lives!  So  when  Sam  Satan  makes  you  blue,  good 
friend,  that's  what  I'd  up  and  do,  for  in  these  States  where'er 
you  roam,  you  never  leave  your  home  sweet  home. 

"  'Yes,  sir,  these  other  burgs  are  our  true  partners  in  the 
great  game  of  vital  living.  But  let's  not  have  any  mistake 
about  this.  I  claim  that  Zenith  is  the  best  partner  and  the 
fastest-growing  partner  of  the  whole  caboodle.  I  trust  I  may 
be  pardoned  if  I  give  a  few  statistics  to  back  up  my  claims. 
If  they  are  old  stuff  to  any  of  you,  yet  the  tidings  of  pros- 
perity, like  the  good  news  of  the  Bible,  never  become  tedious 
to  the  ears  of  a  real  hustler,  no  matter  how  oft  the  sweet  story 
is  told!  Every  intelligent  person  knows  that  Zenith  manu- 
factures more  condensed  milk  and  evaporated  cream,  more 
paper  boxes,  and  more  lighting-fixtures,  than  any  other  city 
in  the  United  States,  if  not  in  the  world.  But  it  is  not  so 
universally  known  that  we  also  stand  second  in  the  manufac- 
ture of  package-butter,  sixth  in  the  giant  realm  of  motors  and 
automobiles,  and  somewhere  about  third  in  cheese,  leather 
findings,  tar  rooiing,  breakfast  food,  and  overalls! 

"  'Our  greatness,  however,  lies  not  alone  in  punchful  pros- 
perity but  equally  in  that  public  spirit,  that  forward-looking 
idealism  and  brotherhood,  which  has  marked  Zenith  ever  since 
its  foundation  by  the  Fathers.  We  have  a  right,  indeed  we 
have  a  duty  toward  our  fair  city,  to  announce  broadcast  the 


BABBITT  187 

facts  about  our  high  schools,  characterized  by  their  complete 
plants  and  the  finest  school-ventilating  systems  in  the  country, 
bar  none ;  our  magnificent  new  hotels  and  banks  and  the  paint- 
ings and  carved  marble  in  their  lobbies;  and  the  Second  Na- 
tional Tower,  the  second  highest  business  building  in  any  in- 
land city  in  the  entire  country.  When  I  add  that  we  have  an 
unparalleled  number  of  miles  of  paved  streets,  bathrooms, 
vacuum  cleaners,  and  all  the  other  signs  of  civilization;  that 
our  library  and  art  museum  are  well  supported  and  housed  in 
convenient  and  roomy  buildings;  that  our  park-system  is  more 
than  up  to  par,  with  its  handsome  driveways  adorned  with 
grass,  shrubs,  and  statuary,  then  I  give  but  a  hint  of  the  all- 
round  unlimited  greatness  of  Zenith! 

"  T  believe,  however,  in  keeping  the  best  to  the  last.  When 
I  remind  you  that  we  have  one  motor  car  for  every  five  and 
seven-eighths  persons  in  the  city,  then  I  give  a  rock-ribbed 
practical  indication  of  the  kind  of  progress  and  braininess  which 
is  synonymous  with  the  name  Zenith ! 

"  'But  the  way  of  the  righteous  is  not  all  roses.  Before  I 
close  I  must  call  your  attention  to  a  problem  we  have  to  face, 
this  coming  year.  The  worst  menace  to  sound  government  is 
not  the  avowed  socialists  but  a  lot  of  cowards  who  work  under 
cover — the  long-haired  gentry  who  call  themselves  "liberals" 
and  "radicals"  and  "non-partisan"  and  "intelligentsia"  and 
God  only  knows  how  many  other  trick  names!  Irresponsible 
teachers  and  professors  constitute  the  worst  of  this  whole 
gang,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  several  of  them  are  on 
the  faculty  of  our  great  State  University!  The  U.  is  my 
own  Alma  Mater,  and  I  am  proud  to  be  known  as  an  alumni, 
but  there  are  certain  instructors  there  who  seem  to  think  we 
ought  to  turn  the  conduct  of  the  nation  over  to  hoboes  and 
roustabouts. 

"  'Those  profs  are  the  snakes  to  be  scotched — they  and  all 
their  milk-and-water  ilk!  The  American  business  man  is  gen- 
erous to  a  fault,  but  one  thing  he  does  demand  of  all  teach- 


i88  BABBITT 

ers  and  lecturers  and  journalists:  if  we're  going  to  pay  them 
our  good  money,  they've  got  to  help  us  by  selling  efficiency  and 
whooping  it  up  for  rational  prosperity!  And  when  it  comes  to 
these  blab-mouth,  fault-finding,  pessimistic,  cynical  University 
teachers,  let  me  tell  you  that  during  this  golden  coming  year 
it's  just  as  much  our  duty  to  bring  influence  to  have  those 
cusses  fired  as  it  is  to  sell  all  the  real  estate  and  gather  in  all 
the  good  shekels  we  can, 

"  'Not  till  that  is  done  will  our  sons  and  daughters  see  that 
the  ideal  of  American  manhood  and  culture  isn't  a  lot  of  cranks 
Bitting  around  chewing  the  rag  about  their  Rights  and  their 
Wrongs,  but  a  God-fearing,  hustling,  successful,  two-fisted 
Regular  Guy,  who  belongs  to  some  church  with  pep  and  piety 
to  it,  who  belongs  to  the  Boosters  or  the  Rotarians  or  the  Ki- 
wanis,  to  the  Elks  or  Moose  or  Red  Men  or  Knights  of  Colum- 
bus or  any  one  of  a  score  of  organizations  of  good,  jolly,  kid- 
ding, laughing,  sweating,  upstanding,  lend-a-handing  Royal 
Good  Fellows,  who  plays  hard  and  works  hard,  and  whose 
answer  to  his  critics  is  a  square-toed  boot  that'll  teach  the 
grouches  and  smart  alecks  to  respect  the  He-man  and  get  out 
and  root  for  Uncle  Samuel,  U.S.A.!'  " 

IV 

Babbitt  promised  to  become  a  recognized  orator.  He  en- 
tertained a  Smoker  of  the  Men's  Club  of  the  Chatham  Road 
Presbyterian  Church  with  Irish,  Jewish,  and  Chinese  dialect 
stories. 

But  in  nothing  was  he  more  clearly  revealed  as  the  Promi- 
nent Citizen  than  in  his  lecture  on  "Brass  Tacks  Facts  on 
Real  Estate,"  as  delivered  before  the  class  in  Sales  Methods 
at  the  Zenith  Y.M.C.A. 

The  Advocate-Times  reported  the  lecture  so  fully  that 
Vergil  Gunch  said  to  Babbitt,  "You're  getting  to  be  one  of 
the  classiest  spellbinders  in  town.    Seems  's  if  I  couldn't  pick 


BABBITT  189 

up  a  paper  without  reading  about  your  well-known  eloquence. 
All  this  guff  ought  to  bring  a  lot  of  business  into  your  office. 
Good  work!     Keep  it  up! " 

"Go  on,  quit  your  kidding,"  said  Babbitt  feebly,  but  at  this 
tribute  from  Gunch,  himself  a  man  of  no  mean  oratorical  fame, 
he  expanded  with  delight  and  wondered  how,  before  his  vaca- 
tion, he  could  have  questioned  the  joys  of  being  a  solid  citizen 


CHAPTER  XV 


His  march  to  greatness  was  not  without  disastrous  stumbling. 

Fame  did  not  bring  the  social  advancement  which  the  Bab- 
bitts deserved.  They  were  not  asked  to  join  the  Tonawanda 
Country  Club  nor  invited  to  the  dances  at  the  Union.  Him- 
self, Babbitt  fretted,  he  didn't  "care  a  fat  hoot  for  all  these 
highrollers,  but  the  wife  would  kind  of  like  to  be  Among  Those 
Present."  He  nervously  awaited  his  university  class-dinner 
and  an  evening  of  furious  intimacy  with  such  social  leaders  as 
Charles  McKelvey  the  millionaire  contractor.  Max  Kruger 
the  banker,  Irving  Tate  the  tool-manufacturer,  and  Adelbert 
Dobson  the  fashionable  interior  decorator.  Theoretically  he 
was  their  friend,  as  he  had  been  in  college,  and  when  he  en- 
countered them  they  still  called  him  "Georgie,"  but  he  didn't 
seem  to  encounter  them  often,  and  they  never  invited  him  to 
dinner  (with  champagne  and  a  butler)  at  their  houses  on 
Royal  Ridge. 

All  the  week  before  the  class-dinner  he  thought  of  them. 
"No  reason  why  we  shouldn't  become  real  chummy  now!'* 

n 

Like  all  true  American  diversions  and  spiritual  outpourings, 
the  dinner  of  the  men  of  the  Class  of  1896  was  thoroughly  or- 
ganized. The  dinner-committee  hammered  like  a  sales-cor- 
poration.   Once  a  week  they  sent  out  reminders: 

TICKLER  NO.  3 

Old  man,  are  you  going  to  be  with  us  at  the  Hvest 
Friendship  Feed  the  alumni  of  the  good  old  U  have 

190 


BABBITT  191 

ever  known?  The  alumnae  of  '08  turned  out  60% 
strong.  Are  we  boys  going  to  be  beaten  by  a  bunch 
of  skirts?  Come  on,  fellows,  let's  work  up  some 
real  genuine  enthusiasm  and  all  boost  together  for 
the  snappiest  dinner  yet!  Elegant  eats,  short  gin- 
ger-talks, and  memories  shared  together  of  the 
brightest,  gladdest  days  of  life. 

The  dinner  was  held  in  a  private  room  at  the  Union  Club. 
The  club  was  a  dingy  building,  three  pretentious  old  dwellings 
knocked  together,  and  the  entrance-hall  resembled  a  potato 
cellar,  yet  the  Babbitt  who  was  free  of  the  magnificence  of  the 
Athletic  Club  entered  with  embarrassment.  He  nodded  to  the 
doorman,  an  ancient  proud  negro  with  brass  buttons  and  a 
blue  tail-coat,  and  paraded  through  the  hall,  trying  to  look 
like  a  member. 

Sixty  men  had  come  to  the  dinner.  They  made  islands  and 
eddies  in  the  hall;  they  packed  the  elevator  and  the  corners 
of  the  private  dining-room.  They  tried  to  be  intimate  and  en- 
thusiastic. They  appeared  to  one  another  exactly  as  thej  had 
in  college — as  raw  youngsters  whose  present  mustaches,  bald- 
nesses, paunches,  and  wrinkles  were  but  jovial  disguises  put 
on  for  the  evening.  "You  haven't  changed  a  particle!"  they 
marveled.  The  men  whom  they  could  not  recall  they  ad- 
dressed, "Well,  well,  great  to  see  you  again,  old  man.  What 
are  you —    Still  doing  the  same  thing?" 

Some  one  was  always  starting  a  cheer  or  a  college  song, 
and  it  was  always  thinning  into  silence.  Despite  their  resolu- 
tion to  be  democratic  they  divided  into  two  sets:  the  men  with 
dress-clothes  and  the  men  without.  Babbitt  (extremely  in 
dress-clothes)  went  from  one  group  to  the  other.  Though 
he  was,  almost  frankly,  out  for  social  conquest,  he  sought  Paul 
Riesling  first.    He  found  him  alone,  neat  and  silent. 

Paul  sighed,  'T'm  no  good  at  this  handshaking  and  'well, 
look  who's  here'  bunk." 

"Rats  now,  Paulibus,  loosen  up  and  be  a  mixer!     Finest 


192  BABBITT 

bunch  of  boys  on  earth!    Say,  you  seem  kind  of  glum.    What's 
matter?" 

"Oh,  the  usual.  Run-in  'wath  Zilla." 
"Come  on!  Let's  wade  in  and  forget  our  troubles." 
He  kept  Paul  beside  him,  but  worked  toward  the  spot  where 
Charles  McKelvey  stood  warming  his  admirers  like  a  furnace. 
McKelvey  had  been  the  hero  of  the  Class  of  '96;  not  only 
football  captain  and  hammer-thrower  but  debater,  and  pas- 
sable in  what  the  State  University  considered  scholarship.  He 
had  gone  on,  had  captured  the  construction-company  once 
owned  by  the  Dodsworths,  best-known  pioneer  family  of  Zen- 
ith. He  built  state  capitols,  skyscrapers,  railway  terminals. 
He  was  a  heavy-shouldered,  big-chested  man,  but  not  sluggish. 
There  was  a  quiet  humor  in  his  eyes,  a  syrup-smooth  quickness 
in  his  speech,  which  intimidated  politicians  and  warned  re- 
porters; and  in  his  presence  the  most  intelligent  scientist  or 
the  most  sensitive  ajtist  felt  thin-blooded,  unworldly,  and  a 
little  shabby.  He  was,  particularly  when  he  was  influencing 
legislatures  or  hiring  labor-spies,  very  easy  and  \ovable  and 
gorgeous.  He  was  baronial;  he  was  a  peer  in  the  rapidly 
crystallizing  American  aristocracy,  inferior  only  to  the  haughty 
Old  Families.  (In  Zenith,  an  Old  Family  is  one  which  came 
to  town  before  1840.)  His  power  was  the  greater  because  he 
was  not  hindered  by  scruples,  by  either  the  vice  or  the  virtue 
of  the  older  Puritan  tradition. 

McKelvey  was  being  placidly  merry  now  with  the  great, 
the  manufacturers  and  bankers,  the  land-owners  and  lawyers 
and  surgeons  who  had  chauffeurs  and  went  to  Europe.  Bab- 
bitt squeezed  among  them.  He  liked  McKelvey's  smile  as 
much  as  the  social  advancement  to  be  had  from  his  favor.  If 
in  Paul's  company  he  felt  ponderous  and  protective,  with  Mc' 
Kelvey  he  felt  slight  and  adoring. 

He  heard  McKelvey  say  to  Max  Kruger,  the  banker,  "Yes, 
we'll  put  up  Sir  Gerald  Doak."  Babbitt's  democratic  love  for 
titles  became  a  rich  relish.     "You  know,  he's  one  of  the  big- 


BABBITT  i9i 

gest  iron-men  in  England,  Max.  Horribly  well-off.  .  .  .  Why, 
hello,  old  Georgiel  Say,  Max,  George  Babbitt  is  getting  fat- 
ter than  I  am!" 

The  chairman  shouted,  "Take  your  seats,  fellows  1" 

"Shall  we  make  a  move,  Charley?"  Babbitt  said  casually 
to  McKelvey. 

"Right.  Hello,  Paull  How's  the  old  fiddler?  Planning  to 
sit  anywhere  special,  George?  Come  on,  let's  grab  some  seats. 
Come  on.  Max.  Georgie,  I  read  about  your  speeches  in  the 
campaign.     Bully  work!" 

After  that.  Babbitt  would  have  followed  him  through  fire. 
He  was  enormously  busy  during  the  dinner,  now  bumblingly 
cheering  Paul,  now  approaching  McKelvey  with  "Hear,  you're 
going  to  build  some  piers  in  Brooklyn,"  now  noting  how  en- 
viously the  failures  of  the  class,  sitting  by  themselves  in  a 
weedy  group,  looked  up  to  him  in  his  association  with  the 
nobility,  now  warming  himself  in  the  Society  Talk  of  McKelvey 
and  Max  Kruger.  They  spoke  of  a  "jungle  dance'^  for  whicli 
Mona  Dodsworth  had  decorated  her  house  with  thousands  of 
orchids.  They  spoke,  with  an  excellent  imitation  of  casualness, 
of  a  dinner  in  Washington  at  which  McKelvey  had  met  a  Sen- 
ator, a  Balkan  princess,  and  an  English  major-general.  McKel- 
vey called  the  princess  "Jenny,"  and  let  it  be  known  that  he 
had  danced  with  her. 

Babbitt  was  thrilled,  but  not  so  weighted  with  awe  as  to 
be  silent.  If  he  was  not  invited  by  them  to  dinner,  he  was 
yet  accustomed  to  talking  with  bank-presidents,  congressmen, 
and  clubwomen  who  entertained  poets.  He  was  bright  and 
referential  with  McKelvey: 

"Say,  Charley,  juh  remember  in  Junior  year  how  we  char- 
tered a  sea-going  hack  and  chased  down  to  Riverdale,  to  the 
big  show  Madame  Brown  used  to  put  on?  Remember  how  you 
beat  up  that  hick  constabule  that  tried  to  run  us  in,  and  we 
pinched  the  pants-pressing  sign  and  took  and  hung  it  on  Prof. 
Morrison's  door?     Oh,  gosh,  those  were  the  days!" 


194  BABBITT 

Those,  McKelvey  agreed,  were  the  days. 

Babbitt  had  reached  "It  isn't  the  books  you  study  in  col- 
lege but  the  friendships  you  make  that  counts"  when  the  men 
at  head  of  the  table  broke  into  song.    He  attacked  McKelvey: 

"It's  a  shame,  uh,  shame  to  drift  apart  because  our,  uh, 
business  activities  lie  in  different  fields.  I've  enjoyed  talking 
over  the  good  old  days.  You  and  Mrs.  McKelvey  must  come 
to  dinner  some  night." 

Vaguely,  "Yes,  indeed — " 

"Like  to  talk  to  you  about  the  growth  of  real  estate  out 
beyond  your  Grantsville  warehouse.  I  might  be  able  to  tip 
you  off  to  a  thing  or  two,  possibly." 

"Splendid!  We  must  have  dinner  together,  Georgie.  Just 
let  me  know.  And  it  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  have  your 
wife  and  you  at  the  house,"  said  McKelvey,  much  less  vaguely. 

Then  the  chairman's  voice,  that  prodigious  voice  which  once 
had  roused  them  to  cheer  defiance  at  rooters  from  Ohio  or 
Michigan  or  Indiana,  whooped,  "Come  on,  you  wombats!  All 
together  in  the  long  yell!"  Babbitt  felt  that  hfe  would  never 
be  sweeter  than  now,  when  he  joined  with  Paul  Riesling  and 
the  newly  recovered  hero,  McKelvey,  in: 

Baaaaaattle-ax 

Get  an  ax, 

Bal-ax, 

Get-nax, 

Who,  who?    TheU.I 

Hooroo ! 

in 

The  Babbitts  invited  the  McKelveys  to  dinner,  in  early  De- 
cember, and  the  McKelveys  not  only  accepted  but,  after  chang- 
ing the  date  once  or  twice,  actually  came. 

The  Babbitts  somewhat  thoroughly  discussed  the  details  of 
the  dinner,  from  the  purchase  of  a  bottle  of  champagne  to  the 


BABBITT  195 

number  of  salted  almonds  to  be  placed  before  each  person. 
Especially  did  they  mention  the  matter  of  the  other  guests. 
To  the  last  Babbitt  held  out  for  giving  Paul  Riesling  the  ben- 
efit of  being  with  the  McKelveys.  "Good  old  Charley  would 
like  Paul  and  Verg  Gunch  better  than  some  highfalutin'  Willy 
boy,"  he  insisted,  but  Mrs,  Babbitt  interrupted  his  observa- 
tions with,  "Yes — perhaps —  I  think  I'll  try  to  get  some 
Lynnhaven  oysters,"  and  when  she  was  quite  ready  she  invited 
Dr.  J.  T.  Angus,  the  oculist,  and  a  dismally  respectable  lawyer 
named  Maxwell,  with  their  glittering  wives. 

Neither  Angus  nor  Maxwell  belonged  to  the  Elks  or  to  the 
Athletic  Club;  neither  of  them  had  ever  called  Babbitt 
"brother"  or  asked  his  opinions  on  carburetors.  The  only 
"human  people"  whom  she  invited.  Babbitt  raged,  were  the 
Littlefields;  and  Howard  Littlefield  at  times  became  so  statis- 
tical that  Babbitt  longed  for  the  refreshment  of  Gunch's,  "Well, 
old  lemon-pie- face,  what's  the  good  word?" 

Immediately  after  lunch  Mrs.  Babbitt  began  to  set  the 
table  for  the  seven-thirty  dinner  to  the  McKelveys,  and  Bab- 
bitt was,  by  order,  home  at  four.  But  they  didn't  find  any- 
thing for  him  to  do,  and  three  times  Mrs.  Babbitt  scolded, 
"Do  please  try  to  keep  out  of  the  way!"  He  stood  in  the 
door  of  the  garage,  his  lips  drooping,  and  wished  that  Little- 
field  or  Sam  Doppelbrau  or  somebody  would  come  along  and 
talk  to  him.  He  saw  Ted  sneaking  about  the  corner  of  the 
house. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man?"  said  Babbitt. 

"Is  that  you,  thin,  owld  one?  Gee,  Ma  certainly  is  on  the 
warpath!  I  told  her  Rone  and  I  would  jus'  soon  not  be  let  in 
on  the  fiesta  to-night,  and  she  bit  me.  She  says  I  got  to  take 
a  bath,  too.  But,  say,  the  Babbitt  men  will  be  some  lookers 
to-night!     Little  Theodore  in  a  dress-suit!" 

"The  Babbitt  men! "  Babbitt  liked  the  sound  of  it.  He  put 
his  arm  about  the  boy's  shoulder.  He  wished  that  Paul  Ries- 
ling had  a  daughter,  so  that  Ted  might  marry  her.    "Yes,  your 


196  BABBITT 

mother  is  kind  of  rouncing  round,  all  right,"  he  said,  and  they 
laughed  together,  and  sighed  together,  and  dutifully  went  in 
to  dress. 

The  McKelveys  were  less  than  fifteen  minutes  late. 

Babbitt  hoped  that  the  Doppelbraus  would  see  the  McKel- 
veys' limousine,  and  their  uniformed  chauffeur,  waiting  in 
front. 

The  dinner  was  well  cooked  and  incredibly  plentiful,  and 
Mrs.  Babbitt  had  brought  out  her  grandmother's  silver  candle- 
5^ticks.  Babbitt  worked  hard.  He  was  good.  He  told  none 
fi  the  jokes  he  wanted  to  tell.  He  listened  to  the  others.  He 
started  Maxwell  off  with  a  resounding,  "Let's  hear  about  your 
trip  to  the  Yellowstone."  He  was  laudatory,  extremely  laud- 
atory. He  found  opportunities  to  remark  that  Dr.  Angus  was 
a  benefactor  to  humanity,  Maxwell  and  Howard  Littlefield  pro- 
found scholars,  Charles  McKelvey  an  inspiration  to  ambitious 
youth,  and  Mrs.  McKelvey  an  adornment  to  the  social  circles 
of  Zenith,  Washington,  New  York,  Paris,  and  numbers  of  other 
places. 

But  he  could  not  stir  them.  It  was  a  dinner  without  a  soul. 
For  no  reason  that  was  clear  to  Babbitt,  heaviness  was  over 
them  and  they  spoke  laboriously  and  unwillingly. 

He  concentrated  on  Lucille  McKelvey,  carefully  not  looking 
at  her  blanched  lovely  shoulder  and  the  tawny  silken  band 
which  supported  her  frock. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  going  to  Europe  pretty  soon  again, 
wjn't  you?"  he  invited. 

"I'd  like  awfully  to  run  over  to  Rome  for  a  few  weeks." 

"I  suppose  you  see  a  lot  of  pictures  and  music  and  curios 
and  everything  there." 

"No,  what  I  really  go  for  is:  there's  a  little  trattoria  on  the 
Via  della  Scrofa  where  you  get  the  best  jettuccine  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  I —    Yes.    That  must  be  nice  to  try  that.    Yes." 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  McKelvey  discovered  with  profound  re- 
gret that  his  wife  had  a  headache.    He  said  blithely,  as  Babbitt 


BABBITT  197 

helped  him  with  his  coat,  "We  must  lunch  together  some  time, 
and  talk  over  the  old  days." 

When  the  others  had  labored  out,  at  half-past  ten.  Babbitt 
turned  to  his  wife,  pleading,  "Charley  said  he  had  a  corking 
time  and  we  must  lunch — said  they  wanted  to  have  us  up  to 
the  house  for  dinner  before  long." 

She  achieved,  "Oh,  it's  just  been  one  of  those  quiet  evenings 
that  are  often  so  much  more  enjoyable  than  noisy  parties 
where  everybody  talks  at  once  and  doesn't  really  settle  down 
to — nice  quiet  enjoyment." 

But  from  his  cot  on  the  sleeping-porch  he  heard  her  weeping, 
slowly,  without  hope. 


IV 

For  a  month  they  watched  the  social  columns,  and  waited 
for  a  return  dinner-invitation. 

As  the  hosts  of  Sir  Gerald  Doak,  the  McKelveys  were  head- 
3ined  all  the  week  after  the  Babbitts'  dinner.  Zenith  ardently 
received  Sir  Gerald  (who  had  come  to  America  to  buy  coal). 
The  newspapers  interviewed  him  on  prohibition,  Ireland,  un- 
employment, naval  aviation,  the  rate  of  exchange,  tea-drinking 
versus  whisky-drinking,  the  psychology  of  American  women, 
and  daily  life  as  lived  by  English  county  families.  Sir  Gerald 
seemed  to  have  heard  of  all  those  topics.  The  McKelvey?. 
gave  him  a  Singhalese  dinner,  and  Miss  Elnora  Pearl  Bates^ 
society  editor  of  the  Advocate-Times,  rose  to  her  highest  larb.. 
note.    Babbitt  read  aloud  at  breakfast-table: 


'Twixt  the  original  and  Oriental  decorations,  the  strange 
and  delicious  food,  and  the  personalities  both  of  the  dis- 
tinguished guests,  the  charming  hostess  and  the  noted  host, 
never  has  Zenith  seen  a  more  recherche  affair  than  the 
Ceylon  dinner-dance  given  last  evening  by  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Charles  McKelvey  to  Sir  Gerald  Doak.  Methought  as  we 
— fortunate  one ! — were  privileged  to  view  that  fairy  and 


ipS  BABBITT 

foreign  scene,  nothing  at  Monte  Carlo  or  the  choicest  am- 
bassadorial sets  of  foreign  capitals  could  be  more  lovely. 
It  is  not  for  nothing  that  Zenith  is  in  matters  social  rapidly 
becoming  known  as  the  choosiest  inland  city  in  the  country. 

Though  he  is  too  modest  to  admit  it,  Lord  Doak  gives 
a  cachet  to  our  smart  quartier  such  as  it  has  not  received 
since  the  ever-memorable  visit  of  the  Earl  of  Sittingbourne. 
Not  only  is  he  of  the  British  peerage,  but  he  is  also,  on  dit, 
a  leader  of  the  British  metal  industries.  As  he  comes  from 
Nottingham,  a  favorite  haunt  of  Robin  Hood,  though  now, 
we  are  informed  by  Lord  Doak,  a  live  modern  city  of  275,- 
573  inhabitants,  and  important  lace  as  well  as  other  indus- 
tries, we  like  to  think  that  perhaps  through  his  veins  runs 
some  of  the  blood,  both  virile  red  and  bonny  blue,  of  that 
earlier  lord  o'  the  good  greenwood,  the  roguish  Robin. 

The  lovely  Mrs.  McKelvey  never  was  more  fascinating 
than  last  evening  in  her  black  net  gown  reheved  by  dainty 
bands  of  silver  and  at  her  exquisite  waist  a  glowing  cluster 
of  Aaron  Ward  roses. 


Babbitt  said  bravely,  'T  hope  chey  don't  invite  us  to  meet 
this  Lord  Doak  guy.  Darn  sight  rather  just  have  a  nice  quiet 
little  dinner  with  Charley  and  the  Missus." 

At  the  Zenith  Athletic  Club  they  discussed  it  amply.  "I 
s'pose  we'll  have  to  call  McKelvey  'Lord  Chaz'  from  now  on," 
said  Sidney  Finkelstein. 

"It  beats  all  get-out,"  meditated  that  man  of  data,  Howard 
Littlefield,  "how  hard  it  is  for  some  people  to  get  things 
straight.  Here  they  call  this  fellow  'Lord  Doak'  when  it  ought 
to  be  'Sir  Gerald.'  " 

Babbitt  marvelled,  'Ts  that  a  fact!  Well,  well!  'Sir  Gerald,' 
eh?  That's  what  you  call  um,  eh?  Well,  sir,  I'm  glad  to 
know  that." 

Later  he  informed  his  salesmen,  "It's  funnier  'n  a  goat  the 
way  some  folks  that,  just  because  they  happen  to  lay  up  a  big 
wad,  go  entertaining  famous  foreigners,  don't  have  any  more 
idea  'n  a  rabbit  how  to  address  'em  so's  to  make  'em  feel  at 
home!" 


BABBITT  199 

That  evening,  as  he  was  driving  home,  he  passed  McKel- 
vey's  Hmousine  and  saw  Sir  Gerald,  a  large,  ruddy,  pop-eyed, 
Teutonic  Englishman  whose  dribble  of  yellow  mustache  gave 
him  an  aspect  sad  and  doubtful.  Babbitt  drove  on  slowly, 
oppressed  by  futility.  He  had  a  sudden,  unexplained,  and 
horrible  conviction  that  the  iNIcKelveys  were  laughing  at  him. 

He  betrayed  his  depression  by  the  violence  with  which  he 
informed  his  wife,  "Folks  that  really  tend  to  business  haven't 
got  the  time  to  waste  on  a  bunch  Hke  the  McKelveys.  This 
society  stuff  is  like  any  other  hobby ;  if  you  devote  yourself  to 
it,  you  get  on.  But  I  like  to  have  a  chance  to  visit  with  you 
and  the  children  instead  of  all  this  idiotic  chasing  round." 

They  did  not  speak  of  the  McKelveys  again. 


It  was  a  shame,  at  this  worried  time,  to  have  to  think  about 
the  Overbrooks. 

Ed  Overbrook  was  a  classmate  of  Babbitt  who  had  been  a 
failure.  He  had  a  large  family  and  a  feeble  insurance  business 
out  in  the  suburb  of  Dorchester.  He  was  gray  and  thin  and 
unimportant.  He  had  always  been  gray  and  thin  and  unim- 
portant. He  was  the  person  whom,  in  any  group,  you  forgot 
to  introduce,  then  introduced  with  extra  enthusiasm.  He  had 
admired  Babbitt's  good-fellowship  in  college,  had  admired 
ever  since  his  power  in  real  estate,  his  beautiful  house  and 
wonderful  clothes.  It  pleased  Babbitt,  though  it  bothered  him 
with  a  sense  of  responsibility.  At  the  class-dinner  he  had 
seen  poor  Overbrook,  in  a  shiny  blue  serge  business-suit,  being 
diffident  in  a  corner  with  three  other  failures.  He  had  gone 
over  and  been  cordial:  "Why,  hello,  young  Ed!  I  hear  you're 
writing  all  the  insurance  in  Dorchester  now.    Bully  work!" 

They  recalled  the  good  old  days  when  Overbrook  used  to 
write  poetry.  Overbrook  embarrassed  him  by  blurting,  "Say, 
Georgie,  I  hate  to  think  of  how  we  been  drifting  apart.     I 


200  BABBITT 

wish  you  and  Mrs.  Babbitt  would  come  to  dinner  some  night." 

Babbitt  boomed,  "Fine!  Sure!  Just  let  me  know.  And 
the  wife  and  I  want  to  have  you  at  the  house."  He  forgot 
it,  but  unfortunately  Ed  Overbrook  did  not.  Repeatedly  he 
telephoned  to  Babbitt,  inviting  him  to  dinner.  "Might  as 
well  go  and  get  it  over,"  Babbitt  groaned  to  his  wife.  "But 
don't  it  simply  amaze  you  the  way  the  poor  fish  doesn't  know 
the  first  thing  about  social  etiquette?  Think  of  him  'phoning 
me,  instead  of  his  wife  sitting  down  and  writing  us  a  regular 
bid!  Well,  I  guess  we're  stuck  for  it.  That's  the  trouble 
with  all  this  class-brother  hooptedoodle." 

He  accepted  Overbrook's  next  plaintive  invitation,  for  an 
evening  two  weeks  off.  A  dinner  tv/o  weeks  off,  even  a  family 
dinner,  never  seems  so  appalling,  till  the  two  weeks  have  as- 
toundingly  disappeared  and  one  comes  dismayed  to  the  am- 
bushed hour.  They  had  to  change  the  date,  because  of  their 
own  dinner  to  the  McKelveys,  but  at  last  they  gloomily  drove 
out  to  the  Overbrooks'  house  in  Dorchester. 

It  was  miserable  from  the  beginning.  The  Overbrooks  had 
dinner  at  six-thirty,  while  the  Babbitts  never  dined  before 
seven.  Babbitt  permitted  himself  to  be  ten  minutes  late. 
"Let's  make  it  as  short  as  possible.  I  think  we'll  duck  out 
quick.  I'll  say  I  have  to  be  at  the  office  extra  early  to-mor- 
row," he  planned. 

The  Overbrook  house  was  depressing.  It  was  the  second 
story  of  a  wooden  two-family  dwelling;  a  place  of  baby-car- 
riages, old  hats  hung  in  the  hall,  cabbage-smell,  and  a  Family 
Bible  on  the  parlor  table.  Ed  Overbrook  and  his  wife  were 
as  awkward  and  threadbare  as  usual,  and  the  other  guests 
were  two  dreadful  families  whose  names  Babbitt  never  caught 
and  never  desired  to  catch.  But  he  was  touched,  and  dis- 
concerted, by  the  tactless  way  in  which  Overbrook  praised 
him:  "We're  mighty  proud  to  have  old  George  here  to-night! 
Of  course  you've  all  read  about  his  speeches  and  oratory  in 
the  papers — and  the  boy's  good-looking,  too,  eh? — but  what  I 


BABBITT  20I 

always  think  of  is  back  in  college,  and  what  a  great  old  mixer 
he  was,  and  one  of  the  best  swimmers  in  the  class." 

Babbitt  tried  to  be  jovial;  he  worked  at  it;  but  he  could 
find  nothing  to  interest  him  in  Overbrook's  timorousness,  the 
blankness  of  the  other  guests,  or  the  drained  stupidity  of  Mrs. 
Overbrook,  with  her  spectacles,  drab  skin,  and  tight-drawn 
hair.  He  told  his  best  Irish  story,  but  it  sank  like  soggy  cake. 
Most  bleary  moment  of  all  was  when  Mrs.  Overbrook,  peering 
out  of  her  fog  of  nursing  eight  children  and  cooking  and  scrub- 
bing, tried  to  be  conversational. 

*'I  suppose  you  go  to  Chicago  and  New  York  right  along, 
Mr.  Babbitt,"  she  prodded. 

"Well,  I  get  to  Chicago  fairly  often." 

"It  must  be  awfully  interesting.  I  suppose  you  take  in  all 
the  theaters." 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  Mrs.  Overbrook,  thing  that  hits 
me  best  is  a  great  big  beefsteak  at  a  Dutch  restaurant  in  the 
Loop!" 

They  had  nothing  more  to  say.  Babbitt  was  sorry,  but 
there  was  no  hope;  the  dinner  was  a  failure.  At  ten,  rousing 
out  of  the  stupor  of  meaningless  talk,  he  said  as  cheerily  as 
he  could,  "  Traid  we  got  to  be  starting,  Ed.  I've  got  a  fellow 
coming  to  see  me  early  to-morrow."  As  Overbrook  helped 
him  with  his  coat,  Babbitt  said,  "Nice  to  rub  up  on  the  old 
days!     We  must  have  lunch  together,  P.D.Q." 

Mrs.  Babbitt  sighed,  on  their  drive  home,  "It  was  pretty 
terrible.    But  how  Mr.  Overbrook  does  admire  you!" 

"Yep.  Poor  cuss!  Seems  to  think  I'm  a  little  tin  arch- 
angel, and  the  best-looking  man  in  Zenith." 

"Well,  you're  certainly  not  that  but —  Oh,  Georgie,  you 
don't  suppose  we  have  to  invite  them  to  dinner  at  our  house 
now,  do  we?" 

"Ouch!     Gaw,  I  hope  not!" 

"See  here,  now,  George!  You  didn't  say  anything  about 
it  to  Mr.  Overbrook,  did  you?" 


202  BABBITT 

"No!  Gee!  No!  Honest,  I  didn't!  Just  made  a  bluff 
about  having  him  to  lunch  some  time." 

"Well.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear.  ...  I  don't  want  to  hurt  their  feel- 
ings. But  I  don't  see  how  I  could  stand  another  evening  like 
this  one.  And  suppose  somebody  like  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Angus 
came  in  when  we  had  the  Overbrooks  there,  and  thought  they 
were  friends  of  ours!" 

For  a  week  they  worried,  "We  really  ought  to  invite  Ed  and 
his  wife,  poor  devils!"  But  as  they  never  saw  the  Overbrooks, 
they  forgot  them,  and  after  a  month  or  two  they  said,  "That 
really  was  the  best  way,  just  to  let  it  slide.  It  wouldn't  be  kind 
to  them  to  have  them  here.  They'd  feel  so  out  of  place  and 
hard-up  in  our  home." 

They  did  not  speak  of  the  Overbrooks  again. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


The  certainty  that  he  was  not  going  to  be  accepted  by  the 
McKelveys  made  Babbitt  feel  guilty  and  a  little  absurd.  But 
he  went  more  regularly  to  the  Elks;  at  a  Chamber  of  Com- 
merce luncheon  he  was  oratorical  regarding  the  wickedness 
of  strikes;  and  again  he  saw  himself  as  a  Prominent  Citizen. 

His  clubs  and  associations  were  food  comfortable  to  his 
spirit. 

Of  a  decent  man  in  Zenith  it  was  required  that  he  should 
belong  to  one,  preferably  two  or  three,  of  the  innumerous 
"lodges"  and  prosperity-boosting  lunch-clubs;  to  the  Rotarians, 
the  Kiwanis,  or  the  Boosters;  to  the  Oddfellows,  Moose,  Ma- 
sons, Red  Men,  Woodmen,  Owls,  Eagles,  Maccabees,  Knights 
of  Pythias,  Knights  of  Columbus,  and  other  secret  orders  char- 
acterized by  a  high  degree  of  heartiness,  sound  morals,  and 
reverence  for  the  Constitution.  There  were  four  reasons  for 
joining  these  orders:  It  was  the  thing  to  do.  It  was  good 
for  business,  since  lodge-brothers  frequently  became  customers. 
It  gave  to  Americans  unable  to  become  Geheimrate  or  Com- 
mendatori  such  unctuous  honorifics  as  High  Worthy  Record- 
ing Scribe  and  Grand  Hoogow  to  add  to  the  commonplace  dis- 
tinctions of  Colonel,  Judge,  and  Professor.  And  it  permitted 
the  swaddled  American  husband  to  stay  away  from  home  for 
one  evening  a  week.  The  lodge  was  his  piazza,  his  pavement 
caf6.  He  could  shoot  pool  and  talk  man-talk  and  be  obscene 
and  valiant. 

Babbitt  was  what  he  called  a  "joiner"  for  all  these  reasons. 

Behind  the  gold  and  scarlet  banner  of  his  public  achieve- 

203 


204  BABBITT 

ments  was  the  dun  background  of  office-routine:  leases,  sales- 
contracts,  lists  of  properties  to  rent.  The  evenings  of  oratory 
and  committees  and  lodges  stimulated  him  like  brandy,  but 
every  morning  he  was  sandy-tongued.  Week  by  week  he  ac- 
cumulated nervousness.  He  was  in  open  disagreement  with  his 
outside  salesman,  Stanley  Graff;  and  once,  though  her  charms 
had  always  kept  him  nickeringly  polite  to  her,  he  snarled  at 
Miss  McGoun  for  changing  his  letters. 

But  in  the  presence  of  Paul  Riesling  he  relaxed.  At  least 
once  a  week  they  fled  from  maturity.  On  Saturday  they  played 
golf,  jeering,  "As  a  golfer,  you're  a  fine  tennis-player,"  or  they 
motored  all  Sunday  afternoon,  stopping  at  village  lunchrooms 
to  sit  on  high  stools  at  a  counter  and  drink  coffee  from  thick 
cups.  Sometimes  Paul  came  over  in  the  evening  with  his 
violin,  and  even  Zilla  was  silent  as  the  lonely  man  who  had 
lost  his  way  and  forever  crept  down  unfamiliar  roads  spun 
out  his  dark  soul  in  music. 

II 

Nothing  gave  Babbitt  more  purification  and  publicity  ttaii 
his  labors  for  the  Sunday  School. 

His  church,  the  Chatham  Road  Presbyterian,  was  one  of 
the  largest  and  richest,  one  of  the  most  oaken  and  velvety, 
in  Zenith.  The  pastor  was  the  Reverend  John  Jennison  Drew, 
M.A.,  D.D.,  LL.D.  (The  M.A.  and  the  D.D.  were  from  El- 
bert University,  Nebraska,  the  LL.D.  from  Waterbury  College, 
Oklahoma.)  He  was  eloquent,  efficient,  and  versatile.  He 
presided  at  meetings  for  the  denunciation  of  unions  or  the 
elevation  of  domestic  service,  and  confided  to  the  audiences 
that  as  a  poor  boy  he  had  carried  newspapers.  For  the  Sat- 
urday edition  of  the  Evening  Advocate  he  wrote  editorials  on 
"The  Manly  Man's  Religion"  and  "The  Dollars  and  Sense 
Value  of  Christianity,"  which  were  printed  in  bold  type  sur- 
rounded by  a  wiggly  border.    He  often  said  that  he  was  "proud 


BABBITT  20S 

to  be  known  as  primarily  a  business  man"  and  that  he  certainly 
was  not  going  to  "permit  the  old  Satan  to  monopolize  all  the 
pep  and  punch."  He  was  a  thin,  rustic-faced  young  man  with 
gold  spectacles  and  a  bang  of  dull  brown  hair,  but  when  he 
hurled  himself  into  oratory  he  glowed  with  power.  He  ad- 
mitted that  he  was  too  much  the  scholar  and  poet  to  imitate 
the  evangelist,  Mike  Monday,  yet  he  had  once  awakened  his 
fold  to  new  life,  and  to  larger  collections,  by  the  challenge, 
"My  brethren,  the  real  cheap  skate  is  the  man  who  won't  lend 
to  the  Lord!" 

He  had  made  his  church  a  true  community  center.  It  con- 
tained everything  but  a  bar.  It  had  a  nursery,  a  Thursday 
evening  supper  with  a  short  bright  missionary  lecture  after- 
ward, a  gymnasium,  a  fortnightly  motion-picture  show,  a 
library  of  technical  books  for  young  workmen — though,  un- 
fortunately, no  young  workman  ever  entered  the  church  ex- 
cept to  wash  the  windows  or  repair  the  furnace — and  a  sew- 
ing-circle which  made  short  little  pants  for  the  children  of  the 
poor  while  Mrs.  Drew  read  aloud  from  earnest  novels. 

Though  Dr.  Drew's  theology  was  Presbyterian,  his  church- 
building  was  gracefully  Episcopalian.  As  he  said,  it  had  the 
"most  perdurable  features  of  those  noble  ecclesiastical  monu- 
ments of  grand  Old  England  which  stand  as  symbols  of  the 
eternity  of  faith,  religious  and  civil."  It  was  built  of  cheery 
iron-spot  brick  in  an  improved  Gothic  style,  and  the  main 
auditorium  had  indirect  lighting  from  electric  globes  in  lavish 
alabaster  bowls. 

On  a  December  morning  when  the  Babbitts  went  to  church, 
Dr.  John  Jennison  Drew  was  unusually  eloquent.  The  crowd 
was  immense.  Ten  brisk  young  ushers,  in  morning  coats  with 
white  roses,  were  bringing  folding  chairs  up  from  the  basement. 
There  was  an  impressive  musical  program,  conducted  by  Shel- 
don Smeeth,  educational  director  of  the  Y.M.C.A.,  who  also 
sang  the  offertory.  Babbitt  cared  less  for  this,  because  some 
misguided  person  had  taught  young  Mr.  Smeeth  to  smile, 


2o6  BABBITT 

smile,  smile  while  he  was  singing,  but  with  all  the  appreciation 
of  a  fellow-orator  he  admired  Dr.  Drew's  sermon.  It  had  the 
intellectual  quality  which  distinguished  the  Chatham  Road 
congregation  from  the  grubby  chapels  on  Smith  Street. 

"At  this  abundant  harvest-time  of  all  the  year,"  Dr.  Drew 
chanted,  "when,  though  stormy  the  sky  and  laborious  the  path 
to  the  drudging  wayfarer,  yet  the  hovering  and  bodiless  spirit 
swoops  back  o'er  all  the  labors  and  desires  of  the  past  twelve 
months,  oh,  then  it  seems  to  me  there  sounds  behind  all  our 
apparent  failures  the  golden  chorus  of  greeting  from  those 
passed  happily  on;  and  lo!  on  the  dim  horizon  we  see  behind 
dolorous  clouds  the  mighty  mass  of  mountains — mountains 
of  melody,  mountains  of  mirth,  mountains  of  might!" 

"I  certainly  do  like  a  sermon  with  culture  and  thought  in 
it,"  meditated  Babbitt. 

At  the  end  of  the  service  he  was  delighted  when  the  pastor, 
actively  shaking  hands  at  the  door,  twittered,  "Oh,  Brother 
Babbitt,  can  you  wait  a  jiffy?    Want  your  advice." 
"Sure,  doctor!     You  bet!" 

"Drop  into  my  office.  I  think  you'll  like  the  cigars  there." 
Babbitt  did  like  the  cigars.  He  also  liked  the  office,  which 
was  distinguished  from  other  offices  only  by  the  spirited 
change  of  the  familiar  wall-placard  to  "This  is  the  Lord's  Busy 
Day."    Chum  Frink  came  in,  then  William  W.  Eathome. 

Mr,  Eathorne  was  the  seventy-year-old  president  of  the  First 
State  Bank  of  Zenith.  He  still  wore  the  delicate  patches  of 
side-whiskers  which  had  been  the  uniform  of  bankers  in  1870. 
If  Babbitt  was  envious  of  the  Smart  Set  of  the  McKelveys, 
before  William  Washington  Eathorne  he  was  reverent.  Mr. 
Eathorne  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Smart  Set.  He  was 
above  it.  He  was  the  great-grandson  of  one  of  the  five  men 
who  founded  Zenith,  in  1792,  and  he  was  of  the  third  genera- 
tion of  bankers.  He  could  examine  credits,  make  loans,  pro- 
mote or  injure  a  man's  business.  In  his  presence  Babbitt 
breathed  quickly  and  felt  young. 


BABBITT  207 

The  Reverend  Dr.  Drew  bounced  into  the  room  and  flow- 
ered into  speech: 

^'I've  asked  you  gentlemen  to  stay  so  I  can  put  a  proposition 
before  you.  The  Sunday  School  needs  bucking  up.  It's  the 
fourth  largest  in  Zenith,  but  there's  no  reason  why  we  should 
take  anybody's  dust.  We  ought  to  be  first.  I  want  to  request 
you,  if  you  will,  to  form  a  committee  of  advice  and  publicity 
for  the  Sunday  School ;  look  it  over  and  make  any  suggestions 
for  its  betterment,  and  then,  perhaps,  see  that  the  press  gives 
us  some  attention — give  the  public  some  really  helpful  and 
constructive  news  instead  of  all  these  murders  and  divorces." 

"Excellent,"  said  the  banker. 

Babbitt  and  Frink  were  enchanted  to  join  him. 

in 

If  you  had  asked  Babbitt  what  his  religion  was,  he  would 
have  answered  in  sonorous  Boosters'-Club  rhetoric,  "My  re- 
ligion is  to  serve  my  fellow  men,  to  honor  my  brother  as  my- 
self, and  to  do  my  bit  to  make  life  happier  for  one  and  all." 
If  you  had  pressed  him  for  more  detail,  he  would  have  an- 
nounced, "I'm  a  member  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  and  nat- 
urally, I  accept  its  doctrines."  If  you  had  been  so  brutal 
as  to  go  on,  he  would  have  protested,  "There's  no  use  dis- 
cussing and  arguing  about  religion;  it  just  stirs  up  bad  fed- 
ing." 

Actually,  the  content  of  his  theology  was  that  there  was  a 
supreme  being  who  had  tried  to  make  us  perfect,  but  pre- 
sumably had  failed;  that  if  one  was  a  Good  Man  he  would 
go  to  a  place  called  Heaven  (Babbitt  unconsciously  pictured 
it  as  rather  like  an  excellent  hotel  with  a  private  garden), 
but  if  one  was  a  Bad  Man,  that  is,  if  he  murdered  or  committed 
burglary  or  used  cocaine  or  had  mistresses  or  sold  non-existent 
real  estate,  he  would  be  punished.  Babbitt  was  uncertain, 
however,  about  what  he  called  "this  business  of  Hell."    He 


•2o8  BABBITT 

explained  to  Ted,  "Of  course  I'm  pretty  liberal;  I  don't  ex- 
actly believe  in  a  fire-and-brimstone  Hell.  Stands  to  reason, 
though,  that  a  fellow  can't  get  away  with  all  sorts  of  Vice 
and  not  get  nicked  for  it,  see  how  I  mean?" 

Upon  this  theology  he  rarely  pondered.  The  kernel  of  his 
practical  religion  was  that  it  was  respectable,  and  beneficial  to 
one's  business,  to  be  seen  going  to  services;  that  the  church 
kept  the  Worst  Elements  from  being  still  worse;  and  that  the 
pastor's  sermons,  however  dull  they  might  seem  at  the  time 
of  taking,  yet  had  a  voodooistic  power  which  "did  a  fellow 
good — kept  him  in  touch  with  Higher  Things." 

His  first  investigations  for  the  Sunday  School  Advisory 
Committee  did  not  inspire  him. 

He  liked  the  Busy  Folks'  Bible  Class,  composed  of  mature 
men  and  women  and  addressed  by  the  old-school  physician, 
Dr.  T.  Atkins  Jordan,  in  a  sparkling  style  comparable  to  that 
of  the  more  refined  humorous  after-dinner  speakers,  but  when 
he  went  down  to  the  junior  classes  he  was  disconcerted.  He 
heard  Sheldon  Smeeth,  educational  director  of  the  Y.M.C.A. 
and  leader  of  the  church-choir,  a  pale  but  strenuous  young 
man  with  curly  hair  and  a  smile,  teaching  a  class  of  sixteen- 
year-old  boys.  Smeeth  lovdngly  admonished  them,  "Now,  fel- 
lows, I'm  going  to  have  a  Heart  to  Heart  Talk  Evening  at  my 
house  next  Thursday.  We'll  get  off  by  ourselves  and  be  frank 
about  our  Secret  Worries.  You  can  just  tell  old  Sheldj?-  any- 
thing, like  all  the  fellows  do  at  the  Y.  I'm  going  to  explain 
frankly  about  the  horrible  practises  a  kiddy  falls  into  unless 
he's  guided  by  a  Big  Brother,  and  about  the  perils  and  glory 
of  Sex."  Old  Sheldy  beamed  damply;  the  boys  looked 
ashamed;  and  Babbitt  didn't  know  which  way  to  turn  his  em- 
barrassed eyes. 

Less  annoying  but  also  much  duller  were  the  minor  classes 
which  were  being  instructed  in  philosophy  and  Oriental  eth- 
nology by  earnest  spinsters.     iSIost  of  them  met  in  the  highly 


BABBITT  209 

varnished  Sunday  School  room,  but  there  was  an  overflow  to 
the  basement,  which  was  decorated  with  varicose  water-pipes 
and  lighted  by  small  windows  high  up  in  the  oozing  wall. 
What  Babbitt  saw,  however,  was  the  First  Congregational 
Church  of  Catawba.  He  was  back  in  the  Sunday  School  of 
his  boyhood.  He  smelled  again  that  polite  stuffiness  to  be 
found  only  in  church  parlors;  he  recalled  the  case  of  drab 
Sunday  School  books:  "Hetty,  a  Humble  Heroine"  and  "Jo- 
seph us,  a  Lad  of  Palestine;"  he  thumbed  once  more  the  high- 
colored  text-cards  which  no  boy  wanted  but  no  boy  liked  to 
throw  away,  because  they  were  somehow  sacred;  he  was  tor- 
tured by  the  stumbling  rote  of  thirty-five  years  ago,  as  in  the 
vast  Zenith  church  he  listened  to: 

"Now,  Edgar,  you  read  the  next  verse.  What  does  it  mean 
when  it  says  it's  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through  a  needle's 
eye?  What  does  this  teach  us?  Clarence!  Please  don't 
wiggle  so!  If  you  had  studied  your  lesson  you  wouldn't  be 
so  fidgety.  Now,  Earl,  what  is  the  lesson  Jesus  was  trying 
to  teach  his  disciples?  The  one  thing  I  want  you  to  especially 
remember,  boys,  is  the  words,  'With  God  all  things  are  pos- 
sible.' Just  think  of  that  always — Clarence,  please  pay  at- 
tention— just  say  'With  God  all  things  are  possible'  whenever 
you  feel  discouraged,  and.  Alec,  will  you  read  the  next  verse; 
if  you'd  pay  attention  you  wouldn't  lose  your  place!" 

Drone — drone — drone — gigantic  bees  that  boomed  in  a  cav- 
ern of  drowsiness — 

Babbitt  started  from  his  open-eyed  nap,  thanked  the  teacher 
for  "the  privilege  of  listening  to  her  splendid  teaching,"  and 
staggered  on  to  the  next  circle. 

After  two  weeks  of  this  he  had  no  suggestions  whatever  for 
the  Reverend  Dr.  Drew. 

Then  he  discovered  a  world  of  Sunday  School  journals,  an 

enormous  and  busy  domain  of  weeklies  and  monthlies  which 

ij,    were  as  technical,  as  practical  and  forward-looking,  as  the 


210  BABBITT 

real-estate  columns  or  the  shoe-trade  magazines.  He  bought 
half  a  dozen  of  them  at  a  religious  book-shop  and  till  after 
midnight  he  read  them  and  admired. 

He  found  many  lucrative  tips  on  "Focusing  Appeals," 
"Scouting  for  New  Members,"  and  "Getting  Prospects  to  Sign 
up  with  the  Sunday  School."  He  particularly  liked  the  word 
"prospects,"  and  he  was  moved  by  the  rubric: 

"The  moral  springs  of  the  community's  life  lie  deep  in  its 
Sunday  Schools — its  schools  of  religious  instruction  and  inspi- 
ration. Neglect  now  means  loss  of  spiritual  vigor  and  moral 
power  in  years  to  come.  .  .  .  Facts  like  the  above,  followed 
by  a  straight-arm  appeal,  will  reach  folks  who  can  never  be 
laughed  or  jollied  into  doing  their  part." 

Babbitt  admitted,  "That's  so.  I  used  to  skin  out  of  the  ole 
Sunday  School  at  Catawba  every  chance  I  got,  but  same  time, 
I  wouldn't  be  where  I  am  to-day,  maybe,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
its  training  in — in  moral  power.  And  all  about  the  Bible. 
Great  literature.  Have  to  read  some  of  it  again,  one  of  these 
days." 

How  scientifically  the  Sunday  School  could  be  organized  he 
learned  from  an  article  in  the  Westminster  Adult  Bible  Class: 

"The  second  vice-president  looks  after  the  fellowship  of 
the  class.  She  chooses  a  group  to  help  her.  These  become 
ushers.  Every  one  who  comes  gets  a  glad  hand.  No  one  goes 
away  a  stranger.  One  member  of  the  group  stands  on  the 
doorstep  and  invites  passers-by  to  come  in." 

Perhaps  most  of  all  Babbitt  appreciated  the  remarks  J3y 
William  H.  Ridgway  in  the  Sunday  School  Times: 

"If  you  have  a  Sunday  School  class  without  any  pep  and 
get-up-and-go  in  it,  that  is,  without  interest,  that  is  uncertain 
in  attendance,  that  acts  like  a  fellow  with  the  spring  fever,  let 
old  Dr.  Ridgway  write  you  a  prescription.  Rx.  Invite  the 
Bunch  for  Supper." 

The  Sunday  School  journals  were  as  well  rounded  as  they 


BABBITT  211 

were  practical.  They  neglected  none  of  the  arts.  As  to  music 
the  Sunday  School  Times  advertised  that  C.  Harold  Lowden, 
"known  to  thousands  through  his  sacred  compositions,"  had 
written  a  new  masterpiece,  "entitled  'Yearning  for  You.'  The 
poem,  by  Harry  D.  Kerr,  is  one  of  the  daintiest  you  could 
imagine  and  the  music  is  indescribably  beautiful.  Critics  are 
agreed  that  it  will  sweep  the  country.  May  be  made  into  a 
charming  sacred  song  by  substituting  the  hymn  words,  'I  Heard 
the  Voice  of  Jesus  Say.'  " 

Even  manual  training  was  adequately  considered.  Babbitt 
noted  an  ingenious  way  of  illustrating  the  resurrection  of  Jesus 
Christ: 

"Model  for  Pupils  to  Make.  Tomb  with  Rolling  Door. 
— Use  a  square  covered  box  turned  upside  down.  Pull  the 
cover  forward  a  little  to  form  a  groove  at  the  bottom.  Cut 
a  square  door,  also  cut  a  circle  of  cardboard  to  more  than  cover 
the  door.  Cover  the  circular  door  and  the  tomb  thickly  with 
stiff  mixture  of  sand,  flour  and  water  and  let  it  dry.  It  was 
the  heavy  circular  stone  over  the  door  the  women  found 
'rolled  away'  on  Easter  morning.  This  is  the  story  we  are  to 
'Go— tell.'  " 

In  their  advertisements  the  Sunday  School  journals  were 
thoroughly  efficient.  Babbitt  was  interested  in  a  preparation 
which  "takes  the  place  of  exercise  for  sedentary  men  by  build- 
ing up  depleted  nerve  tissue,  nourishing  the  brain  and  the  di- 
gestive system."  He  was  edified  to  learn  that  the  selling  of 
Bibles  was  a  hustling  and  strictly  competitive  industry,  and  as 
an  expert  on  hygiene  he  was  pleased  by  the  Sanitary  Com- 
munion Outfit  Company's  announcement  of  "an  improved  and 
satisfactory  outfit  throughout,  including  highly  polished  beau- 
tiful mahogany  tray.  This  tray  eliminates  all  noise,  is  lighter 
and  more  easily  handled  than  others  and  is  more  in  keeping 
with  the  furniture  of  the  church  than  a  tray  of  any  other 
material." 


212  BABBITT 

rv 

He  dropped  the  pile  of  Sunday  School  journals. 

He  pondered,  "Now,  there's  a  real  he-world.    Corking! 

"Ashamed  I  haven't  sat  in  more.  Fellow  that's  an  influence 
in  the  community — shame  if  he  doesn't  take  part  in  a  real 
virile  hustling  religion.  Sort  of  Christianity  Incorporated,  you 
might  say. 

"But  with  all  reverence. 

"Some  folks  might  claim  these  Sunday  School  fans  are  un- 
dignified and  unspiritual  and  so  on.  Sure!  Always  some  skunk 
to  spring  things  like  that!  Knocking  and  sneering  and  tear- 
ing-down— so  much  easier  than  building  up.  But  me,  I  cer- 
tainly hand  it  to  these  magazines.  They've  brought  ole  George 
F.  Babbitt  into  camp,  and  that's  the  answer  to  the  critics! 

"The  more  manly  and  practical  a  fellow  is,  the  more  he 
ought  to  lead  the  enterprising  Christian  life.  Me  for  it!  Cut 
out  this  carelessness  and  boozing  and —  Rone!  Where  the 
devil  you  been?    This  is  a  fine  time  o'  night  to  be  coming  in!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 


There  are  but  three  or  four  old  houses  in  Floral  Heights, 
and  in  Floral  Heights  an  old  house  is  one  which  was  built 
before  1880.  The  largest  of  these  is  the  residence  of  WilHam 
Washington  Eathorne,  president  of  the  First  State  Bank. 

The  Eathorne  Mansion  preserves  the  memory  of  the  "nice 
parts"  of  Zenith  as  they  appeared  from  i860  to  1900.  It  is 
a  red  brick  immensity  with  gray  sandstone  lintels  and  a  roof 
of  slate  in  courses  of  red,  green,  and  dyspeptic  yellow.  There 
are  two  anemic  towers,  one  roofed  with  copper,  the  othei 
crowned  with  castiron  ferns.  The  porch  is  like  an  open  tomb; 
it  is  supported  by  squat  granite  pillars  above  which  hang 
frozen  cascades  of  brick.  At  one  side  of  the  house  is  a  huge 
stained-glass  window  in  the  shape  of  a  keyhole. 

But  the  house  has  an  effect  not  at  all  humorous.  It  em- 
bodies the  heavy  dignity  of  those  Victorian  financiers  who 
ruled  the  generation  between  the  pioneers  and  the  brisk  "sales- 
engineers"  and  created  a  somber  oligarchy  by  gaining  control 
of  banks,  mills,  land,  railroads,  mines.  Out  of  the  dozen  con- 
tradictory Zeniths  which  together  make  up  the  true  and  com- 
plete Zenith,  none  is  so  powerful  and  enduring  yet  none  so  un- 
familiar to  the  citizens  as  the  small,  still,  dry,  polite,  cruel 
Zenith  of  the  William  Eathornes;  and  for  that  tiny  hierarchy 
the  other  Zeniths  unwittingly  labor  and  insignificantly  die. 

Most  of  the  castles  of  the  testy  Victorian  tetrarchs  are  gone 
now  or  decayed  into  boarding-houses,  but  the  Eathorne  Man- 
sion remains  virtuous  and  aloof,  reminiscent  of  London,  Back 
Bay,  Rittenhouse  Square.  Its  marble  steps  are  scrubbed  daily, 
the  brass  plate  is  reverently  polished,  and  the  lace  curtains  are 

213 


214  BABBITT 

as  prim  and  superior  as  William  Washington  Eathorne  him- 
self. 

With  a  certain  awe  Babbitt  and  Chum  Frink  called  on 
Eathorne  for  a  meeting  of  the  Sunday  School  Advisory  Com- 
mittee; with  uneasy  stillness  they  followed  a  uniformed  maid 
through  catacombs  of  reception-rooms  to  the  library.  It  was 
as  unmistakably  the  library  of  a  solid  old  banker  as  Eathorne's 
side-whiskers  were  the  side-whiskers  of  a  solid  old  banker.  The 
books  were  most  of  them  Standard  Sets,  with  the  correct  and 
traditional  touch  of  dim  blue,  dim  gold,  and  glossy  calf-skin. 
The  iire  was  exactly  correct  and  traditional;  a  small,  quiet, 
steady  fire,  reflected  by  polished  fire-irons.  The  oak  desk 
was  dark  and  old  and  altogether  perfect;  the  chairs  were 
gently  supercilious. 

Eathorne's  inquiries  as  to  the  healths  of  Mrs.  Babbitt,  Miss 
Babbitt,  and  the  Other  Children  were  softly  paternal,  but  Bab- 
bitt had.  nothing  with  which  to  answer  him.  It  was  indecent  to 
think  of  using  the  "How's  tricks,  ole  socks?"  which  gratified 
Vergil  Gunch  and  Frink  and  Howard  Littlefield — men  who 
till  now  had  seemed  successful  and  urbane.  Babbitt  and  Frink 
sat  politely,  and  politely  did  Eathorne  observe,  opening  his 
thin  lips  just  wide  enough  to  dismiss  the  words,  "Gentlemen, 
before  we  begin  our  conference — ^you  may  have  felt  the  cold 
in  coming  here — so  good  of  you  to  save  an  old  man  the  jour- 
ney— shall  we  perhaps  have  a  whisky  toddy?" 

So  well  trained  was  Babbitt  in  all  the  conversation  that 
befits  a  Good  Fellow  that  he  almost  disgraced  himself  with 
"Rather  than  make  trouble,  and  always  providin'  there  ain't 
any  enforcement  officers  hiding  in  the  waste-basket — "  The 
words  died  choking  in  his  throat.  He  bowed  in  flustered  obe- 
dience.    So  did  Chum  Frink. 

Eathorne  rang  for  the  maid. 

The  modern  and  luxurious  Babbitt  had  never  seen  any  one 
ring  for  a  servant  in  a  private  house,  except  during  meals. 
Himself,  in  hotels,  had  rimg  for  bell-boys,  but  in  the  house  you 


BABBITT  215 

didn't  hurt  Matilda's  feelings;  you  went  out  in  the  hall  and 
shouted  for  her.  Nor  had  he,  since  prohibition,  known  any 
one  to  be  casual  about  drinking.  It  was  extraordinary  merely 
to  sip  his  toddy  and  not  cry,  "Oh,  maaaaan,  this  hits  me  right 
where  I  live!"  And  always,  with  the  ecstasy  of  youth  meeting 
greatness,  he  marveled,  "That  little  fuzzy-face  there,  why,  he 
could  make  me  or  break  me!  If  he  told  my  banker  to  call 
my  loans — !  Gosh!  That  quarter-sized  squirt!  And  looking 
like  he  hadn't  got  a  single  bit  of  hustle  to  him!  I  wonder — • 
Do  we  Boosters  throw  too  many  fits  about  pep?" 

From  this  thought  he  shuddered  away,  and  listened  devoutly 
to  Eathorne's  ideas  on  the  advancement  of  the  Sunday  School, 
which  were  very  clear  and  very  bad. 

Diffidently  Babbitt  outlined  his  own  suggestions: 

"I  think  if  you  analyze  the  needs  of  the  school,  in  fact,  going 
right  at  it  as  if  it  was  a  merchandizing  problem,  of  course  the 
one  basic  and  fundamental  need  is  growth.  I  presume  we're 
all  agreed  we  won't  be  satisfied  till  we  build  up  the  biggest 
darn  Sunday  School  in  the  whole  state,  so  the  Chatham  Road 
Presbyterian  won't  have  to  take  anything  off  anybody.  Now 
about  jazzing  up  the  campaign  for  prospects:  they've  already 
used  contesting  teams,  and  given  prizes  to  the  kids  that  bring 
in  the  most  members.  And  they  made  a  mistake  there:  the 
prizes  were  a  lot  of  folderols  and  doodads  like  poetry  books 
and  illustrated  Testaments,  instead  of  something  a  real  live 
kid  would  want  to  work  for,  like  real  cash  or  a  speedometer 
for  his  motor  cycle.  Course  I  suppose  it's  all  fine  and  dandy 
to  illustrate  the  lessons  with  these  decorated  book-marks  and 
blackboard  drawings  and  so  on,  but  when  it  comes  down  to 
real  he-hustling,  getting  out  and  drumming  up  customers — or 
members,  I  mean,  why,  you  got  to  make  it  worth  a  fellow's 
while. 

"Now,  I  want  to  propose  two  stunts:  First,  divide  the  Sun- 
day School  into  four  armies,  depending  on  age.  Everybody 
gets  a  military  rank  in  his  own  army  according  to  how  many 


2i6  BABBITT 

members  he  brings  in,  and  the  duffers  that  lie  down  on  us  and 
don't  bring  in  any,  they  remain  privates.  The  pastor  and 
superintendent  rank  as  generals.  And  everybody  has  got  to 
give  salutes  and  all  the  rest  of  that  junk,  just  like  a  regular 
army,  to  make  'em  feel  it's  worth  while  to  get  rank. 

"Then,  second:  Course  the  school  has  its  advertising  com- 
mittee, but,  Lord,  nobody  ever  really  works  good — nobody 
works  well  just  for  the  love  of  it.  The  thing  to  do  is  to  be 
practical  and  up-to-date,  and  hire  a  real  paid  press-agent  for 
the  Sunday  School — some  newspaper  fellow  who  can  give  part 
of  his  time." 

"Sure,  you  bet!"  said  Chum  Frink. 

"Think  of  the  nice  juicy  bits  he  could  get  in!"  Babbitt 
crowed.  "Not  only  the  big,  salient,  vital  facts,  about  how  fast 
the  Sunday  School — and  the  collection — is  growing,  but  a  lot 
of  humorous  gossip  and  kidding:  about  how  some  blowhard 
fell  down  on  his  pledge  to  get  new  members,  or  the  good  time 
the  Sacred  Trinity  class  of  girls  had  at  their  wieniewoirst  party. 
And  on  the  side,  if  he  had  time,  the  press-agent  might  even 
boost  the  lessons  themselves — do  a  little  advertising  for  all 
the  Sunday  Schools  in  town,  in  fact.  No  use  being  hoggish 
toward  the  rest  of  'em,  providing  we  can  keep  the  bulge  on  'em 
in  membership.  Frinstance,  he  might  get  the  papers  to — 
Course  I  haven't  got  a  literary  training  like  Frink  here,  and 
I'm  just  guessing  how  the  pieces  ought  to  be  written,  but 
take  frinstance,  suppose  the  week's  lesson  is  about  Jacob ;  well, 
the  press-agent  might  get  in  something  that  would  have  a  fine 
moral,  and  yet  with  a  trick  headline  that'd  get  folks  to  read  it — 
say  like:  Jake  Fools  the  Old  Man;  Makes  Getaway  with  Girl 
and  Bankroll.  See  how  I  mean?  That'd  get  their  interest! 
Now,  course,  Mr.  Eathorne,  you're  conservative,  and  maybe 
you  feel  these  stunts  would  be  undignified,  but  honestly,  I 
believe  they'd  bring  home  the  bacon." 

Eathorne  folded  his  hands  on  his  comfortable  little  belly 
and  purred  like  an  aged  pussy: 


BABBITT  217 

"May  I  say,  first,  that  I  have  been  very  much  pleased  by 
your  analysis  of  the  situation,  Mr.  Babbitt.  As  you  surmise, 
it's  necessary  in  My  Position  to  be  conservative,  and  perhaps 
endeavor  to  maintain  a  certain  standard  of  dignity.  Yet  I 
think  you'll  find  me  somewhat  progressive.  In  our  bank,  for 
example,  I  hope  I  may  say  that  we  have  as  modern  a  method 
of  publicity  and  advertising  as  any  in  the  city.  Yes,  I  fancy 
you'll  find  us  oldsters  quite  cognizant  of  the  shifting  spiritual 
values  of  the  age.  Yes,  oh  yes.  And  so,  in  fact,  it  pleases 
me  to  be  able  to  say  that  though  personally  I  might  prefer  the 
sterner  Presbyterianism  of  an  earlier  era — " 

Babbitt  finally  gathered  that  Eathorne  was  willing. 

Chum  Frink  suggested  as  part-time  press-agent  one  Kenneth 
Escott,  reporter  on  the  Advocate-Times. 

They  parted  on  a  high  plane  of  amity  and  Christian  help- 
fulness. 

Babbitt  did  not  drive  home,  but  toward  the  center  of  the 
city.  He  wished  to  be  by  himself  and  exult  over  the  beauty 
of  intimacy  with  William  Washington  Eathorne. 

n 

A  snow-blanched  evening  of  ringing  pavements  and  eager 
lights. 

Great  golden  lights  of  trolley-cars  sliding  along  the  packed 
snow  of  the  roadway.  Demure  lights  of  little  houses.  The 
belching  glare  of  a  distant  foundry,  wiping  out  the  sharp- 
edged  stars.  Lights  of  neighborhood  drug  stores  where  friends 
gossiped,  well  pleased,  after  the  day's  work. 

The  green  light  of  a  police-station,  and  greener  radiance 
on  the  snow;  the  drama  of  a  patrol-wagon — gong  beating  like 
a  terrified  heart,  headlights  scorching  the  crystal-sparkling 
street,  driver  not  a  chauffeur  but  a  policeman  proud  in  uni- 
form, another  policeman  perilously  dangling  on  the  step  at  the 
back,  and  a  glimpse  of  the  prisoner.  A  murderer,  a  burglar, 
a  coiner  cleverly  trapped?         ^ 


2i8  BABBITT 

An  enormous  graystone  church  with  a  rigid  spire;  dim  light 
in  the  Parlors,  and  cheerful  droning  of  choir-practise.  The 
quivering  green  mercury-vapor  light  of  a  photo-engraver's 
loft.  Then  the  storming  lights  of  down-town;  parked  cars  with 
ruby  tail-lights;  white  arched  entrances  to  movie  theaters,  like 
frosty  mouths  of  winter  caves;  electric  signs — serpents  and 
little  dancing  men  of  fire;  pink-shaded  globes  and  scarlet  jazz 
music  in  a  cheap  up-stairs  dance-hall;  lights  of  Chinese  res- 
taurants, lanterns  painted  with  cherry-blossoms  and  with  pa- 
godas, hung  against  lattices  of  lustrous  gold  and  black.  Small 
dirty  lamps  in  small  stinking  lunchrooms.  The  smart  shopping- 
district,  with  rich  and  quiet  light  on  crystal  pendants  and  furs 
and  suave  surfaces  of  polished  wood  in  velvet-hung  reticent 
windows.  High  above  the  street,  an  unexpected  square  hanging 
in  the  darkness,  the  window  of  an  office  where  some  one  was 
working  late,  for  a  reason  unknown  and  stimulating.  A  man 
meshed  in  bankruptcy,  an  ambitious  boy,  an  oil-man  suddenly 
become  rich? 

The  air  was  shrewd,  the  snow  was  deep  in  uncleared  alleys, 
and  beyond  the  city,  Babbitt  knew,  were  hillsides  of  snow-drift 
among  wintry  oaks,  and  the  curving  ice-enchanted  river. 

He  loved  his  city  with  passionate  wonder.  He  lost  the 
accumulated  weariness  of  business-worry  and  expansive  ora- 
tory; he  felt  young  and  potential.  He  was  ambitious.  It  was 
not  enough  to  be  a  Vergil  Gunch,  an  Orville  Jones.  No. 
"They're  bully  fellows,  simply  lovely,  but  they  haven't  got 
any  finesse."  No.  He  was  going  to  be  an  Eathorne;  deli- 
cately rigorous,  coldly  powerful. 

"That's  the  stuff.  The  wallop  in  the  velvet  mitt.  Not  let 
anybody  get  fresh  with  you.  Been  getting  careless  about  my 
diction.  Slang.  Colloquial.  Cut  it  out.  I  was  iirst-rate  at 
rhetoric  in  college.  Themes  on —  Anyway,  not  bad.  Had 
too  much  of  this  hooptedoodle  and  good-fellow  stuff.  I — 
Why  couldn't  I  organize  a  bank  of  my  own  some  day?  And 
Ted  succeed  me!" 


BABBITT  219 

He  drove  happily  home,  and  to  Mrs.  Babbitt  he  was  a  Wil- 
liam Washington  Eathorne,  but  she  did  not  notice  it. 


Ill 

Young  Kenneth  Escott,  reporter  on  the  Advocate-Times, 
was  appointed  press-agent  of  the  Chatham  Road  Presbyterian 
Sunday  School.  He  gave  six  hours  a  week  to  it.  At  least 
he  was  paid  for  giving  six  hours  a  week.  He  had  friends  on 
the  Press  and  the  Gazette  and  he  was  not  (officially)  known 
as  a  press-agent.  He  procured  a  trickle  of  insinuating  items 
about  neighborliness  and  the  Bible,  about  class-suppers,  jolly 
but  educational,  and  the  value  of  the  Prayer-life  in  attaining 
financial  success. 

The  Sunday  School  adopted  Babbitt's  system  of  military 
ranks.  Quickened  by  this  spiritual  refreshment,  it  had  a 
boom.  It  did  not  become  the  largest  school  in  Zenith — the 
Central  Methodist  Church  kept  ahead  of  it  by  methods  which 
Dr.  Drew  scored  as  "unfair,  undignified,  un-American,  ungen- 
tlemanly,  and  unchristian" — but  it  climbed  from  fourth  place 
to  second,  and  there  was  rejoicing  in  heaven,  or  at  least  in  that 
portion  of  heaven  included  in  the  parsonage  of  Dr.  Drew, 
while  Babbitt  had  much  praise  and  good  repute. 

He  had  received  the  rank  of  colonel  on  the  general  staff  of 
the  school.  He  was  plumply  pleased  by  salutes  on  the  street 
from  unknown  small  boys;  his  ears  were  tickled  to  ruddy 
ecstasy  by  hearing  himself  called  "Colonel;"  and  if  he  did  not 
attend  Sunday  School  merely  to  be  thus  exalted,  certainly  he 
thought  about  it  all  the  way  there. 

He  was  particularly  pleasant  to  the  press-agent,  Kenneth 
Escott ;  he  took  him  to  lunch  at  the  Athletic  Club  and  had  him 
at  the  house  for  dinner. 

Like  many  of  the  cocksure  young  men  who  forage  about 
cities  in  apparent  contentment  and  who  express  their  cynicism 
in  supercilious  slang,  Escott  was  shy-^nd  lonely.    His  shrewd 


220  BABBITT 

starveling  face  broadened  with  joy  at  dinner,  and  he  blurted, 
"Gee  whillikins,  Mrs.  Babbitt,  if  you  knew  how  good  it  is  to 
have  home  eats  again!" 

Escott  and  Verona  liked  each  other.  All  evening  they 
"talked  about  ideas."  They  discovered  that  they  were  Rad- 
icals. True,  they  were  sensible  about  it.  They  agreed  that 
all  communists  were  criminals;  that  this  vers  libre  was  tommy- 
rot;  and  that  while  there  ought  to  be  universal  disarmament, 
of  course  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States  must,  on  be- 
half of  oppressed  small  nations,  keep  a  navy  equal  to  the  ton- 
nage of  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  But  they  were  so  revolu- 
tionary that  they  predicted  (to  Babbitt's  irritation)  that  there 
would  some  day  be  a  Third  Party  which  would  give  trouble  to 
the  Republicans  and  Democrats. 

Escott  shook  hands  with  Babbitt  three  times,  at  parting. 

Babbitt  mentioned  his  extreme  fondness  for  Eathorne. 

Within  a  week  three  newspapers  presented  accounts  of  Bab- 
bitt's sterling  labors  for  religion,  and  all  of  them,  tactfully  men- 
tioned William  Washington  Eathorne  as  his  collaborator. 

Nothing  had  brought  Babbitt  quite  so  much  credit  at  the 
Elks,  the  Athletic  Club,  and  the  Boosters'.  His  friends  had 
always  congratulated  him  on  his  oratory,  but  in  their  praise 
was  doubt,  for  even  in  speeches  advertising  the  city  there  was 
something  highbrow  and  degenerate,  like  writing  poetry.  But 
now  Orville  Jones  shouted  across  the  Athletic  dining-room, 
"Here's  the  new  director  of  the  First  State  Bank!"  Grover 
Butterbaugh,  the  eminent  wholesaler  of  plumbers'  supplies, 
chuckled,  "Wonder  you  mix  with  common  folks,  after  holding 
Eathorne's  hand! "  And  Emil  Wengert,  the  jeweler,  was  at  last 
willing  to  discuss  buying  a  house  in  Dorchester. 

IV 

When  the  Sunday  School  campaign  was  finished,  Babbitt 
suggested  to  Kenneth  Escott,  "Say,  how  about  doing  a  little 
toosting  for  Doc  Drew  personally?" 


BABBITT  221 

Escott  grinned.  ''You  trust  the  doc  to  do  a  little  boosting 
for  himself,  Mr.  Babbitt!  There's  hardly  a  week  goes  by 
without  his  ringing  up  the  paper  to  say  if  we'll  chase  a  reporter 
up  to  his  Study,  he'll  let  us  in  on  the  story  about  the  swell 
sermon  he's  going  to  preach  on  the  wickedness  of  short  skirts, 
or  the  authorship  of  the  Pentateuch,  Don't  you  worry  about 
him.  There's  just  one  better  publicity-grabber  in  town,  and 
that's  this  Dora  Gibson  Tucker  that  runs  the  Child  Welfare 
and  the  Americanization  League,  and  the  only  reason  she's  got 
Drew  beaten  is  because  she  has  got  some  brains!" 

"Well,  now  Kenneth,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  talk  that 
way  about  the  doctor.  A  preacher  has  to  watch  his  interests, 
hasn't  he?  You  remember  that  in  the  Bible  about — about 
being  diligent  in  the  Lord's  business,  or  something?" 

"All  right,  I'll  get  something  in  if  you  want  me  to,  Mr.  Bab- 
bitt, but  I'll  have  to  wait  till  the  managing  editor  is  out  of 
town,  and  then  blackjack  the  city  editor." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  in  the  Sunday  Advocate-Times, 
under  a  picture  of  Dr.  Drew  at  his  earnestest,  with  eyes  alert, 
jaw  as  granite,  and  rustic  lock  flamboyant,  appeared  an  in- 
scription— a  wood-pulp  tablet  conferring  twenty-four  hours' 
immortality: 

The  Rev.  Dr.  John  Jennison  Drew,  M.A.,  pastor  of  the 
beautiful  Chatham  Road  Presbyterian  Church  in  lovely 
Floral  Heights,  Is  a  wizard  soul-winner.  He  holds  the  local 
record  for  conversions.  During  his  shepherdhood  an  aver- 
age of  almost  a  hundred  sin-weary  persons  per  year  have 
declared  their  resolve  to  lead  a  new  life  and  have  found  a 
harbor  of  refuge  and  peace. 

Everything  zips  at  the  Chatham  Road  Church.  The  sub- 
sidiary organizations  are  keyed  to  the  top-notch  of  efficiency. 
Dr.  Drew  is  especially  keen  on  good  congregational  sing- 
ing. Bright  cheerful  hymns  are  used  at  every  meeting,  and 
the  special  Sing  Services  attract  lovers  of  music  and  pro- 
fessionals from  all  parts  of  the  city. 

On  the  popular  lecture  platform  as  well  as  in  the  pulpit 
Dr.    Drew   is    a    renowned   word-painter,    and    during    the 


222  BABBITT 

course  of  the  year  he  receives  literally  scores  of  invitations 
to  speak  at  varied  functions  both  here  and  elsewhere. 


Babbitt  let  Dr.  Drew  know  that  he  was  responsible  for 
this  tribute.  Dr.  Drew  called  him  "brother,"  and  shook  his 
hand  a  great  many  times. 

During  the  meetings  of  the  Advisory  Committee,  Babbitt 
had  hinted  that  he  would  be  charmed  to  invite  Eathorne  to 
dinner,  but  Eathorne  had  murmured,  "So  nice  of  you — old 
man,  now — almost  never  go  out."  Surely  Eathorne  would  not 
refuse  his  own  pastor.     Babbitt  said  boyishly  to  Drew: 

"Say,  doctor,  now  we've  put  this  thing  over,  strikes  me  it's 
up  to  the  dominie  to  blow  the  three  of  us  to  a  dinner!" 

"Bully!  You  bet!  Delighted!"  cried  Dr.  Drew,  in  his 
manliest  way.  (Some  one  had  once  told  him  that  he  talked 
like  the  late  President  Roosevelt.) 

"And,  uh,  say,  doctor,  be  sure  and  get  Mr.  Eathorne  to  come. 
Insist  on  it.  It's,  uh —  I  think  he  sticks  around  home  too 
much  for  his  own  health." 

Eathorne  came. 

It  was  a  friendly  dinner.  Babbitt  spoke  gracefully  of  the 
stabilizing  and  educational  value  of  bankers  to  the  community. 
They  were,  he  said,  the  pastors  of  the  fold  of  commerce.  For 
the  first  time  Eathorne  departed  from  the  topic  of  Sunday 
Schools,  and  asked  Babbitt  about  the  progress  of  his  business. 
Babbitt  answered  modestly,  almost  filially. 

A  few  months  later,  when  he  had  a  chance  to  take  part  in  the 
Street  Traction  Company's  terminal  deal.  Babbitt  did  not  care 
to  go  to  his  own  bank  for  a  loan.  It  was  rather  a  quiet  sort 
of  deal  and,  if  it  had  come  out,  the  Public  might  not  have 
understood.  He  went  to  his  friend  Mr.  Eathorne;  he  was 
welcomed,  and  received  the  loan  as  a  private  venture;  and  they 
both  profited  in  their  pleasant  new  association. 

After  that.   Babbitt  went  to  church  regularly,   except  on 


BABBITT  223 

spring  Sunday  mornings  which  were  obviously  meant  for  motor- 
ing. He  announced  to  Ted,  "I  tell  you,  boy,  there's  no  stronger 
bulwark  of  sound  conservatism  than  the  evangelical  church, 
and  no  better  place  to  make  friends  who'll  help  you  to  gain  your 
rightful  place  in  the  community  than  in  your  own  church- 
home  1" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


Though  he  saw  them  twice  daily,  though  he  knew  and 
amply  discussed  every  detail  of  their  expenditures,  yet  for 
weeks  together  Babbitt  was  no  more  conscious  of  his  children 
than  of  the  buttons  on  his  coat-sleeves. 

The  admiration  of  Kenneth  Escott  made  him  aware  of 
Verona. 

She  had  become  secretary  to  Mr,  Gruensberg  of  the  Gruens- 
berg  Leather  Company;  she  did  her  work  with  the  thorough- 
ness of  a  mind  which  reveres  details  and  never  quite  under- 
stands them;  but  she  was  one  of  the  people  who  give  an  agi- 
tating impression  of  being  on  the  point  of  doing  something 
desperate — of  leaving  a  job  or  a  husband — without  ever  doing 
it.  Babbitt  was  so  hopeful  about  Escott's  hesitant  ardors  that 
he  became  the  playful  parent.  When  he  returned  from  the 
Elks  he  peered  coyly  into  the  living-room  and  gurgled,  "Has 
our  Kenny  been  here  to-night?"  He  never  credited  Verona's 
protest,  "Why,  Ken  and  I  are  just  good  friends,  and  we  only 
talk  about  Ideas.  I  won't  have  all  this  sentimental  nonsense, 
that  would  spoil  everything." 

It  was  Ted  who  most  worried  Babbitt. 

With  conditions  in  Latin  and  English  but  with  a  triumphant 
record  in  manual  training,  basket-ball,  and  the  organization 
of  dances,  Ted  was  struggling  through  his  Senior  year  in  the 
East  Side  High  School.  At  home  he  was  interested  only  when 
he  was  asked  to  trace  some  subtle  ill  in  the  ignition  system  of 
the  car.  He  repeated  to  his  tut-tutting  father  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  go  to  college  or  law-school,  and  Babbitt  was  equally 

^-24 


BABBITT  225 

disturbed  by  this  "shiftlessness"  and  by  Ted's  relations  with 
Eunice  Littlefield,  next  door. 

Though  she  was  the  daughter  of  Howard  Littlefield,  that 
wrought-iron  fact-mill,  that  horse-faced  priest  of  private  own- 
ership, Eunice  was  a  midge  in  the  sun.  She  danced  into  the 
house,  she  flung  herself  into  Babbitt's  lap  when  he  was  read- 
ing, she  crumpled  his  paper,  and  laughed  at  him  when  he 
adequately  explained  that  he  hated  a  crumpled  newspaper  as 
he  hated  a  broken  sales-contract.  She  was  seventeen  now. 
Her  ambition  was  to  be  a  cinema  actress.  She  did  not  merely 
attend  the  showing  of  every  "feature  film;"  she  also  read  the 
motion-picture  magazines,  those  extraordinary  symptoms  of 
the  Age  of  Pep — monthlies  and  weeklies  gorgeously  illustrated 
with  portraits  of  young  women  who  had  recently  been  mani- 
cure girls,  not  very  skilful  manicure  girls,  and  who,  unless 
their  every  grimace  had  been  arranged  by  a  director,  could 
not  have  acted  in  the  Easter  cantata  of  the  Central  Methodist 
Church;  magazines  reporting,  quite  seriously,  in  ''interviews" 
plastered  with  pictures  of  riding-breeches  and  California  bun- 
galows, the  views  on  sculpture  and  international  politics  of 
blankly  beautiful,  suspiciously  beautiful  young  men;  outlining 
the  plots  of  films  about  pure  prostitutes  and  kind-hearted 
train-robbers;  and  giving  directions  for  making  bootblacks 
into  Celebrated  Scenario  Authors  overnight. 

These  authorities  Eunice  studied.  She  could,  she  frequently 
did,  tell  whether  it  was  in  November  or  December,  1905,  that 
Mack  Harker,  the  renowned  screen  cowpuncher  and  badman, 
began  his  public  career,  as  chorus  man  in  "Oh,  You  Naughty 
Girlie."  On  the  wall  of  her  room,  her  father  reported,  she 
had  pinned  up  twenty-one  photographs  of  actors.  But  the 
signed  portrait  of  the  most  graceful  of  the  movie  heroes  she 
carried  in  her  young  bosom. 

Babbitt  was  bewildered  by  this  worship  of  new  gods,  and 
he  suspected  that  Eunice  smoked  cigarettes.  He  smelled  the 
cloying  reek  from  up-stairs,  and  heard  her  giggling  with  Ted 


226  BABBITT 

He  never  inquired.  The  agreeable  child  dismayed  him.  Her 
thin  and  charming  face  was  sharpened  by  bobbed  hair;  her 
skirts  were  short,  her  stockings  were  rolled,  and,  as  she  flew 
after  Ted,  above  the  caressing  silk  were  glimpses  of  soft 
knees  which  made  Babbitt  uneasy,  and  wretched  that  she 
should  consider  him  old.  Sometimes,  in  the  veiled  life  of  his 
dreams,  when  the  fairy  child  came  running  to  him  she  took  on 
the  semblance  of  Eunice  Littlefield. 

Ted  was  motor-mad  as  Eunice  was  movie-mad. 

A  thousand  sarcastic  refusals  did  not  check  his  teasing  for 
a  car  of  his  own.  However  lax  he  might  be  about  early  rising 
and  the  prosody  of  Vergil,  he  was  tireless  in  tinkering.  With 
three  other  boys  he  bought  a  rheumatic  Ford  chassis,  built  an 
amazing  racer-body  out  of  tin  and  pine,  went  skidding  round 
corners  in  the  perilous  craft,  and  sold  it  at  a  profit.  Babbitt 
gave  him  a  motor-cycle,  and  every  Saturday  afternoon,  with 
seven  sandwiches  and  a  bottle  of  Coca-Cola  in  his  pockets, 
and  Eunice  perched  eerily  on  the  rumble  seat,  he  went  roaring 
off  to  distant  towns. 

Usually  Eunice  and  he  were  merely  neighborhood  chums, 
and  quarreled  with  a  wholesome  and  violent  lack  of  delicacy; 
but  now  and  then,  after  the  color  and  scent  of  a  dance,  they 
were  silent  together  and  a  little  furtive,  and  Babbitt  was 
worried. 

Babbitt  was  an  average  father.  He  was  affectionate,  bully- 
ing, opinionated,  ignorant,  and  rather  wistful.  Like  most 
parents,  he  enjoyed  the  game  of  waiting  till  the  victim  was 
clearly  wrong,  then  virtuously  pouncing.  He  justified  himself 
by  croaking,  "Well,  Ted's  mother  spoils  him.  Got  to  be  some- 
body who  tells  him  what's  what,  and  me,  I'm  elected  the  goat. 
Because  I  try  to  bring  him  up  to  be  a  real,  decent,  human  be- 
ing and  not  one  of  these  sapheads  and  lounge-lizards,  of  course 
they  all  call  me  a  grouch!" 

Throughout,  with  the  eternal  human  genius  for  arriving  by 
the  worst  possible  routes  at  surprisingly  tolerable  goals,  Bab- 


BABBITT  227 

bitt  loved  his  son  and  warmed  to  his  companionship  and  would 
have  sacrificed  everything  for  him — if  he  could  have  been  sure 
of  proper  credit. 


n 

Ted  was  planning  a  party  for  his  set  in  the  Senior  Class. 

Babbitt  meant  to  be  helpful  and  jolly  about  it.  From  his 
memory  of  high-school  pleasures  back  in  Catawba  he  suggested 
the  nicest  games:  Going  to  Boston,  and  charades  with  stew- 
pans  for  helmets,  and  word-games  in  which  you  were  an  Ad- 
jective or  a  Quality.  When  he  was  most  enthusiastic  he  dis- 
covered that  they  weren't  paying  attention;  they  were  only 
tolerating  him.  As  for  the  party,  it  was  as  fixed  and  standard- 
ized as  a  Union  Club  Hop.  There  was  to  be  dancing  in  the 
living-room,  a  noble  collation  in  the  dining-room,  and  in  the 
hall  two  tables  of  bridge  for  what  Ted  called  "the  poor  old 
dumb-bells  that  you  can't  get  to  dance  hardly  more  'n  half  the 
time." 

Every  breakfast  was  monopolized  by  conferences  on  the 
affair.  No  one  listened  to  Babbitt's  bulletins  about  the  Feb- 
ruary weather  or  to  his  throat-clearing  comments  on  the  head- 
lines. He  said  furiously,  ''If  I  may  be  permitted  to  interrupt 
your  engrossing  private  conversation —    Juh  hear  what  I  said?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  spoiled  baby!  Ted  and  I  have  just  as  much 
right  to  talk  as  you  have!"  flared  Mrs.  Babbitt. 

On  the  night  of  the  party  he  was  permitted  to  look  on,  when 
he  was  not  helping  Matilda  with  the  Vecchia  ice  cream  and 
the  petits  jours.  He  was  deeply  disquieted.  Eight  years  ago, 
when  Verona  had  given  a  high-school  party,  the  children  had 
been  featureless  gabies.  Now  they  were  men  and  women  of 
the  world,  very  supercilious  men  and  women;  the  boys  con- 
descended to  Babbitt,  they  wore  evening-clothes,  and  with 
hauteur  they  accepted  cigarettes  from  silver  cases.  Babbitt 
had  heard  stories  of  what  the  Athletic  Club  called  "goings- 


228  BABBITT 

on"  at  young  parties;  of  girls  "parking"  their  corsets  in  the 
dressing-room,  of  "cuddling"  and  "petting,"  and  a  presumable 
increase  in  what  was  known  as  Immorality.  To-night  he  be- 
lieved the  stories.  These  children  seemed  bold  to  him,  and 
cold.  The  girls  wore  misty  chiffon,  coral  velvet,  or  cloth  of 
gold,  and  around  their  dipping  bobbed  hair  were  shining 
wreaths.  He  had  it,  upon  urgent  and  secret  inquiry,  that  no 
corsets  were  known  to  be  parked  upstairs;  but  certainly  these 
eager  bodies  were  not  stiff  with  steel.  Their  stockings  were 
of  lustrous  silk,  their  slippers  costly  and  unnatural,  their  lips 
carmined  and  their  eyebrows  penciled.  They  danced  cheek 
to  cheek  with  the  boys,  and  Babbitt  sickened  with  apprehen- 
sion and  unconscious  envy. 

Worst  of  them  all  was  Eunice  Littlefield,  and  maddest  of 
all  the  boys  was  Ted.  Eunice  was  a  flying  demon.  She  slid 
the  length  of  the  room;  her  tender  shoulders  swayed;  her  feet 
were  deft  as  a  weaver's  shuttle;  she  laughed,  and  enticed  Bab- 
bitt to  dance  with  her. 

Then  he  discovered  the  annex  to  the  party. 

The  boys  and  girls  disappeared  occasionally,  and  he  re- 
membered rumors  of  their  drinking  together  from  hip-pocket 
Hasks.  He  tiptoed  round  the  house,  and  in  each  of  the  dozen 
cars  waiting  in  the  street  he  saw  the  points  of  light  from 
cigarettes,  from  each  of  them  heard  high  giggles.  He  wanted 
to  denounce  them  but  (standing  in  the  snow,  peering  round 
the  dark  corner)  he  did  not  dare.  He  tried  to  be  tactful. 
When  he  had  returned  to  the  front  hall  he  coaxed  the  boys, 
"Say,  if  any  of  you  fellows  are  thirsty,  there's  some  dandy 
ginger  ale." 

"Oh!     Thanks!"  they  condescended. 

He  sought  his  wife,  in  the  pantry,  and  exploded,  "I'd  like 
to  go  in  there  and  throw  some  of  those  young  pups  out  of  the 
house!  They  talk  down  to  me  like  I  was  the  butler!  I'd 
like  to—" 

"I  know,"  she  sighed;  "only  everybody  says,  all  the  mothers 


BABBITT  229 

tell  me,  unless  you  stand  for  them,  if  you  get  angry  because 
they  go  out  to  their  cars  to  have  a  drink,  they  won't  come  to 
your  house  any  more,  and  we  wouldn't  want  Ted  left  out  of 
things,  would  we?" 

tJe  announced  that  he  would  be  enchanted  to  have  Ted  left- 
out  of  things,  and  hurried  in  to  be  polite,  lest  Ted  be  left  out 
of  things. 

But,  he  resolved,  if  he  found  that  the  boys  were  drinking, 
he  would — well,  he'd  "hand  'em  something  that  would  sur- 
prise 'em."  While  he  was  trying  to  be  agreeable  to  large- 
shouldered  young  bullies  he  was  earnestly  sniffing  at  them 
Twice  he  caught  the  reek  of  prohibition-time  whisky,  but  then, 
it  was  only  twice — 

Dr.  Howard  Littlefield  lumbered  in. 

He  had  come,  in  a  mood  of  solemn  parental  patronage,  to 
look  on.  Ted  and  Eunice  were  dancing,  moving  together  like 
one  body.  Littlefield  gasped.  He  called  Eunice.  There  was 
a  whispered  duologue,  and  Littlefield  explained  to  Babbitt  that 
Eunice's  mother  had  a  headache  and  needed  her.  She  went 
off  in  tears.  Babbitt  looked  after  them  furiously.  "That 
little  devil!  Getting  Ted  into  trouble!  And  Littlefield,  the 
conceited  old  gas-bag,  acting  like  it  was  Ted  that  was  the 
bad  influence!" 

Later  he  smelled  whisky  on  Ted's  breath. 

After  the  civil  farewell  to  the  guests,  the  row  was  terrific, 
a  thorough  Family  Scene,  like  an  avalanche,  devastating  and 
without  reticences.  Babbitt  thundered,  Mrs.  Babbitt  wept, 
Ted  was  unconvincingly  defiant,  and  Verona  in  confusion  as 
to  whose  side  she  was  taking. 

For  several  months  there  was  coolness  between  the  Babbitts 
and  the  Littlefields,  each  family  sheltering  their  lamb  from 
the  wolf-cub  next  door.  Babbitt  and  Littlefield  still  spoke  in 
pontifical  periods  about  motors  and  the  senate,  but  they  kept 
bleakly  away  from  mention  of  their  families.  Whenever 
Eunice  came  to  the  house  she  discussed  with  pleasant  intimacy 


230  BABBITT 

the  fact  that  she  had  been  forbidden  to  come  to  the  house; 
and  Babbitt  tried,  with  no  success  whatever,  to  be  fatherly 
and  advisory  with  her. 


in 

"Gosh  all  fishhooks  1"  Ted  wailed  to  Eunice,  as  they  wolfed 
hot  chocolate,  lumps  of  nougat,  and  an  assortment  of  glace 
nuts,  in  the  mosaic  splendor  of  the  Royal  Drug  Store,  "it  gets 
me  why  Dad  doesn't  just  pass  out  from  being  so  poky.  Every 
evening  he  sits  there,  about  half-asleep,  and  if  Rone  or  I  say, 
'Oh,  come  on,  let's  do  something,'  he  doesn't  even  take  the 
trouble  to  think  about  it.  He  just  yawns  and  says,  'Naw, 
this  suits  me  right  here.'  He  doesn't  know  there's  any  fun 
going  on  anywhere.  I  suppose  he  must  do  some  thinking, 
same  as  you  and  I  do,  but  gosh,  there's  no  way  of  telling  it. 
I  don't  believe  that  outside  of  the  office  and  playing  a  little 
bum  golf  on  Saturday  he  knows  there's  anything  in  the  world 
to  do  except  just  keep  sitting  there — sitting  there  every  night 
— not  wanting  to  go  anywhere — not  wanting  to  do  anything — 
thinking  us  kids  are  crazv — sitting  there — Lord!" 

IV 

If  he  was  frightened  by  Ted's  slackness.  Babbitt  was  not 
sufficiently  frightened  by  Verona,  She  was  too  safe.  She 
lived  too  much  in  the  neat  little  airless  room  of  her  mind. 
Kenneth  Escott  and  she  were  always  under  foot.  When  they 
were  not  at  home,  conducting  their  cautiously  radical  court- 
ship over  sheets  of  statistics,  they  were  trudging  off  to  lectures 
by  authors  and  Hindu  philosophers  and  Swedish  lieutenants. 

"Gosh,"  Babbitt  wailed  to  his  wife,  as  they  walked  home 
from  the  Fogartys'  bridge-party,  "it  gets  me  how  Rone  and 
that  fellow  can  be  so  poky.  They  sit  there  night  after  night, 
whenever  he  isn't  working,  and  they  don't  know  there's  any 


BABBITT  231 

fun  in  the  world.  All  talk  and  discussion — ^Lord!  Sitting 
there — sitting  there — night  after  night — not  wanting  to  do 
anything — thinking  I'm  crazy  because  I  like  to  go  out  and 
play  a  fist  of  cards — sitting  there — gosh!" 

Then  round  the  swimmer,  bored  by  struggling  through  the 
perpetual  surf  of  family  life,  new  combers  swelled. 


Babbitt's  father-  and  mother-in-law,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry 
T.  Thompson,  rented  their  old  house  in  the  Bellevue  district 
and  moved  to  the  Hotel  Hatton,  that  glorified  boarding-house 
filled  with  widows,  red-plush  furniture,  and  the  sound  of  ice- 
water  pitchers.  They  were  lonely  there,  and  every  other  Sun- 
day evening  the  Babbitts  had  to  dine  with  them,  on  fricasseed 
chicken,  discouraged  celery,  and  cornstarch  ice  cream,  and 
afterward  sit,  polite  and  restrained,  in  the  hotel  lounge,  while 
a  young  woman  violinist  played  songs  from  the  German  via 
Broadway. 

Then  Babbitt's  own  mother  came  down  from  Catawba  to 
spend  three  weeks. 

She  was  a  kind  woman  and  magnificently  uncomprehending. 
She  congratulated  the  convention-defying  Verona  on  being  a 
"nice,  loyal  home-body  without  all  these  Ideas  that  so  many 
girls  seem  to  have  nowadays;"  and  when  Ted  filled  the  dif- 
ferential with  grease,  out  of  pure  love  of  mechanics  and 
filthiness,  she  rejoiced  that  he  was  "so  handy  around  the  house 
and  helping  his  father  and  all,  and  not  going  out  with  the  gu-ls 
all  the  time  and  trying  to  pretend  he  was  a  society  fellow." 

Babbitt  loved  his  mother,  and  sometimes  he  rather  liked 
her,  but  he  was  annoyed  by  her  Christian  Patience,  and  he 
was  reduced  to  pulpiness  when  she  discoursed  about  a  quite 
mythical  hero  called  "Your  Father": 

"You  won't  remember  it,  Georgie,  you  were  such  a  little 
fellow  at  the  time — my,  I  remember  just  how  you  looked  that 


232  BABBITT 

day,  with  your  goldy  brown  curls  and  your  lace  collar,  you 
always  were  such  a  dainty  child,  and  kind  of  puny  and  sickly, 
and  you  loved  pretty  things  so  much  and  the  red  tassels  on 
your  little  bootees  and  all — and  Your  Father  was  taking  us 
to  church  and  a  man  stopped  us  and  said  'Major' — so  many 
of  the  neighbors  used  to  call  Your  Father  'Major;'  of  course 
he  was  only  a  private  in  The  War  but  everybody  knew  that 
was  because  of  the  jealousy  of  his  captain  and  he  ought  to 
have  been  a  high-ranking  officer,  he  had  that  natural  ability 
to  command  that  so  very,  very  few  men  have — and  this  man 
came  out  into  the  road  and  held  up  his  hand  and  stopped 
the  buggy  and  said,  'Major,'  he  said,  'there's  a  lot  of  the 
folks  around  here  that  have  decided  to  support  Colonel  Scanell 
for  congress,  and  we  want  you  to  join  us.  Meeting  people 
the  way  you  do  in  the  store,  you  could  help  us  a  lot.' 

"Well,  Your  Father  just  looked  at  him  and  said,  'I  cer- 
tainly shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  don't  like  his  politics,' 
he  said.  Well,  the  man — Captain  Smith  they  used  to  call 
him,  and  heaven  only  knows  why,  because  he  hadn't  the 
shadow  or  vestige  of  a  right  to  be  called  'Captain'  or  any 
other  title — this  Captain  Smith  said,  'We'll  make  it  hot  for 
you  if  you  don't  stick  by  your  friends.  Major.'  Well,  you 
know  how  Your  Father  was,  and  this  Smith  knew  it  too;  he 
knew  what  a  Real  Man  he  was,  and  he  knew  Your  Father 
knew  the  political  situation  from  A  to  Z,  and  he  ought  to 
have  seen  that  here  was  one  man  he  couldn't  impose  on,  but 
he  went  on  trying  to  and  hinting  and  trying  till  Your  Father 
spoke  up  and  said  to  him,  'Captain  Smith,'  he  said,  'I  have 
a  reputation  around  these  parts  for  being  one  who  is  amply 
qualified  to  mind  his  own  business  and  let  other  folks  mind 
theirs!'  and  with  that  he  drove  on  and  left  the  fellow  stand- 
ing there  in  the  road  like  a  bump  on  a  log!" 

Babbitt  was  most  exasperated  when  she  revealed  his  boy- 
hood to  the  children.  He  had,  it  seemed,  been  fond  of  barley- 
sugar;  had  worn  the  "loveliest  little  pink  bow  in  his  curls" 


BABBITT  233 

and  corrupted  his  own  name  to  "Goo-goo."  He  heard  (though 
he  did  not  officially  hear)  Ted  admonishing  Tinka,  "Come 
on  now,  kid;  stick  the  lovely  pink  bow  in  your  curls  and 
beat  it  down  to  breakfast,  or  Goo-goo  will  jaw  your  head  off." 

Babbitt's  half-brother,  Martin,  with  his  wife  and  youngest 
baby,  came  down  from  Catawba  for  two  days.  Martin  bred 
cattle  and  ran  the  dusty  general-store.  He  was  proud  of  being 
a  freeborn  independent  American  of  the  good  old  Yankee 
stock;  he  was  proud  of  being  honest,  blunt,  ugly,  and  dis- 
agreeable. His  favorite  remark  was  "How  much  did  you  pay 
for  that?"  He  regarded  Verona's  books,  Babbitt's  silver  pencil, 
and  flowers  on  the  table  as  citified  extravagances,  and  said 
SO-  Babbitt  would  have  quarreled  with  him  but  for  his  gawky 
wife  and  the  baby,  whom  Babbitt  teased  and  poked  fingers 
at  and  addressed: 

"I  think  this  baby's  a  bum,  yes,  sir,  I  think  this  little  baby's 
a  bum,  he's  a  bum,  yes,  sir,  he's  a  bum,  that's  what  he  is,  he's 
a  bum,  this  baby's  a  bum,  he's  nothing  but  an  old  bum,  that's 
what  he  is — a  bum!" 

All  the  while  Verona  and  Kenneth  Escott  held  long  inquiries 
into  epistemology ;  Ted  was  a  disgraced  rebel;  and  Tinka, 
aged  eleven,  was  demanding  that  she  be  allowed  to  go  to  the 
movies  thrice  a  week,  "like  all  the  girls." 

Babbitt  raged,  "I'm  sick  of  it!  Having  to  carry  three  gen- 
erations. Whole  damn  bunch  lean  on  me.  Pay  half  of 
mother's  income,  listen  to  Henry  T.,  listen  to  Myra's  worry- 
ing, be  polite  to  Mart,  and  get  called  an  old  grouch  for  trying 
to  help  the  children.  All  of  'em  depending  on  me  and  picking 
on  me  and  not  a  damn  one  of  'em  grateful!  No  relief,  and 
no  credit,  and  no  help  from  anybody.  And  to  keep  it  up  for 
— good  Lord,  how  long?" 

He  enjoyed  being  sick  in  February;  he  was  delighted  by 
their  consternation  that  he,  the  rock,  should  give  way. 

He  had  eaten  a  questionable  clam.  For  two  days  he  was 
languorous   and  petted   and  esteemed.     He  was  allow^ed   to 


234  BABBITT 

snarl  "Oh,  let  me  alone!"  without  reprisals.  He  lay  on  the 
sleeping-porch  and  watched  the  winter  sun  slide  along  the 
taut  curtains,  turning  their  ruddy  khaki  to  pale  blood  red. 
The  shadow  of  the  draw-rope  was  dense  black,  in  an  enticing 
ripple  on  the  canvas.  He  found  pleasure  in  the  curve  of  it, 
sighed  as  the  fading  light  blurred  it.  He  was  conscious  of 
life,  and  a  little  sad.  With  no  Vergil  Gunches  before  whom 
to  set  his  face  in  resolute  optimism,  he  beheld,  and  half  ad- 
mitted that  he  beheld,  his  way  of  life  as  incredibly  mechanical. 
Mechanical  business — a  brisk  selling  of  badly  built  houses. 
Mechanical  religion — a  dr}^,  hard  church,  shut  off  from  the  real 
life  of  the  streets,  inhumanly  respectable  as  a  top-hat.  Me- 
chanical golf  and  dinner-parties  and  bridge  and  conversation. 
Save  with  Paul  Riesling,  mechanical  friendships — back-slap- 
ping and  jocular,  never  daring  to  essay  the  test  of  quietness. 

He  turned  uneasily  in  bed. 

He  saw  the  years,  the  brilliant  winter  days  and  all  the  long 
sweet  afternoons  which  were  meant  for  summery  meadows, 
lost  in  such  brittle  pretentiousness.  He  thought  of  telephon- 
ing about  leases,  of  cajoling  men  he  hated,  of  making  business 
calls  and  waiting  in  dirty  anterooms — hat  on  knee,  yawning 
at  fiy-specked  calendars,  being  polite  to  office-boys. 

"I  don't  hardly  want  to  go  back  to  work,"  he  prayed.  "I'd 
Mke  to —    I  don't  know." 

But  he  was  back  next  day,  busy  and  of  doubtful  temper. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


The  Zenith  Street  Traction  Company  planned  to  build  car- 
repair  shops  in  the  suburb  of  Dorchester,  but  when  they  came 
to  buy  the  land  they  found  it  held,  on  options,  by  the  Babbitt- 
Thompson  Realty  Company.  The  purchasing-agent,  the  first 
vice-president,  and  even  the  president  of  the  Traction  Company 
protested  against  the  Babbitt  price.  They  mentioned  their 
duty  toward  stockholders,  they  threatened  an  appeal  to  the 
courts,  though  somehow  the  appeal  to  the  courts  was  never 
carried  out  and  the  officials  found  it  wiser  to  compromise  with 
Babbitt.  Carbon  copies  of  the  correspondence  are  in  the  com- 
pany's files,  where  they  may  be  viewed  by  any  public  com- 
mission. 

Just  after  this  Babbitt  deposited  three  thousand  dollars  in 
the  bank,  the  purchasing-agent  of  the  Street  Traction  Company 
bought  a  five  thousand  dollar  car,  the  first  vice-president  built 
a  home  in  Devon  Woods,  and  the  president  was  appointed 
minister  to  a  foreign  country. 

To  obtain  the  options,  to  tie  up  one  man's  land  without 
letting  his  neighbor  know,  had  been  an  unusual  strain  on 
Babbitt.  It  was  necessary  to  introduce  rumors  about  plan- 
ning garages  and  stores,  to  pretend  that  he  wasn't  taking  any 
more  options,  to  wait  and  look  as  bored  as  a  poker-player  at  a 
time  when  the  failure  to  secure  a  key-lot  threatened  his  whole 
plan.  To  all  this  was  added  a  nerve-jabbing  quarrel  with  his 
secret  associates  in  the  deal.  They  did  not  wish  Babbitt  and 
Thompson  to  have  any  share  in  the  deal  except  as  brokers. 
Babbitt  rather  agreed.  "Ethics  of  the  business — broker  ought 
to  strictly  represent  his  principles  and  not  get  in  on  the  buy- 
ing," he  said  to  Thompson. 

235 


236  BABBITT 

"Ethics,  rats!  Think  I'm  going  to  see  that  bunch  of  holy 
grafters  get  away  with  the  swag  and  us  not  climb  in?"  snorted 
old  Henry. 

"Well,  I  don't  like  to  do  it.     Kind  of  double-crossing." 

"It  ain't.  It's  triple-crossing.  It's  the  public  that  gets 
double-crossed.  Well,  now  we've  been  ethical  and  got  it  out 
of  our  systems,  the  question  is  where  we  can  raise  a  loan  to 
handle  some  of  the  property  for  ourselves,  on  the  0-  T.  We 
can't  go  to  our  bank  for  it.     Might  come  out." 

"I  could  see  old  Eathorne.    He's  close  as  the  tomb." 

"That's  the  stuff." 

Eathorne  was  glad,  he  said,  to  "invest  in  character,"  to 
make  Babbitt  the  loan  and  see  to  it  that  the  loan  did  not 
appear  on  the  books  of  the  bank.  Thus  certain  of  the  options 
which  Babbitt  and  Thompson  obtained  were  on  parcels  of 
real  estate  which  they  themselves  owned,  though  the  property 
did  not  appear  in  their  names. 

In  the  midst  of  closing  this  splendid  deal,  which  stimulated 
business  and  public  confidence  by  giving  an  example  of  in- 
creased real-estate  activity,  Babbitt  was  overwhelmed  to  find 
that  he  had  a  dishonest  person  working  for  him. 

The  dishonest  one  was  Stanley  Graff,  the  outside  salesman. 

For  some  time  Babbitt  had  been  worried  about  Graff.  He 
did  not  keep  his  word  to  tenants.  In  order  to  rent  a  house 
he  would  promise  repairs  which  the  owner  had  not  authorized. 
It  was  suspected  that  he  juggled  inventories  of  furnished 
houses  so  that  when  the  tenant  left  he  had  to  pay  for  articles 
which  had  never  been  in  the  house  and  the  price  of  which 
Graff  put  into  his  pocket.  Babbitt  had  not  been  able  to  prove 
these  suspicions,  and  though  he  had  rather  planned  to  dis- 
charge Graff  he  had  never  quite  found  time  for  it. 

Now  into  Babbitt's  private  room  charged  a  red-faced  man, 
panting,  "Look  here!  I've  come  to  raise  particular  merry 
hell,  and  unless  you  have  that  fellow  pinched,  I  will!" 

'What's —     Calm  down,  o'  man.     What's  trouble?" 


BABBITT  237 

•'Trouble!     Huh!     Here's  the  trouble—" 

*'Sit  dowp  and  take  it  easy!  They  can  hear  you  all  over 
the  building!" 

"This  fellow  Graff  you  got  working  for  you,  he  leases  me 
a  house.  I  was  in  yesterday  and  signs  the  lease,  all  O.K., 
and  he  was  to  get  the  owner's  signature  and  mail  me  the 
lease  last  night.  Well,  and  he  did.  This  morning  I  comes 
down  to  breakfast  and  the  girl  says  a  fellow  had  come  to  the 
house  right  after  the  early  delivery  and  told  her  he  wanted 
an  envelope  that  had  been  mailed  by  mistake,  big  long  en- 
velope with  'Babbitt-Thompson'  in  the  corner  of  it.  Sure 
enough,  there  it  was,  so  she  lets  him  have  it.  And  she  de- 
scribes the  fellow  to  me,  and  it  was  this  Graff.  So  I  'phones 
to  him  and  he,  the  poor  fool,  he  admits  it!  He  says  after  my 
lease  was  all  signed  he  got  a  better  offer  from  another  fellow 
and  he  wanted  my  lease  back.  Now  what  you  going  to  do 
about  it?" 

"Your  name  is — ?" 

"William  Varney— W.  K.  Varney." 

"Oh,  yes.  ,,That  was  the  Garrison  house."  Babbitt  sounded 
the  buzzer.  When  Miss  McGoun  came  in,  he  demanded, 
"Graff  gone  out?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Will  you  look  through  his  desk  and  see  if  there  is  a  lease 
made  out  to  Mr.  Varney  on  the  Garrison  house?"  To  Varney: 
"Can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  this  happened.  Needless  to 
say,  I'll  fire  Graff  the  minute  he  comes  in.  And  of  course 
your  lease  stands.  But  there's  one  other  thing  I'd  like  to 
do.  I'll  tell  the  owner  not  to  pay  us  the  commission  but  apply 
it  to  your  rent.  No!  Straight!  I  want  to.  To  be  frank, 
this  thing  shakes  me  up  bad.  I  suppose  I've  always  been  a 
Practical  Business  Man.  Probably  I've  told  one  or  two  fairy 
stories  in  my  time,  when  the  occasion  called  for  it — ^you  know: 
sometimes  you  have  to  lay  things  on  thick,  to  impress  bone- 
heads.    But  this  is  the  first  time  I've  ever  had  to  accuse  one 


238  BABBITT 

of  my  own  employees  of  anything  more  dishonest  than  pinch- 
ing a  few  stamps.  Honest,  it  would  hurt  me  if  we  profited 
by  it.    So  you'll  let  me  hand  you  the  commission?    Good!" 

n 

He  walked  through  the  February  city,  where  trucks  flung 
up  a  spattering  of  slush  and  the  sky  was  dark  above  dark 
brick  cornices.  He  came  back  miserable.  He,  who  respected 
the  law,  had  broken  it  by  concealing  the  Federal  crime  of 
interception  of  the  mails.  But  he  could  not  see  Graff  go  to 
jail  and  his  wife  suffer.  Worse,  he  had  to  discharge  Graff, 
and  this  was  a  part  of  office  routine  which  he  feared.  He 
liked  people  so  much,  he  so  much  wanted  them  to  like  him, 
that  he  could  not  bear  insulting  them. 

Miss  McGoun  dashed  in  to  whisper,  with  the  excitement  of 
an  approaching  scene,  "He's  here!" 
"Mr.  Graff?    Ask  him  to  come  in." 

He  tried  to  make  himself  heavy  and  calm  in  his  chair,  and 
to  keep  his  eyes  expressionless.     Graff  stalked  in — a  man  of 
thirty-five,  dapper,  eye-glassed,  with  a  foppish  mustache. 
"Want  me?"  said  Graff. 
"Yes.    Sit  down." 

Graff  continued  to  stand,  grunting,  "I  suppose  that  old  nut 
Vamey  has  been  in  to  see  you.  Let  me  explain  about  him. 
He's  a  regular  tightwad,  and  he  sticks  out  for  every  cent,  and 
he  practically  lied  to  me  about  his  ability  to  pay  the  rent — 
I  found  that  out  just  after  we  signed  up.  And  then  another 
fellow  comes  along  with  a  better  offer  for  the  house,  and  I 
felt  it  was  my  duty  to  the  firm  to  get  rid  of  Vamey,  and  I 
was  so  worried  about  it  I  skun  up  there  and  got  back  the  lease. 
Honest,  Mr.  Babbitt,  I  didn't  intend  to  pull  anything  crooked. 
I  just  wanted  the  firm  to  have  all  the  commis — " 

"Wait  now,  Stan.  This  may  all  be  true,  but  I've  been 
having  a  lot  of  complaints  about  you.     Now  I  don't  s'pose 


BABBITT  239 

you  ever  mean  to  do  wrong,  and  I  think  if  you  just  get  a 
good  lesson  that'll  jog  you  up  a  little,  you'll  turn  out  a  first- 
class  realtor  yet.     But  I  don't  see  how  I  can  keep  you  on," 

Graff  leaned  against  the  filing-cabinet,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  laughed.  "So  I'm  fired!  Well,  old  Vision  and 
Ethics,  I'm  tickled  to  death!  But  I  don't  want  you  to  think 
you  can  get  away  with  any  holier-than-thou  stuff.  Sure  I've 
pulled  some  raw  stuff — a.  little  of  it — but  how  could  I  help  it, 
in  this  office?" 

"Now,  by  God,  young  man — " 

"Tut,  tut!  Keep  the  naughty  temper  down,  and  don't 
holler,  because  everybody  in  the  outside  office  will  hear  you. 
They're  probably  listening  right  now.  Babbitt,  old  dear, 
you're  crooked  in  the  first  place  and  a  damn  skinflint  in  the 
second.  If  you  paid  me  a  decent  salary  I  wouldn't  have  to 
steal  pennies  off  a  blind  man  to  keep  my  wife  from  starving. 
Us  married  just  five  months,  and  her  the  nicest  girl  living, 
and  you  keeping  us  flat  broke  all  the  time,  you  damned  old 
thief,  so  you  can  put  money  away  for  your  saphead  of  a  son 
and  your  wishy washy  fool  of  a  daughter!  Wait,  now!  You'll 
by  God  take  it,  or  I'll  bellow  so  the  whole  office  will  hear  it! 
And  crooked —  Say,  if  I  told  the  prosecuting  attorney  what 
I  know  about  this  last  Street  Traction  option  steal,  both  you 
and  me  would  go  to  jail,  along  with  some  nice,  clean,  pious, 
high-up  traction  guns!" 

"Well,  Stan,  looks  like  we  were  coming  down  to  cases.  That 
deal —  There  was  nothing  crooked  about  it.  The  only  way 
you  can  get  progress  is  for  the  broad-gauged  men  to  get  things 
done;  and  they  got  to  be  rewarded — " 

"Oh,  for  Pete's  sake,  don't  get  virtuous  on  me!  As  I  gather 
it,  I'm  fired.  All  right.  It's  a  good  thing  for  me.  And  if  I 
catch  you  knocking  me  to  any  other  firm,  I'll  squeal  all  I  know 
about  you  and  Henry  T.  and  the  dirty  little  lickspittle  deals 
that  you  corporals  of  industry  pull  off  for  the  bigger  and 
brainier  crooks,  and  you'll  get  chased  out  of  town.    And  me 


240  BABBITT 

— you're  right,  Babbitt,  I've  been  going  crooked,  but  now  I'm 
going  straight,  and  the  first  step  will  be  to  get  a  job  in  some 
office  where  the  boss  doesn't  talk  about  Ideals.  Bad  luck,  old 
dear,  and  you  can  stick  your  job  up  the  sewer!" 

Babbitt  sat  for  a  long  time,  alternately  raging,  "I'll  have 
him  arrested,"  and  yearning  "I  wonder —  No,  I've  never  done 
anything  that  wasn't  necessary  to  keep  the  Wheels  of  Progress 
moving.''* 

Next  day  he  hired  in  Graff's  place  Fritz  Weilinger,  the  sales- 
man of  his  most  injurious  rival,  the  East  Side  Homes  and  De- 
velopment Company,  and  thus  at  once  annoyed  his  competitor 
and  acquired  an  excellent  man.  Young  Fritz  was  a  curly- 
headed,  merry,  tennis-playing  youngster.  He  made  customers 
welcome  to  the  office.  Babbitt  thought  of  him  as  a  son,  and  f 
in  him  had  much  comfort. 


in 

An  abandoned  race-track  on  the  outskirts  of  Chicago,  a  plot 
excellent  for  factory  sites,  was  to  be  sold,  and  Jake  Offut  asked 
Babbitt  to  bid  on  it  for  him.  The  strain  of  the  Street  Trac- 
tion deal  and  his  disappointment  in  Stanley  Graff  had  so 
shaken  Babbitt  that  he  found  it  hard  to  sit  at  his  desk  and 
concentrate.  He  proposed  to  his  family,  "Look  here,  folks! 
Do  you  know  who's  going  to  trot  up  to  Chicago  for  a  couple 
of  days — just  week-end;  won't  lose  but  one  day  of  school — 
know  who's  going  with  that  celebrated  business-ambassador, 
George  F.  Babbitt?    Why,  Mr.  Theodore  Roosevelt  Babbitt!" 

"Hurray!"  Ted  shouted,  and  "Oh,  maybe  the  Babbitt  men 
won't  paint  that  lil  ole  town  red!" 

And,  once  away  from  the  familiar  implications  of  home,  they    ' 
were  two  men  together.    Ted  was  young  only  in  his  assump- 
tion of  oldness,  and  the  only  realms,  apparently,  in  which 
Babbitt  had  a  larger  and  more  grown-up  knowledge  than  Ted's 
were  the  details  of  real  estate  and  the  phrases  of  politics. 


BABBITT  241 

When  the  other  sages  of  the  Pullman  smoking-compartment 
had  left  them  to  themselves,  Babbitt's  voice  did  not  drop  into 
the  playful  and  otherwise  offensive  tone  in  which  one  addresses 
children  but  continued  its  overwhelming  and  monotonous 
rumble,  and  Ted  tried  to  imitate  it  in  his  strident  tenor: 

''Gee,  dad,  you  certainly  did  show  up  that  poor  boot  when 
he  got  flip  about  the  League  of  Nations!" 

"Well,  the  trouble  with  a  lot  of  these  fellows  is,  they  simply 
don't  know  what  they're  talking  about.  They  don't  get  down 
to  facts.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  Ken  Escott?" 

"I'll  tell  you,  dad:  it  strikes  me  Ken  is  a  nice  lad;  no 
special  faults  except  he  smokes  too  much;  but  slow,  Lord! 
Why,  if  we  don't  give  him  a  shove  the  poor  dumb-bell  nevei* 
will  propose!     And  Rone  just  as  bad.    Slow." 

"Yes,  I  guess  you're  right.  They're  slow.  They  haven't 
-either  one  of  'em  got  our  pep." 

"That's  right.  They're  slow.  I  swear,  dad,  I  don't  know 
how  Rone  got  into  our  family!  I'll  bet,  if  the  truth  were 
knowTi,  you  were  a  bad  old  egg  when  you  were  a  kid!" 

"Well,  I  wasn't  so  slow!" 

"I'll  bet  you  weren't!    I'll  bet  you  didn't  miss  many  tricks!" 

"Well,  when  I  was  out  with  the  girls  I  didn't  spend  all  the 
time  telling  'em  about  the  strike  in  the  knitting  industry!" 

They  roared  together,  and  together  lighted  cigars. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  with  'em?"  Babbitt  consulted. 

"Gosh,  I  don't  know.  I  swear,  sometimes  I  feel  like  taking 
Ken  aside  and  putting  him  over  the  jumps  and  saying  to  him, 
^Young  fella  me  lad,  are  you  going  to  marry  young  Rone,  or 
are  you  going  to  talk  her  to  death?  Here  you  are  getting  on 
toward  thirty,  and  you're  only  making  twenty  or  twenty-five 
a  week.  When  you  going  to  develop  a  sense  of  responsibility 
and  get  a  raise?  If  there's  anything  that  George  F.  or  I  can 
do  to  help  you,  call  on  us,  but  show  a  little  speed,  anyway!'  " 
"Well,  at  that,  it  might  not  be  so  bad  if  you  or  I  talked  to 
him,  except  he  might  not  understand.    He's  one  of  these  high- 


242  BABBITT 

brows.  He  can't  come  down  to  cases  and  lay  his  cards  on  the 
table  and  talk  straight  out  from  the  shoulder,  like  you  or  I 
can." 

"That's  right,  he's  like  all  these  highbrows." 

"That's  so,  like  all  of  'em." 

"That's  a  fact." 

They  sighed,  and  were  silent  and  thoughtful  and  happy. 

The  conductor  came  in.  He  had  once  called  at  Babbitt's 
office,  to  ask  about  houses.  "H'  are  you,  Mr.  Babbitt  1  We 
going  to  have  you  with  us  to  Chicago?     This  your  boy?" 

"Yes,  this  is  my  son  Ted." 

"Well  now,  what  do  you  know  about  that!  Here  I  been 
thinking  you  were  a  youngster  yourself,  not  a  day  over  forty, 
hardly,  and  you  with  this  great  big  fellow!" 

"Forty?    Why,  brother,  I'll  never  see  forty-five  again  1"   . 

"Is  that  a  fact!     Wouldn't  hardly  'a'  thought  it!" 

"Yes,  sir,  it's  a  bad  give-away  for  the  old  man  when  he  has 
to  travel  with  a  young  whale  like  Ted  here!" 

"You're  right,  it  is."  To  Ted:  "I  suppose  you're  in  college 
now." 

Proudly,  "No,  not  till  next  fall.  I'm  just  kind  of  giving 
the  diff'rent  colleges  the  once-over  now." 

As  the  conductor  went  on  his  affable  way,  huge  watch-chain 
jingling  against  his  blue  chest.  Babbitt  and  Ted  gravely  con- 
sidered colleges.  They  arrived  at  Chicago  late  at  night;  they 
lay  abed  in  the  morning,  rejoicing,  "Pretty  nice  not  to  have 
to  get  up  and  get  down  to  breakfast,  heh?"  They  were  stay- 
ing at  the  modest  Eden  Hotel,  because  Zenith  business  men 
always  stayed  at  the  Eden,  but  they  had  dinner  in  the  brocade 
and  crystal  Versailles  Room  of  the  Regency  Hotel.  Babbitt 
ordered  Blue  Point  oysters  with  cocktail  sauce,  a  tremendous 
steak  with  a  tremendous  platter  of  French  fried  potatoes,  two 
pots  of  coffee,  apple  pie  with  ice  cream  for  both  of  them  and, 
for  Ted,  an  extra  piece  of  mince  pie. 


BABBITT  243 

'llot  stuff!     Some  feed,  young  fellal"  Ted  admired, 

"Huh!  You  stick  around  with  me,  old  man,  and  I'll  show 
you  a  good  time!" 

They  went  to  a  musical  comedy  and  nudged  each  other  at 
the  matrimonial  jokes  and  the  prohibition  jokes;  they  paraded 
the  lobby,  arm  in  arm,  between  acts,  and  in  the  glee  of  his 
first  release  from  the  shame  which  dissevers  fathers  and  sons 
Ted  chuckled,  "Dad,  did  you  ever  hear  the  one  about  the 
three  milliners  and  the  judge?" 

When  Ted  had  returned  to  Zenith,  Babbitt  was  lonely.  As 
he  was  trying  to  make  alliance  between  Offutt  and  certain 
Milwaukee  interests  which  wanted  the  race-track  plot,  most 
of  his  time  was  taken  up  in  waiting  for  telephone  calls.  .  .  , 
Sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  holding  the  portable  telephone, 
asking  wearily,  "Mr.  Sagen  not  in  yet?  Didn'  he  leave  any 
message  for  me?  All  right,  I'll  hold  the  wire."  Staring  at  a 
stain  on  the  wall,  reflecting  that  it  resembled  a  shoe,  and  being 
bored  by  this  twentieth  discovery  that  it  resembled  a  shoe. 
Lighting  a  cigarette;  then,  bound  to  the  telephone  with  no  ash- 
tray in  reach,  wondering  what  to  do  with  this  burning  menace 
and  anxiously  trying  to  toss  it  into  the  tiled  bathroom.  At 
last,  on  the  telephone,  "No  message,  eh?  All  right,  I'll  call 
up  again." 

One  afternoon  he  wandered  through  snow-rutted  streets  of 
which  he  had  never  heard,  streets  of  small  tenements  and  two- 
family  houses  and  marooned  cottages.  It  came  to  him  that 
he  had  nothing  to  do,  that  there  was  nothing  he  wanted  to 
do.  He  was  bleakly  lonely  in  the  evening,  when  he  dined  by 
himself  at  the  Regency  Hotel.  He  sat  in  the  lobby  afterward, 
in  a  plush  chair  bedecked  with  the  Saxe-Coburg  arms,  lighting 
a  cigar  and  looking  for  some  one  who  would  come  and  play 
with  him  and  save  him  from  thinking.  In  the  chair  next  to 
him  (showing  the  arms  of  Lithuania)  was  a  half- familiar  man, 
a  large  red-faced  man  with  pop  eyes  and  a  deficient  yellow 


244  BABBITT 

mustache.  He  seemed  kind  and  insignificant,  and  as  lonely  as 
Babbitt  himself.  He  wore  a  tweed  suit  and  a  reluctant 
orange  tie. 

It  came  to  Babbitt  with  a  pyrotechnic  crash.  The  melan- 
choly stranger  was  Sir  Gerald  Doak. 

Instinctively  Babbitt  rose,  bumbling,  "How  're  you,  Sir 
Gerald?  'Member  we  met  in  Zenith,  at  Charley  McKelvey's? 
Babbitt's  my  name — real  estate." 

"Oh!     How  d'  you  do."     Sir  Gerald  shook  hands  flabbily. 

Embarrassed,  standing,  wondering  how  he  could  retreat, 
Babbitt  maundered,  "Well,  I  suppose  you  been  having  a  great 
trip  since  we  saw  you  in  Zenith." 

"Quite.  British  Columbia  and  California  and  all  over  the 
place,"  he  said  doubtfully,  looking  at  Babbitt  lifelessly. 

"How  did  you  find  business  conditions  in  British  Columbia? 
Or  I  suppose  maybe  you  didn't  look  into  'em.  Scenery  and 
sport  and  so  on?" 

"Scenery?  Oh,  capital.  But  business  conditions —  You 
know,  Mr.  Babbitt,  they're  having  almost  as  much  unemploy- 
ment as  we  are."     Sir  Gerald  was  speaking  warmly  now. 

"So?     Business  conditions  not  so  doggone  good,  eh?" 

"No,  business  conditions  weren't  at  all  what  I'd  hoped 
to  find  them." 

"Not  good,  eh?" 

"No,  not — not  really  good." 

'That's  a  darn  shame.  Well —  I  suppose  you're  waiting 
for  somebody  to  take  you  out  to  some  big  shindig.  Sir 
Gerald." 

^'Shindig?  Oh.  Shindig.  No,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was 
wondering  what  the  deuce  I  could  do  this  evening.  Don't 
know  a  soul  in  Tchicahgo.  I  wonder  if  you  happen  to  know 
whether  there's  a  good  theater  in  this  city?" 

"Good?  Why  say,  they're  running  grand  opera  right  now! 
I  guess  maybe  you'd  like  that." 

"Eh?     Eh?     Went  to  the  opera  once  in  London.     Covent 


BABBITT  245 

Garden  sort  of  thing.  Shocking!  No,  I  was  wondering  if 
there  was  a  good  cinema — movie," 

Babbitt  was  sitting  down,  hitching  his  chair  over,  shouting, 
"Movie?  Say,  Sir  Gerald,  I  supposed  of  course  you  had  a 
raft  of  dames  waiting  to  lead  you  out  to  some  soiree — " 

"God  forbid!" 

" — but  if  you  haven't,  what  do  you  say  you  and  me  go  to 
a  movie?  There's  a  peach  of  a  film  at  the  Grantham:  Bill 
Hart  in  a  bandit  picture." 

"Right-o!     Just  a  moment  while  I  get  my  coat." 

Swollen  with  greatness,  slightly  afraid  lest  the  noble  blood 
of  Nottingham  change  its  mind  and  leave  him  at  any  street 
corner,  Babbitt  paraded  with  Sir  Gerald  Doak  to  the  movie 
palace  and  in  silent  bliss  sat  beside  him,  trying  not  to  be  too 
enthusiastic,  lest  the  knight  despise  his  adoration  of  six- 
shooters  and  broncos.  At  the  end  Sir  Gerald  murmured,  "Jolly 
good  picture,  this.  So  awfully  decent  of  you  to  take  me. 
Haven't  enjoyed  myself  so  much  for  weeks.  All  these  Hos- 
tesses— they  never  let  you  go  to  the  cinema!" 

"The  devil  you  say!"  Babbitt's  speech  had  lost  the  deli- 
cate refinement  and  all  the  broad  A's  with  which  he  had 
adorned  it,  and  become  hearty  and  natural.  "Well,  I'm  tickled 
to  death  you  liked  it,  Sir  Gerald." 

They  crawled  past  the  knees  of  fat  women  into  the  aisle; 
they  stood  in  the  lobby  waving  their  arms  in  the  rite  of  put- 
ting on  overcoats.  Babbitt  hinted,  "Say,  how  about  a  little 
something  to  eat?  I  know  a  place  where  we  could  get  a  swell 
rarebit,  and  we  might  dig  up  a  little  drink — that  is,  if  you 
ever  touch  the  stuff." 

"Rather!  But  why  don't  you  come  to  my  room?  I've 
some  Scotch — not  half  bad." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  use  up  all  your  hootch.  It's  darn 
nice  of  you,  but —    You  probably  want  to  hit  the  hay." 

Sir  Gerald  was  transformed.  He  was  beefily  yearning.  "Oh 
really,  now;    I  haven't  had   a  decent  evening  for  so  long! 


246  BABBITT 

Having  to  go  to  all  these  dances.  No  chance  to  discuss  business 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  Do  be  a  good  chap  and  come  along. 
Won't  you?" 

"Will  I?  You  bet!  I  just  thought  maybe —  Say,  by  golly, 
it  does  do  a  fellow  good,  don't  it,  to  sit  and  visit  about  business 
conditions,  after  he's  been  to  these  balls  and  masquerades  and 
banquets  and  all  that  society  stuff.  I  often  feel  that  way  in 
Zenith.     Sure,  you  bet  I'll  come." 

"That's  awfully  nice  of  you."  They  beamed  along  the  street. 
"Look  here,  old  chap,  can  you  tell  me,  do  American  cities  al- 
ways keep  up  this  dreadful  social  pace?  All  these  magnificent 
parties?" 

"Go  on  now,  quit  your  kidding!  Gosh,  you  with  court  balls 
and  functions  and  everything — " 

"No,  really,  old  chap !  Mother  and  I — Lady  Doak,  I  should 
say,  we  usually  play  a  hand  of  bezique  and  go  to  bed  at  ten. 
Bless  my  soul,  I  couldn't  keep  up  your  beastly  pace!  And 
talking!  All  your  American  women,  they  know  so  much — 
tulture  and  that  sort  of  thing.  This  Mrs.  McKelvey — your 
friend—" 

"Yuh,  old  Lucile.     Good  kid." 

" — she  asked  me  which  of  the  galleries  I  liked  best  in  Flor- 
ence. Or  was  it  in  Firenze?  Never  been  in  Italy  in  my  life! 
And  primitives.  Did  I  like  primitives.  Do  you  know  what 
the  deuce  a  primitive  is?" 

"Me?  I  should  say  not!  But  I  know  what  a  discount  for 
cash  is." 

"Rather!     So  do  I,  by  George!     But  primitives!" 

"Yuh!     Primitives!" 

They  laughed  with  the  sound  of  a  Boosters'  luncheon. 

Sir  Gerald's  room  was,  except  for  his  ponderous  and  durable 
English  bags,  very  much  like  the  room  of  George  F.  Babbitt; 
and  quite  in  the  manner  of  Babbitt  he  disclosed  a  huge  whisky 
flask,  looked  proud  and  hospitable,  and  chuckled,  "Say,  when, 
old  chap." 


BABBITT  247 

It  was  after  the  third  drink  that  Sir  Gerald  proclaimed, 
■'How  do  3^ou  Yankees  get  the  notion  that  writing  chaps  like 
Bertrand  Shaw  and  this  Wells  represent  us?  The  real  busi- 
ness England,  we  think  those  chaps  are  traitors.  Both  our 
countries  have  their  comic  Old  Aristocracy — you  know,  old 
county  families,  hunting  people  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — 
and  we  both  have  our  wretched  labor  leaders,  but  we  both 
have  a  backbone  of  sound  business  men  who  run  the  whole 
show." 

"You  bet.    Here's  to  the  real  guys!" 

"I'm  with  you  I     Here's  to  ourselves!" 

It  was  after  the  fourth  drink  that  Sir  Gerald  asked  humbly, 
"What  do  you  think  of  North  Dakota  mortgages?"  but  it  was 
not  till  after  the  fifth  that  Babbitt  began  to  call  him  "Jerry," 
and  Sir  Gerald  confided,  "I  say,  do  you  mind  if  I  pull  off  my 
boots?"  and  ecstatically  stretched  his  knightly  feet,  his  poor, 
tired,  hot,  swollen  feet  out  on  the  bed. 

After  the  sixth,  Babbitt  irregularly  arose.  "Well,  I  better 
be  hiking  along.  Jerry,  you're  a  regular  human  being!  I 
wish  to  thunder  we'd  been  better  acquainted  in  Zenith.  Lookit. 
Can't  you  come  back  and  stay  with  me  a  while?" 

"So  sorry — must  go  to  New  York  to-morrow.  Most  aw- 
fully sorry,  old  boy.  I  haven't  enjoyed  an  evening  so  much 
since  I've  been  in  the  States.  Real  talk.  Not  all  this  social 
rot.  I'd  never  have  let  them  give  me  the  beastly  title — and  I 
didn't  get  it  for  nothing,  eh? — if  I'd  thought  I'd  have  to  talk 
to  women  about  primitives  and  polo!  Goodish  thing  to  have 
in  Nottingham,  though;  annoyed  the  mayor  most  frightfully 
when  I  got  it;  and  of  course  the  missus  likes  it.  But  nobody 
calls  me  'Jerry'  now — "  He  was  almost  weeping.  " — and 
nobody  in  the  States  has  treated  me  like  a  friend  till  to-night  1 
Good-by,  old  chap,  good-by!     Thanks  awfully!" 

"Don't  mention  it,  Jerry.  And  remember  whenever  you  get 
to  Zenith,  the  latch-string  is  always  out." 

"And  don't  forget,  old  boy.  if  you  ever  come  to  Nottingham, 


248  BABBITT 

Mother  and  I  will  be  frightfully  glad  to  see  you.  I  shall  tell 
the  fellows  in  Nottingham  your  ideas  about  Visions  and  Real 
Guys — at  our  next  Rotary  Club  luncheon." 


IV 

Babbitt  lay  abed  at  his  hotel,  imagining  the  Zenith  Athletic 
Club  asking  him,  "What  kind  of  a  time  d'you  have  in  Chi- 
cago?" and  his  answering,  "Oh,  fair;  ran  around  with  Sir 
Gerald  Doak  a  lot;"  picturing  himself  meeting  Lucile  McKel- 
vey  and  admonishing  her,  "You're  all  right,  Mrs.  Mac,  when 
you  aren't  trying  to  pull  this  highbrow  pose.  It's  just  as  Ger- 
ald Doak  says  to  me  in  Chicago — oh,  yes,  Jerry's  an  old  friend 
of  mine — the  wife  and  I  are  thinking  of  running  over  to  Eng- 
land to  stay  with  Jerry  in  his  castle,  next  year — and  he  said 
to  me,  'Georgie,  old  bean,  I  like  Lucile  first-rate,  but  you  and 
me,  George,  we  got  to  make  her  get  over  this  highty-tighty 
hooptediddle  way  she's  got." 

But  that  evening  a  thing  happened  which  wrecked  his  pride. 


At  the  Regency  Hotel  cigar-counter  he  fell  to  talking  with 
a  salesman  of  pianos,  and  they  dined  together.  Babbitt  was 
filled  with  friendliness  and  well-being.  He  enjoyed  the  gor- 
geousness  of  the  dining-room:  the  chandeliers,  the  looped  bro- 
cade curtains,  the  portraits  of  French  kings  against  panels  of 
gilded  oak.  He  enjoyed  the  crowd:  pretty  women,  good  solid 
fellows  who  were  "liberal  spenders." 

He  gasped.  He  stared,  and  turned  away,  and  stared  again. 
Three  tables  off,  with  a  doubtful  sort  of  woman,  a  woman  at 
once  coy  and  withered,  was  Paul  Riesling,  and  Paul  was  sup- 
posed to  be  in  Akron,  selling  tar-roofing.  The  woman  was  tap- 
ping his  hand,  mooning  at  him  and  giggling.  Babbitt  felt  that 
he  had  encountered  something  involved  and  harmful.   Paul 


BABBITT  249 

was  talking  with  the  rapt  eagerness  of  a  man  who  is  telhng  his 
troubles.  He  was  concentrated  on  the  woman's  faded  eyes. 
Once  he  held  her  hand  and  once,  blind  to  the  other  guests, 
he  puckered  his  lips  as  though  he  was  pretending  to  kiss  her. 
Babbitt  had  so  strong  an  impulse  to  go  to  Paul  that  he  could 
feel  his  body  uncoiling,  his  shoulders  moving,  but  he  felt, 
desperately,  that  he  must  be  diplomatic,  and  not  till  he  saw 
Paul  paying  the  check  did  he  bluster  to  the  piano-salesman, 
"By  golly — ^friend  of  mine  over  there — 'scuse  me  second — just 
say  hello  to  him." 

He  touched  Paul's  shoulder,  and  cried,  ''Well,  when  did  you 
hit  town?" 

Paul  glared  up  at  him,  face  hardening.  "Oh,  hello,  George. 
Thought  you'd  gone  back  to  Zenith."  He  did  not  introduce 
his  companion.  Babbitt  peeped  at  her.  She  was  a  flabbily 
pretty,  weakly  flirtatious  woman  of  forty-two  or  three,  in  an 
atrocious  flowery  hat.  Her  rouging  was  thorough  but  un- 
skilful. 

"Where  you  staying,  Paulibus?" 

The  woman  turned,  yawned,  examined  her  nails.  She  seemed 
accustomed  to  not  being  introduced. 

Paul  grumbled,  "Campbell  Inn,  on  the  South  Side." 

"Alone?"     It  sounded  insinuating. 

"Yes!  Unfortunately!"  Furiously  Paul  turned  toward  the 
woman,  smiling  with  a  fondness  sickening  to  Babbitt.  "May! 
Want  to  introduce  you.  Mrs.  Arnold,  this  is  my  old — acquain- 
tance, George  Babbitt." 

"Pleasmeech,"  growled  Babbitt,  while  she  gurgled,  "Oh,  I'm 
very  pleased  to  meet  any  friend  of  Mr.  Riesling's,  I'm  sure." 

Babbitt  demanded,  "Be  back  there  later  this  evening,  Paul? 
I'll  drop  down  and  see  you." 

"No,  better —    We  better  lunch  together  to-morrow." 

"All  right,  but  I'll  see  you  to-night,  too,  Paul.  I'll  go  down 
to  your  hotel,  and  I'll  wait  for  you!" 


CHAPTER  XX 


He  sat  smoking  with  the  piano-salesman,  clinging  to  the 
warm  refuge  of  gossip,  afraid  to  venture  into  thoughts  of 
Paul.  He  was  the  more  affable  on  the  surface  as  secretly  he 
became  more  apprehensive,  felt  more  hollow.  He  was  certain 
that  Paul  was  in  Chicago  without  Zilla's  knowledge,  and  that 
he  was  doing  things  not  at  all  moral  and  secure.  When  the 
salesman  yawned  that  he  had  to  write  up  his  orders.  Babbitt 
left  him,  left  the  hotel,  in  leisurely  calm.  But  savagely,  he  said 
"Campbell  Inn!"  to  the  taxi-driver.  He  sat  agitated  on  the 
slippery  leather  seat,  in  that  chill  dimness  which  smelled  of 
dust  and  perfume  and  Turkish  cigarettes,  He  did  not  heed  the 
snowy  lake-front,  the  dark  spaces  and  sudden  bright  corners 
in  the  unknown  land  south  of  the  Loop. 

The  office  of  the  Campbell  Inn  was  hard,  bright,  new;  the 
right  clerk  harder  and  brighter.    "Yep?"  he  said  to  Babbitt. 

"Mr.  Paul  Riesling  registered  here?" 

"Yep." 

"Is  he  in  now?" 

"Nope." 

"Then  if  you'll  give  me  his  key,  I'll  wait  for  him." 

"Can't  do  that,  brother.    Wait  down  here  if  you  wanna." 

Babbitt  had  spoken  with  the  deference  which  all  the  Clan 
bi  Good  Fellows  give  to  hotel  clerks.  Now  he  said  with  snarl- 
ing abruptness: 

"I  may  nave  to  wait  some  time.  I'm  Riesling's  brother-in- 
law.    I'll  go  up  to  his  room.    D'  I  look  like  a  sneak-thief?" 

His  voice  was  low  and  not  pleasant.  With  considerable 
haste  the  clerk  took  down  the  key,  protesting,  "I  never  said 

2S0 


BABBITT  25c 

you  looked  like  a  sneak- thief.  Just  rules  of  the  hotel.  But 
if  you  want  to — " 

On  his  way  up  in  the  elevator  Babbitt  wondered  why  he  was 
here.  Why  shouldn't  Paul  be  dining  with  a  respectable  mar- 
ried  woman?  Why  had  he  lied  to  the  clerk  about  being  Paul's 
brother-in-law?  He  had  acted  like  a  child.  He  must  be  care- 
ful not  to  say  foolish  dramatic  things  to  Paul.  As  he  settled 
down  he  tried  to  look  pompous  and  placid.  Then  the 
thought —  Suicide.  He'd  been  dreading  that,  without  know- 
ing it.  Paul  would  be  just  the  person  to  do  something  like 
that.  He  must  be  out  of  his  head  or  he  wouldn't  be  confiding 
in  that — that  dried-up  hag. 

Zilla  (oh,  damn  Zilla!  how  gladly  he'd  throttle  that  nagging 
fiend  of  a  woman!) — she'd  probablj'-  succeeded  at  last,  and 
driven  Paul  crazy. 

Suicide.  Out  there  in  the  lake,  way  out,  beyond  the  piled 
ice  along  the  shore.  It  would  be  ghastly  cold  to  drop  into  the 
water  to-night. 

Or — throat  cut — in  the  bathroom — 

Babbitt  flung  into  Paul's  bathroom.  It  was  empty.  He 
smiled,  feebly. 

He  pulled  at  his  choking  collar,  looked  at  his  watch,  opened 
the  window  to  stare  down  at  the  street,  looked  at  his  watch, 
tried  to  read  the  evening  paper  lying  on  the  glass-topped  bur- 
eau, looked  again  at  his  watch.  Three  minutes  had  gone  by 
since  he  had  first  looked  at  it. 

And  he  waited  for  three  hours. 

He  was  sitting  fixed,  chilled,  when  the  doorknob  turned. 
Paul  came  in  glowering. 

"Hello,"  Paul  said.  "Been  waiting?" 

"Yuh,  little  while." 

"Well?" 

"Well  what?  Just  thought  I'd  drop  in  to  see  how  you 
made  out  in  Akron." 

"I  did  all  right.    What  difference  does  it  make?" 


252  BABBITT 

"Why,  gosh,  Paul,  what  are  you  sore  about?" 

"What  are  you  butting  into  my  affairs  for?" 

"Why,  Paul,  that's  no  way  to  talk!  I'm  not  butting  into 
nothing.  I  was  so  glad  to  see  your  ugly  old  phiz  that  I  just 
dropped  in  to  say  howdy." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  have  anybody  following  me  around 
and  trying  to  boss  me.    I've  had  all  of  that  I'm  going  to  standi " 

"Well,  gosh,  I'm  not—" 

"I  didn't  like  the  way  you  looked  at  May  Arnold,  or  the 
snooty  way  you  talked." 

"Well,  all  right  then!  If  you  think  I'm  a  buttinsky,  then 
I'll  just  butt  in!  I  don't  know  who  your  May  Arnold  is,  but 
I  know  doggone  good  and  well  that  you  and  her  weren't  talking 
about  tar-roofing,  no,  nor  about  playing  the  violin,  neither!  If 
you  haven't  got  any  moral  consideration  for  yourself,  you  ought 
to  have  some  for  your  position  in  the  community.  The  idea  of 
your  going  around  places  gawping  into  a  female's  eyes  like  a 
love-sick  pup!  I  can  understand  a  fellow  slipping  once,  but 
I  don't  propose  to  see  a  fellow  that's  been  as  chummy  with  me 
as  you  have  getting  started  on  the  downward  path  and  sneak- 
ing off  from  his  wife,  even  as  cranky  a  one  as  Zilla,  to  go 
woman-chasing — " 

"Oh,  you're  a  perfectly  moral  little  husband!" 

"I  am,  by  God!  I've  never  looked  at  any  woman  except 
Myra  since  I've  been  married — practically — and  I  never  will! 
I  tell  you  there's  nothing  to  immorality.  It  don't  pay.  Can't 
you  see,  old  man,  it  just  makes  Zilla  still  crankier?" 

Slight  of  resolution  as  he  was  of  body,  Paul  threw  his  snow- 
beaded  overcoat  on  the  floor  and  crouched  on  a  flimsy  cane 
chair.  "Oh,  you're  an  old  blowhard,  and  you  know  less  about 
morality  than  Tinka,  but  you're  all  right,  Georgie.  But  you 
can't  understand  that —  I'm  through.  I  can't  go  Zilla's  ham- 
mering any  longer.  She's  made  up  her  mind  that  I'm  a  devil, 
and —  Reg'lar  Inquisition.  Torture.  She  enjoys  it.  It's  a 
game  to  see  how  sore  she  can  make  me.    And  me,  either  it's 


BABBITT  253 

find  a  littie  comfort,  any  comfort,  anywhere,  or  else  do  some- 
thing a  lot  worse.  Now  this  Mrs.  Arnold,  she's  not  so  young, 
but  she's  a  fine  woman  and  she  understands  a  fellow,  and 
she's  had  her  own  troubles." 

"Yea!  I  suppose  she's  one  of  these  hens  whose  husband 
'doesn't  understand  her'!" 

"I  don't  know.    Maybe.    He  was  killed  in  the  war." 

Babbitt  lumbered  up,  stood  beside  Paul  patting  his  shoul- 
der, making  soft  apologetic  noises. 

"Honest,  George,  she's  a  fine  woman,  and  she's  had  one  hell 
of  a  time.  We  manage  to  jolly  each  other  up  a  lot.  We  tell 
each  other  we're  the  dandiest  pair  on  earth.  Maybe  we  don't 
believe  it,  but  it  helps  a  lot  to  have  somebody  with  whom  you 
can  be  perfectly  simple,  and  not  all  this  discussing — explain^ 
ing-" 

"And  that's  as  far  as  you  go?" 

"It  is  not!  Go  on!     Say  it!" 

"Well,  I  don't— I  can't  say  I  like  it,  but—"  With  a  burst 
which  left  him  feeling  large  and  shining  with  generosity, 
"it's  none  of  my  darn  business!  I'll  do  anything  I  can  for 
you,  if  there's  anything  I  can  do." 

"There  might  be.  I  judge  from  Zilla's  letters  that  've  been 
forwarded  from  Akron  that  she's  getting  suspicious  about  my 
staying  away  so  long.  She'd  be  perfectly  capable  of  having 
me  shadowed,  and  of  coming  to  Chicago  and  busting  into  a 
hotel  dining-room  and  bawling  me  out  before  everybody." 

"I'll  take  care  of  Zilla.  I'll  hand  her  a  good  fairy-story  when 
I  get  back  to  Zenith." 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  think  you  better  try  it.  You're 
a  good  fellow,  but  I  don't  know  that  diplomacy  is  your  strong 
point."  Babbitt  looked  hurt,  then  irritated.  "I  mean  with 
women!  With  women,  I  mean.  Course  they  got  to  go  some 
to  beat  you  in  business  diplomacy,  but  I  just  mean  with 
women.  Zilla  may  do  a  lot  of  rough  talking,  but  she's  pretty 
shrewd.     She'd  have  the  story  out  of  you  in  no  time." 


254  BABBITT 

**Well,  all  right,  but — "  Babbitt  was  still  pathetic  at  not 
being  allowed  to  play  Secret  Agent.    Paul  soothed : 

"Course  maybe  you  might  tell  her  you'd  been  in  Akron  and 
seen  me  there." 

"Why,  sure,  you  bet !  Don't  I  have  to  go  look  at  that  candy- 
store  property  in  Akron?  Don't  I?  Ain't  it  a  shame  I  have 
to  stop  off  there  when  I'm  so  anxious  to  get  home?  Ain't  it 
a  regular  shame?    I'll  say  it  is!    I'll  say  it's  a  doggone  shame! " 

"Fine.  But  for  glory  hallelujah's  sake  don't  go  putting  any 
fancy  fixings  on  the  story.  When  men  lie  they  always  try 
to  make  it  too  artistic,  and  that's  why  women  get  suspicious. 
And —  Let's  have  a  drink,  Georgie.  I've  got  some  gin  and 
a  little  vermouth." 

The  Paul  who  normally  refused  a  second  cocktail  took  a 
second  now,  and  a  third.  He  became  red-eyed  and  thick- 
tongned.    He  was  embarrassingly  jocular  and  salacious. 

In  the  taxicab  Babbitt  incredulously  found  tears  crowding 
into  his  eyes. 

n 

He  had  not  told  Paul  of  his  plan  but  he  did  stop  at  Akron, 
between  trains,  for  the  one  purpose  of  sending  to  Zilla  a  post- 
card with  "Had  to  come  here  for  the  day,  ran  into  Paul."  In 
Zenith  he  called  on  her.  If  for  public  appearances  Zilla  was 
over-coiffed,  over-painted,  and  resolutely  corseted,  for  private 
misery  she  wore  a  filthy  blue  dressing-gown  and  torn  stockings 
thrust  into  streaky  pink  satin  mules.  Her  face  was  sunken. 
She  seemed  to  have  but  half  as  much  hair  as  Babbitt  remem- 
bered, and  that  half  was  stringy.  She  sat  in  a  rocker  amid  a 
debris  of  candy-boxes  and  cheap  magazines,  and  she  sounded 
dolorous  when  she  did  not  sound  derisive.  But  Babbitt  was 
exceedingly  breezy: 

"Well,  well,  Zil,  old  dear,  having  a  good  loaf  while  hubby's 
^way?     That's  the  idea!     I'll  bet  a  hat  Myra  never  got  up 


BABBITT  255 

till  ten,  while  I  was  in  Chicago.  Say,  could  I  borrow  your 
thermos — just  dropped  in  to  see  if  I  could  borrow  your  thermos 
bottle.  We're  going  to  have  a  toboggan  party — want  to  take 
some  coffee  mit.  Oh,  did  you  get  my  card  from  Akron,  saying 
I'd  run  into  Paul?" 

"Yes.    What  was  he  doing?" 

"How  do  you  mean?"  He  unbuttoned  his  overcoat,  sat  ten- 
tatively on  the  arm  of  a  chair. 

"You  know  how  I  mean! "  She  slapped  the  pages  of  a  mag- 
azine with  an  irritable  clatter.  "I  suppose  he  was  trying  to 
make  love  to  some  hotel  waitress  or  manicure  girl  or  some- 
body." 

"Hang  it,  you're  always  letting  on  that  Paul  goes  round 
chasing  skirts.  He  doesn't,  in  the  first  place,  and  if  he  did, 
it  would  prob'ly  be  because  you  keep  hinting  at  him  and  ding- 
ing at  him  so  much.  I  hadn't  meant  to,  Zilla,  but  since  Paul 
is  away,  in  Akron — " 

"He  really  is  in  Akron?  I  know  he  has  some  horrible  woman 
that  he  writes  to  in  Chicago." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  saw  him  in  Akron?  What  're  you  trying 
to  do?     Make  me  out  a  liar?" 

"No,  but  I  just —    I  get  so  worried." 

"Now,  there  you  are!  That's  what  gets  me!  Here  you  love 
Paul,  and  yet  you  plague  him  and  cuss  him  out  as  if  you 
hated  him.  I  simply  can't  understand  why  it  is  that  the  more 
some  folks  love  people,  the  harder  they  try  to  make  'em  mis- 
erable." 

"You  love  Ted  and  Rone — I  suppose — and  yet  you  nag 
them." 

"Oh.  Well.  That.  That's  different.  Besides,  I  don't  nag 
'em.  Not  what  you'd  call  nagging.  But  zize  saying:  Now, 
here's  Paul,  the  nicest,  most  sensitive  critter  on  God's  green 
earth.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  the  way  you  pan 
him.  Why,  you  talk  to  him  like  a  washerwoman.  I'm  sur- 
prised you  can  act  so  doggone  common,  Zilla!" 


256  BABBITT 

She  brooded  over  her  linked  fingers.  "Oh,  I  know.  I  do  go 
and  get  mean  sometimes,  and  I'm  sorr>'  afterwards.  But,  oh, 
Georgie,  Paul  is  so  aggravating!  Honestly,  I've  tried  awfully 
hard,  these  last  few  years,  to  be  nice  to  him,  but  just  because 
I  used  to  be  spiteful — or  I  seemed  so;  I  wasn't,  really,  but 
I  used  to  speak  up  and  say  anything  that  came  into  my  head — 
and  so  he  made  up  his  mind  that  everything  was  my  fault. 
Everything  can't  always  be  my  fault,  can  it?  And  now  if  I 
get  to  fussing,  he  just  turns  silent,  oh,  so  dreadfully  silent, 
and  he  won't  look  at  me — he  just  ignores  me.  He  simply  isn't 
human!  And  he  deliberately  keeps  it  up  till  I  bust  out  and 
say  a  lot  of  things  I  don't  mean.  So  silent —  Oh,  you  right- 
eous men!     How  wicked  you  are!     How  rotten  wicked!" 

They  thrashed  things  over  and  over  for  half  an  hour.  At 
the  end,  weeping  drably,  Zilla  promised  to  restrain  herself. 

Paul  returned  four  days  later,  and  the  Babbitts  and  Ries- 
lings went  festively  to  the  movies  and  had  chop  suey  at  a 
Chinese  restaurant.  As  they  walked  to  the  restaurant  through 
a  street  of  tailor  shops  and  barber  shops,  the  two  wives  in  front, 
chattering  about  cooks,  Babbitt  murmured  to  Paul,  "Zil  seems 
a  lot  nicer  now." 

"Yes,  she  has  been,  except  once  or  twice.  But  it's  too  late 
now.  I  just —  I'm  not  going  to  discuss  it,  but  I'm  afraid  of 
her.  There's  nothing  left.  I  don't  ever  want  to  see  her. 
Some  day  I'm  going  to  break  away  from  her.    Somehow." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

The  International  Organization  of  Boosters'  Clubs  has  be- 
come a  world-force  for  optimism,  maiily  pleasantry,  and  good 
business.  Chapters  are  to  be  found  now  in  thirty  countries. 
Nine  hundred  and  twenty  of  the  thousand  chapters,  however, 
are  in  the  United  States. 

None  of  these  is  more  ardent  than  the  Zenith  Boosters'  Club. 

The  second  INIarch  lunch  of  the  Zenith  Boosters  was  the 
most  important  of  the  year,  as  it  was  to  be  followed  by  the 
annual  election  of  officers.  There  was  agitation  abroad.  The 
lunch  was  held  in  the  ballroom  of  the  O'Hearn  House.  As 
each  of  the  four  hundred  Boosters  entered  he  took  from  a  wall- 
board  a  huge  celluloid  button  announcing  his  name,  his  nick^ 
name,  and  his  business.  There  was  a  fine  of  ten  cents  for 
calling  a  Fellow  Booster  by  anything  but  his  nickname  at  a 
lunch,  and  as  Babbitt  jovially  checked  his  hat  the  air  was 
radiant  with  shouts  of  "Hello,  Chet!"  and  "How're  you. 
Shorty!"  and  "Top  o'  the  mornin',  Mac!" 

They  sat  at  friendly  tables  for  eight,  choosing  places  by  lot. 
Babbitt  was  with  Albert  Boos  the  merchant  tailor,  Hector 
Seybolt  of  the  Little  Sweetheart  Condensed  Milk  Company, 
Emil  Wengert  the  jeweler,  Professor  Pumphrey  of  the  Rite- 
way  Business  College,  Dr.  Walter  Gorbutt,  Roy  Teegarten  the 
photographer,  and  Ben  Berkey  the  photo-engraver.  One  of 
the  merits  of  the  Boosters'  Club  was  that  only  two  persons 
from  each  department  of  business  were  permitted  to  join,  so 
that  you  at  once  encountered  the  Ideals  of  other  occupations, 
and  realized  the  metaphysical  oneness  of  all  occupations — 
plumbing  and  portait-painting,  medicine  and  the  manufacture 
of  chewing-gum. 

257 


258  BABBITT 

Babbitt's  table  was  particularly  happy  to-day,  because  Pro- 
fessor Pumphrey  had  just  had  a  birthday,  and  was  therefore 
open  to  teasing. 

"Let's  pump  Pump  about  how  old  he  is!"  said  Emil  Wengert 

"No,  let's  paddle  him  with  a  dancing-pump!"  said  Ben 
Berkey. 

But  it  was  Babbitt  who  had  the  applause,  with  "Don't  talk 
about  pumps  to  that  guy!  The  only  pump  he  knows  is  a  bot- 
tle! Honest,  they  tell  me  he's  starting  a  class  in  home-brewing 
at  the  ole  college!" 

At  each  place  was  the  Boosters'  Club  booklet,  listing  the 
members.  Though  the  object  of  the  club  was  good-fellowship, 
yet  they  never  lost  sight  of  the  importance  of  doing  a  little 
more  business.  After  each  name  was  the  member's  occupation. 
There  were  scores  of  advertisements  in  the  booklet,  and  on  one 
page  the  admonition:  "There's  no  rule  that  you  have  to  trade 
with  your  Fellow  Boosters,  but  get  wise,  boy — what's  the  use 
of  letting  all  this  good  money  get  outside  of  our  happy  fam- 
bly?"  And  at  each  place,  to-day,  there  was  a  present;  a  card 
printed  in  artistic  red  and  black: 

SERVICE  AND  BOOSTERISM 

Service  finds  its  finest  opportunity  and  development 
only  in  its  broadest  and  deepest  application  and  the 
consideration  of  its  perpetual  action  upon  reaction.  I 
believe  the  highest  type  of  Service,  like  the  most  pro- 
gressive tenets  of  ethics,  senses  unceasingly  and  is 
motived  by  active  adherence  and  loyalty  to  that  which 
is  the  essential  principle  of  Boosterism — Good  Citizen- 
ship in  all  its  factors  and  aspects. 

Dad  Petersek. 

Compliments   of    Dadbury    Petersen   Advertising   Corp. 
"Ads,  not  Fads,  at  Dad's" 

The  Boosters  all  read  Mr.  Peterson's  aphorism  and  said 
they  understood  it  perfectly. 


BABBITT  259 

The  meeting  opened  with  the  regular  weekly  "stunts."  Re- 
tiring President  Vergil  Gunch  was  in  the  chair,  his  stiff  hair 
like  a  hedge,  his  voice  like  a  brazen  gong  of  festival.  Members 
who  had  brought  guests  introduced  them  publicly.  "This  tall 
red-headed  piece  of  misinformation  is  the  sporting  editor  of 
the  Press"  said  Willis  Ijams;  and  H.  H.  Hazen,  the  druggist, 
chanted,  "Boys,  when  you're  on  a  long  motor  tour  and  finally 
get  to  a  romantic  spot  or  scene  and  draw  up  and  remark  to  the 
wife.  This  is  certainly  a  romantic  place,'  it  sends  a  glow  right 
up  and  down  your  vertebrae.  Well,  my  guest  to-day  is  from 
such  a  place.  Harper's  Ferry,  Virginia,  in  the  beautiful  South- 
land, with  memories  of  good  old  General  Robert  E.  Lee  and  of 
that  brave  soul,  John  Brown  who,  like  every  good  Booster, 
goes  marching  on — " 

There  were  two  especially  distinguished  guests:  the  leading 
man  of  the  "Bird  of  Paradise"  company,  playing  this  week  at 
the  Dodsworth  Theater,  and  the  mayor  of  Zenith,  the  Hon. 
Lucas  Prout, 

Vergil  Gunch  thundered,  "When  we  manage  to  grab  this 
celebrated  Thespian  off  his  lovely  aggregation  of  beautiful  ac- 
tresses— and  I  got  to  admit  I  butted  right  into  his  dressing- 
room  and  told  him  how  the  Boosters  appreciated  the  high-class 
artistic  performance  he's  giving  us — and  don't  forget  that  the 
treasurer  of  the  Dodsworth  is  a  Booster  and  will  appreciate  our 
patronage — and  when  on  top  of  that  we  yank  Hizzonor  out  of 
his  multifarious  duties  at  City  Hall,  then  I  feel  we've  done  our- 
selves proud,  and  Mr.  Prout  will  now  say  a  few  words  about 
the  problems  and  duties — " 

By  rising  vote  the  Boosters  decided  which  was  the  hand- 
somest and  which  the  ugliest  guest,  and  to  each  of  them  was 
given  a  bunch  of  carnations,  donated,  President  Gunch  noted, 
by  Brother  Booster  H.  G.  Yeager,  the  Jennifer  Avenue  florist. 

Each  week,  in  rotation,  four  Boosters  were  privileged  to 
obtain  the  pleasures  of  generosity  and  of  publicity  by  donating 
goods  or  services  to  four  fellow-members,  chosen  by  lot.    There 


a6o  BABBITT 

was  laughter,  this  week,  when  it  was  announced  that  one  of 
the  contributors  was  Barnabas  Joy,  the  undertaker.  Every- 
body whispered,  "I  can  think  of  a  coupla  good  guys  to  be 
buried  if  his  donation  is  a  free  funeral!" 

Through  all  these  diversions  the  Boosters  were  lunching  on 
chicken  croquettes,  peas,  fried  potatoes,  coffee,  apple  pie,  and 
American  cheese.  Gunch  did  not  lump  the  speeches.  Pres- 
ently he  called  on  the  visiting  secretary  of  the  Zenith  Rotary 
Club,  a  rival  organization.  The  secretary  had  the  distinction 
of  possessing  State  Motor  Car  License  Number  5. 

The  Rotary  secretary  laughingly  admitted  that  wherever 
he  drove  in  the  state  so  low  a  number  created  a  sensation, 
and  "though  it  was  pretty  nice  to  have  the  honor,  yet  traffic 
cops  remembered  it  only  too  darn  well,  and  sometimes  he 
didn't  know  but  what  he'd  almost  as  soon  have  just  plain 
656,876  or  something  like  that.  Only  let  any  doggone  Booster 
try  to  get  Number  5  away  from  a  live  Rotarian  next  year,  and 
watch  the  fur  fly!  And  if  they'd  permit  him,  he'd  wind  up 
by  calling  for  a  cheer  for  the  Boosters  and  Rotarians  and  the 
ELiwanis  all  together!" 

Babbitt  sighed  to  Professor  Pumphrey,  "Be  pretty  nice  to 
have  as  low  a  number  as  that!  Everybody  'd  say,  'He  must 
be  an  important  guy!'  Wonder  how  he  got  it?  I'll  bet  he 
wined  and  dined  the  superintendent  of  the  Motor  License 
Bureau  to  a  fare-you-well ! " 

Then  Chum  Frink  addressed  them: 

"Some  of  you  may  feel  that  it's  out  of  place  here  to  talk 
on  a  strictly  highbrow  and  artistic  subject,  but  I  want  to  come 
out  fiatfooted  and  ask  you  boys  to  O.K.  the  proposition  of  a 
Symphony  Orchestra  for  Zenith.  Now,  where  a  lot  of  you 
jnake  your  mistake  is  in  assuming  that  if  you  don't  like  clas- 
sical music  and  all  that  junk,  you  ought  to  oppose  it.  Now, 
I  want  to  confess  that,  though  I'm  a  literary  guy  by  profession, 
I  don't  care  a  rap  for  all  this  long-haired  music.    I'd  rather 


BABBITT  261 

listen  to  a  good  jazz  band  any  time  than  to  some  piece  by 
Beethoven  that  hasn't  any  more  tune  to  it  than  a  bunch  of 
fighting  cats,  and  you  couldn't  whistle  it  to  save  your  life! 
But  that  isn't  the  point.  Culture  has  become  as  necessary  an 
adornment  and  advertisement  for  a  city  to-day  as  pavements 
or  bank-clearances.  It's  Culture,  in  theaters  and  art-galleries 
and  so  on,  that  brings  thousands  of  visitors  to  New  York 
every  year  and,  to  be  frank,  for  all  our  splendid  attainments 
we  haven't  yet  got  the  Culture  of  a  New  York  or  Chicago  or 
Boston — or  at  least  we  don't  get  the  credit  for  it.  The  thing 
to  do  then,  as  a  live  bunch  of  go-getters,  is  to  capitalize  Cut' 
ture;  to  go  right  out  and  grab  it. 

"Pictures  and  books  are  fine  for  those  that  have  the  time 
to  study  'em,  but  they  don't  shoot  out  on  the  road  and  holler 
'This  is  what  little  old  Zenith  can  put  up  in  the  way  of  Culture.' 
That's  precisely  what  a  Symphony  Orchestra  does  do.  Look  at 
the  credit  Minneapolis  and  Cincinnati  get.  An  orchestra  with 
first-class  musickers  and  a  swell  conductor — and  I  believe  we 
ought  to  do  the  thing  up  brown  and  get  one  of  the  highest-paid 
conductors  on  the  market,  providing  he  ain't  a  Hun — it  goes 
right  into  Beantown  and  New  York  and  Washington;  it  plays 
at  the  best  theaters  to  the  most  cultured  and  moneyed  people; 
it  gives  such  class-advertising  as  a  town  can  get  in  no  other 
way;  and  the  guy  who  is  so  short-sighted  as  to  crab  this  orch- 
estra proposition  is  passing  up  the  chance  to  impress  the 
glorious  name  of  Zenith  on  some  big  New  York  millionaire 
that  might — that  might  establish  a  branch  factory  here! 

"I  could  also  go  into  the  fact  that  for  our  daughters  who 
show  an  interest  in  highbrow  music  and  may  want  to  teach  it, 
having  an  Ai  local  organization  is  of  great  benefit,  but  let's 
keep  this  on  a  practical  basis,  and  I  call  on  you  good  brothers 
to  whoop  it  up  for  Culture  and  a  World-beating  Symphony 
Orchestra!" 

They  applauded. 


262  BABBITT 

To  a  rustle  of  excitement  President  Gunch  proclaimed, 
"Gentlemen,  we  will  now  proceed  to  the  annual  election  of 
officers."  For  each  of  the  six  offices,  three  candidates  had 
been  chosen  by  a  committee.  The  second  name  among  the 
candidates  for  vice-president  was  Babbitt's. 

He  was  surprised.  He  looked  self-conscious.  His  heart 
pounded.  He  was  still  more  agitated  when  the  ballots  were 
counted  and  Gimch  said,  "It's  a  pleasure  to  announce  that 
Georgie  Babbitt  will  be  the  next  assistant  gavel- wi elder.  I 
know  of  no  man  who  stands  more  stanchly  for  common  sense 
and  enterprise  than  good  old  George.  Come  on,  let's  give 
him  our  best  long  yell!" 

As  they  adjourned,  a  hundred  men  crushed  in  to  slap  his 
back.  He  had  never  known  a  higher  moment.  He  drove 
away  in  a  blur  of  wonder.  He  lunged  into  his  office,  chuck- 
ling to  Miss  McGoun,  "Well,  I  guess  you  better  congratulate 
your  boss!     Been  elected  vice-president  of  the  Boosters!" 

He  was  disappointed.  She  answered  only,  "Yes —  Oh,  Mrs. 
Babbitt's  been  trying  to  get  you  on  the  'phone."  But  the 
new  salesman,  Fritz  Weilinger,  said,  "By  golly,  chief,  say, 
that's  great,  that's  perfectly  great!  I'm  tickled  to  death! 
Congratulations ! " 

Babbitt  called  the  house,  and  crowed  to  his  wife,  "Heard 
you  were  trying  to  get  me,  Myra.  Say,  you  got  to  hand  it 
to  little  Georgie,  this  time!  Better  talk  careful!  You  are 
now  addressing  the  vice-president  of  the  Boosters'  Club ! " 

"Oh,  Georgie—" 

"Pretty  nice,  huh?  Willis  I  jams  is  the  new  president,  but 
when  he's  away,  little  ole  Georgie  takes  the  gavel  and  whoops 
'em  up  and  introduces  the  speakers — ^no  matter  if  they're  the 
governor  himself — and — " 

"George!     Listen!" 

" — it  puts  him  in  solid  with  big  men  like  Doc  Billing 
and—" 

"George!     Paul  Riesling — " 


BABBITT  263 

"Yes,  sure,  I'll  'phone  Paul  and  let  him  know  about  it  right 
away." 

"Georgie!  Listen!  Paul's  in  jail.  He  shot  his  wife,  he 
shot  Zilla,  this  noon.    She  may  not  live." 


CHAPTER  XXII 


He  drove  to  the  City  Prison,  not  blindly,  but  with  unusual 
fussy  care  at  corners,  the  fussiness  of  an  old  woman  potting 
plants.    It  kept  him  from  facing  the  obscenity  of  fate. 

The  attendant  said,  "Naw,  you  can't  see  any  of  the  pris- 
oners till  three-thirty — visiting-hour." 

It  was  three.  For  half  an  hour  Babbitt  sat  looking  at  a 
calendar  and  a  clock  on  a  whitewashed  wall.  The  chair  was 
hard  and  mean  and  creaky.  People  went  through  the  office 
and,  he  thought,  stared  at  him.  He  felt  a  belligerent  defiance 
which  broke  into  a  wincing  fear  of  this  machine  which  was 
grinding  Paul — Paul — 

Exactly  at  half-past  three  he  sent  in  his  name. 

The  attendant  returned  with  "Riesling  says  he  don't  want 
to  see  you." 

"You're  crazy!  You  didn't  give  him  my  name!  Tell  him 
it's  George  wants  to  see  him,  George  Babbitt." 

"Yuh,  I  told  him,  all  right,  all  right!  He  said  he  didn't 
want  to  see  you." 

"Then  take  me  in  anyway." 

"Nothing  doing.  If  you  ain't  his  lawyer,  if  he  don't  want 
to  see  you,  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"But,  my  God —    Say,  let  me  see  the  warden." 

"He's  busy.  Come  on,  now,  you — "  Babbitt  reared  over 
him.  The  attendant  hastily  changed  to  a  coaxing  "You  can 
come  back  and  try  to-morrow.  Probably  the  poor  guy  is  off 
his  nut." 

Babbitt  drove,  not  at  all  carefully  or  fussily,  sliding  viciously 
past  trucks,  ignoring  the  truckmen's  curses,  to  the  City  Hall; 

264 


BABBITT  265 

he  stopped  with  a  grind  of  wheels  against  the  curb,  and  ran  up 
the  marble  steps  to  the  office  of  the  Hon.  Mr.  Lucas  Prout, 
the  mayor.  He  bribed  the  mayor's  doorman  with  a  dollar; 
he  was  instantly  inside,  demanding,  "You  remember  me,  Mr. 
Prout?  Babbitt — vice-president  of  the  Boosters — campaigned 
for  you?  Say,  have  you  heard  about  poor  Riesling?  Well, 
I  want  an  order  on  the  warden  or  whatever  you  call  um  of 
the  City  Prison  to  take  me  back  and  see  him.  Good.  Thanks." 

In  fifteen  minutes  he  was  pounding  down  the  prison  cor- 
ridor to  a  cage  where  Paul  Riesling  sat  on  a  cot,  twisted  like 
an  old  beggar,  legs  crossed,  arms  in  a  knot,  biting  at  his 
clenched  fist. 

Paul  looked  up  blankly  as  the  keeper  unlocked  the  cell,  ad- 
mitted Babbitt,  and  left  them  together.  He  spoke  slowly: 
"Goon!     Be  moral!" 

Babbitt  plumped  on  the  couch  beside  him.  "I'm  not  going 
to  be  moral!  I  don't  care  what  happened!  I  just  want  to 
do  anything  I  can.  I'm  glad  Zilla  got  what  was  coming  to 
her." 

Paul  said  argumentatively,  "Now,  don't  go  jumping  on 
Zilla.  I've  been  thinking;  maybe  she  hasn't  had  any  too  easy 
a  time.  Just  after  I  shot  her —  I  didn't  hardly  mean  to,  but 
she  got  to  deviling  me  so  I  went  crazy,  just  for  a  second,  and 
pulled  out  that  old  revolver  you  and  I  used  to  shoot  rabbits 
with,  and  took  a  crack  at  her.  Didn't  hardly  mean  to —  After 
that,  when  I  was  trying  to  stop  the  blood —  It  was  terrible 
what  it  did  to  her  shoulder,  and  she  had  beautiful  skin — 
Maybe  she  won't  die.  I  hope  it  won't  leave  her  skin  all 
scarred.  But  just  afterward,  when  I  was  hunting  through 
the  bathroom  for  some  cotton  to  stop  the  blood,  I  ran  onto  a 
little  fuzzy  yellow  duck  we  hung  on  the  tree  one  Christmas, 
and  I  remembered  she  and  I'd  been  awfully  happy  then — 
Hell.  I  can't  hardly  believe  it's  me  here."  As  Babbitt's  arm 
tightened  about  his  shoulder,  Paul  sighed,  "I'm  glad  you  came. 
But  I  thought  maybe  you'd  lecture  me,  and  when  you've  com- 


^66  BABBITT 

mitted  a  murder,  and  been  brought  here  and  everything — there 
was  a  big  crowd  outside  the  apartment  house,  all  staring,  and 
the  cops  took  me  through  it —  Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  talk 
about  it  any  more." 

But  he  went  on,  in  a  monotonous,  terrified  insane  mum- 
ble. To  divert  him  Babbitt  said,  "Why,  you  got  a  scar  on 
your  cheek." 

"Yes.  That's  where  the  cop  hit  me.  I  suppose  cops  get 
a  lot  of  fun  out  of  lecturing  murderers,  too.  He  was  a  big 
fellow.  And  they  wouldn't  let  me  help  carry  Zilla  down  to 
the  ambulance." 

"Paul!  Quit  itl  Listen:  she  won't  die,  and  when  it's  all 
over  you  and  I'll  go  off  to  Maine  again.  And  maybe  we  can 
get  that  May  Arnold  to  go  along.  I'll  go  up  to  Chicago  and 
ask  her.  Good  woman,  by  golly.  And  afterwards  I'll  see 
that  you  get  started  in  business  out  West  somewhere,  maybe 
Seattle — they  say  that's  a  lovely  city." 

Paul  was  half  smiling.  It  was  Babbitt  who  rambled  now. 
He  could  not  tell  whether  Paul  was  heeding,  but  he  droned 
on  till  the  coming  of  Paul's  lawyer,  P.  J.  Maxwell,  a  thin,  busy, 
unfriendly  man  who  nodded  at  Babbitt  and  hinted,  "If  Riesling 
and  I  could  be  alone  for  a  moment — " 

Babbitt  wrung  Paul's  hands,  and  waited  in  the  office  till 
Maxwell  came  pattering  out.  "Look,  old  man,  what  can  I 
do?"  he  begged. 

"Nothing.  Not  a  thing.  Not  just  now,"  said  Maxwell. 
"Sorry.  Got  to  hurry.  And  don't  try  to  see  him.  I've  had 
the  doctor  give  him  a  shot  of  morphine,  so  he'll  sleep." 

It  seemed  somehow  wicked  to  return  to  the  office.  Babbitt 
felt  as  though  he  had  just  come  from  a  funeral.  He  drifted 
out  to  the  City  Hospital  to  inquire  about  Zilla.  She  was  not 
likely  to  die,  he  learned.  The  bullet  from  Paul's  huge  old  .44 
army  revolver  had  smashed  her  shoulder  and  torn  upward  and 
out. 

He  wandered  home  and  found  his  wife  radiant  with  the  hor- 


BABBITT  267 

rined  interest  we  have  in  the  tragedies  of  our  friends.  "Of 
course  Paul  isn't  altogether  to  blame,  but  this  is  what  comes 
of  his  chasing  after  other  women  instead  of  bearing  his  cross 
in  a  Christian  way,"  she  exulted. 

He  was  too  languid  to  respond  as  he  desired.  He  said  what 
was  to  be  said  about  the  Christian  bearing  of  crosses,  and  went 
out  to  clean  the  car.  Dully,  patiently,  he  scraped  linty  grease 
from  the  drip-pan,  gouged  at  the  mud  caked  on  the  wheels. 
He  used  up  many  minutes  in  washing  his  hands ;  scoured  them 
with  gritty  kitchen  soap;  rejoiced  in  hurting  his  plump 
knuckles.    "Damn  soft  hands — like  a  woman's.    Aah!" 

At  dinner,  when  his  wife  began  the  inevitable,  he  bellowed, 
"I  forbid  any  of  you  to  say  a  word  about  Paul!  I'll  'tend  to 
all  the  talking  about  this  that's  necessary,  hear  me?  There's 
going  to  be  one  house  in  this  scandal-mongering  town  to-night 
that  isn't  going  to  spring  the  holier-than-thou.  And  throw 
those  filthy  evening  papers  out  of  the  house!" 

But  he  himself  read  the  papers,  after  dinner. 

Before  nine  he  set  out  for  the  house  of  Lawyer  Maxwell. 
He  was  received  without  cordiality.    "Well?"  said  Maxwell. 

"I  want  to  offer  my  services  in  the  trial.  I've  got  an  idea. 
Why  couldn't  I  go  on  the  stand  and  swear  I  was  there,  and 
she  pulled  the  gun  first  and  he  wrestled  with  her  and  the  gun 
went  off  accidentally?" 

"And  perjure  yourself?" 

"Huh?  Yes,  I  suppose  it  would  be  perjury.  Oh —  Would 
it  help?" 

"But,  my  dear  fellow!     Perjury!" 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  fool!  Excuse  me,  Maxwell;  I  didn't  mean 
to  get  your  goat.  I  just  mean:  I've  known  and  you've  known 
many  and  many  a  case  of  perjury,  just  to  annex  some  rotten 
little  piece  of  real  estate,  and  here  where  it's  a  case  of  saving 
Paul  from  going  to  prison,  I'd  perjure  myself  black  in  the 
face." 

"No.     Aside  from  the  ethics  of  the  matter,  I'm  afraid  it 


268  BABBITT 

isn't  practicable.  The  prosecutor  would  tear  your  testimony 
to  pieces.  It's  known  that  only  Riesling  and  his  wife  were 
there  at  the  time." 

"Then,  look  here!  Let  me  go  on  the  stand  and  swear — 
and  this  would  be  the  God's  truth — that  she  pestered  him  till 
he  kind  of  went  crazy." 

"No.  Sorry.  Riesling  absolutely  refuses  to  have  any  testi- 
raony  reflecting  on  his  wife.     He  insists  on  pleading  guilty." 

"Then  let  me  get  up  and  testify  something — whatever  you 
say.    Let  me  do  something!" 

"I'm  sorry,  Babbitt,  but  the  best  thing  you  can  do — ^I  hate 
to  say  it,  but  you  could  help  us  most  by  keeping  strictly  out 
of  it." 

Babbitt,  revolving  his  hat  like  a  defaulting  poor  tenant, 
winced  so  visibly  that  Maxwell  condescended: 

"I  don't  like  to  hurt  your  feelings,  but  you  see  we  both  want 
to  do  our  best  for  Riesling,  and  we  mustn't  consider  any  other 
factor.  The  trouble  with  you.  Babbitt,  is  that  you're  one  of 
these  fellows  who  talk  too  readily.  You  like  to  hear  your  own 
voice.  If  there  were  anything  for  which  I  could  put  you  in 
the  witness-box,  you'd  get  going  and  give  the  whole  show  away. 
Sorry.    Now  I  must  look  over  some  papers —    So  sorry." 


He  spent  most  of  the  next  morning  nerving  himself  to  face 
the  garrulous  world  of  the  Athletic  Club.  They  would  talk 
about  Paul;  they  would  be  lip-licking  and  rotten.  But  at  the 
Roughnecks'  Table  they  did  not  mention  Paul.  They  spoke 
with  zeal  of  the  coming  baseball  season.  He  loved  them  as 
he  never  had  before. 

m 

He  had,  doubtless  from  some  story-book,  pictured  Paul's 
trial  as  a  long  struggle,  with  bitter  arguments,  a  taut  crowd, 


BABBITT  ■  269 

and  sudden  and  overwhelming  new  testimony.  Actually,  the 
trial  occupied  less  than  fifteen  minutes,  largely  filled  with  the 
evidence  of  doctors  that  Zilla  would  recover  and  that  Paul 
must  have  oeen  temporarily  insane.  Next  day  Paul  was  sen- 
tenced to  three  years  in  the  State  Penitentiary  and  taken  off — 
quite  undramatically,  not  handcuffed,  merely  plodding  in  a 
tired  way  beside  a  cheerful  deputy  sheriff — and  after  saying 
good-by  to  him  at  the  station  Babbitt  returned  to  his  office 
to  realize  that  he  faced  a  world  which,  without  Paul,  was 
meaningless. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


He  was  busy,  from  March  to  June,  He  kept  himself  from 
the  bewilderment  of  thinking.  His  wife  and  the  neighbors 
were  generous.  Every  evening  he  played  bridge  or  attended 
the  movies,  and  the  days  were  blank  of  face  and  silent. 

In  June,  Mrs.  Babbitt  and  Tinka  went  East,  to  stay  with 
relatives,  and  Babbitt  was  free  to  do — ^he  was  not  quite  sure 
what. 

All  day  long  after  their  departure  he  thought  of  the  eman- 
cipated house  in  which  he  could,  if  he  desired,  go  mad  and 
curse  the  gods  without  having  to  keep  up  a  husbandly  front. 
He  considered,  "I  could  have  a  reg'lar  party  to-night;  stay  out 
till  two  and  not  do  any  explaining  afterwards.  Cheers!"  He 
telephoned  to  Vergil  Gunch,  to  Eddie  Swanson.  Both  of  them 
were  engaged  for  the  evening,  and  suddenly  he  was  bored  by 
having  to  take  so  much  trouble  to  be  riotous. 

He  was  silent  at  dinner,  unusually  kindly  to  Ted  and  Ver- 
ona, hesitating  but  not  disapproving  when  V^ona  stated  her 
opinion  of  Keimeth  Escott's  opinion  of  Dr.  John  Jermison 
Drew's  opinion  of  the  opinions  of  the  evolutionists.  Ted  was 
working  in  a  garage  through  the  summer  vacation,  and  he  re- 
lated his  daily  triumphs:  how  he  had  found  a  cracked  ball- 
race,  what  he  had  said  to  the  Old  Grouch,  what  he  had  said  to 
the  foreman  about  the  future  of  wireless  telephony. 

Ted  and  Verona  went  to  a  dance  after  dinner.  Even  the 
maid  was  out.  Rarely  had  Babbitt  been  alone  in  the  house 
for  an  entire  evening.  He  was  restless.  He  vaguely  wanted 
something  more  diverting  than  the  newspaper  comic  strips  to 
read.    He  ambled  up  to  Verona's  room,  sat  on  her  maidenly 

270 


BABBITT  271 

blue  and  white  bed,  humming  and  grunting  in  a  solid-citizen 
manner  as  he  examined  her  books:  Conrad's  "Rescue,"  a 
volume  strangely  named  "Figures  of  Earth,"  poetry  (quite 
irregular  poetry,  Babbitt  thought)  by  Vachel  Lindsay,  and 
essays  by  H.  L.  Mencken — ^highly  improper  essays,  making 
fun  of  the  church  and  all  the  decencies.  He  liked  none  of  the 
books.  In  them  he  felt  a  spirit  of  rebellion  against  niceness 
and  solid-citizenship.  These  authors — and  he  supposed  they 
were  famous  ones,  too — did  not  seem  to  care  about  telling  a 
good  story  which  would  enable  a  fellow  to  forget  his  troubles. 
He  sighed.  He  noted  a  book,  'The  Three  Black  Pennies,"  by 
Joseph  Hergesheimer.  Ah,  that  was  something  like  it!  It 
would  be  an  adventure  story,  maybe  about  counterfeiting — 
detectives  sneaking  up  on  the  old  house  at  night.  He  tucked 
the  book  under  his  arm,  he  clumped  down-stairs  and  solemnly 
began  to  read,  under  the  piano-lamp: 

"A  twilight  like  blue  dust  sifted  into  the  shallow  fold  of 
the  thickly  wooded  hills.  It  was  early  October,  but  a  crisping 
frost  had  already  stamped  the  maple  trees  with  gold,  the  Span- 
ish oaks  were  hung  with  patches  of  wine  red,  the  sumach  was 
brilliant  in  the  darkening  underbrush.  A  pattern  of  wild  geese, 
flying  low  and  unconcerned  above  the  hills,  wavered  against 
the  serene  ashen  evening.  Howat  Penny,  standing  in  the  com- 
parative clearing  of  a  road,  decided  that  the  shifting  regular 
flight  would  not  come  close  enough  for  a  shot.  .  ,  .  He  had  no 
intention  of  hunting  the  geese.  With  the  drooping  of  day  his 
keenness  had  evaporated;  an  habitual  indifference  strength' 
ened,  permeating  him.  .  .  ." 

There  it  was  again:  discontent  with  the  good  common  ways. 
Babbitt  laid  down  the  book  and  listened  to  the  stillness.  The 
inner  doors  of  the  house  were  open.  He  heard  from  the  kitchen 
the  steady  drip  of  the  refrigerator,  a  rhythm  demanding  and 
disquieting.  He  roamed  to  the  window.  The  summer  evening 
was  foggy  and,  seen  through  the  wire  screen,  the  street  lamps 
were  crosses  of  pale  fire.     The  whole  world  was  abnormal. 


272  BABBITT 

While  he  brooded,  Verona  and  Ted  came  in  and  went  up  to 
bed.  Silence  thickened  in  the  sleeping  house.  He  put  on  his 
hat,  his  respectable  derby,  lighted  a  cigar,  and  walked  up  and 
down  before  the  house,  a  portly,  worthy,  unimaginative  figure, 
humming  "Silver  Threads  among  the  Gold."  He  casually  con- 
sidered, "Might  call  up  Paul."  Then  he  remembered.  He 
saw  Paul  in  a  jailbird's  uniform,  but  while  he  agonized  he 
didn't  believe  the  tale.  It  was  part  of  the  unreality  of  this 
fog-enchanted  evening. 

If  she  were  here  Myra  would  be  hinting,  "Isn't  it  late,  Geor- 
gie?"  He  tramped  in  forlorn  and  unwanted  freedom.  Fog  hid 
the  house  now.  The  world  was  uncreated,  a  chaos  without  tur- 
moil or  desire. 

Through  the  mist  came  a  man  at  so  feverish  a  pace  that  he 
seemed  to  dance  with  fury  as  he  entered  the  orb  of  glow  from 
a  street-lamp.  At  each  step  he  brandished  his  stick  and  brought 
it  down  with  a  crash.  His  glasses  on  their  broad  pretentious 
ribbon  banged  against  his  stomach.  Babbitt  incredulously 
saw  that  it  was  Chum  Frink. 

Frink  stopped,  focused  his  vision,  and  spoke  with  gravity: 

"There's  another  fool.  George  Babbitt.  Lives  for  renting 
howshes — chouses.  Know  who  I  am?  I'm  traitor  to  poetry, 
I'm  drunk.  I'm  talking  too  much.  I  don't  care.  Know  what 
I  could  've  been?  I  could  've  been  a  Gene  Field  or  a  James 
Whitcomb  Riley.  Maybe  a  Stevenson.  I  could  've.  Whim- 
sies.   'Magination.    Lissen.    Lissen  to  this.    Just  made  it  up: 

Glittering   summery   meadowy  noise 

Of  beetles  and  bums  and  respectable  boys. 

Hear  that?  Whimzh — ^whimsy.  I  made  that  up.  /  dont 
know  what  it  means!  Beginning  good  verse.  Chile's  Garden 
Verses.  And  whadi  write?  Tripe!  Cheer-up  poems.  All 
tripe!     Could  have  written —    Too  latel" 


BABBITT  273 

He  darted  on  with  an  alarming  plunge,  seeming  always  to 
pitch  forward  yet  never  quite  falling.  Babbitt  would  have  been 
no  more  astonished  and  nc  less  had  a  ghost  skipped  out  of  the 
fog  carrying  his  head.  He  accepted  Frink  with  vast  apathy; 
he  grunted,  "Poor  boob!"  and  straightway  forgot  him. 

He  plodded  into  the  house,  deliberately  went  to  the  refrig- 
erator and  rifled  it.  When  Mrs.  Babbitt  was  at  home,  this 
was  one  of  the  major  household  crimes.  He  stood  before  the 
covered  laundry  tubs,  eating  a  chicken  leg  and  half  a  saucer 
of  raspberry  jelly,  and  grumbling  over  a  clammy  cold  boiled 
potato.  He  was  thinking.  It  was  coming  to  him  that  perhaps 
all  life  as  he  knew  it  and  vigorously  practised  it  was  futile; 
that  heaven  as  portrayed  by  the  Reverend  Dr.  John  Jennison 
Drew  was  neither  probable  nor  very  interesting ;  that  he  hadn't 
much  pleasure  out  of  making  money;  that  it  was  of  doubtful 
worth  to  rear  children  merely  that  they  might  rear  children 
who  would  rear  children.  What  was  it  all  about?  What  did 
he  want? 

He  blundered  into  the  living-room,  lay  on  the  davenport, 
hands  behind  his  head. 

What  did  he  want?  Wealth?  Social  position?  Travel? 
Servants?    Yes,  but  only  incidentally. 

"I  give  it  up,"  he  sighed. 

But  he  did  know  that  he  wanted  the  presence  of  Paul  Ries- 
ling; and  from  that  he  stumbled  into  the  admission  that  he 
wanted  the  fairy  girl — in  the  flesh.  If  there  had  been  a  woman 
whom  he  loved,  he  would  have  fled  to  her,  humbled  his  fore- 
head on  her  knees. 

He  thought  of  his  stenographer,  Miss  McGoun.  He  thought 
of  the  prettiest  of  the  manicure  girls  at  the  Hotel  Thornleigh 
barber  shop.  As  he  fell  asleep  on  the  davenport  he  felt  that 
he  had  found  something  in  life,  and  that  he  had  made  a  ter- 
rifying, thrilling  break  with  everything  that  was  decent  and 
normal. 


274  BABBITT 


He  had  forgotten,  next  morning,  that  he  was  a  conscious 
rebel,  but  he  was  irritable  in  the  office  and  at  the  eleven  o'clock 
drive  of  telephone  calls  and  visitors  he  did  something  he  had 
often  desired  and  never  dared:  he  left  the  office  without  ex- 
cuses to  those  slave-drivers  his  employees,  and  went  to  the 
movies.  He  enjoyed  the  right  to  be  alone.  He  came  out  with 
*  vicious  determination  to  do  what  he  pleased. 

As  he  approached  the  Roughnecks'  Table  at  the  club,  every- 
body laughed. 

"Well,  here's  the  millionaire!"  said  Sidney  Finkelstein. 

"Yes,  I  saw  him  in  his  ^Locomobile!"  said  Professor  Pum- 
phrey. 

"Gosh,  it  must  be  great  to  be  a  smart  guy  like  Georgie!" 
moaned  Vergil  Gunch.  "He's  probably  stolen  all  of  Dorches- 
ter. I'd  hate  to  leave  a  poor  little  defenseless  piece  of  prop- 
erty lying  around  where  he  could  get  his  hooks  on  it!" 

They  had,  Babbitt  perceived,  "something  on  him."  Also, 
they  "had  their  kidding  clothes  on."  Ordinarily  he  would 
have  been  delighted  at  the  honor  implied  in  being  chaffed, 
but  he  was  suddenly  touchy.  He  grunted,  "Yuh,  sure;  maybe 
I'll  take  you  guys  on  as  office  boys!"  He  was  impatient  as 
the  jest  elaborately  rolled  on  to  its  denouement. 

"Of  course  he  may  have  been  meeting  a  girl,"  they  said, 
and  "No,  I  think  he  was  waiting  for  his  old  roommate.  Sir 
Jerusalem  Doak." 

He  exploded,  "Oh,  spring  it,  spring  it,  you  boneheads! 
What's  the  great  joke?" 

"Hurray!  George  is  peeved!"  snickered  Sidney  Finkelstein, 
while  a  grin  went  round  the  table.  Gunch  revealed  the  shock- 
ing truth:  He  had  seen  Babbitt  coming  out  of  a  motion- 
picture  theater — at  noon! 

They  kept  it  up.     With  a  hundred  variations,  a  hundred 


BABBITT  275 

guffaws,  they  said  that  he  had  gone  to  the  movies  during  busi- 
ness-hours. He  didn't  so  much  mind  Gunch,  but  he  was  an- 
noyed by  Sidney  Finkelstein,  that  brisk,  lean,  red-headed  ex- 
plainer of  jokes.  He  was  bothered,  too,  by  the  lump  of  ice 
in  his  glass  of  water.  It  was  too  large;  it  spun  round  and 
burned  his  nose  when  he  tried  to  drink.  He  raged  that  Finkel- 
stein was  like  that  lump  of  ice.  But  he  won  through;  he  kept 
up  his  banter  till  they  grew  tired  of  the  superlative  jest  and 
turned  to  the  great  problems  of  the  day. 

He  reflected,  "What's  the  matter  with  me  to-day?  Seems 
like  I've  got  an  awful  grouch.  Only  they  talk  so  darn  much. 
But  I  better  steer  careful  and  keep  my  mouth  shut." 

As  they  lighted  their  cigars  he  mumbled,  "Got  to  get  back," 
and  on  a  chorus  of  "If  you  will  go  spending  your  mornings  with 
lady  ushers  at  the  movies!"  he  escaped.  He  heard  them  gig- 
gling. He  was  embarrassed.  While  he  was  most  bombasti- 
cally agreeing  with  the  coat-man  that  the  weather  was  warm, 
he  was  conscious  that  he  was  longing  to  run  childishly  with 
his  troubles  to  the  comfort  of  the  fairy  child. 


m 

He  kept  Miss  McGoun  after  he  had  finished  dictating.  He 
searched  for  a  topic  which  would  warm  her  office  impersonality 
into  friendliness. 

"Where  you  going  on  your  vacation?"  he  purred. 

"I  think  I'll  go  up-state  to  a  farm  do  you  want  me  to  have 
the  Siddons  lease  copied  this  afternoon?" 

"Oh,  no  hurry  about  it.  ...  I  suppose  you  have  a  great 
time  when  you  get  away  from  us  cranks  in  the  office." 

She  rose  and  gathered  her  pencils.  "Oh,  nobody's  cranky 
here  I  think  I  can  get  it  copied  after  I  do  the  letters." 

She  was  gone.  Babbitt  utterly  repudiated  the  view  that  he 
had  been  trying  to  discover  how  approachable  was  Miss  Mc- 
Goun.     "Course!  knew  there  was  nothing  doing!"  he  said. 


276  BABBITT 

IV 

Eddie  Swanson,  the  motor-car  agent  who  lived  across  the 
street  from  Babbitt,  was  giving  a  Sunday  supper.  His  wife 
Louetta,  young  Louetta  who  loved  jazz  in  music  and  in  clothes 
and  laughter,  was  at  her  wildest.  She  cried,  "We'll  have  a  real 
party!"  as  she  received  the  guests.  Babbitt  had  uneasily  felt 
that  to  many  men  she  might  be  alluring;  now  he  admitted  that 
to  himself  she  was  overwhelmingly  alluring.  Mrs.  Babbitt 
had  never  quite  approved  of  Louetta;  Babbitt  was  glad  that 
she  was  not  here  this  evening. 

He  insisted  on  helping  Louetta  in  the  kitchen:  taking  the 
chicken  croquettes  from  the  warming-oven,  the  lettuce  sand- 
wiches from  the  ice-box.  He  held  her  hand,  once,  and  she 
depressingly  didn't  notice  it.  She  caroled,  "You're  a  good 
little  mother's-helper,  Georgie.  Now  trot  in  with  the  tray 
and  leave  it  on  the  side-table." 

He  wished  that  Eddie  Swanson  would  give  them  cocktails; 
that  Louetta  would  have  one.  He  wanted —  Oh,  he  wanted 
to  be  one  of  these  Bohemians  you  read  about.  Studio  parties. 
Wild  lovely  girls  who  were  independent.  Not  necessarily  bad. 
Certainly  not!  But  not  tame,  like  Floral  Heights.  How  he'd 
ever  stood  it  all  these  years — 

Eddie  did  not  give  them  cocktails.  True,  they  supped  with 
mirth,  and  with  several  repetitions  by  Orville  Jones  of  "Any 
time  Louetta  wants  to  come  sit  on  my  lap  I'll  tell  this  sand- 
wich to  beat  it!"  but  they  were  respectable,  as  befitted  Sun- 
day evening.  Babbitt  had  discreetly  preempted  a  place  be- 
side Louetta  on  the  piano  bench.  While  he  talked  about  mo- 
tors, while  he  listened  with  a  fixed  smile  to  her  account  of 
the  film  she  had  seen  last  Wednesday,  while  he  hoped  that  she 
would  hurry  up  and  finish  her  description  of  the  plot,  the 
beauty  of  the  leading  man,  and  the  luxury  of  the  setting,  he 
studied  her.  Slim  waist  girdled  with  raw  silk,  strong  brows, 
ardent  eyes,  hair  parted  above  a  broad  forehead — she  meant 


BABBITT  277 

youth  to  him  and  a  charm  which  saddened.  He  thought  of 
how  valiant  a  companion  she  would  be  on  a  long  motor  tour, 
exploring  mountains,  picnicking  in  a  pine  grove  high  above 
a  valley.  Her  frailness  touched  him;  he  was  angry  at  Eddie 
Swanson  for  the  incessant  family  bickering.  All  at  once  he 
identified  Louetta  with  the  fairy  girl.  He  was  startled  by 
the  conviction  that  they  had  always  had  a  romantic  attraction 
for  each  other. 

"I  suppose  you're  leading  a  simply  terrible  life,  now  you're 
a  widower,"  she  said. 

"You  bet!  1,'m  a  bad  little  fellow  and  proud  of  it.  Some 
evening  you  slip  Eddie  some  dope  in  his  coffee  and  sneak  across 
the  road  and  I'll  show  you  how  to  mix  a  cocktail,"  he  roared. 

"Well,  now,  I  might  do  it!     You  never  can  tell!" 

"Well,  whenever  you're  ready,  you  just  hang  a  towel  out  of 
the  attic  window  and  I'll  jump  for  the  gin!" 

Every  one  giggled  at  this  naughtiness.  In  a  pleased  way 
Eddie  Swanson  stated  that  he  would  have  a  physician  analyze 
his  coffee  daily.  The  others  were  diverted  to  a  discussion  of 
the  more  agreeable  recent  murders,  but  Babbitt  drew  Louetta 
back  to  personal  things: 

"That's  the  prettiest  dress  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

"Do  you  honestly  like  it?" 

"Like  it?  Why,  say,  I'm  going  to  have  Kenneth  Escott  put 
a  piece  in  the  paper  saying  that  the  swellest  dressed  woman 
in  the  U.  S.  is  Mrs.  E.  Louetta  Swanson." 

"Now,  you  stop  teasing  me!"  But  she  beamed.  "Let's 
dance  a  little.    George,  you've  got  to  dance  with  me." 

Even  as  he  protested,  "Oh,  you  know  what  a  rotten  dancer 
I  am!"  he  was  lumbering  to  his  feet. 

"I'll  teach  you.    I  can  teach  anybody." 

Her  eyes  were  moist,  her  voice  was  jagged  with  excitement. 
He  was  convinced  that  he  had  won  her.  He  clasped  her,  con- 
scious of  her  smooth  warmth,  and  solemnly  he  circled  in  a 
heavy  version  of  the  one-step.    He  bumped  into  only  one  or 


278  BABBITT 

two  people.  "Gosh,  I'm  not  doing  so  bad;  hittin'  'em  up  like 
a  regular  stage  dancer!"  he  gloated;  and  she  answered  busily, 
"Yes — yes — I  told  you  I  could  teach  anybody — don't  take 
such  long  steps!" 

For  a  moment  he  was  robbed  of  confidence;  with  fearful 
concentration  he  sought  to  keep  time  to  the  music.  But  he 
was  enveloped  again  by  her  enchantment.  "She's  got  to  like 
me;  I'll  make  her ! "  he  vowed.  He  tried  to  kiss  the  lock  beside 
her  ear.  She  mechanically  moved  her  head  to  avoid  it,  and 
mechanically  she  murmured,  "Don't!" 

For  a  moment  he  hated  her,  but  after  the  moment  he  was 
as  urgent  as  ever.  He  danced  with  Mrs.  Orville  Jones,  but 
he  watched  Louetta  swooping  down  the  length  of  the  room  with 
her  husband.  "Careful!  You're  getting  foolish!"  he  cau- 
tioned himself,  the  while  he  hopped  and  bent  his  solid  knees 
in  dalliance  with  Mrs.  Jones,  and  to  that  worthy  lady  rumbled, 
"Gee,  it's  hot!"  Without  reason,  he  thought  of  Paul  in  that 
shadowy  place  where  men  never  dance.  "I'm  crazy  to-night; 
better  go  home,"  he  worried,  but  he  left  Mrs.  Jones  and  dashed 
to  Louetta's  lovely  side,  demanding,  "The  next  is  mine." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  hot;  I'm  not  going  to  dance  this  one," 

"Then,"  boldly,  "come  out  and  sit  on  the  porch  and  get 
all  nice  and  cool." 

"Well—" 

In  the  tender  darkness,  with  the  clamor  in  the  house  behind 
them,  he  resolutely  took  her  hand.  She  squeezed  his  once, 
then  relaxed. 

"Louetta!     I  think  you're  the  nicest  thing  I  know!" 

"Well,  I  think  you're  very  nice." 

"Do  you?    You  got  to  like  me!     I'm  so  lonely!" 

"Oh,  you'll  be  all  right  when  your  wife  comes  home." 

"No,  I'm  always  lonely." 

She  clasped  her  hands  under  her  chin,  so  that  he  dared  not 
touch  her.     He  sighed: 

"When  I  feel  punk  and — "    He  was  about  to  bring  in  the 


BABBITT  279 

tragedy  of  Paul,  but  that  was  too  sacred  even  for  the  diplo- 
macy of  love.  " — when  I  get  tired  out  at  the  office  and  every- 
thing, I  like  to  look  across  the  street  and  think  of  you.  Do 
you  know  I  dreamed  of  you,  one  time! " 

"Was  it  a  nice  dream?" 

"Lovely!" 

"Oh,  well,  they  say  dreams  go  by  opposites!  Now  I  must 
run  in." 

She  was  on  her  feet. 

"Oh,  don't  go  in  yet!     Please,  Louetta!" 

"Yes,  I  must.    Have  to  look  out  for  my  guests." 

"Let  'em  look  out  for  'emselves!" 

"I  couldn't  do  that."  She  carelessly  tapped  his  shoulder 
and  slipped  away. 

But  after  two  minutes  of  shamed  and  childish  longing  to 
sneak  home  he  was  snorting,  "Certainly  I  wasn't  trying  to  get 
chummy  with  her!  Knew  there  was  nothing  doing,  all  the 
time!"  and  he  ambled  in  to  dance  with  Mrs.  Orville  Jones, 
and  to  avoid  Louetta,  virtuously  and  conspicuously. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


His  visit  to  Paul  was  as  unreal  as  his  night  of  fog  and  ques- 
tioning. Unseeing  he  went  through  prison  corridors  stinking 
of  carbolic  acid  to  a  room  lined  with  pale  yellow  settees  pierced 
in  rosettes,  like  the  shoe-store  benches  he  had  known  as  a  boy. 
The  guard  led  in  Paul.  Above  his  uniform  of  linty  gray,  Paul's 
face  was  pale  and  without  expression.  He  moved  timorously 
in  response  to  the  guard's  commands;  he  meekly  pushed  Bab- 
bitt's gifts  of  tobacco  and  magazines  across  the  table  to  the 
guard  for  examination.  He  had  nothing  to  say  but  "Oh,  I'm 
getting  used  to  it"  and  "I'm  working  in  the  tailor  shop;  the 
stuff  hurts  my  fingers." 

Babbitt  knew  that  in  this  place  of  death  Paul  was  already 
dead.  And  as  he  pondered  on  the  train  home  something  in 
his  own  self  seemed  to  have  died:  a  loyal  and  vigorous  faith 
in  the  goodness  of  the  world,  a  fear  of  public  disfavor,  a  pride 
in  success.  He  was  glad  that  his  wife  was  away.  He  admitted 
it  without  justifying  it.    He  did  not  care. 


Her  card  read  "Mrs.  Daniel  Judique."  Babbitt  knew  of  her 
as  the  widow  of  a  wholesale  paper-dealer.  She  must  have 
been  forty  or  forty-two  but  he  thought  her  younger  when  he 
saw  her  in  the  office,  that  afternoon.  She  had  come  to  inquire 
about  renting  an  apartment,  and  he  took  her  away  from  the 
unskilled  girl  accountant.  He  was  nervously  attracted  by 
her  smartness.  She  was  a  slender  woman,  in  a  black  Swiss 
frock  dotted  with  white,  a  cool-looking  graceful  frock.    A  broad 

280 


BABBITT  281 

black  hat  shaded  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  lustrous,  her  soft 
chin  of  an  agreeable  plumpness,  and  her  cheeks  an  even  rose. 
Babbitt  wondered  afterward  if  she  was  made  up,  but  no  man 
living  knew  less  of  such  arts. 

She  sat  revolving  her  violet  parasol.  Her  voice  was  appeal- 
ing without  being  coy.     "I  wonder  if  you  can  help  me?" 

"Be  delighted." 

"I've  looked  everywhere  and —  I  want  a  little  flat,  just 
a  bedroom,  or  perhaps  two,  and  sitting-room  and  kitchenette 
and  bath,  but  I  want  one  that  really  has  some  charm  to  it,  not 
these  dingy  places  or  these  new  ones  with  terrible  gaudy  chan- 
deliers. And  I  can't  pay  so  dreadfully  much.  My  name's 
Tanis  Judique." 

"I  think  maybe  I've  got  just  the  thing  for  you.  Would  you 
like  to  chase  around  and  look  at  it  now?" 

"Yes.    I  have  a  couple  of  hours." 

In  the  new  Cavendish  Apartments,  Babbitt  had  a  flat  which 
he  had  been  holding  for  Sidney  Finkelstein,  but  at  the  thought 
of  driving  beside  this  agreeable  woman  he  threw  over  his 
friend  Finkelstein,  and  with  a  note  of  gallantry  he  proclaimed, 
"I'll  let  you  see  what  I  can  do!" 

He  dusted  the  seat  of  the  car  for  her,  and  twice  he  risked 
death  in  showing  off  his  driving. 

"You  do  know  how  to  handle  a  car!"  she  said. 

He  liked  her  voice.  There  was,  he  thought,  music  in  it 
and  a  hint  of  culture,  not  a  bouncing  giggle  like  Louetta  Swan- 
son's. 

He  boasted,  "You  know,  there's  a  lot  of  these  fellows  that 

are  so  scared  and  drive  so  slow  that  they  get  in  everybody's 

way.    The  safest  driver  is  a  fellow  that  knows  how  to  handle 

■  his  machine  and  yet  isn't  scared  to  speed  up  when  it's  necessary, 

don't  you  think  so?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"I  bet  you  drive  like  a  wiz." 

"Oh,  no — I  mean — not  really.     Of  course,  we  had  a  car — 


282  BABBITT 

I  mean,  before  my  husband  passed  on — and  I  used  to  make 
believe  drive  it,  but  I  don't  think  any  woman  ever  learns  to 
drive  like  a  man." 

"Well,  now,  there's  some  mighty  good  woman  drivers." 

"Oh,  of  course,  these  women  that  try  to  imitate  men,  and 
play  golf  and  everything,  and  ruin  their  complexions  and  spoil 
their  hands!" 

"That's  so.     I  never  did  like  these  mannish  females." 

"I  mean — of  course,  I  admire  them,  dreadfully,  and  I  feel 
so  weak  and  useless  beside  them." 

"Oh,  rats  now!     I  bet  you  play  the  piano  like  a  wiz." 

"Oh,  no — I  mean — not  really." 

"Well,  I'll  bet  you  do!"  He  glanced  at  her  smooth  hands, 
her  diamond  and  ruby  rings.  She  caught  the  glance,  snug- 
gled her  hands  together  with  a  kittenish  curving  of  slim  white 
fingers  which  delighted  him,  and  yearned: 

"I  do  love  to  play — I  mean — I  like  to  drum  on  the  piano, 
but  I  haven't  had  any  real  training.  Mr.  Judique  used  to 
say  I  would  've  been  a  good  pianist  if  I'd  had  any  training, 
but  then,  I  guess  he  was  just  flattering  me." 

"I'll  bet  he  wasn't!     I'll  bet  you've  got  temperament." 

"Oh—    Do  you  like  music,  Mr.  Babbitt?" 

"You  bet  I  do!  Only  I  don't  know  's  I  care  so  much  for 
all  this  classical  stuff." 

"Oh,  I  do!     I  just  love  Chopin  and  all  those." 

"Do  you,  honest?     Well,  of  course,  I  go  to  lots  of  these    j 
highbrow  concerts,  but  I  do  like  a  good  jazz  orchestra,  right 
up  on  its  toes,  with  the  fellow  that  plays  the  bass  fiddle  spin- 
ning it  around  and  beating  it  up  with  the  bow." 

"Oh,  I  know.  I  do  love  good  dance  music.  I  love  to  dance, 
don't  you,  Mr.  Babbitt?" 

"Sure,  you  bet.    Not  that  I'm  very  darn  good  at  it,  though." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you  are.  You  ought  to  let  me  teach  you.  I 
can  teach  anybody  to  dance." 

"Would  you  give  me  a  lesson  some  time?" 


BABBITT  283 

"Indeed  I  would." 

"Better  be  careful,  or  I'll  be  taking  you  up  on  that  propo- 
sition. I'll  be  coming  up  to  your  flat  and  making  you  give  me 
that  lesson." 

"Ye-es."  She  was  not  offended,  but  she  was  non-committal. 
fle  warned  himself,  "Have  some  sense  now,  you  chump !  Don't 
go  making  a  fool  of  yourself  again!"  and  with  loftiness  he 
discoursed: 

"I  wish  I  could  dance  like  some  of  these  young  fellows,  but 
I'll  tell  you:  I  feel  it's  a  man's  place  to  take  a  full,  you  might 
say,  a  creative  share  in  the  world's  work  and  mold  conditions 
and  have  something  to  show  for  his  life,  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Oh,  I  do!" 

"And  so  I  have  to  sacrifice  some  of  the  things  I  might  like 
to  tackle,  though  I  do,  by  golly,  play  about  as  good  a  game  of 
golf  as  the  next  fellow!" 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you  do.  .  .  .  Are  you  married?" 

"Uh — ^yes.  .  .  .  And,  uh,  of  course  official  duties — I'm  the 
vice-president  of  the  Boosters'  Club,  and  I'm  running  one  of 
the  committees  of  the  State  Association  of  Real  Estate  Boards, 
and  that  means  a  lot  of  work  and  responsibility — and  practi- 
cally no  gratitude  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  know!     Public  men  never  do  get  proper  credit." 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  a  high  degree  of  mutual  re- 
spect, and  at  the  Cavendish  Apartments  he  helped  her  out  in 
a  courtly  manner,  waved  his  hand  at  the  house  as  though  he 
were  presenting  it  to  her,  and  ponderously  ordered  the  elevator 
boy  to  "hustle  and  get  the  keys."  She  stood  close  to  him  in 
the  elevator,  and  he  was  stirred  but  cautious. 

It  was  a  pretty  flat,  of  white  woodwork  and  soft  blue  walls. 
Mrs.  Judique  gushed  with  pleasure  as  she  agreed  to  take  it, 
and  as  they  walked  down  the  hall  to  the  elevator  she  touched 
his  sleeve,  caroling,  "Oh,  I'm  so  glad  I  went  to  you!  It's  such 
a  privilege  to  meet  a  man  who  really  Understands.  Oh!  The 
flats  some  people  have  showed  me!" 


284  BABBITT 

He  had  a  sharp  instinctive  belief  that  he  could  put  his  arm 
around  her,  but  he  rebuked  himself  and  with  excessive  polite- 
ness he  saw  her  to  the  car,  drove  her  home.  All  the  way  back 
to  his  office  he  raged: 

"Glad  I  had  some  sense  for  once.  .  .  .  Curse  it,  I  wish  I'd 
tried.  She's  a  darling!  A  corker!  A  reg'lar  charmer !  Lovely 
eyes  and  darling  lips  and  that  trim  waist — never  get  sloppy, 
like  some  women.  .  .  .  No,  no,  no!  She's  a  real  cultured  lady. 
One  of  the  brightest  little  women  I've  met  these  many  moons. 
Understands  about  Public  Topics  and —  But,  darn  it,  why 
didn't  I  try?  .  .  .  Tanis!" 

m 

He  was  harassed  and  puzzled  by  it,  but  he  found  that  he 
was  turning  toward  youth,  as  youth.  The  girl  who  especially 
disturbed  him — though  he  had  never  spoken  to  her — was  the 
last  manicure  girl  on  the  right  in  the  Pompeian  Barber  Shop. 
She  was  small,  swift,  black-haired,  smiling.  She  was  nineteen, 
perhaps,  or  twenty.  She  wore  thin  salmon-colored  blouSes 
which  exhibited  her  shoulders  and  her  black-ribboned  cami- 
soles. 

He  went  to  the  Pompeian  for  his  fortnightly  hair-trim.  As 
always,  he  felt  disloyal  at  deserting  his  neighbor,  the  Reeves 
Building  Barber  Shop.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  overthrew 
his  sense  of  guilt.  "Doggone  it,  I  don't  have  to  go  here  if  I 
don't  want  to!  I  don't  own  the  Reeves  Building!  These 
barbers  got  nothing  on  me!  I'll  doggone  well  get  my  hair  cut 
where  I  doggone  well  want  to!  Don't  want  to  hear  anything 
more  about  it!  I'm  through  standing  by  people — unless  I 
want  to.    It  doesn't  get  you  anywhere.    I'm  through!" 

The  Pompeian  Barber  Shop  was  in  the  basement  of  the  Ho- 
tel Thornleigh,  largest  and  most  dynamically  modern  hotel  in 
Zenith.  Curving  marble  steps  with  a  rail  of  polished  brass 
led  from  the  hotel-lobby  down  to  the  barber  shop.    The  interior 


BABBITT  285 

was  of  black  and  white  and  crimson  tiles,  with  a  sensational 
ceiling  of  burnished  gold,  and  a  fountain  in  which  a  massive 
nymph  forever  emptied  a  scarlet  cornucopia.  Forty  barbers 
and  nine  manicure  girls  worked  desperately,  and  at  the  door 
six  colored  porters  lurked  to  greet  the  customers,  to  care  rev- 
erently for  their  hats  and  collars,  to  lead  them  to  a  place  of 
waiting  where,  on  a  carpet  like  a  tropic  isle  in  the  stretch  of 
white  stone  floor,  were  a  dozen  leather  chairs  and  a  table 
heaped  with  magazines. 

Babbitt's  porter  was  an  obsequious  gray-haired  negro  who 
did  him  an  honor  highly  esteemed  in  the  land  of  Zenith — 
greeted  him  by  name.  Yet  Babbitt  was  unhappy.  His  bright 
particular  manicure  girl  was  engaged.  She  was  doing  the 
nails  of  an  overdressed  man  and  giggling  with  him.  Babbitt 
hated  him.  He  thought  of  waiting,  but  to  stop  the  powerful 
system  of  the  Pompeian  was  inconceivable,  and  he  was  in- 
stantly wafted  into  a  chair. 

About  him  was  luxury,  rich  and  delicate.  One  votary  was 
having  a  violet-ray  facial  treatment,  the  next  an  oil  shampoo. 
Boys  wheeled  about  miraculous  electrical  massage-machines. 
The  barbers  snatched  steaming  towels  from  a  machine  like  a 
howitzer  of  polished  nickel  and  disdainfully  flung  them  away 
after  a  second's  use.  On  the  vast  marble  shelf  facing  the 
chairs  were  hundreds  of  tonics,  amber  and  ruby  and  emerald. 
It  was  flattering  to  Babbitt  to  have  two  personal  slaves  at 
once — the  barber  and  the  bootblack.  He  would  have  been 
completely  happy  if  he  could  also  have  had  the  manicure  girl. 
The  barber  snipped  at  his  hair  and  asked  his  opinion  of  the 
Havre  de  Grace  races,  the  baseball  season,  and  Mayor  Prout. 
The  young  negro  bootblack  hummed  "The  Camp  Meeting 
Blues"  and  polished  in  rhythm  to  his  tune,  drawing  the  shiny 
shoe-rag  so  taut  at  each  stroke  that  it  snapped  like  a  banjo 
string.  The  barber  was  an  excellent  salesman.  He  made 
Babbitt  feel  rich  and  important  by  his  manner  of  inquiring, 
"What  is  your  favorite  tonic,  sir?    Have  you  time  to-day,  sir, 


286  BABBITT 

for  ^  facial  massage?  Your  scalp  is  a  little  tight;  shall  I  give 
you  a  scalp  massage?" 

Babbitt's  best  thrill  was  in  the  shampoo.  The  barber  made 
his  hair  creamy  with  thick  soap,  then  (as  Babbitt  bent  over 
the  bowl,  muffled  in  towels)  drenched  it  with  hot  water  which 
prickled  along  his  scalp,  and  at  last  ran  the  water  ice-cold. 
At  the  shock,  the  sudden  burning  cold  on  his  skull.  Babbitt's 
heart  thumped,  his  chest  heaved,  and  his  spine  was  an  electric 
wire.  It  was  a  sensation  which  broke  the  monotony  of  life. 
He  looked  grandly  about  the  shop  as  he  sat  up.  The  barber 
obsequiously  rubbed  his  wet  hair  and  bound  it  in  a  towel  as 
in  a  turban,  so  that  Babbitt  resembled  a  plump  pink  calif  on 
an  ingenious  and  adjustable  throne.  The  barber  begged  (in 
the  manner  of  one  who  was  a  good  fellow  yet  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  splendors  of  the  calif),  ''How  about  a  little  Eldorado 
Oil  Rub,  sir?  Very  beneficial  to  the  scalp,  sir.  Didn't  I 
give  you  one  the  last  time?" 

He  hadn't,  but  Babbitt  agreed,  "Well,  all  right." 

With  quaking  eagerness  he  saw  that  his  manicure  girl  was 
free. 

"I  don't  know,  I  guess  I'll  have  a  manicure  after  all,"  he 
droned,  and  excitedly  watched  her  coming,  dark-haired,  smiling, 
tender,  little.  The  manicuring  would  have  to  be  finished  at  her 
table,  and  he  would  be  able  to  talk  to  her  without  the  barber 
listening.  He  waited  contentedly,  not  trying  to  peep  at  her, 
while  she  filed  his  nails  and  the  barber  shaved  him  and  smeared 
on  his  burning  cheeks  all  the  interesting  mixtures  which  the 
pleasant  minds  of  barbers  have  devised  through  the  revolving 
ages.  When  the  barber  was  done  and  he  sat  opposite  the  girl 
at  her  table,  he  admired  the  marble  slab  of  it,  admired  the 
sunken  set  bowl  with  its  tiny  silver  taps,  and  admired  himself 
for  being  able  to  frequent  so  costly  a  place.  When  she  with- 
drew his  wet  hand  from  the  bowl,  it  was  so  sensitive  from  the 
warm  soapy  water  that  he  was  abnormally  aware  of  the  clasp 
of  her  firm  little  paw.    He  delighted  in  the  pinkness  and  glossi- 


BABBITT  287 

ness  of  her  nails.  Her  hands  seemed  to  him  more  adorable 
than  Mrs.  Judique's  thin  fingers,  and  more  elegant.  He  had 
a  certain  ecstasy  in  the  pain  when  she  gnawed  at  the  cuticle  of 
his  nails  with  a  sharp  knife.  He  struggled  not  to  look  at  the 
outline  of  her  young  bosom  and  her  shoulders,  the  more  ap- 
parent under  a  film  of  pink  chiffon.  He  was  conscious  of  her 
as  an  exquisite  thing,  and  when  he  tried  to  impress  his  person- 
ality on  her  he  spoke  as  awkwardly  as  a  country  boy  at  his 
first  party: 

"Well,  kinda  hot  to  be  working  to-day." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is  hot.  You  cut  your  own  nails,  last  time,  didn't 
you!" 

"Ye-es,  guess  I  must  've." 

"You  always  ought  to  go  to  a  manicure." 

"Yes,  maybe  that's  so.    I — " 

"There's  nothing  looks  so  nice  as  nails  that  are  looked  after 
good.  I  always  think  that's  the  best  way  to  spot  a  real  gent. 
There  was  an  auto  salesman  in  here  yesterday  that  claimed 
you  could  always  tell  a  fellow's  class  by  the  car  he  drove,  but 
I  says  to  him,  'Don't  be  silly,'  I  says;  'the  wisenheimers  grab 
a  look  at  a  fellow's  nails  when  they  want  to  tell  if  he's  a  tin- 
horn or  a  real  gent!' " 

"Yes,  maybe  there's  something  to  that.  Course,  that  is — 
with  a  pretty  kiddy  like  you,  a  man  can't  help  coming  to  get 
his  mitts  done." 

"Yeh,  I  may  be  a  kid,  but  I'm  a  wise  bird,  and  I  know  nice 
folks  when  I  see  um — I  can  read  character  at  a  glance — ^and 
I'd  never  talk  so  frank  with  a  fellow  if  I  couldn't  see  he  was 
a  nice  fellow." 

She  smiled.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  him  as  gentle  as  April 
pools.  With  great  seriousness  he  informed  himself  that  "there 
were  some  roughnecks  who  would  think  that  just  because  a  girl 
was  a  manicure  girl  and  maybe  not  awful  well  educated,  she 
was  no  good,  but  as  for  him,  he  was  a  democrat,  and  under- 
stood people,"  and  he  stood  by  the  assertion  that  this  was  a 


288  BABBITT 

fine  girl,  a  good  girl — but  not  too  uncomfortably  good.    He 
inquired  in  a  voice  quick  with  sympathy: 

"I  suppose  you  have  a  lot  of  fellows  who  try  to  get  fresh 
with  you." 

"Say,  gee,  do  I !  Say,  listen,  there's  some  of  these  cigar-store 
sports  that  think  because  a  girl's  working  in  a  barber  shop, 
they  can  get  away  with  anything.  The  things  they  saaaaaay! 
But,  believe  me,  I  know  how  to  hop  those  birds!  I  just  give 
um  the  north  and  south  and  ask  um,  'Say,  who  do  you  think 
you're  talking  to?'  and  they  fade  away  like  love's  young  night- 
mare and  oh,  don't  you  want  a  box  of  nail-paste?  It  will  keep 
the  nails  as  shiny  as  when  first  manicured,  harmless  to  apply 
and  lasts  for  days." 

"Sure,  I'll  try  some.  Say —  Say,  it's  fimny;  I've  been 
coming  here  ever  since  the  shop  opened  and — "  With  arch 
surprise.    " — I  don't  believe  I  know  your  name!" 

"Don't  you?    My,  that's  funny!     I  don't  know  yoursl" 

"Now  you  quit  kidding  me!     What's  the  nice  little  name?" 

"Oh,  it  ain't  so  darn  nice.  I  guess  it's  kind  of  kike.  But 
my  folks  ain't  kikes.  My  papa's  papa  was  a  nobleman  in 
Poland,  and  there  was  a  gentleman  in  here  one  day,  he  was 
kind  of  a  count  or  something — " 

"Kind  of  a  no-account,  I  guess  you  mean ! " 

"Who's  telling  this,  smarty?  And  he  said  he  knew  my 
papa's  papa's  folks  in  Poland  and  they  had  a  dandy  big  house. 
Right  on  a  lake!"    Doubtfully,  "Maybe  you  don't  believe  it?" 

"Sure.  No.  Really.  Sure  I  do.  Why  not?  Don't  think 
I'm  kidding  you,  honey,  but  every  time  I've  noticed  you  I've 
said  to  myself,  'That  kid  has  Blue  Blood  in  her  veins!'" 

"Did  you,  honest?" 

"Honest  I  did.  Well,  well,  come  on — now  we're  frieuds — 
what's  the  darling  little  name?" 

"Ida  Putiak.  It  ain't  so  much-a-much  of  a  name.  I  al- 
ways say  to  Ma,  I  say,  'Ma,  why  didn't  you  name  me  Dolores, 
or  something  with  some  class  to  it?' 


)> » 


BABBITT  289 

^Well,  now,  I  think  it's  a  scrumptious  name.    Ida!" 

"I  bet  I  know  yow  name!" 

"Well,  now,  not  necessarily.  Of  course —  Oh,  it  isn't  so 
specially  well  known." 

"Aren't  you  Mr.  Sondheim  that  travels  for  the  Krackajack 
Kitchen  Kutlery  Ko.?" 

"I  am  not!     I'm  Mr.  Babbitt,  the  real-estate  broker!" 

"Oh,  excuse  me!  Oh,  of  course.  You  mean  here  in  Zen- 
ith." 

"Yep."  With  the  briskness  of  one  whose  feelings  have  been 
hurt. 

"Oh,  sure.    I've  read  your  ads.    They're  swell." 

"Um,  well —    You  might  have  read  about  my  speeches." 

"Course  I  have!  I  don't  get  much  time  to  read  but —  1 
guess  you  think  I'm  an  awfully  silly  little  nit!" 

"I  think  you're  a  little  darling!" 

"Well —  There's  one  nice  thing  about  this  job.  It  gives 
a  girl  a  chance  to  meet  some  awfully  nice  gentlemen  and  im- 
prove her  mind  with  conversation,  and  you  get  so  you  can  read 
a  guy's  character  at  the  first  glance." 

"Look  here,  Ida;  please  don't  think  I'm  getting  fresh — " 
He  was  hotly  reflecting  that  it  would  be  humiliating  to  be  re- 
jected by  this  child,  and  djingerous  to  be  accepted.  If  he  took 
her  to  dinner,  if  he  were  seen  by  censorious  friends —  But 
he  went  on  ardently:  "Don't  think  I'm  getting  fresh  if  I 
suggest  it  would  be  nice  for  us  to  go  out  and  have  a  little  din-- 
ner  together  some  evening." 

"I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  but —  My  gentleman-friend's 
always  wanting  to  take  me  out.    But  maybe  I  could  to-night." 

IV 

There  was  no  reason,  he  assured  himself,  why  he  shouldn't 
have  a  quiet  dinner  with  a  poor  girl  who  would  benefit  by  £is- 
sociation  with  an  educated  and  mature  person  like  himself, 


290  BABBITT 

But,  lest  some  one  see  them  and  not  understand,  he  would  take 
her  to  Biddlemeier's  Inn,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  They 
would  have  a  pleasant  drive,  this  hot  lonely  evening,  and  he 
might  hold  her  hand — no,  he  wouldn't  even  do  that.  Ida  was 
complaisant;  her  bare  shoulders  showed  it  only  too  clearly; 
but  he'd  be  hanged  if  he'd  make  love  to  her  merely  because 
she  expected  it. 

Then  his  car  broke  down;  something  had  happened  to  the 
ignition.  And  he  had  to  have  the  car  this  evening!  Furi- 
ously he  tested  the  spark-plugs,  stared  at  the  commutator. 
His  angriest  glower  did  not  seem  to  stir  the  sulky  car,  and 
in  disgrace  it  was  hauled  off  to  a  garage.  With  a  renewed 
thrill  he  thought  of  a  taxicab.  There  was  something  at  once 
wealthy  and  interestingly  wicked  about  a  taxicab. 

But  when  he  met  her,  on  a  corner  two  blocks  from  the  Hotel 
Thornleigh,  she  said,  "A  taxi?  Why,  I  thought  you  owned 
a  car!" 

"I  do.  Of  course  I  do!  But  it's  out  of  commission  to- 
night." 

"Oh,"  she  remarked,  as  one  who  had  heard  that  tale  before. 

All  the  way  out  to  Biddlemeier's  Inn  he  tried  to  talk  as  an 
old  friend,  but  he  cojild  not  pierce  the  wall  of  her  words.  With 
interminable  indignation  she  narrated  her  retorts  to  "that 
fresh  head-barber"  and  the  drastic  things  she  would  do  to 
him  if  he  persisted  in  saying  that  she  was  "better  at  gassing 
than  at  hoof-paring." 

At  Biddlemeier's  Inn  they  were  unable  to  get  anything  to 
drink.  The  head-waiter  refused  to  understand  who  George 
F.  Babbitt  was.  They  sat  steaming  before  a  vast  mixed  grill, 
and  made  conversation  about  baseball.  When  he  tried  to  hold 
Ida's  hand  she  said  with  bright  friendliness,  "Careful!  That 
fresh  waiter  is  rubbering."  But  they  came  out  into  a  treach- 
erous summer  night,  the  air  lazy  and  a  little  moon  above  trans- 
figured maples. 


BABBITT  291 

"Let's  drive  some  other  place,  where  we  can  get  a  drink 
and  dance!"  he  demanded. 

"Sure,  some  other  night.  But  I  promised  Ma  I'd  be  home 
early  to-night." 

"Rats!     It's  too  nice  to  go  home." 

"I'd  just  love  to,  but  Ma  would  give  me  fits." 

He  was  trembling.  She  was  everything  that  was  young  and 
exquisite.  He  put  his  arm  about  her.  She  snuggled  against 
his  shoulder,  unafraid,  and  he  was  triumphant.  Then  she  ran 
down  the  steps  of  the  Inn,  singing,  "Come  on,  Georgie,  we'll 
have  a  nice  drive  and  get  cool." 

It  was  a  night  of  lovers.  All  along  the  highway  into  Zenith, 
under  the  low  and  gentle  moon,  motors  were  parked  and  dim 
figures  were  clasped  in  revery.  He  held  out  hungry  hands  to 
Ida,  and  when  she  patted  them  he  was  grateful.  There  was 
no  sense  of  struggle  and  transition;  he  kissed  her  and  simply 
she  responded  to  his  kiss,  they  two  behind  the  stolid  back  of 
the  chauffeur. 

Her  hat  fell  off,  and  she  broke  from  his  embrace  to  reach 
for  it. 

"Oh,  let  it  be!"  he  implored. 

"Huh?     My  hat?    Not  a  chance!" 

He  waited  till  she  had  pinned  it  on,  then  his  arm  sank 
about  her.  She  drew  away  from  it,  and  said  with  maternal 
soothing,  "Now,  don't  be  a  silly  boy!  Mustn't  make  Ittle 
Mama  scold!  Just  sit  back,  dearie,  and  see  what  a  swell  night 
it  is.  If  you're  a  good  boy,  maybe  I'll  kiss  you  when  we  say 
nighty-night.     Now  give  me  a  cigarette." 

He  was  solicitous  about  lighting  her  cigarette  and  inquiring 
as  to  her  comfort.  Then  he  sat  as  far  from  her  as  possible. 
He  was  cold  with  failure.  No  one  could  have  told'  Babbitt 
that  he  was  a  fool  with  more  vigor,  precision,  and  intelligence 
than  he  himself  displayed.  He  reflected  that  from  the  stand- 
point of  the  Rev.  Dr.  John  Jennison  Drew  he  was  a  wicked 


292  BABBITT 

man,  and  from  the  standpoint  of  Miss  Ida  Putiak,  an  old  bore 
who  had  to  be  endured  as  the  penalty  attached  to  eating  a 
large  dinner. 

"Dearie,  you  ijen't  going  to  go  and  get  peevish,  are  you?" 

She  spoke  pertly.  He  wanted  to  spank  her.  He  brooded, 
"I  don't  have  to  take  anything  off  this  gutter-pup!  Darn 
immigrant!  Well,  let's  get  it  over  as  quick  as  we  can,  and 
sneak  home  and  kick  ourselves  for  the  rest  of  the  night," 

He  snorted,  "Huh?  Me  peevish?  Why,  you  baby,  why 
should  I  be  peevish?  Now,  listen,  Ida;  listen  to  Uncle  George. 
I  want  to  put  you  wise  about  this  scrapping  with  your  head- 
barber  all  the  time.  I've  had  a  lot  of  experience  with  em- 
ployees, and  let  me  tell  you  it  doesn't  pay  to  antagonize — " 

At  the  drab  wooden  house  in  which  she  lived  he  said  good- 
night briefly  and  amiably,  but  as  the  taxicab  drove  off  he  was 
praying  "Oh,  my  God!" 


CHAPTER  XXV 


He  awoke  to  stretch  cheerfully  as  he  listened  to  the  spar 
rows,  then  to  remember  that  everything  was  wrong;  that  he 
was  determined  to  go  astray,  and  not  in  the  least  enjoying  the 
process.  Why,  he  wondered,  should  he  be  in  rebellion?  What 
was  it  all  about?  "Why  not  be  sensible;  stop  all  this  idiotic 
running  around,  and  enjoy  himself  with  his  family,  his  busi- 
ness, the  fellows  at  the  club?"  What  was  he  getting  out  of 
rebellion?  Misery  and  shame — the  shame  of  being  treated  as 
an  offensive  small  boy  by  a  ragamuffin  like  Ida  Putiak!  And 
yet —  Always  he  came  back  to  "And  yet."  Whatever  the 
misery,  he  could  not  regain  contentment  with  a  world  which, 
once  doubted,  became  absurd. 

Only,  he  assured  himself,  he  was  "through  with  this  chasing 
after  girls." 

By  noontime  he  was  not  so  sure  even  of  that.  If  in  Miss 
McGoun,  Louetta  Swanson,  and  Ida  he  had  failed  to  find  the 
lady  kind  and  lovely,  it  did  not  prove  that  she  did  not  exist. 
He  was  hunted  by  the  ancient  thought  that  somewhere  must 
exist  the  not  impossible  she  who  would  understand  him,  value 
him,  and  make  him  happy. 

n 

Mrs.  Babbitt  returned  in  August. 

On  her  previous  absences  he  had  missed  her  reassuring  buzz 
and  of  her  arrival  he  had  made  a  fete.  Now,  though  he  dared 
not  hurt  her  by  letting  a  hint  of  it  appear  in  his  letters,  he 
was  sorry  that  she  was  coming  before  he  had  found  himself, 

293 


294  BABBITT 

and  he  was  embarrassed  by  the  need  of  meeting  her  and  look- 
ing joyful. 

He  loitered  down  to  the  station;  he  studied  the  summer- 
resort  posters,  lest  he  have  to  speak  to  acquaintances  and 
expose  his  uneasiness.  But  he  was  well  trained.  When  the 
train  clanked  in  he  was  out  on  the  cement  platform,  peering 
into  the  chair-cars,  and  as  he  saw  her  in  the  line  of  passengers 
moving  toward  the  vestibule  he  waved  his  hat.  At  the  door 
he  embraced  her,  and  announced,  "Well,  well,  well,  well,  by 
golly,  you  look  fine,  you  look  fine."  Then  he  was  aware  of 
Tinka.  Here  was  something,  this  child  with  her  absurd  little 
nose  and  lively  eyes,  that  loved  him,  believed  him  great,  and 
as  he  clasped  her,  lifted  and  held  her  till  she  squealed,  he 
was  for  the  moment  come  back  to  his  old  steady  self. 

Tinka  sat  beside  him  in  the  car,  with  one  hand  on  the 
steering-wheel,  pretending  to  help  him  drive,  and  he  shouted 
back  to  his  wife,  "I'll  bet  the  kid  will  be  the  best  chuffer  in 
the  family!     She  holds  the  wheel  like  an  old  professional!" 

All  the  while  he  was  dreading  the  moment  when  he  would 
be  alone  with  his  wife  and  she  would  patiently  expect  him 
to  be  ardent. 

m 

There  was  about  the  house  an  unofficial  theory  that  he  was 
to  take  his  vacation  alone,  to  spend  a  week  or  ten  days  in 
Catawba,  but  he  was  nagged  by  the  memory  that  a  year  ago 
he  had  been  with  Paul  in  Maine.  He  saw  himself  returning; 
finding  peace  there,  and  the  presence  of  Paul^  in  a  life  primi- 
tive and  heroic.  Like  a  shock  came  the  thought  that  he 
actually  could  go.  Only,  he  couldn't,  really;  he  couldn't  leave 
his  business,  and  "IVIyra  would  think  it  sort  of  funny,  his 
going  way  off  there  alone.  Course  he'd  decided  to  do  what- 
ever he  darned  pleased,  from  now  on,  but  still — to  go  way 
off  to  Maine!" 

He  went,  after  lengthy  meditations. 


BABBITT  295 

With  his  wife,  since  it  was  inconceivable  to  explain  that 
he  was  going  to  seek  Paul's  spirit  in  the  wilderness,  he  frugally 
employed  the  lie  prepared  over  a  year  ago  and  scarcely  used 
at  all.  He  said  that  he  had  to  see  a  man  in  New  York  on 
business.  He  could  not  have  explained  even  to  himself  why  he 
drew  from  the  bank  several  hundred  dollars  more  than  he 
needed,  nor  why  he  kissed  Tinka  so  tenderly,  and  cried,  "God 
bless  you,  baby ! "  From  the  train  he  waved  to  her  till  she  was 
but  a  scarlet  spot  beside  the  brown  bulkier  presence  of  Mrs. 
Babbitt,  at  the  end  of  a  steel  and  cement  aisle  ending  in  vast 
barred  gates.  With  melancholy  he  looked  back  at  the  last 
suburb  of  Zenith. 

All  the  way  north  he  pictured  the  Maine  guides:  simple 
and  strong  and  daring,  jolly  as  they  played  stud-poker  in 
their  unceiled  shack,  wise  in  woodcraft  as  they  tramped  the 
forest  and  shot  the  rapids.  He  particularly  remembered  Joe 
Paradise,  half  Yankee,  half  Indian.  If  he  could  but  take  up  a 
backwoods  claim  with  a  man  like  Joe,  work  hard  with  his 
hands,  be  free  and  noisy  in  a  flannel  shirt,  and  never  come 
back  to  this  dull  decency! 

Or,  like  a  trapper  in  a  Northern  Canada  movie,  plunge 
through  the  forest,  make  camp  in  the  Rockies,  a  grim  and 
wordless  caveman!  Why  not?  He  could  do  it!  There'd 
be  enough  money  at  home  for  the  family  to  live  on  till  Verona 
was  married  and  Ted  self-supporting.  Old  Henry  T.  would 
look  out  for  them.     Honestly!     Why  not?     Really  live — 

He  longed  for  it,  admitted  that  he  longed  for  it,  then  almost 
believed  that  he  was  going  to  do  it.  Whenever  common  sense 
snorted,  ''Nonsense!  Folks  don't  run  away  from  decent 
families  and  partners;  just  simply  don't  do  it,  that's  all!" 
then  Babbitt  answered  pleadingly,  "Well,  it  wouldn't  take  any 
more  nerve  than  for  Paul  to  go  to  jail  and — Lord,  how  I'd 
like  to  do  it!  Moccasins — six-gun — frontier  town — gamblers 
' — sleep  under  the  stars — be  a  regular  man,  with  he-men  like 
Joe  Paradise — gosh!" 


296  BABBITT 

So  he  came  to  Maine,  again  stood  on  the  wharf  before  the 
camp-hotel,  again  spat  heroically  into  the  delicate  and  shiver- 
ing water,  while  the  pines  rustled,  the  mountains  glowed,  and 
a  trout  leaped  and  fell  in  a  sliding  circle.  He  hurried  to  the 
guides'  shack  as  to  his  real  home,  his  real  friends,  long  missed. 
They  would  be  glad  to  see  him.  They  would  stand  up  and 
shout,  ''Why,  here's  Mr.  Babbitt!  He  ain't  one  of  these 
ordinary  sports!     He's  a  real  guy!" 

In  their  boarded  and  rather  littered  cabin  the  guides  sat 
about  the  greasy  table  playing  stud-poker  with  greasy  cards: 
half  a  dozen  wrinkled  men  in  old  trousers  and  easy  old  felt 
hats.  They  glanced  up  and  nodded.  Joe  Paradise,  the  swart 
aging  man  with  the  big  mustache,  grunted,  "How  do.  Back 
again?" 

Silence,  except  for  the  clatter  of  chips. 

Babbitt  stood  beside  them,  very  lonely.  He  hinted,  after 
a  period  of  highly  concentrated  playing,  "Guess  I  might  take 
a  hand,  Joe." 

"Sure.  Sit  in.  How  many  chips  you  want?  Let's  see; 
you  were  here  with  your  wife,  last  year,  wa'n't  you?"  said  Joe 
Paradise. 

That  was  all  of  Babbitt's  welcome  to  the  old  home. 

He  played  for  half  an  hour  before  he  spoke  again.  His 
head  was  reeking  with  the  smoke  of  pipes  and  cheap  cigars, 
and  he  was  weary  of  pairs  and  four-flushes,  resentful  of  the 
way  in  which  they  ignored  him.    He  flung  at  Joe: 

"Working  now?" 

"Nope." 

"Like  to  guide  me  for  a  few  days?" 

"Well,  jus'  soon.    I  ain't  engaged  till  next  week." 

Only  thus  did  Joe  recognize  the  friendship  Babbitt  was 
offering  him.  Babbitt  paid  up  his  losses  and  left  the  shack 
rather  childishly.  Joe  raised  his  head  from  the  coils  of  smoke 
like  a  seal  rising  from  surf,  grunted,  "I'll  come  'round 
t'morrow,"  and  dived  down  to  his  three  aces. 


BABBITT  297 

Neither  in  his  voiceless  cabin,  fragrant  with  planks  of  new- 
cut  pine,  nor  along  the  lake,  nor  in  the  sunset  clouds  which 
presently  eddied  behind  the  lavender-misted  mountains,  could 
Babbitt  find  the  spirit  of  Paul  as  a  reassuring  presence.  He 
was  so  lonely  that  after  supper  he  stopped  to  talk  with  an 
ancient  old  lady,  a  gasping  and  steadily  discoursing  old  lady, 
by  the  stove  in  the  hotel-office.  He  told  her  of  Ted's  pre- 
sumable future  triumphs  in  the  State  University  and  of  Tinka's 
remarkable  vocabulary  till  he  was  homesick  for  the  home  he 
had  left  forever. 

Through  the  darkness,  through  that  Northern  pine-walled 
silence,  he  blundered  down  to  the  lake-front  and  found  a 
canoe.  There  were  no  paddles  in  it  but  with  a  board,  sitting 
awkwardly  amidships  and  poking  at  the  water  rather  than 
paddling,  he  made  his  way  far  out  on  the  lake.  The  lights 
of  the  hotel  and  the  cottages  became  yellow  dots,  a  cluster 
of  glow-worms  at  the  base  of  Sachem  Mountain.  Larger  and 
ever  more  imperturbable  was  the  mountain  in  the  star-filtered 
darkness,  and  the  lake  a  limitless  pavement  of  black  marble. 
He  was  dwarfed  and  dumb  and  a  little  awed,  but  that  insig- 
nificance freed  him  from  the  pomposities  of  being  Mr.  George 
F.  Babbitt  of  Zenith;  saddened  and  freed  his  heart.  Now  he 
was  conscious  of  the  presence  of  Paul,  fancied  him  (rescued 
from  prison,  from  Zilla  and  the  brisk  exactitudes  of  the  tar- 
roofing  business)  playing  his  violin  at  the  end  of  the  canoe. 
He  vowed,  "I  will  go  on!  I'll  never  go  backl  Now  that 
Paul's  out  of  it,  I  don't  want  to  see  any  of  those  damn  people 
again!  I  was  a  fool  to  get  sore  because  Joe  Paradise  didn't 
jump  up  and  hug  me.  He's  one  of  these  woodsmen;  too  wise 
to  go  yelping  and  talking  your  arm  off  like  a  city  man.  But 
get  him  back  in  the  mountains,  out  on  the  trail — !  That's 
real  living!" 


298  BABBITT 


IV 

Joe  reported  at  Babbitt's  cabin  at  nine  the  next  morning. 
Babbitt  greeted  him  as  a  fellow  caveman: 

"Well,  Joe,  how  d'  you  feel  about  hitting  the  trail,  and 
getting  away  from  these  darn  soft  summer ites  and  these  women 
and  all?" 

"All  right,  Mr.  Babbitt." 

"What  do  you  say  we  go  over  to  Box  Car  Pond — they  tell 
me  the  shack  there  isn't  being  used — and  camp  out?" 

"Well,  all  right,  Mr.  Babbitt,  but  it's  nearer  to  Skowtuit 
Pond,  and  you  can  get  just  about  as  good  fishing  there." 

"No,  I  want  to  get  into  the  real  wilds." 

"Well,  all  right." 

"We'll  put  the  old  packs  on  our  backs  and  get  into  the 
woods  and  really  hike." 

"I  think  maybe  it  would  be  easier  to  go  by  water,  through 
Lake  Chogue.  We  can  go  all  the  way  by  motor  boat — flat- 
bottom  boat  with  an  Evinrude." 

"No,  sir!  Bust  up  the  quiet  with  a  chugging  motor?  Not 
on  your  life!  You  just  throw  a  pair  of  socks  in  the  old  pack, 
and  tell  'em  what  you  want  for  eats.  I'll  be  ready  soon  's 
you  are." 

"Most  of  the  sports  go  by  boat,  Mr.  Babbitt.  It's  a  long 
walk. 

"Look  here,  Joe:  are  you  objecting  to  walking?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  guess  I  can  do  it.  But  I  haven't  tramped  that 
far  for  sixteen  years.  Most  of  the  sports  go  by  boat.  But 
I  can  do  it  if  you  say  so — ^I  guess."  Joe  walked  away  in 
Sadness. 

Babbitt  had  recovered  from  his  touchy  wrath  before  Joe 
returned.  He  pictured  him  as  warming  up  and  telling  the  most 
entertaining  stories.  But  Joe  had  not  yet  warmed  up  when 
they  took  the  trail.    He  persistently  kept  behind  Babbitt,  and 


BABBITT  299 

However  much  his  shoulders  ached  from  the  pack,  however 
sorely  he  panted,  Babbitt  could  hear  his  guide  panting  equally. 
But  the  trail  was  satisfying:  a  path  brown  with  pine-needles 
and  rough  with  roots,  among  the  balsams,  the  ferns,  the  sud- 
den groves  of  white  birch.  He  became  credulous  again,  and 
rejoiced  in  sweating.  When  he  stopped  to  rest  he  chuckled, 
"Guess  we're  hitting  it  up  pretty  good  for  a  couple  o'  old 
birds,  eh?" 

''Uh-huh,"  admitted  Joe. 

"This  is  a  mighty  pretty  place.  Look,  you  can  see  the  lake 
down  through  the  trees.  I  tell  you,  Joe,  you  don't  appreciate 
how  lucky  you  are  to  live  in  woods  like  this,  instead  of  a  city 
with  trolleys  grinding  and  typewriters  clacking  and  people 
bothering  the  life  out  of  you  all  the  time!  I  wish  I  knew  the 
woods  like  you  do.  Say,  what's  the  name  of  that  little  red 
flower?" 

Rubbing  his  back,  Joe  regarded  the  flower  resentfully 
"Well,  some  folks  call  it  one  thing  and  some  calls  it  another 
I  always  just  call  it  Pink  Flower." 

Babbitt  blessedly  ceased  thinking  as  tramping  turned  into 
blind  plodding.  He  was  submerged  in  weariness.  His  plump 
legs  seemed  to  go  on  by  themselves,  without  guidance,  and 
he  mechanically  wiped  away  the  sweat  which  stung  his  eyes. 
He  was  too  tired  to  be  consciously  glad  as,  after  a  sun-» 
scourged  mile  of  corduroy  tote-road  through  a  swamp  where 
flies  hovered  over  a  hot  waste  of  brush,  they  reached  the  cool 
shore  of  Box  Car  Pond,  When  he  lifted  the  pack  from  his 
back  he  staggered  from  the  change  in  balance,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment could  not  stand  erect.  He  lay  beneath  an  ample-bosomed 
maple  tree  near  the  guest-shack,  and  joyously  felt  sleep  running 
through  his  veins. 

He  awoke  toward  dusk,  to  find  Joe  efficiently  cooking  bacon 
and  eggs  and  flapjacks  for  supper,  and  his  admiration  of  the 
woodsman  returned.    He  sat  on  a  stump  and  felt  virile. 

"Joe,  what  would  you  do  if  you  had  a  lot  of  money?    Would 


300  BABBITT 

you  stick  to  guiding,  or  would  you  take  a  claim  'way  back  in 
the  woods  and  be  independent  of  people?" 

For  the  first  time  Joe  brightened.  He  chewed  his  cud  a 
second,  and  bubbled,  "I've  often  thought  of  that!  If  I  had 
the  money,  I'd  go  down  to  Tinker's  Falls  and  open  a  swell 
shoe  store." 

After  supper  Joe  proposed  a  game  of  stud-poker  but  Bab- 
bitt refused  with  brevity,  and  Joe  contentedly  went  to  bed  at 
eight.  Babbitt  sat  on  the  stump,  facing  the  dark  pond,  slap- 
ping mosquitos.  Save  the  snoring  guide,  there  was  no  other 
human  being  within  ten  miles.  He  was  lonelier  than  he  had 
ever  been  in  his  life.    Then  he  was  in  Zenith. 

He  was  worrying  as  to  whether  Miss  McGoun  wasn't  paying 
too  much  for  carbon  paper.  He  was  at  once  resenting  and 
missing  the  persistent  teasing  at  the  Roughnecks'  Table.  He 
was  wondering  what  Zilla  Riesling  was  doing  now.  He  was 
wondering  whether,  after  the  summer's  maturity  of  being  a 
garageman,  Ted  would  "get  busy"  in  the  university.  He  was 
thinking  of  his  wife.  "If  she  would  only — if  she  wouldn't 
be  so  darn  satisfied  with  just  settling  down —  No!  I  won't! 
I  won't  go  back!  I'll  be  fifty  in  three  years.  Sixty  in  thirteen 
years.  I'm  going  to  have  some  fun  before  it's  too  late.  J 
don't  care!     I  will!" 

He  thought  of  Ida  Putiak,  of  Louetta  Swanson,  of  that  nice 
widow — what  was  her  name? — Tanis  Judique? — the  one  for 
whom  he'd  found  the  flat.  He  was  enmeshed  in  imaginary 
conversations.    Then: 

"Gee,  I  can't  seem  to  get  away  from  thinking  about  folks!" 

Thus  it  came  to  him  merely  to  run  away  was  folly,  because 
he  could  never  run  away  from  himself. 

That  moment  he  started  for  Zenith.  In  his  journey  there 
was  no  appearance  of  flight,  but  he  was  fleeing,  and  four  days 
afterward  he  was  on  the  Zenith  train.  He  knew  that  he  was 
slinking  back  not  because  it  was  what  he  longed  to  do  but 
because  it  was  all  he  could  do.     He  scanned  again  his  dis- 


BABBITT  301 

covery  tliat  he  could  never  run  away  from  Zenith  and  family 
and  office,  because  in  his  own  brain  he  bore  the  office  and  the 
family  and  every  street  and  disquiet  and  illusion  of  Zenith. 
"But  I'm  going  to — oh,  I'm  going  to  start  something!"  he 
vowed,  and  he  tried  to  make  it  valiant. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


As  he  walked  through  the  train,  looking  for  familiar  faces, 
ie  saw  only  one  person  whom  he  knew,  and  that  was  Seneca 
Doane,  the  lawyer  who,  after  the  blessings  of  being  in  Bab- 
bitt's own  class  at  college  and  of  becoming  a  corporation- 
counsel,  had  turned  crank,  had  headed  farmer-labor  tickets 
and  fraternized  with  admitted  socialists.  Though  he  was  in 
rebellion,  naturally  Babbitt  did  not  care  to  be  seen  talking 
with  such  a  fanatic,  but  in  all  the  Pullmans  he  could  find  no 
other  acquaintance,  and  reluctantly  he  halted.  Seneca  Doane 
was  a  slight,  thin-haired  man,  rather  like  Chum  Frink  except 
that  he  hadn't  Frink's  grin.  He  was  reading  a  book  called 
"The  Way  of  All  Flesh."  It  looked  religious  to  Babbitt,  and 
he  wondered  if  Doane  could  possibly  have  been  converted 
and  turned  decent  and  patriotic. 

"Why,  hello,  Doane,"  he  said. 

Doane  looked  up.  His  voice  was  curiously  kind.  "Oh! 
How  do,  Babbitt." 

"Been  away,  eh?" 

"Yes,  I've  been  in  Washington." 

"Washington,  eh?    How's  the  old  Government  making  out?** 

"It's—    Won't  you  sit  down?" 

"Thanks.  Don't  care  if  I  do.  Well,  well!  Been  quite  a 
while  since  I've  had  a  good  chance  to  talk  to  you,  Doane.  I 
was,  uh —    Sorry  you  didn't  turn  up  at  the  last  class-dinner." 

"Oh— thanks." 

"How's  the  unions  coming?    Going  to  run  for  mayor  again?" 

Doane  seemed  restless.    He  was  fingering  the  pages  of  his 

302 


BABBITT  303 

book.    He  said  "I  might"  as  though  it  didn't  mean  anything 
in  particular,  and  he  smiled. 

Babbitt  liked  that  smile,  and  hunted  for  conversation:  "Sa\« 
a  bang-up  cabaret  in  New  York:  the  'Good-Morning  Cutie' 
bunch  at  the  Hotel  Minton." 

"Yes,  they're  pretty  girls.    I  danced  there  one  evening." 

"Oh.     Like  dancing?" 

"Naturally.  I  like  dancing  and  pretty  women  and  good 
food  better  than  anything  else  in  the  world.     Most  men  do." 

"But  gosh,  Doane,  I  thought  you  fellows  wanted  to  take 
all  the  good  eats  and  everything  away  from  us." 

"No.  Not  at  all.  What  I'd  like  to  see  is  the  meetings  of 
the  Garment  Workers  held  at  the  Ritz,  with  a  dance  after- 
ward.    Isn't  that  reasonable?" 

"Yuh,  might  be  good  idea,  all  right.  Well —  Shame  I 
haven't  seen  more  of  you,  recent  years.  Oh,  say,  hope  you 
haven't  held  it  against  me,  my  bucking  you  as  mayor,  going 
on  the  stump  for  Prout.  You  see,  I'm  an  organization  Repub- 
lican, and  I  kind  of  felt — " 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  fight  me.  I  have  no 
doubt  you're  good  for  the  Organization.  I  remember — in 
college  you  were  an  unusually  liberal,  sensitive  chap.  I  can 
still  recall  your  saying  to  me  that  you  were  going  to  be  a 
lawyer,  and  take  the  cases  of  the  poor  for  nothing,  and  fight 
the  rich.  And  I  remember  I  said  I  was  going  to  be  one  of 
the  rich  myself,  and  buy  paintings  and  live  at  Newport.  I'm 
sure  you  inspired  us  all." 

"Well.  .  .  .  Well.  .  .  .  I've  always  aimed  to  be  liberal." 
Babbitt  was  enormously  shy  and  proud  and  self-conscious; 
he  tried  to  look  like  the  boy  he  had  been  a  quarter-century 
ago,  and  he  shone  upon  his  old  friend  Seneca  Doane  as  he 
rumbled,  "Trouble  with  a  lot  of  these  fellows,  even  the  live 
wires  and  some  of  'em  that  think  they're  forward-looking,  is 
they  aren't  broad-minded  and  liberal.  Now,  I  always  believe 
in  giving  the  other  fellow  a  chance,  and  listening  to  his  ideas." 


304  BABBITT 

"That's  fine." 

"Tell  you  how  I  figure  it:  A  little  opposition  is  good  for  all 
of  us,  so  a  fellow,  especially  if  he's  a  business  man  and  en- 
gaged in  doing  the  work  of  the  world,  ought  to  be  liberal." 

"Yes—" 

"I  always  say  a  fellow  ought  to  have  Vision  and  Ideals. 
I  guess  some  of  the  fellows  in  my  business  think  I'm  pretty 
visionary,  but  I  just  let  'em  think  what  they  want  to  and  go 
right  on — same  as  you  do.  .  .  .  By  golly,  this  is  nice  to  have 
a  chance  to  sit  and  visit  and  kind  of,  you  might  say,  brush  up 
on  our  ideals." 

"But  of  course  we  visionaries  do  rather  get  beaten.  Doesn't 
it  bother  you?" 

"Not  a  bit!     Nobody  can  dictate  to  me  what  I  think!" 

"You're  the  man  I  want  to  help  me.  I  want  you  to  talk 
to  some  of  the  business  men  and  try  to  make  them  a  little 
more  liberal  in  their  attitude  toward  poor  Beecher  Ingram." 

"Ingram?  But,  why,  he's  this  nut  preacher  that  got  kicked 
out  of  the  Congregationalist  Church,  isn't  he,  and  preaches 
free  love  and  sedition?" 

This,  Doane  explained,  was  indeed  the  general  conception 
of  Beecher  Ingram,  but  he  himself  saw  Beecher  Ingram  as 
a  priest  of  the  brotherhood  of  man,  of  which  Babbitt  was 
notoriously  an  upholder.  So  would  Babbitt  keep  his  acquaint^ 
ances  from  hounding  Ingram  and  his  forlorn  little  church? 

"You  bet!  I'll  call  down  any  of  the  boys  I  hear  getting 
funny  about  Ingram,"  Babbitt  said  affectionately  to  his  dear 
friend  Doane. 

Doane  warmed  up  and  became  reminiscent.  He  spoke  of 
student  days  in  Germany,  of  lobbying  for  single  tax  in  Wash- 
ington, of  international  labor  conferences.  He  mentioned  his 
friends,  Lord  Wycombe,  Colonel  Wedgwood,  Professor  Pic- 
coli.  Babbitt  had  always  supposed  that  Doane  associated 
only  with  the  I.  W.  W.,  but  now  he  nodded  gravely,  as  one 
who  knew  Lord  Wycombes  by  the  score,  and  he  got  in  two  ref- 


BABBITT  305 

erences  to  Sir  Gerald  Doak.    He  felt  daring  and  idealistic  and 
cosmopolitan. 

Suddenly,  in  his  new  spiritual  grandeur,  he  was  sorry  for 
Zilla  Riesling,  and  understood  her  as  these  ordinary  fellows 
at  the  Boosters'  Club  never  could. 


Five  hours  after  he  had  arrived  in  Zenith  and  told  his  wife 
how  hot  it  was  in  New  York,  he  went  to  call  on  Zilla.  He 
was  buzzing  with  ideas  and  forgiveness.  He'd  get  Paul 
released;  he'd  do  things,  vague  but  highly  benevolent  things, 
for  Zilla;  he'd  be  as  generous  as  his  friend  Seneca  Doane. 

He  had  not  seen  Zilla  since  Paul  had  shot  her,  and  he  still 
pictured  her  as  buxom,  high-colored,  lively,  and  a  little  blowsy. 
As  he  drove  up  to  her  boarding-house,  in  a  depressing  back 
street  below  the  wholesale  district,  he  stopped  in  discomfort. 
At  an  upper  window,  leaning  on  her  elbow,  was  a  woman  with 
the  features  of  Zilla,  but  she  was  bloodless  and  aged,  like  a 
yellowed  wad  of  old  paper  crumpled  into  wrinkles.  Where 
Zilla  had  bounced  and  jiggled,  this  woman  was  dreadfully 
still. 

He  waited  half  an  hour  before  she  came  into  the  boarding- 
house  parlor.  Fifty  times  he  opened  the  book  of  photographs 
of  the  Chicago  World's  Fair  of  1893,  fifty  times  he  looked  at 
the  picture  of  the  Court  of  Honor. 

He  was  startled  to  find  Zilla  in  the  room.  She  wore  a 
black  streaky  gown  which  she  had  tried  to  brighten  with  a 
girdle  of  crimson  ribbon.  The  ribbon  had  been  torn  and  pa- 
tiently'mended.  He  noted  this  carefully,  because  he  did  not 
wish  to  look  at  her  shoulders.  One  shoulder  was  lower  than 
the  other;  one  arm  she  carried  in  contorted  fashion,  as  though 
it  were  paralyzed;  and  behind  a  high  collar  of  cheap  lace 
there  was  a  gouge  in  the  anemic  neck  which  had  once  been 
shining  and  softly  plump. 


3o6  BABBITT 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

"Well,  well,  old  Zilla!    By  golly,  it's  good  to  see  you  againl" 

"He  can  send  his  messages  through  a  lawyer." 

"Why,  rats,  Zilla,  I  didn't  come  just  because  of  him.  Came 
as  an  old  friend." 

"You  waited  long  enough!" 

"Well,  you  knew  how  it  is.  Figured  you  wouldn't  want  to 
see  a  friend  of  his  for  quite  some  time  and —  Sit  down, 
honey!  Let's  be  sensible.  We've  all  of  us  done  a  bunch  of 
things  that  we  hadn't  ought  to,  but  maybe  we  can  sort  of 
start  over  again.  Honest,  Zilla,  I'd  like  to  do  something  to 
make  you  both  happy.  Know  what  I  thought  to-day?  Mind 
you,  Paul  doesn't  know  a  thing  about  this — doesn't  know  I 
was  going  to  come  see  you.  I  got  to  thinking:  Zilla's  a  fine, 
big-hearted  woman,  and  she'll  understand  that,  uh,  Paul's  had 
his  lesson  now.  Why  wouldn't  it  be  a  fine  idea  if  you  asked 
the  governor  to  pardon  him?  Believe  he  would,  if  it  came 
from  you.  No!  Wait!  Just  think  how  good  you'd  feel  if 
you  were  generous." 

"Yes,  I  wish  to  be  generous."  She  was  sitting  primly, 
speaking  icily.  "For  that  reason  I  wish  to  keep  him  in  prison, 
as  an  example  to  evil-doers.  I've  gotten  religion,  George,  since 
the  terrible  thing  that  man  did  to  me.  Sometimes  I  used  to 
be  unkind,  and  I  wished  for  worldly  pleasures,  for  dancing 
and  the  theater.  But  when  I  was  in  the  hospital  the  pastor 
of  the  Pentecostal  Communion  Faith  used  to  come  to  see  me, 
and  he  showed  me,  right  from  the  prophecies  written  in  the 
Word  of  God,  that  the  Day  of  Judgment  is  coming  and  all  the 
members  of  the  older  churches  are  going  straight  to  eternal 
damnation,  because  they  only  do  lip-service  and  swallow  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil — " 

For  fifteen  wild  minutes  she  talked,  pouring  out  admoni- 
tions to  flee  the  wrath  to  come,  and  her  face  flushed,  her  dead 
voice  recaptured  something  of  the  shrill  energy  of  the  old 
Zilla.    She  wound  up  with  a  furious: 


BABBITT  30'/ 

"It's  the  blessing  of  God  himself  that  Paul  should  be  in 
prison  now,  and  torn  and  humbled  by  punishment,  so  that  he 
may  yet  save  his  soul,  and  so  other  wicked  men,  these  hor- 
rible chasers  after  women  and  lust,  may  have  an  example." 

Babbitt  had  itched  and  twisted.  As  in  church  he  dared 
not  move  during  the  sermon  so  now  he  felt  that  he  must  seem 
attentive,  though  her  screeching  denunciations  flew  past  him 
like  carrion  birds. 

He  sought  to  be  calm  and  brotherly: 

*'Yes,  I  know,  Zilla.  But  gosh,  it  certainly  is  the  essence 
of  religion  to  be  charitable,  isn't  it?  Let  me  tell  you  how  I 
figure  it:  What  we  need  in  the  world  is  liberalism,  liberality, 
if  we're  going  to  get  anywhere.  I've  always  believed  in  being 
broad-minded  and  liberal — " 

"You?  Liberal?"  It  was  very  much  the  old  Zilla.  "Why, 
George  Babbitt,  you're  about  as  broad-minded  and  liberal  as 
a  razor-blade!" 

"Oh,  I  am,  am  I!  Well,  just  let  me  tell  you,  just — let— 
me — tell — ^you,  I'm  as  by  golly  liberal  as  you  are  religious, 
anyway!     You  religious/" 

"I  am  so!     Our  pastor  says  I  sustain  him  in  the  faith!" 

"I'll  bet  you  do!  With  Paul's  money!  But  just  to  show 
you  how  liberal  I  am,  I'm  going  to  send  a  check  for  ten  bucks 
to  this  Beecher  Ingram,  because  a  lot  of  fellows  are  saying 
the  poor  cuss  preaches  sedition  and  free  love,  and  they're  try- 
ing to  run  him  out  of  town." 

"And  they're  right!  They  ought  to  run  him  out  of  town! 
Why,  he  preaches — if  you  can  call  it  preaching — in  a  theater, 
in  the  House  of  Satan!  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  find 
God,  to  find  peace,  to  behold  the  snares  that  the  devil  spreads 
out  for  our  feet.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  the  mysterious  pur- 
poses of  God  in  having  Paul  harm  me  and  stop  my  wicked- 
ness— and  Paul's  getting  his,  good  and  plenty,  for  the  cruel 
things  he  did  to  me,  and  I  hope  he  dies  in  prison ! " 

Babbitt  was  up,  hat  in  hand,  growling,  "Well,  if  that's  what 


3o8  BABBITT 

you  call  being  at  peace,  for  heaven's  sake  just  warn  me  before 
you  go  to  war,  will  you?" 


m 

Vast  is  the  power  of  cities  to  reclaim  the  wanderer.  More 
than  mountains  or  the  shore-devouring  sea,  a  city  retains  its 
character,  imperturbable,  cynical,  holding  behind  apparent 
changes  its  essential  purpose.  Though  Babbitt  had  deserted 
his  family  and  dwelt  with  Joe  Paradise  in  the  wilderness, 
though  he  had  become  a  liberal,  though  he  had  been  quite 
sure,  on  the  night  before  he  reached  Zenith,  that  neither  he 
nor  the  city  would  be  the  same  again,  ten  days  after  his 
return  he  could  not  believe  that  he  had  ever  been  away.  Nor 
was  it  at  all  evident  to  his  acquaintances  that  there  was  a  new 
George  F.  Babbitt,  save  that  he  was  more  irritable  under  the 
incessant  chaffing  at  the  Athletic  Club,  and  once,  when  Vergil 
Gunch  observed  that  Seneca  Doane  ought  to  be  hanged,  Bab- 
bitt snorted,  "Oh,  rats,  he's  not  so  bad." 

At  home  he  grunted  "Eh?"  across  the  newspaper  to  his 
commentatory  wife,  and  was  delighted  by  Tinka's  new  red 
tam  o'shanter,  and  announced,  "No  class  to  that  corrugated 
iron  garage.     Have  to  build  me  a  nice  frame  one." 

Verona  and  Kenneth  Escott  appeared  really  to  be  engaged. 
In  his  newspaper  Escott  had  conducted  a  pure-food  crusade 
against  commission-houses.  As  a  result  he  had  been  given 
an  excellent  job  in  a  commission-house,  and  he  was  making  a 
salary  on  which  he  could  marry,  and  denouncing  irresponsible 
reporters  who  wrote  stories  criticizing  commission-houses  with- 
out knowing  what  they  were  talking  about. 

This  September  Ted  had  entered  the  State  University  as  a 
freshman  in  the  College  of  Arts  and  Sciences.  The  university 
was  at  Mohalis,  only  fifteen  miles  from  Zenith,  and  Ted  often 
came  down  for  the  week-end.  Babbitt  was  worried.  Ted  was 
"going  in  for"  everything  but  books.    He  had  tried  to  "make" 


BABBITT  309 

the  football  team  as  a  light  half-back,  he  was  looking  for- 
ward to  the  basket-ball  season,  he  was  on  the  committee  for 
the  Freshman  Hop,  and  (as  a  Zenithite,  an  aristocrat  among 
the  yokels)  he  was  being  "rushed"  by  two  fraternities.  But 
of  his  studies  Babbitt  could  learn  nothing  save  a  mumbled^ 
"Oh,  gosh,  these  old  stiffs  of  teachers  just  give  you  a  lot  of 
junk  about  literature  and  economics." 

One  week-end  Ted  proposed,  "Say,  Dad,  why  can't  I  transfer 
over  from  the  College  to  the  School  of  Engineering  and  take 
mechanical  engineering?  You  always  holler  that  I  never  study, 
but  honest,  I  would  study  there." 

"No,  the  Engineering  School  hasn't  got  the  standing  the 
College  has,"  fretted  Babbitt. 

"I'd  like  to  know  how  it  hasn't!  The  Engineers  can  play 
on  any  of  the  teams!" 

There  was  much  explanation  of  the  "dollars-and-cents  value 
of  being  known  as  a  college  man  when  you  go  into  the  law," 
and  a  truly  oratorical  account  of  the  lawyer's  life.  Before  he 
was  through  with  it.  Babbitt  had  Ted  a  United  States  Senator. 
•Among  the  great  lawyers  whom  he  mentioned  was  Secena 
Doane. 

"But,  gee  whiz,"  Ted  marveled,  "I  thought  you  always  said 
this  Doane  was  a  reg'lar  nut!" 

"That's  no  way  to  speak  of  a  great  man!  Doane's  always 
been  a  good  friend  of  mine — fact  I  helped  him  in  college — I 
started  him  out  and  you  might  say  inspired  him.  Just  be- 
cause he's  sympathetic  with  the  aims  of  Labor,  a  lot  of  chumps 
that  lack  liberality  and  broad-mindedness  think  he's  a  crank, 
but  let  me  tell  you  there's  mighty  few  of  'em  that  rake  in  the 
fees  he  does,  and  he's  a  friend  of  some  of  the  strongest,  most 
conservative  men  in  the  world — like  Lord  Wycombe,  this,  uh, 
this  big  English  nobleman  that's  so  well  known.  And  you 
now,  which  would  you  rather  do:  be  in  with  a  lot  of  greasy 
mechanics  and  laboring-men,  or  chum  up  to  a  real  fellow  like 
Lord  Wycomb*,  and  get  invited  to  his  house  for  parties?" 


310  BABBITT 

'Well— gosh,"  sighed  Ted. 

The  next  week-end  he  came  in  joyously  with,  "Say,  Dad, 
why  couldn't  I  take  mining  engineering  instead  of  the  academic 
course?  You  talk  about  standing — maybe  there  isn't  much  in 
mechanical  engineering,  but  the  Miners,  gee,  they  got  seven 
out  of  eleven  in  the  new  elections  to  Nu  Tau  Tau!" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


The  strike  which  turned  Zenith  into  two  belligerent  camps, 
white  and  red,  began  late  in  September  with  a  walk-out  of 
telephone  girls  and  linemen,  in  protest  against  a  reduction  of 
wages.  The  newly  formed  union  of  dairy-products  workers 
went  out,  partly  in  sympathy  and  partly  in  demand  for  a 
forty-four  hour  week.  They  were  followed  by  the  truck- 
drivers'  union.  Industry  was  tied  up,  and  the  whole  city  was 
nervous  with  talk  of  a  trolley  strike,  a  printers'  strike,  a  gen- 
eral strike.  Furious  citizens,  trying  to  get  telephone  calls 
through  strike-breaking  girls,  danced  helplessly.  Every  truck 
that  made  its  way  from  the  factories  to  the  freight-stations 
was  guarded  by  a  policeman,  trying  to  look  stoical  beside  the 
scat)  driver.  A  line  of  fifty  trucks  from  the  Zenith  Steel  and 
Machinery  Company  was  attacked  by  strikers — rushing  out 
from  the  sidewalk,  pulling  drivers  from  the  seats,  smashing 
carburetors  and  commutators,  while  telephone  girls  cheered 
from  the  walk,  and  small  boys  heaved  bricks. 

The  National  Guard  was  ordered  out.  Colonel  Nixon,  who 
In  private  life  was  Mr.  Caleb  Nixon,  secretary  of  the  Pull- 
more  Tractor  Company,  put  on  a  long  khaki  coat  and  stalked 
through  crowds,  a  .44  automatic  in  hand.  Even  Babbitt's 
friend,  Clarence  Drum  the  shoe  merchant — a  round  and  merry 
man  who  told  stories  at  the  Athletic  Club,  and  who  strangely 
resembled  a  Victorian  pug-dog — was  to  be  seen  as  a  waddling 
but  ferocious  captain,  with  his  belt  tight  about  his  comfortable, 
little  belly,  and  his  round  little  mouth  petulant  as  he  piped 
to  chattering  groups  on  corners.  "Move  on  there  now!  I 
can't  have  any  of  this  loitering  1" 

3" 


312  BABBITT 

Every  newspaper  in  the  city,  save  one,  was  against  the 
strikers.  When  mobs  raided  the  news-stands,  at  each  was 
stationed  a  militiaman,  a  young,  embarrassed  citizen-soldier 
with  eye-glasses,  bookkeeper  or  grocery-clerk  in  private  life, 
trying  to  look  dangerous  while  small  boys  yelped,  "Get  onto 
de  tin  soldier!"  and  striking  truck-drivers  inquired  tenderly, 
"Say,  Joe,  when  I  was  fighting  in  France,  was  you  in  camp 
in  the  States  or  was  you  doing  Swede  exercises  in  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.?  Be  careful  of  that  bayonet,  now,  or  you'll 
cut  yourself!" 

There  was  no  one  in  Zenith  who  talked  of  anything  but  the 
strike,  and  no  one  who  did  not  take  sides.  You  were  either  a 
courageous  friend  of  Labor,  or  you  were  a  fearless  supporter 
of  the  Rights  of  Property;  and  in  either  case  you  were  bel- 
ligerent, and  ready  to  disown  any  friend  who  did  not  hate 
the  enemy. 

A  condensed-milk  plant  was  set  afire — each  side  charged 
it  to  the  other — and  the  city  was  hysterical. 

And  Babbitt  chose  this  time  to  be  publicly  liberal. 

He  belonged  to  the  sound,  sane,  right-thinking  wing,  and 
at  first  he  agreed  that  the  Crooked  Agitators  ought  to  be  shot. 
He  was  sorr>''  when  his  friend,  Seneca  Doane,  defended  arrested 
strikers,  and  he  thought  of  going  to  Doane  and  explaining 
about  these  agitators,  but  when  he  read  a  broadside  alleging 
that  even  on  their  former  wages  the  telephone  girls  had  been 
hungry,  he  was  troubled.  "All  lies  and  fake  figures,"  he  said, 
but  in  a  doubtful  croak. 

For  the  Sunday  after,  the  Chatham  Road  Presbyterian 
Church  announced  a  sermon  by  Dr.  John  Jennison  Drew  on 
"How  the  Saviour  Would  End  Strikes."  Babbitt  had  been 
negligent  about  church-going  lately,  but  he  went  to  the 
'service,  hopeful  that  Dr.  Drew  really  did  have  the  informa- 
tion as  to  what  the  divine  powers  thought  about  strikes.  Be- 
side Babbitt  in  the  large,  curving,  glossy,  velvet-upholstered 
pew  was  Chum  Frink. 


BABBITT  313 

Frink  whispered,  "Hope  the  doc  gives  the  strikers  hell! 
Ordinarily,  I  don't  believe  in  a  preacher  butting  into  political 
matters — let  him  stick  to  straight  religion  and  save  souls,  and 
not  stir  up  a  lot  of  discussion — but  at  a  time  like  this,  I  do 
think  he  ought  to  stand  right  up  and  bawl  out  those  plug- 
uglies  to  a  f are-you-well ! " 

"Yes— well— "  said  Babbitt. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Drew,  his  rustic  bang  flopping  with  the  in- 
tensity of  his  poetic  and  sociologic  ardor,  trumpeted: 

"During  the  untoward  series  of  industrial  dislocations  which 
have — let  us  be  courageous  and  admit  it  boldly — throttled; 
the  business  life  of  our  fair  city  these  past  days,  there  ha? 
been  a  great  deal  of  loose  talk  about  scientific  prevention  of 
scientific — scientific!  Now,  let  me  tell  you  that  the  most  un- 
scientific thing  in  the  world  is  science!  Take  the  attacks 
oij  the  established  fundamentals  of  the  Christian  creed  which 
were  so  popular  with  the  'scientists'  a  generation  ago.  Oh, 
yes,  they  were  mighty  fellows,  and  great  poo-bahs  of  criti- 
cism! They  were  going  to  destroy  the  church;  they  were 
going  to  prove  the  world  was  created  and  has  been  brought  to 
its  extraordinary  level  of  morality  and  civilization  by  blind 
chance.  Yet  the  church  stands  just  as  firmly  to-day  as  ever, 
and  the  only  answer  a  Christian  pastor  needs  m.ake  to  the  long- 
haired opponents  of  his  simple  faith  is  just  a  pitying  smile! 

"And  now  these  same  'scientists'  want  to  replace  the  natural 
condition  of  free  competition  by  crazy  systems  which,  no 
matter  by  what  high-sounding  names  they  are  called,  are  noth- 
ing but  a  despotic  paternalism.  Naturally,  I'm  not  criticizing 
labor  courts,  injunctions  against  men  proven  to  be  striking 
unjustly,  or  those  excellent  unions  in  which  the  men  and  the 
boss  get  together.  But  I  certainly  am  criticizing  the  systems 
in  which  the  free  and  fluid  motivation  of  independent  labor  is 
to  be  replaced  by  cooked-up  wage-scales  and  minimum  salaries 
and  government  commissions  and  labor  federations  and  all 
that  poppycock. 


314  BABBITT 

"What  is  not  generally  understood  is  that  this  whole  indus- 
trial matter  isn't  a  question  of  economics.  It's  essentially 
and  only  a  matter  of  Love,  and  of  the  practical  application  of 
the  Christian  religion!  Imagine  a  factory — instead  of  com- 
mittees of  workmen  alienating  the  boss,  the  boss  goes  among 
them  smiling,  and  they  smile  back,  the  elder  brother  and  the 
younger.  Brothers,  that's  what  they  must  be,  loving  brothers, 
and  then  strikes  would  be  as  inconceivable  as  hatred  in  the 
home!" 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Babbitt  muttered,  "Oh,  rot!" 

"Huh?"  said  Chum  Frink. 

"He  doesn't  know  what  he's  talking  about.  It's  just  as 
clear  as  mud.     It  doesn't  mean  a  darn  thing." 

"Maybe,  but—" 

Frink  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  through  all  the  service  kept 
glancing  at  him  doubtfully,  till  Babbitt  was  nervous. 


n 

The  strikers  had  announced  a  parade  for  Tuesday  morning, 
but  Colonel  Nixon  had  forbidden  it,  the  newspapers  said. 
When  Babbitt  drove  west  from  his  office  at  ten  that  morning, 
he  saw  a  drove  of  shabby  men  heading  toward  the  tangled, 
dirty  district  beyond  Court  House  Square.  He  hated  them, 
because  they  were  poor,  because  they  made  him  feel  insecure. 
"Damn  loafers!  Wouldn't  be  common  workmen  if  they  had 
any  pep,"  he  complained.  He  wondered  if  there  was  going 
to  be  a  riot.  He  drove  toward  the  starting-point  of  the 
parade,  a  triangle  of  limp  and  faded  grass  known  as  Moore 
Street  Park,  and  halted  his  car. 

The  park  and  streets  were  buzzing  with  strikers,  young  men 
in  blue  denim  shirts,  old  men  with  caps.  Through  them, 
keeping  them  stirred  like  a  boiling  pot,  moved  the  militiamen. 
Babbitt  could  hear  the  soldiers'  monotonous  orders:    "Keep 


BABBITT  315 

moving — move  on,  'bo — keep  your  feet  warm!"  Babbitt  ad- 
mired their  stolid  good  temper.  The  crowd  shouted,  "Tin 
soldiers,"  and  "Dirty  dogs — servants  of  the  capitalists!"  but 
the  militiamen  grinned  and  answered  only,  "Sure,  that's  right. 
Keep  moving,  Billy!" 

Babbitt  thrilled  over  the  citizen-soldiers,  hated  the  scoun- 
drels who  were  obstructing  the  pleasant  ways  of  prosperity, 
admired  Colonel  Nixon's  striding  contempt  for  the  crowd;  and 
as  Captain  Clarence  Drum,  that  rather  puffing  shoe-dealer, 
came  raging  by.  Babbitt  respectfully  clamored,  "Great  work, 
Captain!  Don't  let  'em  march!"  He  watched  the  strikers 
filing  from  the  park.  Many  of  them  bore  posters  with  "They 
can't  stop  our  peacefully  walking."  The  militiamen  tore  away 
the  posters,  but  the  strikers  fell  in  behind  their  leaders  and 
Straggled  off,  a  thin  unimpressive  trickle  between  steel-glinting 
lines  of  soldiers.  Babbitt  saw  with  disappointment  that  there 
wasn't  going  to  be  any  violence,  nothing  interesting  at  all. 
Then  he  gasped. 

Among  the  marchers,  beside  a  bulky  young  workman,  was 
Seneca  Doane,  smiling,  content.  In  front  of  him  was  Professor 
Brockbank,  head  of  the  history  department  in  the  State  Uni- 
versity, an  old  man  and  white-bearded,  known  to  come  from 
a  distinguished  Massachusetts  family. 

"Why,  gosh,"  Babbitt  marveled,  "a  swell  like  him  in  with 
the  strikers?  And  good  ole  Senny  Doane!  They're  fools  to 
get  mixed  up  with  this  bunch.  They're  parlor  socialists!  But 
they  have  got  nerve.  And  nothing  in  it  for  them,  not  a  cent! 
And — I  don't  know  's  all  the  strikers  look  like  such  tough 
nuts.    Look  just  about  like  anybody  else  to  me!" 

The  militiamen  were  turning  the  parade  down  a  side  street. 

"They  got  just  as  much  right  to  march  as  anybody  else! 
They  own  the  streets  as  much  as  Clarence  Drum  or  the  Ameri- 
can Legion  does!"  Babbitt  grumbled.  "Of  course,  they're 
— they're  a  bad  element,  but —    Oh,  rats!" 


3i6  BABBITT 

At  the  Athletic  Club,  Babbitt  was  silent  during  lunch,  while 
the  others  fretted,  "I  don't  know  what  the  world's  coming  to," 
or  solaced  their  spirits  with  "kidding." 

Captain  Clarence  Drum  came  swinging  by,  splendid  in 
khaki. 

"How's  it  going,  Captain?"  inquired  Vergil  Gunch. 

"Oh,  we  got  'em  stopped.  We  worked  'err  off  on  side  streets 
and  separated  'em  and  they  got  discouraged  and  went  home." 

"Fine  work.     No  violence." 

"Fine  work  nothing!"  groaned  Mr.  Drum.  "If  I  had  my 
way,  there'd  be  a  whole  lot  of  violence,  and  I'd  start  it,  and 
then  the  whole  thing  would  be  over.  I  don't  believe  in  stand- 
ing back  and  wet-nursing  these  fellows  and  letting  the  dis- 
turbances drag  on.  I  tell  you  these  strikers  are  nothing  in 
God's  world  but  a  lot  of  bomb-throwing  socialists  and  thugs, 
and  the  only  way  to  handle  'em  is  with  a  club!  That's  what 
I'd  do;  beat  up  the  whole  lot  of  'em!" 

Babbitt  heard  himself  saying,  "Oh,  rats,  Clarence,  they  look 
just  about  like  you  and  me,  and  I  certainly  didn't  notice  any 
bombs." 

Drum  complained,  "Oh,  you  didn't,  eh?  Well,  maybe  you'd 
like  to  take  charge  of  'the  strike!  Just  tell  Colonel  Nixon 
what  innocents  the  strikers  are!  He'd  be  glad  to  hear  about 
it!"    Drum  strode  on,  while  all  the  table  stared  at  Babbitt. 

"What's  the  idea?  Do  you  want  us  to  give  those  hell- 
hounds love  and  kisses,  or  what?"  said  Orville  Jones. 

"Do  you  defend  a  lot  of  hoodlums  that  are  trying  to  take 
the  bread  and  butter  away  from  our  families?"  raged  Pro- 
fessor Pumphrey. 

Vergil  Gunch  intimidatingly  said  nothing.  He  put  on  stern- 
ness like  a  mask;  his  jaw  was  hard,  his  bristly  short  hair 
seemed  cruel,  his  silence  was  a  ferocious  thunder.  While  the 
others  assured  Babbitt  that  they  must  have  misunderstood 
him,  Gunch  looked  as  though  he  had  understood  only  too  well. 
Like  a  robed  judge  he  listened  to  Babbitt's  stammering: 


BABBITT  317 

"No,  sure;  course  they're  a  bunch  of  toughs.  But  I  just 
mean —  Strikes  me  it's  bad  policy  to  talk  about  clubbing 
'em.  Cabe  Nixon  doesn't.  He's  got  the  fine  Italian  hand. 
And  that's  why  he's  colonel.  Clarence  Drum  is  jealous  of 
him." 

"Well,"  said  Professor  Pumphrey,  "you  hurt  Clarence's 
feelings,  George.  He's  been  out  there  all  morning  getting  hot 
and  dusty,  and  no  wonder  he  wants  to  beat  the  tar  out  of 
those  sons  of  guns!" 

Gunch  said  nothing,  and  watched;  and  Babbitt  knew  that 
he  was  being  watched. 

in 

As  he  was  leaving  the  club  Babbitt  heard  Chum  Frink  pro- 
testing to  Gunch,  " — don't  know  what's  got  into  him.  Last 
Sunday  Doc  Drew  preached  a  corking  sermon  about  decency 
in  business  and  Babbitt  kicked  about  that,  too.  Near  's  I 
can  figure  out — " 

Babbitt  was  vaguely  frightened. 

IV 

He  saw  a  crowd  listening  to  a  man  who  was  talking  from 
the  rostrum  of  a  kitchen-chair.  He  stopped  his  car.  From 
newspaper  pictures  he  knew  that  the  speaker  must  be  the 
notorious  freelance  preacher,  Beecher  Ingram,  of  whom  Seneca 
Doane  had  spoken.  Ingram  was  a  gaunt  man  with  flamboyant 
hair,  weather-beaten  cheeks,  and  worried  eyes.  He  was 
pleading: 

" — if  those  telephone  girls  can  hold  out,  living  on  one  meal 
a  day,  doing  their  own  washing,  starving  and  smiling,  you 
big  hulking  men  ought  to  be  able — " 

Babbitt  saw  that  from  the  sidewalk  Vergil  Gunch  was  watch- 
ing him.     In  vague   disquiet  he  started   the  car  and  me- 


3i8  BABBITT 

chanically  drove  on,  while  Gunch's  hostile  eyes  seemed  to 
follow  him  all  the  way. 


"There's  a  lot  of  these  fellows,"  Babbitt  was  complaining  to 
his  wife,  "that  think  if  workmen  go  on  strike  they're  a  regular 
bunch  of  fiends.  Now,  of  course,  it's  a  fight  between  sound 
business  and  the  destructive  element,  and  we  got  to  lick  the 
stuffin's  out  of  'em  when  they  challenge  us,  but  doggoned  if 
I  see  why  we  can't  fight  like  gentlemen  and  not  go  calling 
'em  dirty  dogs  and  saying  they  ought  to  be  shot  down." 

"Why,  George,"  she  said  placidly,  "I  thought  you  always 
insisted  that  all  strikers  ought  to  be  put  in  jail." 

"I  never  did!  Well,  I  mean —  Some  of  'em,  of  course. 
Irresponsible  leaders.  But  I  mean  a  fellow  ought  to  be  broad- 
minded  and  liberal  about  things  like — " 

"But  dearie,  I  thought  you  always  said  these  so-called  'lib- 
eral' people  were  the  worst  of — " 

"Rats!  Woman  never  can  understand  the  different  defini- 
tions of  a  word.  Depends  on  how  you  mean  it.  And  it  don't 
pay  to  be  too  cocksure  about  anything.  Now,  these  strikers: 
Honest,  they're  not  such  bad  people.  Just  foolish.  They  don't 
understand  the  complications  of  merchandizing  and  profit,  the 
way  we  business  men  do,  but  sometimes  I  think  they're  about 
like  the  rest  of  us,  and  no  more  hogs  for  wages  than  we  are 
for  profits." 

"George!  If  people  were  to  hear  you  talk  like  that — of  course 
I  know  you;  I  remember  what  a  wild  crazy  boy  you  were; 
I  know  you  don't  mean  a  word  you  say — but  if  people  that 
didn't  understand  you  were  to  hear  you  talking,  they'd  think 
you  were  a  regular  socialist!" 

"What  do  I  care  what  anybody  thinks?  And  let  me  tell 
you  right  now — I  want  you  to  distinctly  imderstand  I  never 
was  a  wild  cra2y  kid,  and  when  I  say  a  thing,  I  mean  it,  and 


BABBITT 


319 


I  stand  by  it  and —  Honest,  do  you  think  people  would  think 
I  was  too  liberal  if  I  just  said  the  strikers  were  decent?" 

"Of  course  they  would.  But  don't  worry,  dear;  I  know  you 
don't  mean  a  word  of  it.  Time  to  trot  up  to  bed  now.  Have 
you  enough  covers  for  to-night?" 

On  the  sleeping-porch  he  puzzled,  ''She  doesn't  understand 
me.  Hardly  understand  myself.  Why  can't  I  take  things 
easy,  way  I  used  to? 

"Wish  I  could  go  out  to  Senny  Doane's  house  and  talk 
things  over  with  him.  No!  Suppose  Verg  Gunch  saw  me 
going  in  there! 

"Wish  I  knew  some  really  smart  woman,  and  nice,  that 
would  see  what  I'm  trying  to  get  at,  and  let  me  talk  to  her 
and —  I  wonder  if  Myra's  right?  Could  the  fellows  think 
I've  gone  nutty  just  because  I'm  broad-minded  and  liberal? 
Way  Verg  looked  at  me — " 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Miss  McGoun  came  into  his  private  office  at  three  in  the 
afternoon  with  "Lissen,  Mr.  Babbitt;  there's  a  Mrs.  Judique 
on  the  'phone — wants  to  see  about  some  repairs,  and  the 
salesmen  are  all  out.    Want  to  talk  to  her?" 

"All  right." 

The  voice  of  Tanis  Judique  was  clear  and  pleasant.  The 
black  cylinder  of  the  telephone-receiver  seemed  to  hold  a  tiny 
animated ' image  of  her:  lustrous  eyes,  delicate  nose,  gentle 
chin. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Judique.  Do  you  remember  me?  You  drove 
me  up  here  to  the  Cavendish  Apartments  and  helped  me  find 
such  a  nice  flat." 

"Sure!     Bet  I  remember!     What  can  I  do  for  you?'' 

"Why,  it's  just  a  little —  I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to 
bother  you,  but  the  janitor  doesn't  seem  to  be  able  to  fix  it. 
You  know  my  flat  is  on  the  top  floor,  and  with  these  autiunn 
rains  the  roof  is  beginning  to  leak,  and  I'd  be  awfully  glad 
if—" 

"Sure!  I'll  come  up  and  take  a  look  at  it."  Nervously, 
"When  do  you  expect  to  be  in?" 

"Why,  I'm  in  every  morning," 

"Be  in  this  afternoon,  in  an  hour  or  so?" 

"Ye-es.  Perhaps  I  could  give  you  a  cup  of  tea.  I  think 
I  ought  to,  after  all  your  trouble." 

"Fine!     I'll  run  up  there  soon  as  I  can  get  away." 

He  meditated,  "Now  there's  a  woman  that's  got  refinement, 
savvy,  class!  'After  all  your  trouble — give  you  a  cup  of  tea.' 
She'd  appreciate  a  fellow.  I'm  a  fool,  but  I'm  not  such  a  bad 
cuss,  get  to  know  me.    And  not  so  much  a  fool  as  they  think!" 

320 


BABBITT  321 

The  great  strike  was  over,  the  strikers  beaten.  Except  that 
Vergil  Gunch  seemed  less  cordial,  there  were  no  visible  effects 
of  Babbitt's  treachery  to  the  clan.  The  oppressive  fear  of 
criticism  was  gone,  but  a  diffident  loneliness  remained.  Now 
he  was  so  exhilarated  that,  to  prove  he  wasn't,  he  droned 
about  the  office  for  fifteen  minutes,  looking  at  blue-prints, 
explaining  to  Miss  McGoun  that  this  Mrs.  Scott  wanted  more 
money  for  her  house — had  raised  the  asking-price — raised  it 
from  seven  thousand  to  eighty-five  hundred — would  Misr 
McGoun  be  sure  and  put  it  down  on  the  card — Mrs.  Scott's 
house — raise.  When  he  had  thus  established  himself  as  a 
person  imemotional  and  interested  only  in  business,  he  saun- 
tered out.  He  took  a  particularly  long  time  to  start  his  car; 
he  kicked  the  tires,  dusted  the  glass  of  the  speedometer,  and 
tightened  the  screws  holding  the  wind-shield  spot-light. 

He  drove  happily  off  toward  the  Bellevue  district,  conscious 
of  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Judique  as  of  a  brilliant  light  on  the 
horizon.  The  maple  leaves  had  fallen  and  they  lined  the  gut- 
ters of  the  asphalted  streets.  It  was  a  day  of  pale  gold  and 
faded  green,  tranquil  and  lingering.  Babbitt  was  aware  of  the 
meditative  day,  and  of  the  barrenness  of  Bellevue — blocks  of 
wooden  houses,  garages,  little  shops,  weedy  lots.  "Needs  pep- 
ping up;  needs  the  touch  that  people  like  Mrs.  Judique  could 
give  a  place,"  he  ruminated,  as  he  rattled  through  the  long, 
crude,  airy  streets.  The  wind  rose,  enlivening,  keen,  and  in 
a  blaze  of  well-being  he  came  to  the  flat  of  Tanis  Judique. 

She  was  wearing,  when  she  flutteringly  admitted  him,  a  frock 
of  black  chiffon  cut  modestly  round  at  the  base  of  her  pretty 
throat.  She  seemed  to  him  immensely  sophisticated.  He 
glanced  at  the  cretonnes  and  colored  prints  in  her  living-room, 
and  gurgled,  "Gosh,  you've  fixed  the  place  nice!  Takes  a 
clever  woman  to  know  how  to  make  a  home,  all  right!" 

"You  really  like  it?  I'm  so  glad!  But  you've  neglected 
me,  scandalously.  You  promised  to  come  some  time  and  learn 
to  dance." 


322  BABBITT 

Rather  unsteadily,  "Oh,  but  you  didn't  mean  it  seriously!" 

'Terhaps  not.     But  you  might  have  tried!" 

"Well,  here  I've  come  for  my  lesson,  and  you  might  just  as 
well  prepare  to  have  me  stay  for  supper!" 

They  both  laughed  in  a  manner  which  indicated  that  of 
course  he  didn't  mean  it. 

"But  j5rst  I  guess  I  better  look  at  that  leak." 

She  climbed  with  him  to  the  flat  roof  of  the  apartment- 
house — a  detached  world  of  slatted  wooden  walks,  clothes- 
lines, water-tank  in  a  penthouse.  He  poked  at  things  with 
his  toe,  and  sought  to  impress  her  by  being  learned  about 
copper  gutters,  the  desirability  of  passing  plumbing  pipes 
through  a  lead  collar  and  sleeve  and  flashing  them  with  cop- 
per, and  the  advantages  of  cedar  over  boiler-iron  for  roof- 
tanks. 

"You  have  to  know  so  much,  in  real  estate!"  she  admired. 

He  promised  that  the  roof  should  be  repaired  within  two 
days.  "Do  you  mind  my  'phoning  from  your  apartment?" 
he  asked. 

"Heavens,  no!" 

He  stood  a  moment  at  the  coping,  looking  over  a  land  of 
hard  little  bungalows  with  abnormally  large  porches,  and  new 
apartment-houses,  small,  but  brave  with  variegated  brick 
walls  and  terra-cotta  trimmings.  Beyond  them  was  a  hill  with 
a  gouge  of  yellow  clay  like  a  vast  wound.  Behind  every 
apartment-house,  beside  each  dwelling,  were  small  garages.  It 
was  a  world  of  good  little  people,  comfortable,  industrious, 
credulous. 

In  the  autumnal  light  the  flat  newness  was  mellowed,  and 
the  air  was  a  sun- tinted  pool. 

"Golly,  it's  one  fine  afternoon.  You  get  a  great  view  here, 
right  up  Tanner's  Hill,"  said  Babbitt. 

"Yes,  isn't  it  nice  and  open." 

"So  darn  few  people  appreciate  a  View." 

"Don't  you  go  raising  my  rent  on  that  account!     Oh,  that 


BABBITT  323 

was  naughty  of  me!  I  was  just  teasing.  Seriously  though, 
there  are  so  few  who  respond — who  react  to  Views.  I  mean 
— they  haven't  any  feeling  of  poetry  and  beauty." 

"That's  a  fact,  they  haven't,"  he  breathed,  admiring  her 
slenderness  and  the  absorbed,  airy  way  in  which  she  looked 
toward  the  hill,  chin  lifted,  lips  smiling.  "Well,  guess  I'd 
better  telephone  the  plumbers,  so  they'll  get  on  the  job  first 
thing  in  the  morning." 

AVhen  he  had  telephoned,  making  it  conspicuously  authori- 
tative and  gruff  and  masculine,  he  looked  doubtful,  and 
sighed,  "S'pose  I'd  better  be—" 

"Oh,  you  must  have  that  cup  of  tea  first!" 

"Well,  it  would  go  pretty  good,  at  that." 

It  was  luxurious  to  loll  in  a  deep  green  rep  chair,  his  legs 
thrust  out  before  him,  to  glance  at  the  black  Chinese  tele- 
phone stand  and  the  colored  photograph  of  Mount  Vernon 
which  he  had  always  liked  so  much,  while  in  the  tiny 
kitchen — so  near — IVIrs.  Judique  sang  "My  Creole  Queen." 
In  an  intolerable  sweetness,  a  contentment  so  deep  that  he 
was  wistfully  discontented,  he  saw  magnolias  by  moonlight 
and  heard  plantation  darkies  crooning  to  the  banjo.  He 
wanted  to  be  near  her,  on  pretense  of  helping  her,  yet  he 
wanted  to  remain  in  this  still  ecstasy.    Languidly  he  remained. 

When  she  bustled  in  with  the  tea  he  smiled  up  at  her. 
"This  is  awfully  nice!"  For  the  first  time,  he  was  not  fenc- 
ing; he  was  quietly  and  securely  friendly;  and  friendly  and 
quiet  was  her  answer:  "It's  nice  to  have  you  here.  You  were 
so  kind,  helping  me  to  find  this  little  home." 

They  agreed  that  the  weather  would  soon  turn  cold.  They 
agreed  that  prohibition  was  prohibitive.  They  agreed  that  art 
in  the  home  was  cultural.  They  agreed  about  everything. 
They  even  became  bold.  They  hinted  that  these  modern 
young  girls,  well,  honestly,  their  short  skirts  were  short.  They 
were  proud  to  find  that  they  were  not  shocked  by  such  frank 
speaking.      Tanis    ventured,    "I    know   you'll    understand — I 


324  BABBITT 

mean — I  don't  quite  know  how  to  say  it,  but  I  do  think  that 
girls  who  pretend  they're  bad  by  the  way  they  dress  really 
never  go  any  farther.  They  give  away  the  fact  that  they 
haven't  the  instincts  of  a  womanly  woman." 

Remembering  Ida  Putiak,  the  manicure  girl,  and  how  ill  she 
had  used  him.  Babbitt  agreed  with  enthusiasm;  remembering 
how  ill  all  the  world  had  used  him,  he  told  of  Paul  Riesling, 
of  Zilla,  of  Seneca  Doane,  of  the  strike: 

"See  how  it  was?  Course  I  was  as  anxious  to  have  those 
beggars  licked  to  a  standstill  as  anybody  else,  but  gosh,  no 
reason  for  not  seeing  their  side.  For  a  fellow's  own  sake,  he's 
got  to  be  broad-minded  and  liberal,  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Oh,  I  do!"  Sitting  on  the  hard  little  couch,  she  clasped 
her  hands  beside  her,  leaned  toward  him,  absorbed  him;  and 
in  a  glorious  state  of  being  appreciated  he  proclaimed: 

"So  I  up  and  said  to  the  fellows  at  the  club,  'Look  here,' 
I—" 

"Do  you  belong  to  the  Union  Club?    I  think  it's—" 

"No;  the  Athletic.  Tell  you:  Course  they're  always  asking 
me  to  join  the  Union,  but  I  always  say,  'No,  sir!  Nothing 
doing!'  I  don't  mind  the  expense  but  I  can't  stand  all  the 
old  fogies." 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  so.  But  tell  me:  what  did  you  say  to 
them.?" 

"Oh,  you  don't  want  to  hear  it.  I'm  probably  boring  you 
to  death  with  my  troubles!  You  wouldn't  hardly  think  I  was 
an  old  duffer;  I  sound  like  a  kid!" 

"Oh,  you're  a  boy  yet.  I  mean — ^you  can't  be  a  day  over 
forty-five." 

"Well,  I'm  not — much.  But  by  golly  I  begin  to  feel 
middle-aged  sometimes;  all  these  responsibilities  and  all." 

"Oh,  I  know!"  Her  voice  caressed  him;  it  cloaked  him  like 
warm  silk.  "And  I  feel  lonely,  so  lonely,  some  days,  Mr. 
Babbitt." 


BABBITT  325 

*WeVe  a  sad  pair  of  birds!  But  I  think  we're  pretty  darn 
nice!" 

"Yes,  I  think  we're  lots  nicer  than  most  people  I  know!" 
They  smiled.    "But  please  tell  me  what  you  said  at  the  Club." 

"Well,  it  was  like  this:  Course  Seneca  Doane  is  a  friend 
of  mine — they  can  say  what  they  want  to,  they  can  call  him 
anything  they  please,  but  what  most  folks  here  don't  know 
is  ^hat  Senny  is  the  bosom  pal  of  some  of  the  biggest  states- 
men in  the  world — Lord  Wycombe,  frinstance — ^you  know, 
this  big  British  nobleman.  My  friend  Sir  Gerald  Doak  told 
me  that  Lord  Wycombe  is  one  of  the  biggest  guns  in  England 
— well,  Doak  or  somebody  told  me." 

"Oh!  Do  you  know  Sir  Gerald?  The  one  that  was  here, 
at  the  McKelveys'?" 

"Know  him?  Well,  say,  I  know  him  just  well  enough  so 
we  call  each  other  George  and  Jerry,  and  we  got  so  pickled 
together  in  Chicago — " 

"That  must  have  been  fim.  But — "  She  shook  a  finger 
at  him.  " — I  can't  have  you  getting  pickled!  I'll  have  to 
take  you  in  hand!" 

"Wish  you  would!  .  .  .  Well,  zize  saying:  You  see  I  happen 
to  know  what  a  big  noise  Senny  Doane  is  outside  of  Zenith, 
but  of  course  a  prophet  hasn't  got  any  honor  in  his  own 
country,  and  Senny,  darn  his  old  hide,  he's  so  blame  modest 
that  he  never  lets  folks  know  the  kind  of  an  outfit  he  travels 
with  when  he  goes  abroad.  Well,  during  the  strike  Clarence 
Drum  comes  pee-rading  up  to  our  table,  all  dolled  up  fit  to 
kill  in  his  nice  lil  cap'n's  uniform,  and  somebody  says  to  him, 
'Busting  the  strike,  Clarence?' 

"Well,  he  swells  up  like  a  pouter-pigeon  and  he  hollers, 
so  's  you  could  hear  him  way  up  in  the  reading-room,  'Yes, 
sure;  I  told  the  strike-leaders  where  they  got  off,  and  so  they 
went  home.' 

"  'Well,'  I  says  to  him,  'glad  there  wasn't  any  violence.' 


326  BABBITT 

"  'Yes,'  he  says,  'but  if  I  hadn't  kept  my  eye  skinned  there 
would  've  been.  All  those  fellows  had  bombs  in  their  pockets. 
They're  reg'lar  anarchists.' 

"  'Oh,  rats,  Clarence,'  I  says,  'I  looked  'em  all  over  care^ 
fully,  and  they  didn't  have  any  more  bombs  'n  a  rabbit,'  I 
says.  'Course,'  I  says,  'they're  foolish,  but  they're  a  good 
deal  like  you  and  me,  after  all.' 

"And  then  Vergil  Gunch  or  somebody — no,  it  was  Chum 
Frink — ^you  know,  this  famous  poet — great  pal  of  mine — ^he 
says  to  me,  'Look  here,'  he  says,  'do  you  mean  to  say  you 
advocate  these  strikes?'  Well,  I  was  so  disgusted  with  a 
fellow  whose  mind  worked  that  way  that  I  swear,  I  had  a 
good  mind  to  not  explain  at  all — ^just  ignore  him — " 

"Oh,  that's  so  v/ise!"  said  Mrs.  Judique. 

" — but  finally  I  explains  to  him:  'If  you'd  done  as  much 
as  I  have  on  Chamber  of  Commerce  committees  and  all,'  I 
says,  'then  you'd  have  the  right  to  talk!  But  same  time,'  I 
says,  'I  believe  in  treating  your  opponent  like  a  gentleman!' 
Well,  sir,  that  held  'em!  Frink — Chum  I  always  call  him — 
he  didn't  have  another  word  to  say.  But  at  that,  I  guess 
some  of  'em  kind  o'  thought  I  was  too  liberal.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"Oh,  you  were  so  wise.  And  courageous!  I  love  a  man 
to  have  the  courage  of  his  convictions!" 

"But  do  you  think  it  was  a  good  stunt?  After  all,  some 
of  these  fellows  are  so  darn  cautious  and  narrow-minded  that 
they're  prejudiced  against  a  fellow  that  talks  right  out  in 
meeting." 

"What  do  you  care?  In  the  long  run  they're  bound  to 
respect  a  man  who  makes  them  think,  and  with  your  reputa- 
tion for  oratory  you — " 

"What  do  you  know  about  my  reputation  for  oratory?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  everything  I  know!  But 
seriously,  you  don't  realize  what  a  famous  man  you  are." 

"Well —     Though  I  haven't  done  much  orating  this  fall. 


BABBITT  327 

Too  kind  of  bothered  by  this  Paul  Riesling  business,  I  guess. 
But —  Do  you  know,  you're  the  first  person  that's  really 
understood  what  I  was  getting  at,  Tanis —  Listen  to  me,  will 
you!     Fat  nerve  I've  got,  calling  you  Tanis!" 

"Oh,  do!  And  shall  I  call  you  George?  Don't  you  think 
it's  awfully  nice  when  two  people  have  so  much — what  shall 
I  call  it? — so  much  analysis  that  they  can  discard  all  these 
stupid  conventions  and  understand  each  other  and  become 
acquainted  right  away,  like  ships  that  pass  in  the  night?" 

'T  certainly  do!     I  certainly  do!" 

He  was  no  longer  quiescent  in  his  chair;  he  wandered 
about  the  room,  he  dropped  on  the  couch  beside  her.  But 
as  he  awkwardly  stretched  his  hand  toward  her  fragile,  im- 
maculate fingers,  she  said  brightly,  "Do  give  me  a  cigarette. 
Would  you  think  poor  Tanis  was  dreadfully  naughty  if  she 
smoked?" 

"Lord,  no!     I  like  it!" 

He  had  often  and  weightily  pondered  flappers  smoking  in 
Zenith  restaurants,  but  he  knew  only  one  woman  who  smoked 
— Mrs.  Sam  Doppelbrau,  his  flighty  neighbor.  He  ceremoni- 
ously lighted  Tanis's  cigarette,  looked  for  a  place  to  deposit 
the  burnt  match,  and  dropped  it  into  his  pocket. 

"I'm  sure  you  want  a  cigar,  you  poor  man!"  she  crooned. 

"Do  you  mind  one?" 

"Oh,  no!  I  love  the  smell  of  a  good  cigar;  so  nice  and — 
so  nice  and  like  a  man.  You'll  find  an  ash-tray  in  my  bed- 
room, on  the  table  beside  the  bed,  if  you  don't  mind  get- 
ting it." 

He  was  embarrassed  by  her  bedroom:  the  broad  couch 
with  a  cover  of  violet  silk,  mauve  curtains  striped  with  gold, 
Chinese  Chippendale  bureau,  and  an  amazing  row  of  slippers, 
with  ribbon-wound  shoe-trees,  and  primrose  stockings  lying 
across  them.  His  manner  of  bringing  the  ash-tray  had  just 
the  right  note  of  easy  friendliness,  he  felt.  "A  boob  like 
Verg  Gunch  would  try  to  get  funny  about  seeing  her  bedroom. 


328  BABBITT 

but  I  take  it  casually."  He  was  not  casual  afterward.  The 
contentment  of  companionship  was  gone,  and  he  was  restless 
with  desire  to  touch  her  hand.  But  whenever  he  turned 
toward  her,  the  cigarette  was  in  his  way.  It  was  a  shield 
between  them.  He  waited  till  she  should  have  finished,  but 
as  he  rejoiced  at  her  quick  crushing  of  its  light  on  the  ash- 
tray she  said,  "Don't  you  want  to  give  me  another  cigarette?" 
and  hopelessly  he  saw  the  screen  of  pale  smoke  and  her  grace- 
ful tilted  hand  again  between  them.  He  was  not  merely 
curious  now  to  find  out  whether  she  would  let  him  hold  her 
hand  (all  in  the  purest  friendship,  naturally),  but  agonized 
■with  need  of  it. 

On  the  surface  appeared  none  of  all  this  fretful  drama. 
They  were  talking  cheerfully  of  motors,  of  trips  to  California, 
of  Chum  Frink.  Once  he  said  delicately,  "I  do  hate  these 
guys — I  hate  these  people  that  invite  themselves  to  meals,  but 
I  seem  to  have  a  feeling  I'm  going  to  have  supper  with  the 
lovely  Mrs.  Tanis  Judique  to-night.  But  I  suppose  you 
probably  have  seven  dates  already." 

"Well,  I  was  thinking  some  of  going  to  the  movies.  Yes, 
I  really  think  I  ought  to  get  out  and  get  some  fresh  air." 

She  did  not  encourage  him  to  stay,  but  never  did  she  dis- 
courage him.  He  considered,  "I  better  take  a  sneak!  She 
will  let  me  stay — there  is  something  doing — and  I  mustn't  get 
mixed  up  with — I  mustn't — I've  got  to  beat  it."  Then,  "No. 
it's  too  late  now." 

Suddenly,  at  seven,  brushing  her  cigarette  away,  brusquely 
taking  her  hand: 

"Tanis!  Stop  teasing  me!  You  know  we —  Here  we  are, 
a  couple  of  lonely  birds,  and  we're  awful  happy  together. 
Anyway  I  am!  Never  been  so  happy!  Do  let  me  stay!  I'll 
gallop  down  to  the  delicatessen  and  buy  some  stuff — cold 
chicken  maybe — or  cold  turkey — and  we  can  have  a  nice 
little  supper,  and  afterwards,  if  you  want  to  chase  me  out, 
I'll  be  good  and  go  like  a  lamb." 


BABBITT  329 

'Well — ^yes — it  would  be  nice,"  she  said. 

Nor  did  shf  withdraw  her  hand.  He  squeezed  it,  trembling, 
and  blundered  toward  his  coat.  At  the  delicatessen  he  bought 
preposterous  stores  of  food,  chosen  on  the  principle  of  ex- 
^ensiveness.  From  the  drug  store  across  the  street  he  tele- 
phoned to  his  wife,  "Got  to  get  a  fellow  to  sign  a  lease  before 
he  leaves  town  on  the  midnight.  Won't  be  home  till  late. 
Don't  wait  up  for  me.  Kiss  Tinka  good-night."  He  expect- 
antly lumbered  back  to  the  flat. 

"Oh,  you  bad  thing,  to  buy  so  much  food!"  was  her  greet- 
ing, and  her  voice  was  gay,  her  smile  acceptant. 

He  helped  her  in  the  tiny  white  kitchen;  he  washed  the 
lettuce,  he  opened  the  olive  bottle.  She  ordered  him  to  set 
the  table,  and  as  he  trotted  into  the  living-room,  as  he  hunted 
through  the  buffet  for  knives  and  forks,  he  felt  utterly  at 
home. 

"Now  the  only  other  thing,"  he  announced,  "is  what  you're 
going  to  wear.  I  can't  decide  whether  you're  to  put  on  your 
swellest  evening  gown,  or  let  your  hair  down  and  put  on  short 
skirts  and  make-believe  you're  a  little  girl." 

"I'm  going  to  dine  just  as  I  am,  in  this  old  chiffon  rag,  and 
if  you  can't  stand  poor  Tanis  that  way,  you  can  go  to  the 
club  for  dinner!" 

"Stand  you!"  He  patted  her  shoulder.  "Child,  you're  the 
brainiest  and  the  loveliest  and  finest  woman  I've  ever  met! 
Come  now.  Lady  Wycombe,  if  you'll  take  the  Duke  of  Zenith's 
arm,  we  will  proambulate  in  to  the  magnolious  feed!" 

"Oh,  you  do  say  the  funniest,  nicest  things!" 

When  they  had  finished  the  picnic  supper  he  thrust  his  head 
out  of  the  window  and  reported,  "It's  turned  awful  chilly, 
and  I  think  it's  going  to  rain.  You  don't  want  to  go  to 
the  movies." 

"Well—" 

"I  wish  we  had  a  fireplace!  I  wish  it  was  raining  like  all 
get-out  to-night,  and  we  were  in  a  funny  little  old-fashioned 


330  BABBITT 

cottage,  and  the  trees  thrashing  like  everything  outside,  and 
a  great  big  log  fire  and — I'll  tell  you!  Let's  draw  this  couch 
up  to  the  radiator,  and  stretch  our  feet  out,  and  pretend  it's 
a  wood-fire." 

"Oh,  I  think  that's  pathetic!  You  big  child!" 
But  they  did  draw  up  to  the  radiator,  and  propped  their 
feet  against  it — his  clumsy  black  shoes,  her  patent-leather 
slippers.  In  the  dimness  they  talked  of  themselves;  of  how 
lonely  she  was,  how  bewildered  he,  and  how  wonderful  that 
they  had  found  each  other.  As  they  fell  silent  the  room  was 
stiller  than  a  country  lane.  There  was  no  sound  from  the 
street  save  the  whir  of  motor-tires,  the  rumble  of  a  distant 
freight-train.  Self-contained  was  the  room,  warm,  secure,  in- 
sulated from  the  harassing  world. 

He  was  absorbed  by  a  rapture  in  which  all  fear  and  doubt- 
ing were  smoothed  away ;  and  when  he  reached  home,  at  dawn, 
the  rapture  had  mellowed  to  contentment  serene  and  full  of 
memories. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


The  assurance  of  Tanis  Judique's  friendship  fortified  Bab- 
bitt's self-approval.  At  the  Athletic  Club  he  became  experi- 
mental. Though  Vergil  Gunch  was  silent,  the  others  at  the 
Roughnecks'  Table  came  to  accept  Babbitt  as  having,  for  no 
visible  reason,  "turned  crank."  They  argued  windily  with 
him,  and  he  was  cocky,  and  enjoyed  the  spectacle  of  his  in- 
teresting martyrdom.  He  even  praised  Seneca  Doane.  Pro- 
fessor Pumphrey  said  that  was  carrying  a  joke  too  far;  but 
Babbitt  argued,  "No!  Fact!  I  tell  you  he's  got  one  of  the 
keenest  intellects  in  the  country.  Why,  Lord  Wycombe  said 
that—" 

"Oh,  who  the  hell  is  Lord  Wycombe?  What  you  always 
lugging  him  in  for?  You  been  touting  him  for  the  last  six 
weeks!"  protested  Orville  Jones. 

"George  ordered  him  from  Sears-Roebuck.  You  can  get 
those  English  high-muckamucks  by  mail  for  two  bucks  apiece," 
suggested  Sidney  Finkelstein. 

"That's  all  right  now!  Lord  Wycombe,  he's  one  of  the 
biggest  intellects  in  English  political  life.  As  I  was  saying: 
Of  course  I'm  conservative  myself,  but  I  appreciate  a  guy  like 
Senny  Doane  because — " 

Vergil  Gunch  interrupted  harshly,  "I  wonder  if  you  are  so 
conservative?  I  find  I  can  manage  to  run  my  own  business 
without  any  skunks  and  reds  like  Doane  in  it!" 

The  grimness  of  Gunch's  voice,  the  hardness  of  his  jaw, 
disconcerted  Babbitt,  but  he  recovered  and  went  on  till  they 
looked  bored,  then  irritated,  then  as  doubtful  as  Gunch. 

331 


332  BABBITT 

n 

He  thought  of  Tanis  always.  With  a  stir  he  remembered 
her  every  aspect.  His  arms  yearned  for  her.  "I've  found 
herl  I've  dreamed  of  her  all  these  years  and  now  I've  found 
herl"  he  exulted.  He  met  her  at  the  movies  in  the  morning; 
he  drove  out  to  her  flat  in  the  late  afternoon  or  on  evenings 
when  he  was  believed  to  be  at  the  Elks.  He  knew  her  finan- 
cial affairs  and  advised  her  about  them,  while  she  lamented 
her  feminine  ignorance,  and  praised  his  masterfulness,  and 
proved  to  know  much  more  about  bonds  than  he  did.  They 
had  remembrances,  and  laughter  over  old  times.  Once  they 
quarreled,  and  he  raged  that  she  was  as  "bossy"  as  his  wife 
and  far  more  whining  when  he  was  inattentive.  But  that 
passed  safely. 

Their  high  hour  was  a  tramp  on  a  ringing  December  after- 
noon, through  snow-drifted  meadows  do^n  to  the  icy  Chaloosa 
River.  She  was  exotic  in  an  astrachan  cap  and  a  short  beaver 
coat;  she  slid  on  the  ice  and  shouted,  and  he  panted  after 
her,  rotund  with  laughter.  .  .  .  Myra  Babbitt  never  slid  on 
the  ice. 

He  was  afraid  that  they  would  be  seen  together.  In  Zenith 
it  is  impossible  to  lunch  with  a  neighbor's  wife  without  the 
fact  being  known,  before  nightfall,  in  every  house  in  your 
circle.  But  Tanis  was  beautifully  discreet.  However  appeal- 
ingly  she  might  turn  to  him  when  they  were  alone,  she  was 
gravely  detached  when  they  were  abroad,  and  he  hoped  that 
she  would  be  taken  for  a  client.  Orville  Jones  once  saw  them 
emerging  from  a  movie  theater,  and  Babbitt  bumbled,  "Let 
me  make  you  'quainted  with  Mrs.  Judique.  Now  here's  a  lady 
who  knows  the  right  broker  to  come  to,  Orvy!"  Mr.  Jones, 
though  he  was  a  man  censorious  of  morals  and  of  laundry 
machinery,  seemed  satisfied. 

His  predominant  fear — not  from  any  especial  fondness  for 
her  but  from  the  habit  of  propriety — was  that  his  wife  would 


BABBITT  333 

learn  of  the  affair.  He  was  certain  that  she  knew  nothing 
specific  about  Tanis,  but  he  was  also  certain  that  she  suspected 
something  indefinite.  For  years  she  had  been  bored  by  any- 
thing more  affectionate  than  a  farewell  kiss,  yet  she  was  hurt 
by  any  slackening  in  his  irritable  periodic  interest,  and  now 
he  had  no  interest;  rather,  a  revulsion.  He  was  completely 
faithful — to  Tanis.  He  was  distressed  by  the  sight  of  his 
wife's  slack  plumpness,  by  her  puffs  and  billows  of  flesh,  by  the 
tattered  petticoat  which  she  was  always  meaning  and  always 
forgetting  to  throw  away.  But  he  was  aware  that  she,  so  long 
attimed  to  him,  caught  all  his  repulsions.  He  elaborately, 
heavily,  jocularly  tried  to  check  them.    He  couldn't. 

They  had  a  tolerable  Christmas.  Kenneth  Escott  was  there, 
■admittedly  engaged  to  Verona.  Mrs.  Babbitt  was  tearful 
and  called  Kenneth  her  new  son.  Babbitt  was  worried  about 
Ted,  because  he  had  ceased  complaining  of  the  State  Univer- 
sity and  become  suspiciously  acquiescent.  He  wondered  what 
the  boy  was  planning,  and  was  too  shy  to  ask.  Himself, 
Babbitt  slipped  away  on  Christmas  afternoon  to  take  his 
present,  a  silver  cigarette-box,  to  Tanis.  When  he  returned 
Mrs.  Babbitt  asked,  much  too  innocently,  "Did  you  go  out 
for  a  little  fresh  air?" 

"Yes,  just  HI  drive,"  he  mumbled. 

After  New  Year's  his  wife  proposed,  "I  heard  from  my  sister 
to-day,  George.  She  isn't  well.  I  think  perhaps  I  ought  to 
go  stay  with  her  for  a  few  weeks." 

Now,  Mrs.  Babbitt  was  not  accustomed  to  leave  home  during 
the  winter  except  on  violently  demanding  occasions,  and  only 
the  summer  before,  she  had  been  gone  for  weeks.  Nor  was 
Babbitt  one  of  the  detachable  husbands  who  take  separations 
casually  He  liked  to  have  her  there;  she  looked  after  his 
clothes;  she  knew  how  his  steak  ought  to  be  cooked;  and  her 
clucking  made  him  feel  secure.  But  he  could  not  drum  up 
even  a  dutiful  "Oh,  she  doesn't  really  need  you,  does  she?" 
While  he  tried  to  look  regretful,  while  he  felt  that  his  wife 


334  BABBITT 

was  watching  him,  he  was  filled  with  exultant  visions  of 
Tanis. 

"Do  you  think  I'd  better  go?"  she  said  sharply. 

"You've  got  to  decide,  honey;  I  can't." 

She  turned  away,  sighing,  and  his  forehead  was  damp. 

Till  she  went,  four  days  later,  she  was  curiously  still,  he 
cumbrously  affectionate.  Her  train  left  at  noon.  As  he  saw 
it  grow  small  beyond  the  train-shed  he  longed  to  hurry  to 
[Tanis. 

"No,  by  golly,  I  won't  do  that!"  he  vowed.  "I  won't  go 
near  her  for  a  week!" 

But  he  was  at  her  flat  at  four. 


..  in 

He  who  had  once  controlled  or  seemed  to  control  his  life 
in  a  progress  unimpassioned  but  diligent  and  sane  was  for 
that  fortnight  borne  on  a  current  of  desire  and  very  bad 
whisky  and  all  the  complications  of  new  acquaintances,  those 
furious  new  intimates  who  demand  so  much  more  attention 
than  old  friends.  Each  morning  he  gloomily  recognized  his 
idiocies  of  the  evening  before.  With  his  head  throbbing,  his 
tongue  and  lips  stinging  from  cigarettes,  he  incredulously 
counted  the  number  of  drinks  he  had  taken,  and  groaned,  "I 
got  to  quit!"  He  had  ceased  saying,  "I  will  quit!"  for  how- 
ever resolute  he  might  be  at  dawn,  he  could  not,  for  a  single 
evening,  check  his  drift. 

He  had  met  Tanis's  friends;  he  had,  with  the  ardent  haste 
of  the  Midnight  People,  who  drink  and  dance  and  rattle  and 
are  ever  afraid  to  be  silent,  been  adopted  as  a  member  of  her 
group,  which  they  called  "The  Bunch."  He  first  met  them 
after  a  day  when  he  had  worked  particularly  hard  and  when 
he  hoped  to  be  quiet  with  Tanis  and  slowly  sip  her  admiration. 

From  down  the  hall  he  could  hear  shrieks  and  the  grind  of 
a  phonograph.     As  Tanis  opened  the  door  he  saw  fantastic 


BABBITT  335 

figures  dancing  in  a  haze  of  cigarette  smoke.  The  tables  and 
chairs  were  against  the  wall. 

"Oh,  isn't  this  dandy!"  she  gabbled  at  him.  "Carrie  Nork 
had  the  loveliest  idea.  She  decided  it  was  time  for  a  party, 
and  she  phoned  the  Bunch  and  told  'em  to  gather  round. 
.  .  .  George,  this  is  Carrie." 

''Carrie"  was,  in  the  less  desirable  aspects  of  both,  at  once 
matronly  and  spinsterish.  She  was  perhaps  forty;  her  hair 
was  an  unconvincing  ash-blond;  and  if  her  chest  was  flat, 
her  hips  were  ponderous.  She  greeted  Babbitt  with  a  giggling 
"Welcome  to  our  little  midst!    Tanis  says  you're  a  real  sport." 

He  was  apparently  expected  to  dance,  to  be  boyish  and 
gay  with  Carrie,  and  he  did  his  unforgiving  best.  He  towed 
her  about  the  room,  bumping  into  other  couples,  into  the 
radiator,  into  chair-legs  cunningly  ambushed.  As  he  danced 
he  surveyed  the  rest  of  the  Bunch:  A  thin  young  woman  who 
looked  capable,  conceited,  and  sarcastic.  Another  woman 
whom  he  could  never  quite  remember.  Three  overdressed 
and  slightly  effeminate  young  men — soda-fountain  clerks,  or 
at  least  born  for  that  profession.  A  man  of  his  own  age, 
immovable,  self-satisfied,  resentful  of  Babbitt's  presence. 

When  he  had  finished  his  dutiful  dance  Tanis  took  him 
aside  and  begged,  "Dear,  wouldn't  you  like  to  do  something 
for  me?  I'm  all  out  of  booze,  and  the  Bunch  want  to  cele- 
brate. Couldn't  you  just  skip  down  to  Healey  Hanson's  and 
get  some?" 

"Sure,"  he  said,  trying  not  to  sound  sullen. 

"I'll  tell  you:  I'll  get  Minnie  Sonntag  to  drive  down  with 
you."  Tanis  was  pointing  to  the  thin,  sarcastic  young 
woman. 

Miss  Sonntag  greeted  him  with  an  astringent  "How  d'you 
do,  Mr.  Babbitt.  Tanis  tells  me  you're  a  very  prominent  man, 
and  I'm  honored  by  being  allowed  to  drive  with  you.  Of 
course  I'm  not  accustomed  to  associating  with  society  people 
like  you,  so  I  don't  know  how  to  act  in  such  exalted  circles  I " 


336  BABBITT 

Thus  Miss  Sonntag  talked  all  the  way  down  to  Healey  Han- 
son's. To  her  jibes  he  wanted  to  reply  "Oh,  go  to  the  devil  1 " 
but  he  never  quite  nerved  himself  to  that  reasonable  com- 
ment. He  was  resenting  the  existence  of  the  whole  Bunch. 
He  had  heard  Tanis  speak  of  "darling  Carrie"  and  "Min 
Sonntag — she's  so  clever — you'll  adore  her,"  but  they  had 
never  been  real  to  him.  He  had  pictured  Tanis  as  living  in 
a  rose-tinted  vacuum,  waiting  for  him,  free  of  all  the  com- 
plications of  a  Floral  Heights. 

When  they  returned  he  had  to  endure  the  patronage  of  the 
young  soda-clerks.  They  were  as  damply  friendly  as  Miss 
Sonntag  was  dryly  hostile.  They  called  him  "Old  Georgie" 
and  shouted,  "Come  on  now,  sport;  shake  a  leg"  .  .  .  boys 
in  belted  coats,  pimply  boys,  as  young  as  Ted  and  as  flabby 
as  chorus-men,  but  powerful  to  dance  and  to  mind  the  phono- 
graph and  smoke  cigarettes  and  patronize  Tanis.  He  tried  to 
be  one  of  them;  he  cried  "Good  work,  Pete!"  but  his  voice 
creaked. 

Tanis  apparently  enjoyed  the  companionship  of  the  dancing 
darlings;  she  bridled  to  their  bland  flirtation  and  casually 
kissed  them  at  the  end  of  each  dance.  Babbitt  hated  her,  for 
the  moment.  He  saw  her  as  middle-aged.  He  studied  the 
wrinkles  in  the  softness  of  her  throat,  the  slack  flesh  beneath 
her  chin.  The  taut  muscles  of  her  youth  were  loose  and  droop- 
ing. Between  dances  she  sat  in  the  largest  chair,  waving  her 
cigarette,  summoning  her  callow  admirers  to  come  and  talk 
to  her.  ("She  thinks  she's  a  blooming  queen!"  growled  Bab- 
bitt.) She  chanted  to  Miss  Sonntag,  "Isn't  my  little  studio 
sweet?"  ("Studio,  rats!  It's  a  plain  old-maid-and-chow-dog 
flat!  Oh,  God,  I  wisk  I  was  home!  I  wonder  if  I  can't  make 
a  getaway  now?") 

His  vision  grew  blurred,  however,  as  he  applied  himself  to 
Healey  Hanson's  raw  but  vigorous  whisky.  He  blended  with 
the  Bunch.  He  began  to  rejoice  that  Carrie  Nork  and  Pete, 
the  most  nearly  intelligent  of  the  nimble  youths,  seemed  to 


BABBITT  337 

like  him;  and  it  was  enormously  important  to  win  over  the 
surly  older  man,  who  proved  to  be  a  railway  clerk  named 
Fulton  Bemis. 

The  conversation  of  the  Bunch  was  exclamatory,  high- 
colored,  full  of  references  to  people  whom  Babbitt  did  not 
know.  Apparently  they  thought  very  comfortably  of  them- 
selves. They  were  the  Bunch,  wise  and  beautiful  and  amusing; 
they  were  Bohemians  and  urbanites,  accustomed  to  all  the 
luxuries  of  Zenith:  dance-halls,  movie- theaters,  and  road- 
houses;  and  in  a  cynical  superiority  to  people  who  were  "slow" 
or  "tightwad"  they  cackled: 

"Oh,  Pete,  did  I  tell  you  what  that  dub  of  a  cashier  said 
when  I  came  in  late  yesterday?  Oh,  it  was  per-fect-ly  price- 
less!" 

"Oh,  but  wasn't  T.  D.  stewed!  Say,  he  was  simply  ossi- 
fied!    What  did  Gladys  say  to  him?" 

"Think  of  the  nerve  of  Bob  Bickerstaff  trying  to  get  us  to 
come  to  his  house!  Say,  the  nerve  of  him!  Can  you  beat  it 
for  nerve?     Some  nerve  I  call  it!" 

"Did  you  notice  how  Dotty  was  dancing?  Gee,  wasn't 
she  the  limit!" 

Babbitt  was  to  be  heard  sonorously  agreeing  with  the  once- 
hated  Miss  Minnie  Sonntag  that  persons  who  let  a  night  go 
by  without  dancing  to  jazz  music  were  crabs,  pikers,  and  poor 
fish;  and  he  roared  "You  bet!"  when  Mrs.  Carrie  Nork  gur- 
gled, "Don't  you  love  to  sit  on  the  floor?  It's  so  Bohemian!" 
He  began  to  think  extremely  well  of  the  Bunch.  When  he 
mentioned  his  friends  Sir  Gerald  Doak,  Lord  Wycombe,  Wil- 
liam Washington  Eathorne,  and  Chum  Frink,  he  was  proud 
of  their  :ondescending  interest.  He  got  so  thoroughly  into  the 
jocund  spirit  that  he  didn't  much  mind  seeing  Tanis  drooping 
against  the  shoulder  of  the  youngest  and  milkiest  of  the  young 
men,  and  he  himself  desired  to  hold  Carrie  Nork's  pulpy  hand, 
and  dropped  it  only  because  Tanis  looked  angry. 

When  he  went  home,  at  two,  he  was  fully  a  member  of  the 


338  BABBITT 

Bunch,  and  all  the  week  thereafter  he  was  bound  by  the  ex- 
ceedingly straitened  conventions,  the  exceedingly  wearing  de- 
mands, of  their  life  of  pleasure  and  freedom.  He  had  to  go. 
to  their  parties;  he  was  involved  in  the  agitation  when  every- 
body telephoned  to  everybody  else  that  she  hadn't  meant( 
what  she'd  said  when  she'd  said  that,  and  anyway,  why  was 
Pete  going  around  saying  she'd  said  it? 

Never  was  a  Family  more  insistent  on  learning  one  another's 
movements  than  were  the  Bunch.  All  of  them  volubly  knew, 
or  indignantly  desired  to  know,  where  all  the  others  had  been 
every  minute  of  the  week.  Babbitt  found  himself  explaining 
to  Carrie  or  Fulton  Bemis  just  what  he  had  been  doing  that 
he  should  not  have  jomed  them  till  ten  o'clock,  and  apologiz- 
ing for  having  gone  to  dinner  with  a  business  acquaintance. 

Every  member  of  the  Bunch  was  expected  to  telephone  to 
every  other  member  at  least  once  a  week.  "Why  haven't  you 
called  me  up?"  Babbitt  was  asked  accusingly,  not  only  by 
Tanis  and  Carrie  but  presently  by  new  ancien'^  '-iends,  Jeimie 
and  Capitolina  and  Toots. 

If  for  a  moment  he  had  seen  Tanis  as  withermg  and  senti- 
mental, he  lost  that  impression  at  Carrie  Nork's  dance.  Mrs. 
Nork  had  a  large  house  and  a  small  husband.  To  her  party 
came  all  of  the  Bunch,  perhaps  thirty-five  of  them  when  they 
were  completely  mobilized.  Babbitt,  under  the  name  of  "Old 
Georgie,"  was  now  a  pioneer  of  the  Bunch,  since  each  month 
it  changed  half  its  membership  and  he  who  could  recall  the 
prehistoric  days  of  a  fortnight  ago,  before  Mrs.  Absolom,  the 
food-demonstrator,  had  gone  to  Indianapolis,  and  Mac  had 
"got  sore  at"  IMinnie,  was  a  venerable  leader  and  able  to  con- 
descend to  new  Petes  and  Minnies  and  Gladyses. 

At  Carrie's,  Tanis  did  not  have  to  work  at  being  hostess. 
She  was  dignified  and  sure,  a  clear  fine  figure  in  the  black 
chiffon  frock  he  had  always  loved;  and  in  the  wider  spaces 
of  that  ugly  house  Babbitt  was  able  to  sit  quietly  with  her. 
He  repented  of  his  first  revulsion,  mooned  at  her  feet,  and 


BABBITT  339 

happily  drove  her  home.  Next  day  he  bought  a  violent  yellow 
tie,  to  make  himself  young  for  her.  He  knew,  a  little  sadly, 
that  he  could  not  make  himself  beautiful;  he  beheld  himself 
as  heavy,  hinting  of  fatness,  but  he  danced,  he  dressed,  he 
chattered,  to  be  as  young  as  she  was  ...  as  young  as  she 
seemed  to  be. 

IV 

As  all  converts,  whether  to  a  religion,  love,  or  gardening, 
find  as  by  magic  that  though  hitherto  these  hobbies  have  not 
seemed  to  exist,  now  the  whole  world  is  filled  with  their  fury, 
so,  once  he  was  converted  to  dissipation.  Babbitt  discovered 
agreeable  opportunities  for  it  everywhere. 

He  had  a  new  view  of  his  sporting  neighbor,  Sam  Doppel- 
brau.  The  Doppelbraus  were  respectable  people,  industrious 
people,  prosperous  people,  whose  ideal  of  happiness  was  an 
eternal  cabaret.  Their  life  was  dominated  by  suburban 
bacchanalia  of  alcohol,  nicotine,  gasoline,  and  kisses.  They 
and  their  set  worked  capably  all  the  week,  and  all  week  looked 
forward  to  Saturday  night,  when  they  would,  as  they  expressed 
it,  "throw  a  party;"  and  the  thrown  party  grew  noisier  and 
noisier  up  to  Sunday  dawn,  and  usually  included  an  extremely 
rapid  motor  expedition  to  nowhere  in  particular. 

One  evening  when  Tanis  was  at  the  theater,  Babbitt  found 
himself  being  lively  with  the  Doppelbraus,  pledging  friendship 
with  men  whom  he  had  for  years  privily  denounced  to  Mrs. 
Babbitt  as  a  "rotten  bunch  of  tin-horns  that  I  wouldn't  go 
out  with,  not  if  they  were  the  last  people  on  earth."  That 
evening  he  had  sulkily  come  home  and  poked  about  in  front 
of  the  house,  chipping  off  the  walk  the  ice-clots,  like  fossil 
footprints,  made  by  the  steps  of  passers-by  during  the  recent 
snow.    Howard  Littlelield  came  up  snuffling. 

"Still  a  widower,  George?" 

"Yump.     Cold  again  to-night." 

"What  do  you  hear  from  the  wife?" 


340  BABBITT 

"She's  feeling  fine,  but  her  sister  is  still  pretty  sick." 

"Say,  better  come  in  and  have  dinner  with  us  to-night, 
George." 

"Oh — oh,  thanks.    Have  to  go  out." 

Suddenly  he  could  not  endure  Littlefield's  recitals  of  the 
more  interesting  statistics  about  totally  uninteresting  problems. 
He  scraped  at  the  walk  and  grunted. 

Sam  Doppelbrau  appeared. 

"Evenin',  Babbitt.    Working  hard?" 

"Yuh,  lil  exercise." 

"Cold  enough  for  you  to-night?" 

"Well,  just  about." 

"Still  a  widower?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"Say,  Babbitt,  while  she's  away —  I  know  you  don't  care 
much  for  booze-fights,  but  the  Missus  and  I'd  be  awfully  glad 
if  you  could  come  in  some  night.  Think  you  could  stand  a 
good  cocktail  for  once?" 

"Stand  it?  Young  fella,  I  bet  old  Uncle  George  can  mix 
the  best  cocktail  in  these  United  States!" 

"Hurray!  That's  the  way  to  talk!  Look  here:  There's 
some  folks  coming  to  the  house  to-night,  Louetta  Swanson  and 
some  other  live  ones,  and  I'm  going  to  open  up  a  bottle  of 
pre-war  gin,  and  maybe  we'll  dance  a  while.  Why  don't  you 
drop  in  and  jazz  it  up  a  little,  just  for  a  change?" 

"Well —    What  time  they  coming?" 

He  was  at  Sam  Doppelbrau's  at  nine.  It  was  the  third 
time  he  had  entered  the  house.  By  ten  he  was  calling  Mr. 
Doppelbrau  "Sam,  old  boss." 

At  eleven  they  all  drove  out  to  the  Old  Farm  Inn.  Babbitt 
sat  in  the  back  of  Doppelbrau's  car  with  Louetta  Swanson. 
Once  he  had  timorously  tried  to  make  love  to  her.  Now  he 
did  not  try;  he  merely  made  love;  and  Louetta  dropped  her 
head  on  his  shoulder,  told  him  what  a  nagger  Eddie  was,  and 
accepted  Babbitt  as  a  decent  and  well-trained  libertine. 


BABBITi  341 

With  the  assistance  of  Tanis's  Bunch,  the  Doppelbraus,  and 
other  companions  in  forgetfulness,  there  was  not  an  evening 
for  two  weeks  when  he  did  not  return  home  late  and  shaky. 
With  his  other  faculties  blurred  he  yet  had  the  motorist's  gift 
of  being  able  to  drive  when  he  could  scarce  walk;  of  slowing 
down  at  corners  and  allowing  for  approaching  cars.  He  came 
wambling  into  the  house.  If  Verona  and  Kenneth  Escott  were 
about,  he  got  past  them  with  a  hasty  greeting,  horribly  aware 
of  their  level  young  glances,  and  hid  himself  up-stairs.  He 
found  when  he  came  into  the  warm  house  that  he  was  hazier 
than  he  had  believed.  His  head  whirled.  He  dared  not  lie 
down.  He  tried  to  soak  out  the  alcohol  in  a  hot  bath.  For 
the  moment  his  head  was  clearer  but  when  he  moved  about 
the  bathroom  his  calculations  of  distance  were  wrong,  so  that 
he  dragged  down  the  towels,  and  knocked  over  the  soap-dish 
with  a  clatter  which,  he  feared,  would  betray  him  to  the  chil- 
dren. Chilly  in  his  dressing-gown  he  tried  to  read  the  evening 
paper.  He  could  follow  every  word;  he  seemed  to  take  in  the 
sense  of  things ;  but  a  minute  afterward  he  could  not  have  told 
what  he  had  been  reading.  When  he  went  to  bed  his  brain 
flew  in  circles,  and  he  hastily  sat  up,  struggling  for  self-control. 
At  last  he  was  able  to  lie  still,  feeling  only  a  little  sick  and 
diz2y — and  enormously  ashamed.  To  hide  his  "condition" 
from  his  own  children!  To  have  danced  and  shouted  with 
people  whom  he  despised!  To  have  said  foolish  things,  sung 
idiotic  songs,  tried  to  kiss  silly  girls!  Incredulously  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  by  his  roaring  familiarity  with  them  laid 
himself  open  to  the  patronizing  of  youths  whom  he  would  have 
kicked  out  of  his  office;  that  by  dancing  too  ardently  he  had 
exposed  himself  to  rebukes  from  the  rattiest  of  withering 
women.  As  it  came  relentlessly  back  to  him  he  snarled,  "I 
hate  myself!  God  how  I  hate  myself!"  But,  he  raged,  "I'm 
through!     No  more!     Had  enough,  plenty!" 

He  was  even  surer  about  it  the  morning  after,  when  he  was 
trying  to  be  grave  and  paternal  with  his  daughters  at  break- 


342  BABBITT 

fast.  At  noontime  he  was  less  sure.  He  did  not  deny  that 
he  had  been  a  fool;  he  saw  it  almost  as  clearly  as  at  mid- 
night; but  anything,  he  struggled,  was  better  than  going  back 
to  a  life  of  barren  heartiness.  At  four  he  wanted  a  drink. 
He  kept  a  whisky  flask  in  his  desk  now,  and  after  two  minutes 
of  battle  he  had  his  drink.  Three  drinks  later  he  began  to 
see  the  Bunch  as  tender  and  amusing  friends,  and  by  six  he 
was  with  them  .  .  .     and  the  tale  was  to  be  told  all  over. 

Each  morning  his  head  ached  a  little  less.  A  bad  head  for 
drinks  had  been  his  safeguard,  but  the  safeguard  was  crum- 
bling. Presently  he  could  be  drunk  at  dawn,  yet  not  feel  par- 
ticularly wretched  in  his  conscience — or  in  his  stomach — when 
he  awoke  at  eight.  No  regret,  no  desire  to  escape  the  toil  of 
keeping  up  with  the  arduous  merriment  of  the  Bunch,  was  so 
great  as  his  feeling  of  social  inferiority  when  he  failed  to  keep 
up.  To  be  the  "livest"  of  them  was  as  much  his  ambition 
now  as  it  had  been  to  excel  at  making  money,  at  playing 
golf,  at  motor-driving,  at  oratory,  at  climbing  to  the  McKel- 
vey  set.     But  occasionally  he  failed. 

He  found  that  Pete  and  the  other  young  men  considered 
the  Bunch  too  austerely  polite  and  the  Carrie  who  merely 
kissed  behind  doors  too  embarrassingly  monogamic.  As  Bab- 
bitt sneaked  from  Floral  Heights  down  to  the  Bunch,  so  the 
young  gallants  sneaked  from  the  proprieties  of  the  Bunch  off 
to  "times"  with  bouncing  young  women  whom  they  picked  up 
in  department  stores  and  at  hotel  coatrooms.  Once  Babbitt 
tried  to  accompany  them.  There  was  a  motor  car,  a  bottle 
of  whisky,  and  for  him  a  grubby  shrieking  cash-girl  from 
Parcher  and  Stein's.  He  sat  beside  her  and  worried.  He  was 
apparently  expected  to  "jolly  her  along,"  but  when  she  sang 
out,  "Hey,  leggo,  quit  crushing  me  cootie-garage,"  he  did  not 
quite  know  how  to  go  on.  They  sat  in  the  back  room  of  a 
saloon,  and  Babbitt  had  a  headache,  was  confused  by  their 
new  slang,  looked  at  them  benevolently,  wanted  to  go  home, 
and  had  a  drink — a  good  many  drinks. 


BABBITT  343 

Two  evenings  after,  Fulton  Bemis,  the  surly  older  man  of  the 
Bunch,  took  Babbitt  aside  and  grunted,  "Look  here,  it's  none 
of  my  business,  and  God  knows  I  always  lap  up  my  share 
of  the  hootch,  but  don't  you  think  you  better  watch  your- 
self? You're  one  of  these  enthusiastic  chumps  that  always 
overdo  things.  D'  you  realize  you're  throwing  in  the  booze 
as  fast  as  you  can,  and  you  eat  one  cigarette  right  after 
another?     Better  cut  it  out  for  a  while." 

Babbitt  tearfully  said  that  good  old  Fult  was  a  prince,  and 
yes,  he  certainly  would  cut  it  out,  and  thereafter  he  lighted 
a  cigarette  and  took  a  drink  and  had  a  terrific  quarrel  with 
Tanis  when  she  caught  him  being  affectionate  with  Carrie 
Nork. 

Next  morning  he  hated  himself  that  he  should  have  sunk 
into  a  position  where  a  fifteenth-rater  like  Fulton  Bemis  could 
rebuke  him.  He  perceived  that,  since  he  was  making  love  to 
every  woman  possible,  Tanis  was  no  longer  his  one  pure  star, 
and  he  wondered  whether  she  had  ever  been  anything  more 
to  him  than  A  Woman.  And  if  Bemis  had  spoken  to  him, 
were  other  people  talking  about  him?  He  suspiciously  watched 
the  men  at  the  Athletic  Club  that  noon.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  they  were  uneasy.  They  had  been  talking  about  him 
then?  He  was  angry.  He  became  belligerent.  He  not  only 
defended  Seneca  Doane  but  even  made  fun  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
Vergil  Gunch  was  rather  brief  in  his  answers. 

Afterward  Babbitt  was  not  angry.  He  was  afraid.  He  did 
not  go  to  the  next  lunch  of  the  Boosters'  Club  but  hid  in  a 
cheap  restaurant,  and,  while  he  munched  a  ham-and-egg  sand- 
wich and  sipped  coffee  from  a  cup  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  he 
worried. 

Four  days  later,  when  the  Bunch  were  having  one  of  their 
best  parties.  Babbitt  drove  them  to  the  skating-rink  which 
had  been  laid  out  on  the  Chaloosa  River.  After  a  thaw  the 
streets  had  frozen  in  smooth  ice.  Down  those  wide  endless 
streets  the  wind  rattled  between  the  rows  of  wooden  houses, 


344  BABBITT 

and  the  whole  Bellevue  district  seemed  a  frontier  town.  Even 
with  skid  chains  on  all  four  wheels,  Babbitt  was  afraid  of  slid- 
ing, and  when  he  came  to  the  long  slide  of  a  hill  he  crawled 
down,  both  brakes  on.  Slewing  round  a  corner  came  a  less 
cautious  car.  It  skidded,  it  almost  raked  them  with  its  rear 
fenders.  In  relief  at  their  escape  the  Bunch — Tanis,  Minnie 
Sonntag,  Pete,  Fulton  Bemis — shouted  "Oh,  baby,"  and  waved 
their  hands  to  the  agitated  other  driver.  Then  Babbitt  saw 
Professor  Pumphrey  laboriously  crawling  up  hill,  afoot,  starmg 
owlishly  at  the  revelers.  He  was  sure  that  Pumphrey  recog- 
nized him  and  saw  Tanis  kiss  him  as  she  crowed,  "You're  such 
a  good  driver!" 

At  lunch  next  day  he  probed  Pumphrey  with  "Out  last  night 
with  my  brother  and  some  friends  of  his.  Gosh,  what  driving! 
Slippery  's  glass.  Thought  I  saw  you  hiking  up  the  Bellevue 
Avenue  Hill." 

"No,  I  wasn't — I  didn't  see  you,"  said  Pumphrey,  hastily, 
rather  guiltily. 

Perhaps  two  days  afterward  Babbitt  took  Tanis  to  lunch 
at  the  Hotel  Thornleigh.  She  who  had  seemed  well  content 
to  wait  for  him  at  her  flat  had  begun  to  hint  with  melancholy 
smiles  that  he  must  think  but  little  of  her  if  he  never  intro- 
duced her  to  his  friends,  if  he  was  unwilling  to  be  seen  with 
her  except  at  the  movies.  He  thought  of  taking  her  to  the 
''ladies'  annex"  of  the  Athletic  Club,  but  that  was  too  dan- 
gerous. He  would  have  to  introduce  her  and,  oh,  people  might 
misunderstand  and —    He  compromised  on  the  Thornleigh. 

She  was  unusually  smart,  all  in  black:  small  black  tricorne 
hat,  short  black  caracul  coat,  loose  and  swinging,  and  austere 
high-necked  black  velvet  frock  at  a  time  when  most  street 
costum^es  were  like  evening  gowns.  Perhaps  she  was  too  smart. 
Every  one  in  the  gold  and  oak  restaurant  of  the  Thornleigh 
was  staring  at  her  as  Babbitt  followed  her  to  a  table.  He 
uneasily  hoped  that  the  head-waiter  would  give  them  a  dis- 
creet place  behind  a  pillar,  but  they  were  stationed  on  the 


BABBITT  345 

center  aisle.  Tanis  seemed  not  to  notice  her  admirers;  she 
smiled  at  Babbitt  with  a  lavish  "Oh,  isn't  this  nice!  What 
a  peppy-looking  orchestral"  Babbitt  had  difficulty  in  being 
lavish  in  return,  for  two  tables  away  he  saw  Vergil  Gunch. 
All  through  the  meal  Gunch  watched  them,  while  Babbitt 
watched  himself  being  watched  and  lugubriously  tried  to  keep 
from  spoiling  Tanis's  gaiety.  "I  felt  like  a  spree  to-day,"  she 
rippled.  *T  love  the  Thornleigh,  don't  you?  It's  so  live  and 
yet  so — so  refined." 

He  made  talk  about  the  Thornleigh,  the  service,  the  food, 
the  people  he  recognized  in  the  restaurant,  all  but  Vergil 
Gunch.  There  did  not  seem  to  be  anything  else  to  talk  of. 
He  smiled  conscientiously  at  her  fluttering  jests;  he  agreed 
with  her  that  Minnie  Sonntag  was  "so  hard  to  get  along  with," 
and  young  Pete  "such  a  silly  lazy  kid,  really  just  no  good  at 
all."  But  he  himself  had  nothing  to  say.  He  considered  tell- 
ing her  his  worries  about  Gunch,  but — "oh,  gosh,  it  was  too 
much  work  to  go  into  the  whole  thing  and  explain  about 
Verg  and  everything." 

He  was  relieved  when  he  put  Tanis  on  a  trolley;  he  was 
cheerful  in  the  familiar  simplicities  of  his  office. 

At  four  o'clock  Vergil  Gunch  called  on  him. 

Babbitt  was  agitated,  but  Gunch  began  in  a  friendly  way: 

"How's  the  boy?  Say,  some  of  us  are  getting  up  a  scheme 
we'd  kind  of  like  to  have  you  come  in  on." 

"Fine,  Verg.    Shoot." 

"You  know  during  the  war  we  had  the  Undesirable  Element, 
the  Reds  and  walking  delegates  and  just  the  plain  common 
grouches,  dead  to  rights,  and  so  did  we  for  quite  a  while  after 
the  war,  but  folks  forget  about  the  danger  and  that  gives  these 
cranks  a  chance  to  begin  working  underground  again,  espe- 
cially a  lot  of  these  parlor  socialists.  Well,  it's  up  to  the  folks 
that  do  a  little  sound  thinking  to  make  a  conscious  effort  to 
keep  bucking  these  fellows.  Some  guy  back  East  has  organized 
a  society  called  the  Good  Citizens'  League  for  just  that  pur- 


J46  ^  BABBITT 

pose.  Of  course  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  and  the  American 
Legion  and  so  on  do  a  fine  work  in  keeping  the  decent  people 
in  the  saddle,  but  they're  devoted  to  so  many  other  causes  that 
they  can't  attend  to  this  one  problem  properly.  But  the  Good 
Citizens'  League,  the  G.  C.  L.,  they  stick  right  to  it.  Oh,  the 
G.  C.  L.  has  to  have  some  other  ostensible  purposes — frinstance 
here  in  Zenith  I  think  it  ought  to  support  the  park-extension 
project  and  the  City  Planning  Committee — and  then,  too,  it 
should  have  a  social  aspect,  being  made  up  of  the  best  people — 
have  dances  and  so  on,  especially  as  one  of  the  best  ways  it 
can  put  the  kibosh  on  cranks  is  to  apply  this  social  boycott 
business  to  folks  big  enough  so  you  can't  reach  'em  otherwise. 
Then  if  that  don't  work,  the  G.  C.  L.  can  finally  send  a  little 
delegation  around  to  inform  folks  that  get  too  flip  that  they 
got  to  conform  to  decent  standards  and  quit  shooting  off  their 
mouths  so  free.  Don't  it  sound  like  the  organization  could 
do  a  gfeat  work?  We've  already  got  some  of  the  strongest 
men  in  town,  and  of  course  we  want  you  in.    How  about  it?" 

Babbitt  was  uncomfortable.  He  felt  a  compulsion  back  to 
all  the  standards  he  had  so  vaguely  yet  so  desperately  been 
fleeing.    He  fumbled: 

"I  suppose  you'd  especially  light  on  fellows  like  Seneca 
Doane  and  try  to  make  'em — " 

"You  bet  your  sweet  life  we  would!  Look  here,  old  Georgie: 
I've  never  for  one  moment  believed  you  meant  it  when  you've 
defended  Doane,  and  the  strikers  and  so  on,  at  the  Club.  I 
knew  you  were  simply  kidding  those  poor  galoots  like  Sid 
Finkelstein.  ...  At  least  I  certainly  hope  you  were  kidding!" 

"Oh,  well — sure —  Course  you  might  say — "  Babbitt  was 
conscious  of  how  feeble  he  sounded,  conscious  of  Gunch's 
mature  and  relentless  eye.  "Gosh,  you  know  where  I  stand! 
I'm  no  labor  agitator!  I'm  a  business  man,  first,  last,  and  all 
the  time!  But — but  honestly,  I  don't  think  Doane  means  so 
badly,  and  you  got  to  remember  he's  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"George,  when  it  comes  right  down  to  a  struggle  between 


BABBITT  347 

decency  and  the  security  of  our  homes  on  the  one  hand,  and 
red  ruin  and  those  lazy  dogs  plotting  for  free  beer  on  the 
other,  you  got  to  give  up  even  old  friendships.  'He  that  is 
not  with  me  is  against  me.'  " 

"Ye-es,  I  suppose — " 

"How  about  it?  Going  to  join  us  in  the  Good  Citizens' 
League?" 

"I'll  have  to  think  it  over,  Verg." 

"All  right,  just  as  you  say."  Babbitt  was  relieved  to  be  let 
off  so  easily,  but  Gunch  went  on:  "George,  I  don't  know  what's 
come  over  you;  none  of  us  do;  and  we've  talked  a  lot  about 
you.  For  a  while  we  figured  out  you'd  been  upset  by  what 
happened  to  poor  Riesling,  and  we  forgave  you  for  any  fool 
things  you  said,  but  that's  old  stuff  now,  George,  and  we  can't 
make  out  what's  got  into  you.  Personally,  I've  always  de- 
fended you,  but  I  must  say  it's  getting  too  much  for  me.  All 
the  boys  at  the  Athletic  Club  and  the  Boosters'  are  sore,  the 
way  you  go  on  deliberately  touting  Doane  and  his  bunch  of 
hell-hounds,  and  talking  about  being  liberal — which  means 
being  wishy-washy — and  even  saying  this  preacher  guy  Ingram 
isn't  a  professional  free-love  artist.  And  then  the  way  you 
been  carrying  on  personally!  Joe  Pumphrey  says  he  saw  you 
out  the  other  night  with  a  gang  of  totties,  all  stewed  to  the 
gills,  and  here  to-day  coming  right  into  the  Thornleigh  with 
a — well,  she  may  be  all  right  and  a  perfect  lady,  but  she  cer- 
tainly did  look  like  a  pretty  gay  skirt  for  a  fellow  with  his 
wife  out  of  town  to  be  taking  to  lunch.  Didn't  look  well. 
What  the  devil  has  come  over  you,  George?" 

"Strikes  me  there's  a  lot  of  fellows  that  know  more  about 
my  personal  business  than  I  do  myself!" 

"Now  don't  go  getting  sore  at  me  because  I  come  out  fiat- 
footed  like  a  friend  and  say  what  I  think  instead  of  tattling 
behind  your  back,  the  way  a  whole  lot  of  'em  do.  I  tell  j'ou, 
George,  you  got  a  position  in  the  community,  and  the  com- 
munity expects  you  to  Hve  up  to  it.    And —    Better  think  ovei* 


4 

348  BABBITT 

joining  the  Good  Citizens'  League.     See  you  about  it  later,"     f 

He  was  gone. 

That  evening  Babbitt  dined  alone.  He  saw  all  the  Clan  of 
Good  Fellows  peering  through  the  restaurant  window,  spying 
on  him.  Fear  sat  beside  him,  and  he  told  himself  that  to-night 
he  would  not  go  to  Tanis's  flat;  and  he  did  not  go  .  .  .  till 
late. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


The  summer  before,  Mrs.  Babbitt's  letters  had  crackled 
with  desire  to  return  to  Zenith.  Now  they  said  nothing  of 
returning,  but  a  wistful  "I  suppose  everything  is  going  on  all 
right  without  me"  among  her  dry  chronicles  of  weather  and 
sicknesses  hinted  to  Babbitt  that  he  hadn't  been  very  urgent 
about  her  coming.    He  worried  it: 

"If  she  were  here,  and  I  went  on  raising  cain  like  I  been 
doing,  she'd  have  a  fit.  I  got  to  get  hold  of  myself.  I  got 
to  learn  to  play  around  and  yet  not  make  a  fool  of  myself. 
I  can  do  it,  too,  if  folks  like  Verg  Gunch  '11  let  me  alone,  and 
Myra  '11  stay  away.  But — poor  kid,  she  sounds  lonely.  Lord, 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  her!" 

Impulsively  he  wrote  that  they  missed  her,  and  her  next 
letter  said  happily  that  she  was  coming  home. 

He  persuaded  himself  that  he  was  eager  to  see  her.  He 
bought  roses  for  the  house,  he  ordered  squab  for  dinner,  he 
had  the  car  cleaned  and  polished.  All  the  way  home  from 
the  station  with  her  1  e  was  adequate  in  his  accounts  of  Ted's 
success  in  basket-ball  at  the  university,  but  before  they  reached 
Floral  Heights  there  was  nothing  more  to  say,  and  already 
he  felt  the  force  of  her  stolidity,  wondered  whether  he  could 
remain  a  good  husband  and  still  sneak  out  of  the  house  this 
evening  for  half  an  hour  with  the  Bunch.  When  he  had 
housed  the  car  he  blundered  upstairs,  into  the  familiar  talcum- 
scented  warmth  of  her  presence,  blaring,  "Help  you  unpack 
your  bag?" 

"No,  I  can  do  it." 

Slowly  she  turned,  holding  up  a  small  box,  and  slowly  she 

349 


350  BABBITT 

said,  "I  brought  you  a  present,  just  a  new  cigar-case.    I  don't 
know  if  you'd  care  to  have  it — " 

She  was  the  lonely  girl,  the  brown  appealing  Myra  Thomp- 
son, whom  he  had  married,  and  he  almost  wept  for  pity  as  he 
kissed  her  and  besought,  "Oh,  honey,  honey,  care  to  iiave  it? 
Of  course  I  do!  I'm  awful  proud  you  brought  it  to  me.  And 
I  needed  a  new  case  badly." 

He  wondered  how  he  would  get  rid  of  the  case  he  had 
bought  the  week  before. 

"And  you  really  are  glad  to  see  me  back?" 
"Why,  you  poor  kiddy,  what  you  been  worrying  about?" 
"Well,  you  didn't  seem  to  miss  me  very  much." 
By  the  time  he  had  finished  his  stint  of  lying  they  were 
firmly  bound  again.  By  ten  that  evening  it  seemed  improbable 
that  she  had  ever  been  away.  There  was  but  one  difference: 
the  problem  of  remaining  a  respectable  husband,  a  Floral 
Heights  husband,  yet  seeing  Tanis  and  the  Bunch  with  fre- 
quency. He  had  promised  to  telephone  to  Tanis  that  evening, 
and  now  it  was  melodramatically  impossible.  He  prowled 
about  the  telephone,  impulsively  thrusting  out  a  hand  to  lift 
the  receiver,  but  never  quite  daring  to  risk  it.  Nor  could  he 
find  a  reason  for  slipping  down  to  the  drug  store  on  Smith 
Street,  with  its  telephone-booth.  He  was  laden  with  respon- 
sibility till  he  threw  it  off  with  the  speculation:  "Why  the 
deuce  should  I  fret  so  about  not  being  able  to  'phone  Tanis? 
She  can  get  along  without  me,  I  don't  owe  her  anything.  She's 
a  fine  girl,  but  I've  given  her  just  as  much  as  she  has  me. 
.  .  .  Oh,  damn  these  women  and  the  way  they  get  you  all 
tied  up  in  complications!" 


For  a  week  he  was  attentive  to  his  wife,  took  her  to  the 
theater,  to  dinner  at  the  Littlefields' ;  then  the  old  weary  dodg- 
ing and  shifting  began,  and  at  least  two  evenings  a  week  he 


BABBITT  35r 

spent  with  the  Bunch.  He  still  made  pretense  of  going  to  the 
Elks  and  to  committee-meetings  but  less  and  less  did  he 
trouble  to  have  his  excuses  interesting,  less  and  less  did  she 
affect  to  believe  them.  He  was  certain  that  she  knew  he  was 
associating  with  what  Floral  Heights  called  "a  sporty  crowd," 
yet  neither  of  them  acknowledged  it.  In  matrimonial  geog- 
raphy the  distance  between  the  first  mute  recognition  of  a 
break  and  the  admission  thereof  is  as  great  as  the  distance 
between  the  first  naive  faith  and  the  first  doubting. 

As  he  began  to  drift  away  he  also  began  to  see  her  as  a 
human  being,  to  like  and  dislike  her  instead  of  accepting  her 
as  a  comparatively  movable  part  of  the  furniture,  and  he  com- 
passionated that  husband-and-wife  relation  which,  in  twenty- 
five  years  of  married  life,  had  become  a  separate  and  real 
entity.  He  recalled  their  high  lights*  the  summer  vacation 
in  Virginia  meadows  under  the  blue  wall  of  the  mountains; 
their  motor  tour  through  Ohio,  and  the  exploration  of  Cleve- 
land, Cincinnati,  and  Columbus;  the  birth  of  Verona;  their 
building  of  this  new  house,  planned  to  comfort  them  through 
a  happy  old  age — chokingly  they  had  said  that  it  might  be 
the  last  home  either  of  them  would  ever  have.  Yet  his  most 
softening  remembrance  of  these  dear  moments  did  not  keep 
him  from  barking  at  dinner,  "Yep,  going  out  f  few  hours. 
Don't  sit  up  for  me." 

He  did  not  dare  now  to  come  home  drunk,  and  though  he 
rejoiced  in  his  return  to  high  morality  and  spoke  with  gravity 
to  Pete  and  Fulton  Bemis  about  their  drinking,  he  prickled 
at  Myra's  unexpressed  criticisms  and  sulkily  meditated  that 
a  "fellow  couldn't  ever  learn  to  handle  himself  if  he  was 
always  bossed  by  a  lot  of  women." 

He  no  longer  wondered  if  Tanis  wasn't  a  bit  worn  and 
sentimental.  In  contrast  to  the  complacent  Myra  he  saw  her 
as  swift  and  air-borne  and  radiant,  a  fire-spirit  tenderly  stoop- 
ing to  the  hearth,  and  however  pitifully  he  brooded  on  his 
wife,  he  longed  to  be  with  Tanis. 


352  BABBITT 

Then  Mrs.  Babbitt  tore  the  decent  cloak  from  her  un- 
happiness  and  the  astounded  male  discovered  that  she  was 
having  a  small  determined  rebellion  of  her  own. 


m 

They  were  beside  the  fireless  fire-place,  in  the  evening. 

"Georgie,"  she  said,  "you  haven't  given  me  the  list  of  your 
household  expenses  while  I  was  away." 

"No,  I  —  Haven't  made  it  out  yet."  Very  affably:  "Gosh, 
we  must  try  to  keep  down  expenses  this  year." 

"That's  so.  I  don't  know  where  all  the  money  goes  to. 
I  try  to  economize,  but  it  just  seems  to  evaporate." 

"I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  spend  so  much  on  cigars.  Don't 
know  but  what  I'll  cut  down  my  smoking,  maybe  cut  it  out 
entirely.  I  was  thinking  of  a  good  way  to  do  it,  the  other 
day:  start  on  these  cubeb  cigarettes,  and  they'd  kind  of  dis- 
gust me  with  smoking." 

"Oh,  I  do  wish  you  would!  It  isn't  that  I  care,  but  hon- 
estly, George,  it  is  so  bad  for  you  to  smoke  so  much.  Don't 
you  think  you  could  reduce  the  amount?  And  George — 
I  notice  now,  when  you  come  home  from  these  lodges  and  all, 
that  sometimes  you  smell  of  whisky.  Dearie,  you  know  I 
don't  worry  so  much  about  the  moral  side  of  it,  but  you  have 
a  weak  stomach  and  you  can't  stand  all  this  drinking." 

"Weak  stomach,  helll  I  guess  I  can  carry  my  booze  about 
as  well  as  most  folks!" 

"Well,  I  do  think  you  ought  to  be  careful.  Don't  you  see, 
Sear,  I  don't  want  you  to  get  sick." 

"Sick,  rats!  I'm  not  a  baby!  I  guess  I  ain't  going  to  get 
sick  just  because  maybe  once  a  week  I  shoot  a  highball! 
That's  the  trouble  with  women.    They  always  exaggerate  so." 

"George,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  talk  that  way  when 
I'm  just  speaking  for  your  own  good." 


BABBITT  353 

"I  know,  but  gosh  all  fishhooks,  that's  the  trouble  with 
women!  They're  always  criticizing  and  commenting  and 
bringing  things  up,  and  then  they  say  it's  'for  your  own 
good'!  " 

"Why,  George,  that's  not  a  nice  way  to  talk,  to  answer  me 
so  short." 

"Well,  I  didn't  mean  to  answer  short,  but  gosh,  talking  as 
if  I  was  a  kindergarten  brat,  not  able  to  tote  one  highball 
without  calling  for  the  St.  Mary's  ambulance!  A  fine  idea 
you  must  have  of  me!" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that;  it's  just — I  don't  want  to  see  you  get 
sick  and —  My,  I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late!  Don't  forget 
to  give  me  those  household  accounts  for  the  time  while  I  was 
away." 

"Oh,  thunder,  what's  the  use  of  taking  the  trouble  to  make 
'em  out  now?    Let's  just  skip  'em  for  that  period." 

"Why,  George  Babbitt,  in  all  the  years  we've  been  married 
we've  never  failed  to  keep  a  complete  account  of  every  penny 
we've  spent ! " 

"No.    Maybe  that's  the  trouble  with  us." 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  anything,  only —  Sometimes  I  get  so 
darn  sick  and  tired  of  all  this  routine  and  the  accounting  at 
the  office  and  expenses  at  home  and  fussing  and  stewing  and 
fretting  and  wearing  myself  out  worrying  over  a  lot  of  junk 
that  doesn't  really  mean  a  doggone  thing,  and  being  so  careful 
and —  Good  Lord,  what  do  you  think  I'm  made  for?  I  could 
have  been  a  darn  good  orator,  and  here  I  fuss  and  fret  and 
worry — " 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  ever  get  tired  of  fussing?  I  get  so 
bored  with  ordering  three  meals  a  day,  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  days  a  year,  and  ruining  my  eyes  over  that  horrid 
sewing-machine,  and  looking  after  your  clothes  and  Rone's 
and  Ted's  and  Tinka's  and  everybody's,  and  the  laundry,  and 


354  BABBITT 

darning  socks,  and  going  down  to  the  Piggly  Wiggly  to  market, 
and  bringing  my  basket  home  to  save  money  on  the  cash-and- 
carry  and — everything!" 

"Well,  gosh,"  with  a  certain  astonishment,  "I  suppose  maybe 
you  do!  But  talk  about —  Here  I  have  to  be  in  the  office 
every  single  day,  while  you  can  go  out  all  afternoon  and  see 
folks  and  visit  with  the  neighbors  and  do  any  blinkin'  thing 
you  want  to!" 

"Yes,  and  a  fine  lot  of  good  that  does  me!     Just  talking      i 
over  the  same  old  things  with  the  same  old  crowd,  while  you      \ 
have  all  sorts  of  interesting  people  coming  in  to  see  you  at 
the  office." 

"Interesting!  Cranky  old  dames  that  want  to  know  why 
I  haven't  rented  their  dear  precious  homes  for  about  seven 
times  their  value,  and  bunch  of  old  crabs  panning  the  ever- 
lasting daylights  out  of  me  because  they  don't  receive  every 
cent  of  their  rentals  by  three  G.M.  on  the  second  of  the  month! 
Sure!     Interesting!     Just  as  interesting  as  the  small  pox!" 

"Now,  George,  I  will  not  have  you  shouting  at  me  that 
way!" 

"Well,  it  gets  my  goat  the  way  women  figure  out  that  a 
man  doesn't  do  a  darn  thing  but  sit  on  his  chair  and  have 
lovey-dovey  conferences  with  a  lot  of  classy  dames  and  give 
'em  the  glad  eye!" 

"I  guess  you  manage  to  give  them  a  glad  enough  eye  when 
they  do  come  in." 

"What  do  you  mean?     Mean  I'm  chasing  flappers?" 

"I  should  hope  not — at  your  age!" 

"Now  you  look  here !  You  may  not  believe  it —  Of  course 
all  you  see  is  fat  little  Georgie  Babbitt.  Sure!  Handy  man 
around  the  house!  Fixes  the  furnace  when  the  furnace-man 
doesn't  show  up,  and  pays  the  bills,  but  dull,  awful  dull! 
Well,  you  may  not  believe  it,  but  there's  some  women  that 
think  old  George  Babbitt  isn't  such  a  bad  scout!  They  think 
DCS  net  so  bad-looking,  not  so  bad  that  it  hurts  anyway,  and 


BABBITT  355 

h«ls  got  a  pretty  good  line  of  guff,  and  some  even  think  he 
shakes  a  darn  wicked  Walkover  at  dancing  1" 

"Yes."  She  spoke  slowly.  "I  haven't  much  doubt  that 
when  I'm  away  you  manage  to  find  people  who  properly  ap- 
preciate you." 

"Well,  I  just  mean — "  he  protested,  with  a  sound  of  denial. 
Then  he  was  angered  into  semi-honesty.  "You  bet  I  do!  I 
find  plenty  of  folks,  and  doggone  nice  ones,  that  don't  think 
I'm  a  weak-stomached  baby!" 

"That's  exactly  what  I  was  saying!  You  can  run  around 
with  anybody  you  please,  but  I'm  supposed  to  sit  here  and 
wait  for  you.  You  have  the  chance  to  get  all  sorts  of  culture 
and  everything,  and  I  just  stay  home — " 

"Well,  gosh  almighty,  there's  nothing  to  prevent  your  read- 
ing books  and  going  to  lectures  and  all  that  junk,  is  there?" 

"George,  I  told  you,  I  won't  have  you  shouting  at  me  like 
that!  I  don't  know  what's  come  over  you.  You  never  used 
to  speak  to  me  in  this  cranky  way." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  sound  cranky,  but  gosh,  it  certainly 
makes  me  sore  to  get  the  blame  because  you  don't  keep  up 
with  things." 

"I'm  going  to!     Will  you  help  me?" 

"Sure.  Anything  I  can  do  to  help  you  in  the  culture-grab- 
bing line — yours  to  oblige,  G.  F.  Babbitt." 

"Very  well  then,  I  want  you  to  go  to  Mrs.  Mudge's  New 
Thought  meeting  with  me,  next  Simday  afternoon." 

"Mrs.  Who's  which?" 

"Mrs.  Opal  Emerson  Mudge.  The  field-lecturer  for  the 
American  New  Thought  League.  She's  going  to  speak  on 
'Cultivating  the  Sun  Spirit'  before  the  League  of  the  Higher 
Illumination,  at  the  Thornleigh." 

"Oh,  punk!  New  Thought!  Hashed  thought  with  a 
poached  egg!  'Cultivating  the — '  It  sounds  like  'Why  is  a 
mouse  when  it  spins?'  That's  a  fine  spiel  for  a  good  Presby- 
terian to  be  going  to,  when  you  can  hear  Doc  Drew!" 


356  BABBITT 

"Reverend  Drew  is  a  scholar  and  a  pulpit  orator  and  all 
that,  but  he  hasn't  got  the  Inner  Ferment,  as  Mrs.  Mudge 
calls  it;  he  hasn't  any  inspiration  for  the  New  Era.  Women 
need  inspiration  now.  So  I  want  you  to  come,  as  you 
promised." 

IV 

The  Zenith  branch  of  the  League  of  the  Higher  Illumina- 
tion met  in  the  smaller  ballroom  at  the  Hotel  Thornleigh,  a 
refined  apartment  with  pale  green  walls  and  plaster  wreaths 
of  roses,  refined  parquet  flooring,  and  ultra-refined  frail  gilt 
chairs.  Here  were  gathered  sixty-five  women  and  ten  men. 
Most  of  the  men  slouched  in  their  chairs  and  wriggled,  while 
their  wives  sat  rigidly  at  attention,  but  two  of  them — red- 
necked, meaty  men — were  as  respectably  devout  as  their  wives. 
They  were  newly  rich  contractors  who,  having  bought  houses, 
motors,  hand-painted  pictures,  and  gentlemanliness,  were  now 
buying  a  refined  ready-made  philosophy.  It  had  been  a  toss- 
up  with  them  whether  to  buy  New  Thought,  Christian 
Science,  or  a  good  standard  high-church  model  of  Episco- 
pahanism. 

In  the  flesh,  Mrs.  Opal  Emerson  Mudge  fell  somewhat 
short  of  a  prophetic  aspect.  She  was  pony-built  and  plump, 
with  the  face  of  a  haughty  Pekingese,  a  button  of  a  nose,  and 
arms  so  short  that,  despite  her  most  indignant  endeavors,  she 
could  not  clasp  her  hands  in  front  of  her  as  she  sat  on  the 
platform  waiting.  Her  frock  of  taffeta  and  green  velvet,  with 
three  strings  of  glass  beads,  and  large  folding  eye-glasses 
dangling  from  a  black  ribbon,  was  a  triumph  of  refinement. 

Mrs.  Mudge  was  introduced  by  the  president  of  the  League 
of  the  Higher  Illumination,  an  oldish  young  woman  with  a 
yearning  voice,  white  spats,  and  a  mustache.  She  said  that 
Mrs.  Mudge  would  now  make  it  plain  to  the  simplest  intellect 
how  the  Sun  Spirit  could  be  cultivated,  and  they  who  had 


BABBITT  357 

been  thinking  about  cultivating  one  would  do  well  to  treasure 
Mrs.  Mudge's  words,  because  even  Zenith  (and  everybody 
knew  that  Zenith  stood  in  the  van  of  spiritual  and  New 
Thought  progress)  didn't  often  have  the  opportunity  to  sit 
at  the  feet  of  such  an  inspiring  Optimist  and  Metaphysical 
Seer  as  Mrs.  Opal  Emerson  Mudge,  who  had  lived  the  Life 
of  Wider  Usefulness  through  Concentration,  and  in  the  Silence 
found  those  Secrets  of  Mental  Control  and  the  Inner  Key 
which  were  immediately  going  to  transform  and  bring  Peace, 
Power,  and  Prosperity  to  the  unhappy  nations ;  and  so,  friends, 
would  they  for  this  precious  gem-studded  hour  forget  the  Illu- 
sions of  the  Seeming  Real,  and  in  the  actualization  of  the 
deep-lying  Veritas  pass,  along  with  Mrs.  Opal  Emerson  Mudge, 
to  the  Realm  Beautiful. 

If  Mrs.  Mudge  was  rather  pudgier  than  one  would  like 
one's  swamis,  yogis,  seers,  and  initiates,  yet  her  voice  had  the 
real  professional  note.  It  was  refined  and  optimistic;  it  was 
overpoweringly  calm;  it  flowed  on  relentlessly,  without  one 
comma,  till  Babbitt  was  hypnotized.  Her  favorite  word  was 
"always,"  which  she  pronounced  olllllle-ways.  Her  principal 
gesture  was  a  pontifical  but  thoroughly  ladylike  blessing  with 
two  stubby  fingers. 

She  explained  about  this  matter  of  Spiritual  Saturation: 

"There  are  those — " 

Of  "those"  she  made  a  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out; 
a  far-off  delicate  call  in  a  twilight  minor.  It  chastely  rebuked 
the  restless  husbands,  yet  brought  them  a  message  of  healing. 

"There  are  those  who  have  seen  the  rim  and  outer  seeming 
of  the  Logos  there  are  those  who  have  glimpsed  and  in  en- 
thusiasm possessed  themselves  of  some  segment  and  portion 
of  the  Logos  there  are  those  who  thus  flicked  but  not  pene- 
trated and  radioactivated  by  the  Dynamis  go  always  to  and 
fro  assertative  that  they  possess  and  are  possessed  of  the 
Logoi  and  the  Metaphysikos  but  this  word  I  bring  you  this 


358  BABBITT 

concept  I  enlarge  that  those  that  are  not  utter  are  not  even 
inceptive  and  that  holiness  is  in  its  definitive  essence  always 
always  always  whole-iness  and — " 

It  proved  that  the  Essence  of  the  Sun  Spirit  was  Truth,  but 
its  Aura  and  Effluxion  were  Cheerfulness: 

"Face  always  the  day  with  the  dawn-laugh  with  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  initiate  who  perceives  that  all  works  together 
in  the  revolutions  of  the  Wheel  and  who  answers  the  strictures 
of  the  Soured  Souls  of  the  Destructionists  with  a  Glad 
Affirmation — " 

It  went  on  for  about  an  hour  and  seven  minutes. 

At  the  end  Mrs.  Mudge  spoke  with  more  vigor  and  punc- 
tuation: 

"Now  let  me  suggest  to  all  of  you  the  advantages  of  the 
Theosophical  and  Pantheistic  Oriental  Reading  Circle,  which 
I  represent.  Our  object  is  to  unite  all  the  manifestations  of 
the  New  Era  into  one  cohesive  whole — New  Thought,  Chris- 
tian Science,  Theosophy,  Vedanta,  Bahaism,  and  the  other 
sparks  from  the  one  New  Light.  The  subscription  is  but  ten 
dollars  a  year,  and  for  this  mere  pittance  the  members  receive 
not  only  the  monthly  magazine.  Pearls  of  Healing,  but  the 
privilege  of  sending  right  to  the  president,  our  revered  Mother 
Dobbs,  any  questions  regarding  spiritual  progress,  matrimonial 
problems,  health  and  well-being  questions,  financial  difficulties, 
and—" 

They  listened  to  her  with  adoring  attention.  They  looked 
genteel.  They  looked  ironed-out.  They  coughed  politely,  and 
crossed  their  legs  with  quietness,  and  in  expensive  linen  hand- 
kerchiefs they  blew  their  noses  with  a  delicacy  altogether 
optimistic  and  refined. 

As  for  Babbitt,  he  sat  and  suffered. 

When  they  were  blessedly  out  in  the  air  again,  when  they 
drove  home  through  a  wind  smelling  of  snow  and  honest  sun, 
he  dared  not  speak.  They  had  been  too  near  to  quarreling, 
these  days.    Mrs.  Babbitt  forced  it: 


BABBITT  359 

"Did  you  enjoy  Mrs.  Mudge's  talk?" 

"Well  I—    What  did  you  get  out  of  it?" 

"Oh,  it  starts  a  person  thinking.  It  gets  you  out  of  a 
routine  of  ordinary  thoughts." 

"Well,  I'll  hand  it  to  Opal  she  isn't  ordinary,  but  gosh — 
Honest,  did  that  stuff  mean  anything  to  you?" 

"Of  course  I'm  not  trained  in  metaphysics,  and  there  was 
Jots  I  couldn't  quite  grasp,  but  I  did  feel  it  was  inspiring. 
And  she  speaks  so  readily.  I  do  think  you  ought  to  have  got 
something  out  of  it." 

"Well,  I  didn't  1  I  swear,  I  was  simply  astonished,  the  way 
those  women  lapped  it  up!  Why  the  dickens  they  want  to 
put  in  their  time  listening  to  all  that  blaa  when  they — " 

"It's  certainly  better  for  them  than  going  to  roadhouses 
and  smoking  and  drinking!" 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  is  or  not!  Personally  I  don't  see 
a  whole  lot  of  difference.  In  both  cases  they're  trying  to  get 
away  from  themselves — most  everybody  is,  these  days,  I  guess. 
And  I'd  certainly  get  a  whole  lot  more  out  of  hoofing  it  in  a 
good  lively  dance,  even  in  some  dive,  than  sitting  looking  as 
if  my  collar  was  too  tight,  and  feeling  too  scared  to  spit,  and 
listening  to  Opal  chewing  her  words." 

"I'm  sure  you  do!  You're  very  fond  of  dives.  No  doubt 
you  saw  a  lot  of  them  while  I  was  away!" 

"Look  here!  You  been  doing  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  insinuating 
and  hinting  around  lately,  as  if  I  were  leading  a  double  life 
or  something,  and  I'm  damn  sick  of  it,  and  I  don't  want  to 
hear  anything  more  about  it!" 

"Why,  George  Babbitt!  Do  you  realize  what  you're  saying? 
Why,  George,  in  all  our  years  together  you've  never  talked 
to  me  like  that!" 

"It's  about  time  then!" 

"Lately  you've  been  getting  worse  and  worse,  and  now, 
finally,  you're  cursing  and  swearing  at  me  and  shouting  at  me, 
and  your  voice  so  ugly  and  hateful —    I  just  shudder!" 


36o  BABBITT 

"Oh,  rats,  quit  exaggerating!  I  wasn't  shouting,  or  swear- 
ing either." 

"I  wish  you  could  hear  your  own  voice!  Maybe  you  don't 
realize  how  it  sounds.  But  even  so —  You  never  used  to  talk 
like  that.  You  simply  couldn't  talk  this  way  if  something 
dreadful  hadn't  happened  to  you." 

His  mind  was  hard.  With  amazement  he  found  that  he 
wasn't  particularly  sorry.  It  was  only  with  an  effort  that  he 
made  himself  more  agreeable:  "Well,  gosh,  I  didn't  mean  to 
get  sore." 

"George,  do  you  realize  that  we  can't  go  on  like  this,  get- 
ting farther  and  farther  apart,  and  you  ruder  and  ruder  to 
nie?     I  just  don't  know  what's  going  to  happen." 

He  had  a  moment's  pity  for  her  bewilderment;  he  thought 
of  how  many  deep  and  tender  things  would  be  hurt  if  they 
really  "couldn't  go  on  like  this."  But  his  pity  was  imper- 
sonal, and  he  was  wondering,  "Wouldn't  it  maybe  be  a  good 
thing  if —  Not  a  divorce  and  all  that,  o'  course,  but  kind 
of  a  little  more  independence?" 

While  she  looked  at  him  pleadingly  he  drove  on  in  a  dreadful 
silence. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

/ 
I 

When  he  was  away  from  her,  while  he  kicked  about  th% 
garage  and  swept  the  snow  off  the  running-board  and  exam- 
ined a  cracked  hose-connection,  he  repented,  he  was  alarmed 
and  astonished  that  he  could  have  jflared  out  at  his  wife,  and 
thought  fondly  how  much  more  lasting  she  was  than  the 
flighty  Bunch.  He  went  in  to  mumble  that  he  was  "sorry, 
didn't  mean  to  be  grouchy,"  and  to  inquire  as  to  her  interest 
in  movies.  But  in  the  darkness  of  the  movie  theater  he 
brooded  that  he'd  "gone  and  tied  himself  up  to  Myra  all  ovei 
again."  He  had  some  satisfaction  in  taking  it  out  on  Tania 
Judique.  "Hang  Tanis  anyway!  Why'd  she  gone  and  got 
him  into  these  mix-ups  and  made  him  all  jumpy  and  nervous 
and  cranky?     Too  many  complications!     Cut  'em  out!" 

He  wanted  peace.  For  ten  days  he  did  not  see  Tanis  nor 
telephone  to  her,  and  instantly  she  put  upon  him  the  compul- 
sion which  he  hated.  When  he  had  stayed  away  from  her 
for  five  days,  hourly  taking  pride  in  his  resoluteness  and  hourly 
picturing  how  greatly  Tanis  must  miss  him.  Miss  McGoun 
reported,  "Mrs.  Judique  on  the  'phone.  Like  t'  speak  t'  you 
'bout  some  repairs." 

Tanis  was  quick  and  quiet: 

"Mr.  Babbitt?  Oh,  George,  this  is  Tanis.  I  haven't  seen 
you  for  weeks — days,  anyway.    You  aren't  sick,  are  you?" 

"No,  just  been  terribly  rushed.  I,  uh,  I  think  there'll  be  a 
big  revival  of  building  this  year.  Got  to,  uh,  got  to  work 
hard." 

.361 


362  BABBITT 

"Of  course,  my  manl  I  want  you  to.  You  know  I'm  ter- 
ribly ambitious  for  you;  much  more  than  I  am  for  myself.  I 
just  don't  want  you  to  forget  poor  Tanis.  Will  you  call  me 
up  soon?" 

"Sure!     Sure!     You  betl" 

"Please  do.    I  sha'n't  call  you  again." 

He  meditated,  "Poor  kid!  .  .  .  But  gosh,  she  oughtn't  to 
'phone  me  at  the  office.  .  .  .  She's  a  wonder — sympathy — 
'ambitious  for  me.'  .  .  .  But  gosh,  I  won't  be  made  and  com- 
pelled to  call  her  up  till  I  get  ready.  Darn  these  women,  the 
way  they  make  demands!  It'll  be  one  long  old  time  before 
I  see  her!  .  .  .  But  gosh,  I'd  like  to  see  her  to-night — sweet 
little  thing.  .  .  .  Oh,  cut  that,  son!  Now  you've  broken 
away,  be  wise!" 

She  did  not  telephone  again,  nor  he,  but  after  five  more 
days  she  wrote  to  him: 

Have  I  offended  you?  You  must  know,  dear,  I  didn't 
mean  to.  I'm  so  lonely  and  I  need  somebody  to  cheer 
me  up.  Why  didn't  you  come  to  the  nice  party  we  had 
at  Carrie's  last  evening  I  remember  she  invited  you. 
Can't  you  come  around  here  to-morrow  Thur  evening? 
I  shall  be  alone  and  hope  to  see  you. 

His  reflections  were  numerous: 

"Doggone  it,  why  can't  she  let  me  alone?  Why  can't  women 
*ver  learn  a  fellow  hates  to  be  bulldozed?  And  they  always 
take  advantage  of  you  by  yelling  how  lonely  they  are. 

"Now  that  isn't  nice  of  you,  young  fella.  She's  a  fine, 
square,  straight  girl,  and  she  does  get  lonely.  She  writes  a 
swell  hand.  Nice-looking  stationery.  Plain.  Refined.  1 
guess  I'll  have  to  go  see  her.  Well,  thank  God,  I  got  till 
to-morrow  night  free  of  her,  anyway. 

"She's  nice  but —  Hang  it,  I  won't  be  made  to  do  things!; 
I'm  not  married  to  her.    No,  nor  by  golly  going  to  be! 

"Oh.  rats,  I  suppose  I  better  go  see  her." 


BABBITT  363 

n 

Thursday,  the  tomorrow  of  Tanis's  note,  was  full  of  emo- 
tional crises.  At  the  Roughnecks'  Table  at  the  club,  Verg 
Gunch  talked  of  the  Good  Citizens'  League  and  (it  seemed  to 
Babbitt)  deliberately  left  him  out  of  the  invitations  to  join. 
Old  Mat  Penniman,  the  general  utility  man  at  Babbitt's  office, 
had  Troubles,  and  came  in  to  groan  about  them:  his  oldest 
boy  was  "no  good,"  his  wife  was  sick,  and  he  had  quarreled 
with  his  brother-in-law.  Conrad  Lyte  also  had  Troubles,  and 
since  Lyte  was  one  of  his  best  clients.  Babbitt  had  to  listen 
to  them.  Mr.  Lyte,  it  appeared,  was  suffering  from  a  pecul- 
iarly interesting  neuralgia,  and  the  garage  had  overcharged 
him.  When  Babbitt  came  home,  everybody  had  Troubles: 
his  wife  was  simultaneously  thinking  about  discharging  the 
impudent  new  maid,  and  worried  lest  the  maid  leave;  and 
Tinka  desired  to  denounce  her  teacher. 

"Oh,  quit  fussing!"  Babbitt  fussed.  "You  never  hear  me 
whining  about  my  Troubles,  and  yet  if  you  had  to  run  a  real- 
estate  office —  Why,  to-day  I  found  Miss  Bannigan  was  two 
days  behind  with  her  accounts,  and  I  pinched  my  finger  in 
my  desk,  and  Lyte  was  in  and  just  as  unreasonable  as  ever." 

He  was  so  vexed  that  after  dinner,  when  it  was  time  for  a 
tactful  escape  to  Tanis,  he  merely  grumped  to  his  wife,  "Got 
to  go  out.     Be  back  by  eleven,  should  think." 

"Oh!     You're  going  out  again?" 

"Again!  What  do  you  mean  'again'!  Haven't  hardly  been 
out  of  the  house  for  a  week!" 

"Are  you — are  you  going  to  the  Elks?" 

"Nope.     Got  to  see  some  people." 

Though  this  time  he  heard  his  own  voice  and  knew  that  it 
was  curt,  though  she  was  looking  at  him  with  wide-eyed  re- 
proach, he  stumped  into  the  hall,  jerked  on  his  ulster  and  fur- 
lined  gloves,  and  went  out  to  start  the  car. 

He  was  relieved  to  find  Tanis  cheerful,  unreproachful,  and 


364  BABBITT 

brilliant  in  a  frock  of  brown  net  over  gold  tissue.  "You 
poor  man,  having  to  come  out  on  a  night  like  this!  It's  ter- 
ribly cold.    Don't  you  think  a  small  highball  would  be  nice?" 

"Now,  by  golly,  there's  a  woman  with  savvy!  I  think  we 
could  more  or  less  stand  a  highball  if  it  wasn't  too  long  a 
one — not  over  a  foot  tall!" 

He  kissed  her  with  careless  heartiness,  he  forgot  the  com- 
pulsion of  her  demands,  he  stretched  in  a  large  chair  and  felt 
that  he  had  beautifully  come  home.  He  was  suddenly  loqua- 
cious; he  told  her  what  a  noble  and  misunderstood  man  he 
was,  and  how  superior  to  Pete,  Fulton  Bemis,  and  the  other 
men  of  their  acquaintance;  and  she,  bending  forward,  chin  in 
charming  hand,  brightly  agreed.  But  when  he  forced  himself 
to  ask,  "Well,  honey,  how's  things  with  you"  she  took  his 
duty-question  seriously,  and  he  discovered  that  she  too  had 
Troubles: 

"Oh,  all  right  but —  I  did  get  so  angry  with  Carrie.  She 
told  Minnie  that  I  told  her  that  Minnie  was  an  awful  tightwad, 
and  Minnie  told  me  Carrie  had  told  her,  and  of  course  I  told 
her  I  hadn't  said  anything  of  the  kind,  and  then  Carrie  found 
Minnie  had  told  me,  and  she  was  simply  furious  because 
Minnie  had  told  me,  and  of  course  I  was  just  boiling  because 
Carrie  had  told  her  I'd  told  her,  and  then  we  all  met  up 
at  Fulton's — his  wife  is  away — thank  heavens! — oh,  there's 
the  dandiest  floor  in  his  house  to  dance  on — and  we  were  all 
of  us  simply  furious  at  each  other  and —  Oh,  I  do  hate  that 
kind  of  a  mix-up,  don't  you?  I  mean — it's  so  lacking  in  re- 
finement, but —  And  Mother  wants  to  come  and  stay  with 
me  for  a  whole  month,  and  of  course  I  do  love  her,  I  sup- 
pose I  do,  but  honestly,  she'll  cramp  my  style  something 
dreadful — she  never  can  learn  not  to  comment,  and  she  always 
wants  to  know  where  I'm  going  when  I  go  out  evenings,  and 
if  I  lie  to  her  she  always  spies  aroimd  and  ferrets  around 
and  finds  out  where  I've  been,  and  then  she  looks  like  Patience 
on  a  Monument  till  I  could  just  scream.    And  oh,  I  must  tell 


BABBITT  365 

you —  You  know  I  never  talk  about  myself;  I  just  hate 
people  who  do,  don't  you?  But —  I  feel  so  stupid  to-night, 
and  I  know  I  must  be  boring  you  with  all  this  but —  What 
would  you  do  about  Mother?" 

He  gave  her  facile  masculine  advice.  She  was  to  put  off 
her  mother's  stay.  She  was  to  tell  Carrie  to  go  to  the  deuce. 
For  these  valuable  revelations  she  thanked  him,  and  they 
ambled  into  the  familiar  gossip  of  the  Bunch.  Of  what  a 
sentimental  fool  was  Carrie.  Of  what  a  lazy  brat  was  Pete. 
Of  how  nice  Fulton  Bemis  could  be — "course  lots  of  people 
think  he's  a  regular  old  grouch  when  they  meet  him  because 
lie  doesn't  give  'em  the  glad  hand  the  first  crack  out  of  the 
box,  but  when  they  get  to  know  him,  he's  a  corker." 

But  as  they  had  gone  conscientiously  through  each  of  these 
analyses  before,  the  conversation  staggered.  Babbitt  tried  to 
be  intellectual  and  deal  with  General  Topics.  He  said  some 
thoroughly  sound  things  about  Disarmament,  and  broad- 
mindedness  and  liberalism;  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  General 
Topics  interested  Tanis  only  when  she  could  apply  them  to 
Pete,  Carrie,  or  themselves.  He  was  distressingly  conscious 
of  their  silence.  He  tried  to  stir  her  into  chattering  again, 
but  silence  rose  like  a  gray  presence  and  hovered  between 
them. 

"I,  uh — "  he  labored.  "It  strikes  me — it  strikes  me  that 
unemployment  is  lessening." 

"Maybe  Pete  will  get  a  decent  Job,  then." 

Silence. 

Desperately  he  essayed,  "What's  the  trouble,  old  honey? 
You  seem  kind  of  quiet  to-night." 

"Am  I?  Oh,  I'm  not.  But — do  you  really  care  whether 
I  am  or  not?" 

"Care?     Sure!     Course  I  do!" 

"Do  you  really?"  She  swooped  on  him,  sat  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair. 

He  hated  the  emotional  drain  of  having  to  appear  fond  of 


366  BABBITT 

her.  He  stroked  her  hand,  smiled  up  at  her  dutifully,  and 
sank  back. 

"George,  I  wonder  if  you  really  like  me  at  all?" 

"Course  I  do,  silly." 

"Do  you  really,  precious?    Do  you  care  a  bit?" 

"Why  certainly!    You  don't  suppose  I'd  be  here  if  I  didn't! " 

"Now  see  here,  young  man,  I  won't  have  you  speaking  to 
me  in  that  huffy  way!" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  sound  huffy.  I  just — "  In  injured  and 
rather  childish  tones:  "Gosh  almighty,  it  makes  me  tired  the 
way  everybody  says  I  sound  huffy  when  I  just  talk  natural! 
Do  they  expect  me  to  sing  it  or  something?" 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  'everybody'?  How  many  other 
ladies  have  you  been  consoling?" 

"Look  here  now,  I  won't  have  this  hinting!" 

Humbly:  "I  know,  dear.  I  was  only  teasing.  I  know  it 
didn't  mean  to  talk  huffy — it  was  just  tired.  Forgive  bad 
Tanis.     But  say  you  love  me,  say  it!" 

"I  love  you.  .  .  .  Course  I  do." 

"Yes,  you  do!"  cynically.  "Oh,  darling,  I  don't  mean  to  be 
rude  but —  I  get  so  lonely.  I  feel  so  useless.  Nobody  needs 
me,  nothing  I  can  do  for  anybody.  And  you  know,  dear,  I'm 
so  active — I  could  be  if  there  was  something  to  do.  And  I  am 
young,  aren't  I!  I'm  not  an  old  thing!  I'm  not  old  and 
stupid,  am  I?" 

He  had  to  assure  her.  She  stroked  his  hair,  and  he  had  to 
look  pleased  under  that  touch,  the  more  demanding  in  its  be- 
guiling softness.  He  was  impatient.  He  wanted  to  flee  out  to 
a  hard,  sure,  unemotional  man-world.  Through  her  delicate 
and  caressing  fingers  she  may  have  caught  something  of  his 
shrugging  distaste.  She  left  him — he  was  for  the  moment 
buoyantly  relieved — she  dragged  a  footstool  to  his  feet  and  sat 
looking  beseechingly  up  at  him.  But  as  in  many  men  the 
cringing  of  a  dog,  the  flinching  of  a  frightened  child,  rouse  not 
pity  but  a  surprised  and  jerky  cruelty,  so  her  humility  only 


BABBITT  367 

annoyed  him.  And  he  saw  her  now  as  middle-aged,  as  begin- 
ning to  be  old.  Even  while  he  detested  his  own  thoughts,  they 
rode  him.  She  was  old,  he  winced.  Old!  He  noted  how  the 
soft  flesh  was  creasing  into  webby  folds  beneath  her  chin, 
below  her  eyes,  at  the  base  of  her  wrists.  A  patch  of  her 
throat  had  a  minute  roughness  like  the  crumbs  from  a  rubber 
eraser.  Old!  She  was  younger  in  years  than  himself,  yet  it 
was  sickening  to  have  her  yearning  up  at  him  with  rolling 
great  eyes — as  if,  he  shuddered,  his  own  aunt  were  making 
love  to  him. 

He  fretted  inwardly,  "I'm  through  with  this  asinine  fooling 
around.  I'm  going  to  cut  her  out.  She's  a  darn  decent  nice 
woman,  and  I  don't  want  to  hurt  her,  but  it'll  hurt  a  lot  less 
to  cut  her  right  out,  like  a  good  clean  surgical  operation." 

He  was  on  his  feet.  He  was  speaking  urgently.  By  every 
rule  of  self-esteem,  he  had  to  prove  to  her,  and  to  himself,  that 
it  was  her  fault. 

"I  suppose  maybe  I'm  kind  of  out  of  sorts  to-night,  but 
honest,  honey,  when  I  stayed  away  for  a  while  to  catch  up  on 
work  and  everything  and  figure  out  where  I  was  at,  you  ought 
to  have  been  cannier  and  waited  till  I  came  back.  Can't  you 
see,  dear,  when  you  made  me  come,  I — being  about  an  average 
bull-headed  chump — my  tendency  was  to  resist?  Listen,  dear, 
I'm  going  now — " 

"Not  for  a  while,  precious!     No!" 

"Yep.  Right  now.  And  then  sometime  we'll  see  about  the 
future." 

"What  do  you  mean,  dear,  'about  the  future'?  Have  I  done 
something  I  oughtn't  to?    Oh,  I'm  so  dreadfully  sorry!" 

He  resolutely  put  his  hands  behind  him.  "Not  a  thing,  God 
bless  you,  not  a  thing.  You're  as  good  as  they  make  'em.  But 
it's  just —  Good  Lord,  do  you  realize  I've  got  things  to  do  in 
the  world?  I've  got  a  business  to  attend  to  and,  you  might 
not  believe  it,  but  I've  got  a  wife  and  kids  that  I'm  awful  fond 
of!"     Then  only  during  the  murder  he  was  committing  was 


368  BABBITT 

he  able  to  feel  nobly  virtuous.  "I  want  us  to  be  friends  but, 
gosh,  I  can't  go  on  this  way  feeling  I  got  to  come  up  here  every 
so  often — " 

"Oh,  darling,  darling,  and  I've  always  told  you,  so  carefully, 
that  you  were  absolutely  free.  I  just  wanted  you  to  come 
around  when  you  were  tired  and  wanted  to  talk  to  me,  or  when 
you  could  enjoy  our  parties — " 

She  was  so  reasonable,  she  was  so  gently  right!  It  took  him 
an  hour  to  make  his  escape,  with  nothing  settled  and  everything 
horribly  settled.  In  a  barren  freedom  of  icy  Northern  wind 
he  sighed,  "Thank  God  that's  over!  Poor  Tanis,  poor  darling 
decent  Tanis!     But  it  is  over.    Absolute!     I'm  free!" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


His  wife  was  up  when  he  came  in.  "Did  you  have  a  good 
time?"  she  sniffed. 

"I  did  not.  I  had  a  rotten  time!  Anything  else  I  got  to 
explain?" 

"George,  how  can  you  speak  like —  Oh,  I  don't  know  what's 
come  over  you!" 

"Good  Lord,  there's  nothing  come  over  me!  Why  do  you 
look  for  trouble  all  the  time?"  He  was  warning  himself, 
"Careful!  Stop  being  so  disagreeable.  Course  she  feels  it, 
being  left  alone  here  all  evening."  But  he  forgot  his  warning 
as  she  went  on: 

"Why  do  you  go  out  and  see  all  sorts  of  strange  people?  I 
suppose  you'll  say  you'v'e  been  to  another  committee-meeting 
this  evening!" 

"Nope.  I've  been  calling  on  a.  woman.  We  sat  by  the  fire 
and  kidded  each  other  and  had  a  whale  of  a  good  time,  if  you 
want  to  know!" 

"Well —  From  the  way  you  say  it,  I  suppose  it's  my  fault 
you  went  there!     I  probably  sent  you!" 

"You  did!" 

"Well,  upon  my  word — " 

*'You  hate  'strange  people'  as  you  call  'em.  If  you  had  your 
way,  I'd  be  as  much  of  an  old  stick-in-the-mud  as  Howard 
Littlefield-  You  never  want  to  have  anybody  with  any  git 
to  'em  at  the  house;  you  want  a  bunch  of  old  stiffs  that  sit 
around  and  gas  about  the  weather.  You're  doing  your  level 
best  to  make  me  old.  Well,  let  me  tell  you,  I'm  not  going 
to  have-^" 

369 


370  BABBITT 

Overwhelmed  she  bent  to  his  unprecedented  tirade,  and  in 
answer  she  mourned: 

"Oh.  dearest,  I  don't  think  that's  true,  I  don't  mean  to 
make  you  old,  I  know.  Perhaps  you're  partly  right.  Perhaps 
I  am  slow  about  getting  acquainted  with  new  people.  But 
when  you  think  of  all  the  dear  good  times  we  have,  and  the 
supper-parties  and  the  movies  and  all — " 

With  true  masculine  wiles  he  not  only  convinced  himself 
that  she  had  injured  him  but,  by  the  loudness  of  his  voice  and 
the  brutality  of  his  attack,  he  convinced  her  also,  and  pres- 
ently he  had  her  apologizing  for  his  having  spent  the  evening 
with  Tanis.  He  went  up  to  bed  well  pleased,  not  only  the 
master  but  the  martyr  of  the  household.  For  a  distasteful 
moment  after  he  had  lain  down  he  wondered  if  he  had  been 
altogether  just.  "Ought  to  be  ashamed,  bullying  her.  Maybe 
there  is  her  side  to  things.  Maybe  she  hasn't  had  such  a 
bloomin'  hectic  time  herself.  But  I  don't  care!  Good  for  her 
to  get  waked  up  a  little.  And  I'm  going  to  keep  free.  Of 
her  and  Tanis  and  the  fellows  at  the  club  and  everybody.  I'm 
going  to  run  my  own  life!" 


n 

In  this  mood  he  was  particularly  objectionable  at  the  Boost- 
ers' Club  lunch  next  day.  They  were  addressed  by  a  congress- 
man who  had  just  returned  from  an  exhaustive  three-months 
study  of  the  finances,  ethnolog\',  political  systems,  linguistic 
divisions,  mineral  resources,  and  agriculture  of  Germany, 
France,  Great  Britain,  Italy,  Austria,  Czechoslovakia,  Jugo- 
slavia, and  Bulgaria.  He  told  them  all  about  those  subjects, 
together  with  three  funny  stories  about  European  misconcep- 
tions of  America  and  some  spirited  words  on  the  necessity  of 
keeping  ignorant  foreigners  out  of  America. 

"Say,  that  was  a  mighty  informative  talk.  Real  he-stuff," 
said  Sidney  Finkelstein. 


BABBITT  37t 

But  the  disaffected  Babbitt  grumbled,  "Four-flusher!  Bunch 
of  hot  airl  And  what's  the  matter  with  the  immigrants?  Gosh, 
they  aren't  all  ignorant,  and  I  got  a  hunch  we're  all  descended 
from  immigrants  ourselves." 

"Oh,  you  make  me  tired!"  said  Mr.  Finkelstein. 

Babbitt  was  aware  that  Dr.  A.  I.  Billing  was  sternly  listen- 
ing from  across  the  table.  Dr.  Dilling  was  one  of  the  most 
important  men  in  the  Boosters'.  He  was  not  a  physician  but 
a  surgeon,  a  more  romantic  and  sounding  occupation.  He  was 
an  intense  large  man  with  a  boiling  of  black  hair  and  a  thick 
black  mustache.  The  newspapers  often  chronicled  his  opera- 
tions; he  was  professor  of  surgery  in  the  State  University;  he 
"went  to  dinner  at  the  very  best  houses  on  Royal  Ridge;  and 
he  was  said  to  be  worth  several  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
It  was  dismaying  to  Babbitt  to  have  such  a  person  glower  af 
him.  He  hastily  praised  the  congressman's  wit,  to  Sidney 
Finkelstein,  but  for  Dr.  Dilling's  benefit. 

ni 

That  afternoon  three  men  shouldered  into  Babbitt's  office 
with  the  air  of  a  Vigilante  committee  in  frontier  days.  They 
were  large,  resolute,  big-jawed  men,  and  they  were  all  high 
lords  in  the  land  of  Zenith — Dr.  Dilling  the  surgeon,  Charles 
McKelvey  the  contractor,  and,  most  dismaying  of  all,  the 
white-bearded  Colonel  Rutherford  Snow,  owner  of  the  Advo- 
cate-Times. In  their  whelming  presence  Babbitt  felt  small  and 
insignificant. 

"Well,  well,  great  pleasure,  have  chairs,  what  c'n  I  do  for 
you?"  he  babbled. 

They  neither  sat  nor  offered  observations  on  the  weather. 

"Babbitt,"  said  Colonel  Snow,  "we've  come  from  the  Good 
Citizens'  League.  We've  decided  we  want  you  to  join.  Vergil 
Gunch  says  you  don't  care  to,  but  I  think  we  can  show  you  a 
new  light.    The  League  is  going  to  combine  with  the  Chamber 


372  BABBITT 

of  Commerce  in  a  campaign  for  the  Open  Shop,  so  it's  time 
for  you  to  put  your  name  down." 

In  his  embarrassment  Babbitt  could  not  recall  his  reasons 
for  not  wishing  to  join  the  League,  if  indeed  he  had  ever  def- 
initely known  them,  but  he  was  passionately  certain  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  join,  and  at  the  thought  of  their  forcing  him 
he  felt  a  stirring  of  anger  against  even  these  princes  of  com- 
merce, 

"Sorry,  Colonel,  have  to  think  it  over  a  little,"  he  mumbled. 

McKelvey  snarled,  "That  means  you're  not  going  to  join, 
George?" 

Something  black  and  imfamiliar  and  ferocious  spoke  from 
Babbitt:  "Now,  you  look  here,  Charley!  I'm  damned  if  I'm 
going  to  be  bullied  into  joining  anything,  not  even  by  you 
plutes!" 

"We're  not  bullying  anybody,"  Dr.  Billing  began,  but  Col- 
onel Snow  thrust  him  aside  with,  "Certainly  we  are!  We  don't 
mind  a  little  bullying,  if  it's  necessary.  Babbitt,  the  G.C.L, 
has  been  talking  about  you  a  good  deal.  You're  supposed  to  be 
a  sensible,  clean,  responsible  man;  you  always  have  been;  but  | 
here  lately,  for  God  knows  what  reason,  I  hear  from  all  sorts  ; 
of  sources  that  you're  running  around  with  a  loose  crowd,  and  | 
what's  a  whole  lot  worse,  you've  actually  been  advocating  and  • 
supporting  some  of  the  most  dangerous  elements  in  town,  like 
this  fellow  Doane."  * 

"Colonel,  that  strikes  me  as  my  private  business."  ; 

"Possibly,  but  we  want  to  have  an  understanding.  You've  i 
stood  in,  you  and  your  father-in-law,  with  some  of  the  most  ^ 
substantial  and  forward-looking  interests  in  town,  like  my  i 
friends  of  the  Street  Traction  Company,  and  my  papers  have  I 
given  you  a  lot  of  boosts.  Well,  you  can't  expect  the  decent  if 
citizens  to  go  on  aiding  you  if  you  intend  to  side  with  precisely  ! 
the  people  who  are  trying  to  undermine  us."  f 

Babbitt  was  frightened,  but  he  had  an  agonized  instinct 


BABBITT  373 

that  if  he  yielded  in  this  he  would  yield  in  everything.  He 
protested: 

"You're  exaggerating,  Colonel.  I  believe  in  being  broad- 
minded  and  liberal,  but,  of  course,  I'm  just  as  much  agin  the 
cranks  and  blatherskites  and  labor  unions  and  so  on  as  you 
are.  But  fact  is,  I  belong  to  so  many  organizations  now  that 
I  can't  do  'em  justice,  and  I  want  to  think  it  over  before  I 
decide  about  coming  into  the  G.C.L." 

Colonel  Snow  condescended,  "Oh,  no,  I'm  not  exaggerating! 
Why  the  doctor  here  heard  you  cussing  out  and  defaming  one 
of  the  finest  types  of  Republican  congressmen,  just  this  noon! 
And  you  have  entirely  the  wrong  idea  about  'thinking  over 
joining.'  We're  not  begging  you  to  join  the  G.C.L. — we're 
permitting  you  to  join.  I'm  not  sure,  my  boy,  but  what  if 
you  put  it  off  it'll  be  too  late.  I'm  not  sure  we'll  want  you 
then.    Better  think  quick — better  think  quick!" 

The  three  Vigilantes,  formidable  in  their  righteousness, 
stared  at  him  in  a  taut  silence.  Babbitt  waited  through.  He 
thought  nothing  at  all,  he  merely  waited,  while  in  his  echoing 
head  buzzed,  "I  don't  want  to  join — I  don't  want  to  join — I 
don't  want  to." 

"All  right.  Sorry  for  you!"  said  Colonel  Snow,  and  the 
three  men  abruptly  turned  their  beefy  backs. 

IV 

As  Babbitt  went  out  to  his  car  that  evening  he  saw  Vergil 
Gunch  coming  down  the  block.  He  raised  his  hand  in  saluta- 
tion, but  Gunch  ignored  it  and  crossed  the  street.  He  was 
certain  that  Gunch  had  seen  him.  He  drove  home  in  sharp  dis- 
comfort. 

His  wife  attacked  at  once:  "Georgie  dear,  Muriel  Frink 
was  in  this  afternoon,  and  she  says  that  Chum  says  the  com- 
mittee of  this  Good  Citizens'  League  especially  asked  you  to 


374  BABBITT 

join  and  you  wouldn't.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better? 
You  know  all  the  nicest  people  belong,  and  the  League  stands 
for—" 

"I  know  what  the  League  stands  for!  It  stands  for  the 
suppression  of  free  speech  and  free  thought  and  everything 
else!  I  don't  propose  to  be  bullied  and  rushed  into  joining  any- 
thing, and  it  isn't  a  question  of  whether  it's  a  good  league  or 
a  bad  league  or  what  the  hell  kind  of  a  league  it  is;  it's  just 
a  question  of  my  refusing  to  be  told  I  got  to — " 

"But  dear,  if  you  don't  join,  people  might  criticize  you." 

"Let  'em  criticize!" 

"But  I  mean  nice  people!" 

"Rats,  I —  Matter  of  fact,  this  whole  League  is  just  a 
fad.  It's  like  all  these  other  organizations  that  start  off  with 
such  a  rush  and  let  on  they're  going  to  change  the  whole  works, 
and  pretty  soon  they  peter  out  and  everybody  forgets  all 
about  'em!" 

"But  if  it's  the  fad  now,  don't  you  think  you — " 

"No,  I  don't!  Oh,  Myra,  please  quit  nagging  me  about  it. 
I'm  sick  of  hearing  about  the  confounded  G.C.L.  I  almost 
wish  I'd  joined  it  when  Verg  first  came  around,  and  got  it  over. 
And  maybe  I'd  've  come  in  to-day  if  the  committee  hadn't  tried 
to  bullyrag  me,  but,  by  God,  as  long  as  I'm  a  free-born  inde- 
pendent American  cit — " 

"Now,  George,  you're  talking  exactly  like  the  German  fur- 
nace-man." 

"Oh,  lam,  ami!     Then,  I  won't  talk  at  all ! " 

He  longed,  that  evening,  to  see  Tanis  Judique,  to  be  strength- 
ened by  her  sympathy.  When  all  the  family  were  up-stairs  he 
got  as  far  as  telephoning  to  her  apartment-house,  but  he  was 
agitated  about  it  and  when  the  janitor  answered  he  blurted, 
"Nev'  mind — I'll  call  later,"  and  hung  up  the  receiver. 


BABBITT  375 


If  Babbitt  had  not  been  certain  about  Vergil  Gunch's  avoid- 
ing him,  there  could  be  little  doubt  about  William  Washington 
Eathorne,  next  morning.  When  Babbitt  was  driving  down  to 
the  office  he  overtook  Eathorne's  car,  with  the  great  banker  sit- 
ting in  anemic  solemnity  behind  his  chauffeur.  Babbitt  waved 
and  cried,  "Mornin'!"  Eathorne  looked  at  him  deliberately, 
hesitated,  and  gave  him  a  nod  more  contemptuous  than  a 
direct  cut. 

Babbitt's  partner  and  father-in-law  came  in  at  ten: 

''George,  what's  this  I  hear  about  some  song  and  dance  you 
gave  Colonel  Snow  about  not  wanting  to  join  the  G.C.L.? 
What  the  dickens  you  trying  to  do?  Wreck  the  firm?  You 
don't  suppose  these  Big  Guns  will  stand  your  bucking  them 
and  springing  all  this  'liberal'  poppycock  you  been  getting  off 
lately,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  rats,  Henry  T.,  you  been  reading  bum  fiction.  There 
ain't  any  such  a  thing  as  these  plots  to  keep  folks  from  being 
liberal.  This  is  a  free  country.  A  man  can  do  anything  he 
wants  to." 

"Course  th'  ain't  any  plots.  Who  said  they  was?  Only  if 
folks  get  an  idea  you're  scatter-brained  and  unstable,  you  don't 
suppose  they'll  want  to  do  business  with  you,  do  you?  One 
.(ittle  rumor  about  your  being  a  crank  would  do  more  to  ruin 
this  business  than  all  the  plots  and  stuff  that  these  fool  story- 
Writers  could  think  up  in  a  month  of  Sundays." 

That  afternoon,  when  the  old  reliable  Conrad  Lyte,  the 
toerry  miser,  Conrad  Lyte,  appeared,  and  Babbitt  suggested 
his  buying  a  parcel  of  land  in  the  new  residential  section  of 
1]  Dorchester,  Lyte  said  hastily,  too  hastily,  "No,  no,  don't  want 
to  go  into  anything  new  just  now." 

A  week  later  Babbitt  learned,  through  Henry  Thompson,  that 
the  officials  of  the  Street  Traction  Company  were  planning  an- 
other real-estate  coup,  and  that  Sanders,  Torrey  and  Wing,  not 


376  BABBITT 

the  Babbitt-Thompson  Company,  were  to  handle  it  for  them. 

"I  figure  that  Jake  Offutt  is  kind  of  leery  about  the  way 
folks  are  talking  about  you.  Of  course  Jake  is  a  rock-ribbed 
old  die-hard,  and  he  probably  advised  the  Traction  fellows 
to  get  some  other  broker.  George,  you  got  to  do  somethingl" 
trembled  Thompson, 

And,  in  a  rush.  Babbitt  agreed.  All  nonsense  the  way  people 
misjudged  him,  but  still —  He  determined  to  join  the  Good 
Citizens'  League  the  next  time  he  was  asked,  and  in  furious 
resignation  he  waited.  He  wasn't  asked.  They  ignored  him. 
He  did  not  have  the  courage  to  go  to  the  League  and  beg  in, 
and  he  took  refuge  in  a  shaky  boast  that  he  had  ''gotten  away 
with  bucking  the  whole  city.  Nobody  could  dictate  to  him 
how  he  was  going  to  think  and  act!" 

He  was  jarred  as  by  nothing  else  when  the  paragon  of  sten- 
ographers. Miss  McGoun,  suddenly  left  him,  though  her  rea- 
sons were  excellent — she  needed  a  rest,  her  sister  was  sick,  she 
might  not  do  any  more  work  for  six  months.  He  was  uncom- 
fortable with  her  successor,  Miss  Havstad.  What  Miss  Hav- 
stad's  given  name  was,  no  one  in  the  office  ever  knew.  It 
seemed  improbable  that  she  had  a  given  name,  a  lover,  a  pow- 
der-puff, or  a  digestion.  She  was  so  impersonal,  this  slight, 
pale,  industrious  Swede,  that  it  was  vulgar  to  think  of  her  as 
going  to  an  ordinary  home  to  eat  hash.  She  was  a  perfectly 
oiled  and  enameled  machine,  and  she  ought,  each  evening,  to 
have  been  dusted  off  and  shut  in  her  desk  beside  her  too-slim, 
too-frail  pencil  points.  She  took  dictation  swiftly,  her  typing 
was  perfect,  but  Babbitt  became  jumpy  when  he  tried  to  work 
with  her.  She  made  him  feel  puffy,  and  at  his  best-beloved 
daily  jokes  she  looked  gently  inquiring.  He  longed  for  Miss 
McGoun's  return,  and  thought  of  writing  to  her. 

Then  he  heard  that  Miss  McGoun  had,  a  week  after  leaving 
him,  gone  over  to  his  dangerous  competitors,  Sanders,  Torrey 
and  Wing. 

He  was  not  merely  annoyed;  he  was  frightened.    'Why  did 


BABBITT  377 

she  quit,  then?"  he  worried.  "Did  she  have  a  hunch  my  busi- 
ness is  going  on  the  rocks?  And  it  was  Sanders  got  the  Street 
Traction  deal.     Rats — sinking  ship!" 

Gray  fear  loomed  always  by  him  now.  He  watched  Fritz 
Weilinger,  the  young  salesman,  and  wondered  if  he  too  would 
leave.  Daily  he  fancied  slights.  He  noted  that  he  was  not 
asked  to  speak  at  the  annual  Chamber  of  Commerce  dinner. 
When  Orville  Jones  gave  a  large  poker  party  and  he  was  not 
invited,  he  was  certain  that  he  had  been  snubbed.  He  was 
afraid  to  go  to  lunch  at  the  Athletic  Club,  and  afraid  not  to 
go.  He  believed  that  he  was  spied  on;  that  when  he  left  the 
table  they  whispered  about  him.  Everywhere  he  heard  the 
rustling  whispers:  in  the  offices  of  clients,  in  the  bank  when  he 
made  a  deposit,  in  his  own  office,  in  his  own  home.  Inter- 
minably he  wondered  what  They  were  saying  of  him.  All 
day  long  in  imaginary  conversations  he  caught  them  mar- 
veling, "Babbitt?  Why,  say,  he's  a  regular  anarchist!  You 
got  to  admire  the  fellow  for  his  nerve,  the  way  he  turned  liberal 
and,  by  golly,  just  absolutely  runs  his  life  to  suit  himself,  but 
say,  he's  dangerous,  that's  what  he  is,  and  he's  got  to  be  shown 
up." 

He  was  so  twitchy  that  when  he  rounded  a  corner  and 
chanced  on  two  acquaintances  talking — whispering — ^his  heart 
leaped,  and  he  stalked  by  like  an  embarrassed  schoolboy. 
When  he  saw  his  neighbors  Howard  Littlefield  and  Orville 
Jones  together,  he  peered  at  them,  went  indoors  to  escape  their 
spying,  and  was  miserably  certain  that  they  had  been  whisper- 
ing— plotting — whispering. 

Through  all  his  fear  ran  defiance.  He  felt  stubborn.  Some- 
times he  decided  that  he  had  been  a  very  devil  of  a  fellow,  as 
bold  as  Seneca  Doane;  sometimes  he  planned  to  call  on  Doane 
and  tell  him  what  a  revolutionist  he  was,  and  never  got  be- 
yond the  planning.  But  Just  as  often,  when  he  heard  the 
soft  whispers  enveloping  him  he  wailed,  "Good  Lord,  what 
have  I  done?     Just  plaved  ^ith  the  Bunch,  and  called  down 


378  BABBITT 

Clarence  Drum  about  being  such  a  high-and-mighty  sodger. 
Never  catch  me  criticizing  people  and  trying  to  make  them 
accept  my  ideas  1" 

He  could  not  stand  the  strain.  Before  long  he  admitted 
that  he  would  like  to  flee  back  to  the  security  of  conformity, 
provided  there  was  a  decent  and  creditable  way  to  return.  But, 
stubbornly,  he  would  not  be  forced  back;  he  would  not,  he 
swore,  "eat  dirt." 

Only  in  spirited  engagements  with  his  wife  did  these  tur- 
bulent fears  rise  to  the  surface.  She  complained  that  he 
seemed  nervous,  that  she  couldn't  understand  why  he  did  not 
want  to  "drop  in  at  the  Littlefields'  "  for  the  evening.  He 
tried,  but  he  could  not  express  to  her  the  nebulous  facts  of 
his  rebellion  and  punishment.  And,  with  Paul  and  Tanis  lost, 
he  had  no  one  to  whom  he  could  talk.  "Good  Lord,  Tinka  is 
the  only  real  friend  I  have,  these  days,"  he  sighed,  and  he 
clung  to  the  child,  played  floor-games  with  her  all  evening. 

He  considered  going  to  see  Paul  in  prison,  but,  though  he 
had  a  pale  curt  note  from  him  every  week,  he  thought  of  Paul 
as  dead.    It  was  Tanis  for  whom  he  was  longing. 

"I  thought  I  was  so  smart  and  independent,  cutting  Tanis 
out,  and  I  need  her.  Lord  how  I  need  her!"  he  raged.  "Myra 
simply  can't  understand.  All  she  sees  in  life  is  getting  along 
by  being  just  like  other  folks.  But  Tanis,  she'd  tell  me  I 
was  all  right." 

Then  he  broke,  and  one  evening,  late,  he  did  run  to  Tanis. 
He  had  not  dared  to  hope  for  it,  but  she  was  in,  and  alone. 
Only  she  wasn't  Tanis.  She  was  a  courteous,  brow-lifting, 
ice-armored  woman  who  looked  like  Tanis.  She  said,  "Yes, 
George,  what  is  it?"  in  even  and  uninterested  tones,  and  he 
crept  away,  whipped. 

His  first  comfort  was  from  Ted  and  Eunice  Littlefield. 

They  danced  in  one  evening  when  Ted  was  home  from  the 
university,  and  Ted  chuckled,  "WHiat's  this  I  hear  from  Euny, 
dad?     She  says  her  dad  says  you  raised  Cain  by  boosting 


BABBITT  379 

old  Seneca  Doane.  Hot  dog!  Give  'em  fits  I  Stir  'em  up! 
This  old  burg  is  asleep!"  Eunice  plumped  down  on  Babbitt's 
lap,  kissed  him,  nestled  her  bobbed  hair  against  his  chin,  and 
crowed,  "I  think  you're  lots  nicer  than  Howard.  Why  is  it," 
confidentially,  "that  Howard  is  such  an  old  grouch?  The  man 
has  a  good  heart,  and  honestly,  he's  awfully  bright,  but  he 
never  will  learn  to  step  on  the  gas,  after  all  the  training  I've 
given  him.  Don't  you  think  we  could  do  something  with  him, 
dearest?" 

"Why,  Eunice,  that  isn't  a  nice  way  to  speak  of  your  papa," 
Babbitt  observed,  in  the  best  Floral  Heights  manner,  but 
he  was  happy  for  the  first  time  in  weeks.  He  pictured  himself 
as  the  veteran  liberal  strengthened  by  the  loyalty  of  the  yoimg 
generation.  They  went  out  to  rifle  the  ice-box.  Babbitt 
gloated,  "If  your  mother  caught  us  at  this,  we'd  certainly  get 
our  come-uppancel"  and  Eunice  became  maternal,  scrambled 
a  terrifying  number  of  eggs  for  them,  kissed  Babbitt  on  the 
ear,  and  in  the  voice  of  a  brooding  abbess  marveled,  "It  beats 
the  devil  why  feminists  like  me  still  go  on  nursing  these  men!" 

Thus  stimulated,  Babbitt  was  reckless  when  he  encountered 
Sheldon  Smeeth,  educational  director  of  the  Y.M.C.A.  and 
choir-leader  of  the  Chatham  Road  Church.  With  one  of  his 
damp  hands  Smeeth  imprisoned  Babbitt's  thick  paw  while  he 
chanted,  "Brother  Babbitt,  we  haven't  seen  you  at  church  very 
often  lately.  I  know  you're  busy  with  a  multitude  of  details, 
but  you  mustn't  forget  your  dear  friends  at  the  old  church 
home." 

Babbitt  shook  off  the  affectionate  clasp — Sheldy  liked  to 
hold  hands  for  a  long  time — and  snarled,  "Well,  I  guess  you 
fellows  can  run  the  show  without  me.  Sorry,  Smeeth;  got  to 
beat  it.    G'day." 

But  afterward  he  winced,  "If  that  white  worm  had  the  nerve 
to  try  to  drag  me  back  to  the  Old  Church  Home,  then  the  holy 
outfit  must  have  been  doing  a  lot  of  talking  about  me,  too." 

He  heard  them  whispering — whispering — Dr.  John  Jennison 


38o 


BABBITT 


Drew,  Cholmondeley  Frink,  even  William  Washington  Ea- 
thorne.  The  independence  seeped  out  of  him  and  he  walked 
the  streets  alone,  afraid  of  men's  cynical  eyes  and  the  inces- 
sant hiss  of  whispering. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


He  tried  to  explain  to  his  wife,  as  they  prepared  for  bed, 
how  objectionable  was  Sheldon  Smeeth,  but  all  her  answer 
was,  "He  has  such  a  beautiful  voice — so  spiritual.  I  don't 
think  you  ought  to  speak  of  him  like  that  just  because  you 
can't  appreciate  music!"  He  saw  her  then  as  a  stranger;  he 
stared  bleakly  at  this  plump  and  fussy  woman  with  the  broad 
bare  arms,  and  wondered  how  she  had  ever  come  here. 

In  his  chilly  cot,  turning  from  aching  side  to  side,  he  pon- 
dered of  Tanis.  "He'd  been  a  fool  to  lose  her.  He  had  to 
have  somebody  he  could  really  talk  to.  He'd — oh,  he'd  bust  if 
he  went  on  stewing  about  things  by  himself.  And  Myra,  use- 
less to  expect  her  to  understand.  Well,  rats,  no  use  dodging 
the  issue.  Darn  shame  for  two  married  people  to  drift  apart 
after  all  these  years;  darn  rotten  shame;  but  nothing  could 
bring  them  together  now,  as  long  as  he  refused  to  let  Zenith 
bully  him  into  taking  orders — and  he  was  by  golly  not  going 
to  let  anybody  bully  him  into  anything,  or  wheedle  him  or 
coax  him  either!" 

He  woke  at  three,  roused  by  a  passing  motor,  and  struggled 
out  of  bed  for  a  drink  of  water.  As  he  passed  through  the 
bedroom  he  heard  his  wife  groan.  His  resentment  was  night- 
blurred;  he  was  solicitous  in  inquiring,  "What's  the  trouble, 
hon?" 

"I've  got — such  a  pain  down  here  in  my  side — oh,  it's  just — 
it  tears  at  me." 

"Bad  indigestion?     Shall  I  get  you  some  bicarb?" 

"Don't  think — that  would  help.    I  felt  funny  last  evening 

381 


382  BABBITT 

and  yesterday,  and  then — oh! — it  passed  away  and  I  got  to 
sleep  and —    That  auto  woke  me  up." 

Her  voice  was  laboring  like  a  ship  in  a  storm.  He  was 
alarmed. 

"I  better  call  the  doctor." 

"No,  no!  It'll  go  away.  But  maybe  you  might  get  me  an 
ice-bag." 

He  stalked  to  the  bathroom  for  the  ice-bag,  down  to  the 
kitchen  for  ice.  He  felt  dramatic  in  this  late-night  expedition, 
but  as  he  gouged  the  chunk  of  ice  with  the  dagger-like  pick  he 
was  cool,  steady,  mature;  and  the  old  friendliness  was  in  his 
voice  as  he  patted  the  ice-bag  into  place  on  her  groin,  rumbling, 
''There,  there,  that'll  be  better  now."  He  retired  to  bed,  but 
he  did  not  sleep.  He  heard  her  groan  again.  Instantly  he 
was  up,  soothing  her,  "Still  pretty  bad,  honey?" 

"Yes,  it  just  gripes  me,  and  I  can't  get  to  sleep." 

Her  voice  was  faint.  He  knew  her  dread  of  doctors'  verdicts 
and  he  did  not  inform  her,  but  he  creaked  down-stairs,  tele- 
phoned to  Dr.  Earl  Patten,  and  waited,  shivering,  trying  with 
fuzzy  eyes  to  read  a  magazine,  till  he  heard  the  doctor's  car. 

The  doctor  was  youngish  and  professionally  breezy.  He 
came  in  as  though  it  were  sunny  noontime.  "Well,  George, 
little  trouble,  eh?  How  is  she  now?"  he  said  busily  as,  with 
tremendous  and  rather  irritating  cheerfulness,  he  tossed  his 
coat  on  a  chair  and  warmed  his  hands  at  a  radiator.  He  took 
charge  of  the  house.  Babbitt  felt  ousted  and  unimportant 
as  he  followed  the  doctor  up  to  the  bedroom,  and  it  was  the 
doctor  who  chuckled,  "Oh,  just  little  stomach-ache"  when 
Verona  peeped  through  her  door,  begging,  "\Vhat  is  it,  Dad, 
what  is  it?" 

To  Mrs.  Babbitt  the  doctor  said  with  amiable  belligerence, 
after  his  examination,  "Kind  of  a  bad  old  pain,  eh?  I'll  give 
you  something  to  make  you  sleep,  and  I  think  you'll  feel  better 
in  the  morning.  I'll  come  in  right  after  breakfast."  But  to 
Babbitt,  lying  in  wait  in  the  lower  hall,  the  doctor  sighed, 


BABBITT  383 

"I  don't  like  the  feeling  there  in  her  belly.  There's  some  rigid- 
ity and  some  inflammation.  She's  never  had  her  appendix 
out,  has  she?  Um.  Well,  no  use  worrying.  I'll  be  here  j&rst 
thing  in  the  morning,  and  meantime  she'll  get  some  rest.  I've 
given  her  a  hypo.    Good  night." 

Then  was  Babbitt  caught  up  in  the  black  tempest. 

Instantly  all  the  indignations  which  had  been  dominating 
him  and  the  spiritual  dramas  through  which  he  had  struggled 
became  pallid  and  absurd  before  the  ancient  and  overwhelming 
realities,  the  standard  and  traditional  realities,  of  sickness  and 
menacing  death,  the  long  night,  and  the  thousand  steadfast 
implications  of  married  life.  He  crept  back  to  her.  As  she 
drowsed  away  in  the  tropic  languor  of  morphia,  he  sat  on  the 
edge  of  her  bed,  holding  her  hand,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
many  weeks  her  hand  abode  trustfully  in  his. 

He  draped  himself  grotesquely  in  his  toweling  bathrobe 
and  a  pink  and  white  couch-cover,  and  sat  lumpishly  in  a 
wing-chair.  The  bedroom  was  uncanny  in  its  half-light,  which 
turned  the  curtains  to  lurking  robbers,  the  dressing-table  to  a 
turreted  castle.  It  smelled  of  cosmetics,  of  linen,  of  sleep.  He 
napped  and  woke,  napped  and  woke,  a  hundred  times.  He 
heard  her  move  and  sigh  in  slumber;  he  wondered  if  there 
wasn't  some  officious  brisk  thing  he  could  do  for  her,  and 
before  he  could  quite  form  the  thought  he  was  asleep,  racked 
and  aching.  The  night  was  infinite.  When  dawn  came  and 
the  waiting  seemed  at  an  end,  he  fell  asleep,  and  was  vexed 
to  have  been  caught  off  his  guard,  to  have  been  aroused  by 
Verona's  entrance  and  her  agitated  "Oh,  what  is  it.  Dad?" 

His  wife  was  awake,  her  face  sallow  and  lifeless  in  the  morn- 
ing light,  but  now  he  did  not  compare  her  with  Tanis;  she 
was  not  merely  A  Woman,  to  be  contrasted  with  other  women, 
but  his  own  self,  and  though  he  might  criticize  her  and  nag 
her,  it  was  only  as  he  might  criticize  and  nag  himself,  inter- 
estedly, unpatronizingly,  without  the  expectation  of  changing — 
or  any  real  desire  to  change — the  eternal  essence. 


384  BABBITT 

With  Verona  he  sounded  fatherly  again,  and  firm.  He  con- 
soled Tinka,  who  satisfactorily  pointed  the  excitement  of  the 
hour  by  wailing.  He  ordered  early  breakfast,  and  wanted  to 
look  at  the  newspaper,  and  felt  somehow  heroic  and  useful  in 
not  looking  at  it.  But  there  were  still  crawling  and  totally 
unheroic  hours  of  waiting  before  Dr.  Patten  returned. 

"Don't  see  much  change,"  said  Patten.  "I'll  be  back  about 
eleven,  and  if  you  don't  mind,  I  think  I'll  bring  in  some  other 
world-famous  pill-pedler  for  consultation,  just  to  be  on  the 
safe  side.  Now  George,  there's  nothing  you  can  do.  I'll  have 
Verona  keep  the  ice-bag  filled — might  as  well  leave  that  on, 
I  guess — and  you,  you  better  beat  it  to  the  office  instead  of 
standing  around  her  looking  as  if  you  were  the  patient.  The 
jierve  of  husbands !  Lot  more  neurotic  than  the  women!  They 
always  have  to  horn  in  and  get  all  the  credit  for  feeling  bad 
when  their  wives  are  ailing.  Now  have  another  nice  cup  of 
coffee  and  git!" 

Under  this  derision  Babbitt  became  more  matter-of-fact. 
He  drove  to  the  office,  tried  to  dictate  letters,  tried  to  tele- 
phone and,  before  the  call  was  answered,  forgot  to  whom  he 
was  telephoning.  At  a  quarter  after  ten  he  returned  home. 
As  he  left  the  down-town  traffic  and  sped  up  the  car,  his  face 
was  as  grimly  creased  as  the  mask  of  tragedy. 

His  wife  greeted  him  with  surprise.  "Why  did  you  come 
back,  dear?  I  think  I  feel  a  little  better.  I  told  Verona  to 
skip  off  to  her  office.  Was  it  wicked  of  me  to  go  and  get 
sick?" 

He  knew  that  she  wanted  petting,  and  she  got  it,  joyously. 
They  were  curiously  happy  when  he  heard  Dr.  Patten's  car 
in  front.  He  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  was  frightened. 
With  Patten  was  an  impatient  man  with  turbulent  black  hair 
and  a  hussar  mustache — Dr.  A.  I.  Dilling,  the  surgeon.  Bab- 
bitt sputtered  with  anxiety,  tried  to  conceal  it,  and  hurried 
down  to  the  door. 

Dr.  Patten  was  profusely  casual:     "Don't  want  to  worry 


BABBITT  385 

you,  old  man,  but  I  thought  it  might  be  a  good  stunt  to  have 
Dr.  Billing  examine  her."  He  gestured  toward  Billing  aa 
toward  a  master. 

Billing  nodded  in  his  curtest  manner  and  strode  up-stairs. 
Babbitt  tramped  the  living-room  in  agony.  Except  for  hia 
wife's  confinements  there  had  never  been  a  major  operation 
in  the  family,  and  to  him  surgery  was  at  once  a  miracle  and 
an  abomination  of  fear.  But  when  Billing  and  Patten  came 
down  again  he  knew  that  everything  was  all  right,  and  he 
wanted  to  laugh,  for  the  two  doctors  were  exactly  like  the 
bearded  physicians  in  a  musical  comedy,  both  of  them  rubbing 
their  hands  and  looking  foolishly  sagacious. 

Br.  Billing  spoke: 

"I'm  sorry,  old  man,  but  it's  acute  appendicitis.  We  ought 
to  operate.  Of  course  you  must  decide,  but  there's  no  ques- 
tion as  to  what  has  to  be  done." 

Babbitt  did  not  get  all  the  force  of  it.  He  mumbled,  ''Well, 
I  suppose  we  could  get  her  ready  in  a  couple  o'  days.  Prob- 
ably Ted  ought  to  come  down  from  the  university,  just  in  case 
anything  happened." 

Br.  Billing  growled,  "Nope.  If  you  don't  want  peritonitis 
to  set  in,  we'll  have  to  operate  right  away.  I  must  advise  it 
strongly.  If  you  say  go  ahead,  I'll  'phone  for  the  St.  Mary's 
ambulance  at  once,  and  we'll  have  her  on  the  table  in  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour." 

"I — I —  Of  course,  I  suppose  you  know  what —  But  great 
God,  man,  I  can't  get  her  clothes  ready  and  everything  in  two 
seconds,  you  know!  And  in  her  state,  so  wrought-up  and 
weak — " 

"Just  throw  her  hair-brush  and  comb  and  tooth-brush  in 
a  bag;  that's  all  she'll  need  for  a  day  or  two,"  said  Br.  Billing, 
and  went  to  the  telephone. 

Babbitt  galloped  desperately  up-stairs.  He  sent  the  fright- 
ened Tinka  out  of  the  room.  He  said  gaily  to  his  wife,  "Well, 
old  thing,  the  doc  thinks  maybe  we  better  have  a  little  opera- 


386  BABBITT 

tion  and  get  it  over.  Just  take  a  few  minutes — not  half  as 
serious  as  a  confinement — and  you'll  be  all  right  in  a  jiffy." 

She  gripped  his  hand  till  the  fingers  ached.  She  said  pa- 
tiently, like  a  cowed  child,  "I'm  afraid — to  go  into  the  dark, 
all  alone!"  Maturity  was  wiped  from  her  eyes;  they  were 
pleading  and  terrified.  "Will  you  stay  with  me?  Darling, 
you  don't  have  to  go  to  the  office  now,  do  you?  Could  you 
just  go  down  to  the  hospital  with  me?  Could  you  come  see 
me  this  evening — if  everything's  all  right?  You  won't  have 
to  go  out  this  evening,  will  you?" 

He  was  on  his  knees  by  the  bed.  While  she  feebly  ruffled  his 
hair,  he  sobbed,  he  kissed  the  lawn  of  her  sleeve,  and  swore, 
"Old  honey,  I  love  you  more  than  anything  in  the  world!  I've 
kind  of  been  worried  by  business  and  everything,  but  that's 
all  over  now,  and  I'm  back  again." 

"Are  you  really?  George,  I  was  thinking,  lying  here,  maybe 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  I  just  went.  I  was  wondering  if 
anybody  really  needed  me.  Or  wanted  me.  I  was  wondering 
what  was  the  use  of  my  living.  I've  been  getting  so  stupid 
and  ugly — " 

"Why,  you  old  humbug!  Fishing  for  compliments  when  I 
ought  to  be  packing  your  bag!  Me,  sure,  I'm  young  and 
handsome  and  a  regular  village  cut-up  and — "  He  could  not 
go  on.  He  sobbed  again;  and  in  muttered  incoherencies  they 
found  each  other. 

As  he  packed,  his  brain  was  curiously  clear  and  swift.  He'd 
have  no  more  wild  evenings,  he  realized.  He  admitted  that 
he  would  regret  them.  A  little  grimly  he  perceived  that  this 
had  been  his  last  despairing  fling  before  the  paralyzed  con- 
tentment of  middle-age.  Well,  and  he  grinned  impishly,  "it 
was  one  doggone  good  party  while  it  lasted!"  And — how 
much  was  the  operation  going  to  cost?  "I  ought  to  have 
fought  that  out  with  Billing.  But  no,  damn  it,  I  don't  care 
how  much  it  costs!" 

The  motor  ambulance  was  at  the  door.    Even  in  his  grief 


BABBITT  387 

the  Babbitt  who  admired  all  technical  excellences  was  inter- 
ested in  the  kindly  skill  with  which  the  attendants  slid  Mrs. 
Babbitt  upon  a  stretcher  and  carried  her  down-stairs.  The  am- 
bulance was  a  huge,  suave,  varnished,  white  thing.  Mrs.  Bab- 
bitt moaned,  "It  frightens  me.  It's  just  like  a  hearse,  just 
like  being  put  in  a  hearse.    I  want  you  to  stay  with  me." 

"I'll  be  right  up  front  with  the  driver,"  Babbitt  promised. 

"No,  I  want  you  to  stay  inside  with  me."  To  the  attend- 
ants:   "Can't  he  be  inside?" 

"Sure,  ma'am,  you  bet.  There's  a  fine  little  camp-stool  in 
there,"  the  older  attendant  said,  with  professional  pride. 

He  sat  beside  her  in  that  traveling  cabin  with  its  cot,  its 
stool,  its  active  little  electric  radiator,  and  its  quite  unexplained 
calendar,  displaying  a  girl  eating  cherries,  and  the  name  of  an 
enterprising  grocer.  But  as  he  flung  out  his  hand  in  hopeless 
cheerfulness  it  touched  the  radiator,  and  he  squealed: 

"Ouch!     Jesus!" 

"Why,  George  Babbitt,  I  won't  have  you  cursing  and  swear- 
ing and  blaspheming!" 

"I  know,  awful  sorry  but —  Gosh  all  fish-hooks,  look 
how  I  burned  my  hand!  Gee  whiz,  it  hurts!  It  hurts  like 
the  mischief!  Why,  that  damn  radiator  is  hot  as — it's  hot  as 
— it's  hotter  'n  the  hinges  of  Hades!  Look!  You  can  see 
the  mark!" 

So,  as  they  drove  up  to  St.  Mary's  Hospital,  with  the  nurses 
already  laying  out  the  instruments  for  an  operation  to  save  her 
life,  it  was  she  who  consoled  him  and  kissed  the  place  to 
make  it  well,  and  though  he  tried  to  be  gruff  and  mature,  he 
yielded  to  her  and  was  glad  to  be  babied. 

The  ambulance  whirled  under  the  hooded  carriage-entrance 
of  the  hospital,  and  instantly  he  was  reduced  to  a  zero  in  the 
nightmare  succession  of  cork-floored  halls,  endless  doors  open 
on  old  women  sitting  up  in  bed,  an  elevator,  the  anesthetizing 
room,  a  yoimg  interne  contemptuous  of  husbands.  He  was 
permitted  to  kiss  his  wife;  he  saw  a  thin  dark  nurse  fit  the 


388  BABBITT 

cone  over  her  mouth  and  nose;  he  stiffened  at  a  sweet  and 
treacherous  odor;  then  he  was  driven  out,  and  on  a  high  stool 
in  a  laboratory  he  sat  dazed,  longing  to  see  her  once  again,  to 
insist  that  he  had  always  loved  her,  had  never  for  a  second 
loved  anybody  else  or  looked  at  anybody  else.  In  the  labor- 
atory he  was  conscious  only  of  a  decayed  object  preserved  in  a 
bottle  of  yellowing  alcohol.  It  made  him  very  sick,  but  he 
could  not  take  his  eyes  from  it.  He  was  more  aware  of  it 
than  of  waiting.  His  mind  floated  in  abeyance,  coming  back 
always  to  that  horrible  bottle.  To  escape  it  he  opened  the  door 
to  the  right,  hoping  to  find  a  sane  and  business-like  office.  He 
realized  that  he  was  looking  into  the  operating-room;  in  one 
glance  he  took  in  Dr.  Billing,  strange  in  white  gown  and  ban- 
daged head,  bending  over  the  steel  table  with  its  screws  and 
wheels,  then  nurses  holding  basins  and  cotton  sponges,  and  a 
swathed  thing,  just  a  lifeless  chin  and  a  mound  of  white  in 
the  midst  of  which  was  a  square  of  sallow  flesh  with  a  gash 
a  little  bloody  at  the  edges,  protruding  from  the  gash  a  cluster 
of  forceps  like  clinging  parasites. 

He  shut  the  door  with  haste.  It  may  be  that  his  frightened 
repentance  of  the  night  and  morning  had  not  eaten  in,  but 
this  dehumanizing  interment  of  her  who  had  been  so  patheti- 
cally human  shook  him  utterly,  and  as  he  crouched  again  on 
the  high  stool  in  the  laboratory  he  swore  faith  to  his  wife  .  .  . 
Id  Zenith  ...  to  business  efficiency  ...  to  the  Boosters* 
Dub  ...  to  every  faith  of  the  Clan  of  Good  Fellows. 

Then  a  nurse  was  soothing,  "All  over!  Perfect  success! 
She'll  come  out  fine!  She'll  be  out  from  under  the  anesthetic 
soon,  and  you  can  see  her." 

He  found  her  on  a  curious  tilted  bed,  her  face  an  unwhole- 
some yellow  but  her  purple  lips  moving  slightly.  Then  only  did 
he  really  believe  that  she  was  alive.  She  was  muttering.  He 
bent,  and  heard  her  sighing,  "Hard  get  real  maple  syrup  for 
pancakes."  He  laughed  inexhaustibly;  he  beamed  on  the 
nurse  and  proudly  confided,  "Think  of  her  talking  about  maple 


BABBITT  389 

syrup!     By  golly,  I'm  going  to  go  and  order  a  hundred  gallons 
of  it,  right  from  Vermont!" 


n 

She  was  out  of  the  hospital  in  seventeen  days.  He  went 
to  see  her  each  afternoon,  and  in  their  long  talks  they  drifted 
back  to  intimacy.  Once  he  hinted  something  of  his  relations 
to  Tanis  and  the  Bunch,  and  she  was  inflated  by  the  view  that 
a  Wicked  Woman  had  captivated  her  poor  George. 

If  once  he  had  doubted  his  neighbors  and  the  supreme  charm 
of  the  Good  Fellows,  he  was  convinced  now.  You  didn't,  he 
noted,  "see  Seneca  Doane  coming  around  with  any  flowers  or 
dropping  in  to  chat  with  the  Missus,"  but  Mrs.  Howard  Little- 
field  brought  to  the  hospital  her  priceless  wine  jelly  (flavored 
with  real  wine) ;  Orville  Jones  spent  hours  in  picking  out  the 
kind  of  novels  Mrs.  Babbitt  liked — nice  love  stories  about 
New  York  millionaries  and  Wyoming  cowpunchers;  Louetta 
Swanson  knitted  a  pink  bed-jacket;  Sidney  Finkelstein  and 
his  merry  brown-eyed  flapper  of  a  wife  selected  the  prettiest 
nightgown  in  all  the  stock  of  Parcher  and  Stein. 

All  his  friends  ceased  whispering  about  him,  suspecting  him. 
At  the  Athletic  Club  they  asked  after  her  daily.  Club  mem- 
bers whose  names  he  did  not  know  stopped  him  to  inquire, 
"How's  your  good  lady  getting  on?"  Babbitt  felt  that  he 
was  swinging  from  bleak  uplands  down  into  the  rich  warm  air 
of  a  valley  pleasant  with  cottages. 

One  noon  Vergil  Gunch  suggested,  "You  planning  to  be  at 
the  hospital  about  six?  The  wife  and  I  thought  we'd  drop  in." 
They  did  drop  in.  Gunch  was  so  humorous  that  Mrs.  Babbitt 
said  he  must  "stop  making  her  laugh  because  honestly  it  was 
hurting  her  incision."  As  they  passed  down  the  hall  Gunch 
demanded  amiably,  "George,  old  scout,  you  were  soreheaded 
about  something,  here  a  while  back.  I  don't  know  why,  and 
it's  none  of  my  business.     But  you  seem  to  be  feeling  all 


390  BABBITT 

hunky-dory  again,  and  why  don't  you  come  join  us  in  the 
Good  Citizens'  League,  old  man?  We  have  some  corking 
times  together,  and  we  need  your  advice." 

Then  did  Babbitt,  almost  tearful  with  joy  at  being  coaxed 
instead  of  bullied,  at  being  permitted  to  stop  fighting,  at  be- 
ing able  to  desert  without  injuring  his  opinion  of  himself,  cease 
utterly  to  be  a  domestic  revolutionist.  He  patted  Gunch's 
shoulder,  and  next  day  he  became  a  member  of  the  Good  Citi- 
zens' League. 

Within  two  weeks  no  one  in  the  League  was  more  violent 
regarding  the  wickedness  of  Seneca  Doane,  the  crimes  of  labor 
unions,  the  perils  of  immigration,  and  the  delights  of  golf, 
morality,  and  bank-accounts  than  was  George  F.  Babbitt. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


The  Good  Citizens'  League  had  spread  through  the  country, 
but  nowhere  was  it  so  effective  and  well  esteemed  as  in  cities 
of  the  type  of  Zenith,  commercial  cities  of  a  few  hundred  thou- 
sand inhabitants,  most  of  which — though  not  all — lay  in- 
land, against  a  background  of  cornfields  and  mines  and  of  small 
towns  which  depended  upon  them  for  mortgage-loans,  table- 
manners,  art,  social  philosophy  and  millinery. 

To  the  League  belonged  most  of  the  prosperous  citizens  of 
Zenith.  They  were  not  all  of  the  kind  who  called  themselves 
"Regular  Guys."  Besides  these  hearty  fellows,  these  salesmen 
of  prosperity,  there  were  the  aristocrats,  that  is,  the  men  who 
were  richer  or  had  been  rich  for  more  generations:  the  presi- 
dents of  banks  and  of  factories,  the  land-owners,  the  corpora- 
tion lawyers,  the  fashionable  doctors,  and  the  few  young-old 
men  who  worked  not  at  all  but,  reluctantly  remaining  in  Zen- 
ith, collected  luster-ware  and  first  editions  as  though  they 
were  back  in  Paris.  All  of  them  agreed  that  the  working- 
classes  must  be  kept  in  their  place;  and  all  of  them  perceived 
that  American  Democracy  did  not  imply  any  equality  of  wealth, 
but  did  demand  a  wholesome  sameness  of  thought,  dress,  paint- 
ing, morals,  and  vocabulary. 

In  this  tliey  were  like  the  ruling-class  of  any  other  country, 
particularly  of  Great  Britain,  but  they  differed  in  being  more 
vigorous  and  in  actually  trying  to  produce  the  accepted  stand- 
ards which  all  classes,  everywhere,  desire,  but  usually  despair 
of  realizing. 

The  longest  struggle  of  the   Good   Citizens'  League  was 

301 


392  BABBITT 

against  the  Open  Shop — which  was  secretly  a  struggle  against 
all  union  labor.  Accompanying  it  was  an  Americanization 
Movement,  with  evening  classes  in  English  and  history  and 
economics,  and  daily  articles  in  the  newspapers,  so  that  newly 
arrived  foreigners  might  learn  that  the  true-blue  and  one  hun- 
dred per  cent.  American  way  of  settling  labor-troubles  was  for 
workmen  to  trust  and  love  their  employers. 

The  League  was  more  than  generous  in  approving  other 
organizations  which  agreed  with  its  aims.  It  helped  the  Y.M. 
C.A.  to  raise  a  two-hundred-thousand-dollar  fund  for  a  new 
building.  Babbitt,  Vergil  Gunch,  Sidney  Finkelstein,  and  even 
Charles  McKelvey  told  the  spectators  at  movie  theaters  how 
great  an  influence  for  manly  Christianity  the  "good  old  Y."  had 
been  in  their  own  lives ;  and  the  hoar  and  mighty  Colonel  Ruth- 
erford Snow,  owner  of  the  Advocate-Times,  was  photographed 
clasping  the  hand  of  Sheldon  Smeeth  of  the  Y.M.C.A.  It  is 
true  that  afterward,  when  Smeeth  lisped,  "You  must  come  to 
one  of  our  prayer-meetings,"  the  ferocious  Colonel  bellowed, 
*'What  the  hell  would  I  do  that  for?  I've  got  a  bar  of  my 
own,"  but  this  did  not  appear  in  the  public  prints. 

The  League  was  of  value  to  the  American  Legion  at  a  time 
when  certain  of  the  lesser  and  looser  newspapers  were  criticiz- 
ing that  organization  of  veterans  of  the  Great  War,  One  eve- 
ning a  number  of  young  men  raided  the  Zenith  Socialist  Head- 
quarters, burned  its  records,  beat  the  office  staff,  and  agreeably 
dumped  desks  out  of  the  window.  All  of  the  newspapers  save 
the  Advocate-Times  and  the  Evening  Advocate  attributed  this 
valuable  but  perhaps  hasty  direct-action  to  the  American  Le- 
gion. Then  a  flying  squadron  from  the  Good  Citizens'  League 
called  on  the  unfair  papers  and  explained  that  no  ex-soldier 
could  possibly  do  such  a  thing,  and  the  editors  saw  the  light, 
and  retained  their  advertising.  When  Zenith's  lone  Conscien- 
tious Objector  came  home  from  prison  and  was  righteously 
run  out  of  town,  the  newspapers  referred  to  the  perpetrators 
as  an  "unidentified  mob," 


BABBITT  393 

n 

In  all  the  activities  and  triumphs  of  the  Good  Citizens' 
League  Babbitt  took  part,  and  completely  won  back  to  self- 
respect,  placidity,  and  the  affection  of  his  friends.  But  he 
began  to  protest,  "Gosh,  I've  done  my  share  in  cleaning  up 
the  city.  I  want  to  tend  to  business.  Think  I'll  just  kind  of 
slacken  up  on  this  G.C.L.  stuff  now." 

He  had  returned  to  the  church  as  he  had  returned  to  the 
Boosters'  Club.  He  had  even  endured  the  lavish  greeting 
which  Sheldon  Smeeth  gave  him.  He  was  worried  lest  during 
his  late  discontent  he  had  imperiled  his  salvation.  He  was 
not  quite  sure  there  was  a  Heaven  to  be  attained,  but  Dr. 
John  Jennison  Drew  said  there  was,  and  Babbitt  was  not 
going  to  take  a  chance. 

One  evening  when  he  was  walking  past  Dr.  Drew's  parsonage 
he  impulsively  went  in  and  found  the  pastor  in  his  study. 

"Jus'  minute — getting  'phone  call,"  said  Dr.  Drew  in  busi- 
ness-like tones,  then,  aggressively,  to  the  telephone:  "  'Lo — 
1o!  This  Berkey  and  Hannis?  Reverend  Drew  speaking. 
Where  the  dickens  is  the  proof  for  next  Sunday's  calendar? 
Huh?  Y'  ought  to  have  it  here.  Well,  I  can't  help  it  if  they're 
all  sick!  I  got  to  have  it  to-night.  Get  an  A.D.T.  boy  and 
shoot  it  up  here  quick." 

He  turned,  without  slackening  his  briskness.  "Well,  Brother 
Babbitt,  what  c'n  I  do  for  you?" 

"I  just  wanted  to  ask —  Tell  you  how  it  is,  dominie:  Here 
a  while  ago  I  guess  I  got  kind  of  slack.  Took  a  few  drinks 
and  so  on.  What  I  wanted  to  ask  is:  How  is  it  if  a  fellow 
cuts  that  all  out  and  comes  back  to  his  senses?  Does  it  sort 
of,  well,  you  might  say,  does  it  score  against  him  in  the  long 
run?" 

The  Reverend  Dr.  Drew  was  suddenly  interested.  "And,  uh, 
brother — the  other  things,  too?     Women?" 

"No,  practically,  you  might  say,  practically  not  at  all." 


394  BABBITT 

"Don't  hesitate  to  tell  me,  brother!  That's  what  I'm  here 
for.  Been  going  on  joy-rides?  Squeezing  girls  in  cars?  '  The 
reverend  eyes  glistened. 

"No— no— " 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I've  got  a  deputation  from  the  Don't 
Make  Prohibition  a  Joke  Association  coming  to  see  me  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  one  from  the  Anti-Birth-Control  Union 
at  a  quarter  of  ten."  He  busily  glanced  at  his  watch.  "But 
I  can  take  five  minutes  off  and  pray  with  you.  Kneel  right 
down  by  your  chair,  brother.  Don't  be  ashamed  to  seek  the 
guidance  of  God." 

Babbitt's  scalp  itched  and  he  longed  to  flee,  but  Dr.  Drew 
had  already  flopped  down  beside  his  desk-chair  and  his  voice 
had  changed  from  rasping  efficiency  to  an  unctuous  familiarity 
with  sin  and  with  the  Almighty.  Babbitt  also  knelt,  while 
Drew  gloated: 

"O  Lord,  thou  seest  our  brother  here,  who  has  been  led 
astray  by  manifold  temptations.  O  Heavenly  Father,  make 
his  heart  to  be  pure,  as  pure  as  a  little  child's.  Oh,  let  him 
know  again  the  joy  of  a  manly  courage  to  abstain  from  evil — " 

Sheldon  Smeeth  came  frolicking  into  the  study.  At  the 
sight  of  the  two  men  he  smirked,  forgivingly  patted  Babbitt 
gn  the  shoulder,  and  knelt  beside  him,  his  arm  about  him,  while 
he  authorized  Dr.  Drew's  imprecations  with  moans  of  "Yes, 
Lord!    Help  our  brother,  Lord!" 

Though  he  was  trying  to  keep  his  eyes  closed.  Babbitt 
squinted  between  his  fingers  and  saw  the  pastor  glance  at  his 
watch  as  he  concluded  with  a  triumphant,  "And  let  him  never 
be  afraid  to  come  to  Us  for  counsel  and  teiyier  care,  and  let 
him  know  that  the  church  can  lead  him  as  a  little  lamb." 

Dr.  Drew  sprang  up,  rolled  his  eyes  in  the  general  direction 
of  Heaven,  chucked  his  watch  into  his  pocket,  and  demanded, 
"Has  the  deputation  come  yet,  Sheldy?" 

"Yep,  right  outside,"  Sheldy  answered,  with  equal  liveliness; 
then,  caressingly,  to  Babbitt,  "Brother,  if  it  would  help,  I'd 


BABBITT  395 

love  to  go  into  the  next  room  and  pray  with  you  while  Dr. 
Drew  is  receiving  the  brothers  from  the  Don't  Make  Prohibi- 
tion a  Joke  Association." 

"No — no  thanks — can't  take  the  timel"  yelped  Babbitt, 
rushing  toward  the  door. 

Thereafter  he  was  often  seen  at  the  Chatham  Road  Presby- 
terian Church,  but  it  is  recorded  that  he  avoided  shaking  hands 
with  the  pastor  at  the  door. 

in 

If  his  moral  fiber  had  been  so  weakened  by  rebellion  that  he 
was  not  quite  dependable  in  the  more  rigorous  campaigns  of 
the  Good  Citizens'  League  nor  quite  appreciative  of  the  church, 
yet  there  was  no  doubt  of  the  joy  with  which  Babbitt  returned 
to  the  pleasures  of  his  home  and  of  the  Athletic  Club,  the 
Boosters,  the  Elks. 

Verona  and  Kenneth  Escott  were  eventually  and  hesitatingly 
married.  For  the  wedding  Babbitt  was  dressed  as  carefully  as 
was  Verona;  he  was  crammed  into  the  morning-coat  he  wore 
to  teas  thrice  a  year;  and  with  a  certain  relief,  after  Verona 
and  Kenneth  had  driven  away  in  a  limousine,  he  returned  to 
the  house,  removed  the  morning  coat,  sat  with  his  aching  feet 
up  on  the  davenport,  and  reflected  that  his  wife  and  he  could 
have  the  living-room  to  themselves  now,  and  not  have  to  listen 
to  Verona  and  Kenneth  worrying,  in  a  cultured  collegiate  man- 
ner, about  minimum  wages  and  the  Drama  League. 

But  even  this  sinking  into  peace  was  less  consoling  than  his 
return  to  being  one  of  the  best-loved  men  in  the  Boosters'  Club. 

IV 

President  Willis  Ijams  began  that  Boosters'  Club  luncheon 
by  standing  quiet  and  staring  at  them  so  unhappily  that  they 
feared  he  was  about  to  announce  the  death  of  a  Brother 
Booster.    He  spoke  slowly  then,  and  gravely: 


396  BABBITT 

"Boys,  I  have  something  shocking  to  reveal  to  you;  some- 
thing terrible  about  one  of  our  own  members." 

Several  Boosters,  including  Babbitt,  looked  disconcerted. 

"A  knight  of  the  grip,  a  trusted  friend  of  mine,  recently 
made  a  trip  up-state,  and  in  a  certain  town,  where  a  certain 
Booster  spent  his  boyhood,  he  found  out  something  which  can 
no  longer  be  concealed.  In  fact,  he  discovered  the  inward 
nature  of  a  man  whom  we  have  accepted  as  a  Real  Guy  and  as 
one  of  us.  Gentlemen,  I  cannot  trust  my  voice  to  say  it,  so 
I  have  written  it  down." 

He  uncovered  a  large  blackboard  and  on  it,  in  huge  capitals, 
was  the  legend: 

George  FoHansbee  Babbitt — oh  you  Folly! 

The  Boosters  cheered,  they  laughed,  they  wept,  they  threw 
rolls  at  Babbitt,  they  cried,  "Speech,  speech!     Oh  you  Folly!" 

President  Ijams  continued: 

"That,  gentlemen,  is  the  awful  thing  Georgie  Babbitt  has 
been  concealing  all  these  years,  when  we  thought  he  was  just 
plain  George  F.  Now  I  want  you  to  tell  us,  taking  it  in  turn, 
what  you've  always  supposed  the  F.  stood  for." 

Flivver,  they  suggested,  and  Frog-face  and  Flathead  and 
Farinaceous  and  Freezone  and  Flapdoodle  and  Foghorn.  By 
the  joviality  of  their  insults  Babbitt  knew  that  he  had  been 
taken  back  to  their  hearts,  and  happily  he  rose. 

"Boys,  I've  got  to  admit  it.  I've  never  worn  a  wrist-watch, 
or  parted  my  name  in  the  middle,  but  I  will  confess  to  'Fol- 
lansbee.'  'My  only  justification  is  that  my  old  dad — though 
otherwise  he  was  perfectly  sane,  and  packed  an  awful  wallop 
when  it  came  to  trimming  the  City  Fellers  at  checkers — named 
me  after  the  family  doc,  old  Dr.  Ambrose  FoHansbee.  I  apol- 
ogize, boys.  In  my  next  what-d'you-call-it  I'll  see  to  it  that 
I  get  named  something  really  practical — something  that  sounds 
swell  and  yet  is  good  and  \drile — something,  in  fact,  like  that 
grand  old  name  so  familiar  to  every  household — that  bold  and 
almost  overpowering  name,  Willis  Jimjams  Ijams!" 


BABBITT  397 

He  knew  by  the  cheer  that  he  was  secure  again  and  popular ; 
lie  knew  that  he  would  no  more  endanger  his  security  and  pop- 
ularity by  straying  from  the  Clan  of  Good  Fellows. 


Henry  Thompson  dashed  into  the  office,  clamoring,  "George! 
Big  news!  Jake  Offutt  says  the  Traction  Bunch  are  dissatisfied 
with  the  way  Sanders,  Torrey  and  Wing  handled  their  last 
deal,  and  they're  willing  to  dicker  with  us!" 

Babbitt  was  pleased  in  the  realization  that  the  last  scar 
of  his  rebellion  was  healed,  yet  as  he  drove  home  he  was  an- 
noyed by  such  background  thoughts  as  had  never  weakened 
him  in  his  days  of  belligerent  conformity.  He  discovered  that 
he  actually  did  not  consider  the  Traction  group  quite  honest. 
"Well,  he'd  carry  out  one  more  deal  for  them,  but  as  soon  as 
it  was  practicable,  maybe  as  soon  as  old  Henry  Thompson  died, 
he'd  break  away  from  all  association  from  them.  He  was 
forty-eight;  in  twelve  years  he'd  be  sixty;  he  wanted  to  leave 
a  clean  business  to  his  grandchildren.  Course  there  was  a 
lot  of  money  in  negotiating  for  the  Traction  people,  and  a  fel- 
low had  to  look  at  things  in  a  practical  way,  only — "  He 
wriggled  uncomfortably.  He  wanted  to  tell  the  Traction  group 
what  he  thought  of  them.  "Oh,  he  couldn't  do  it,  not  now. 
If  he  offended  them  this  second  time,  they  would  crush  him. 
But—" 

He  was  conscious  that  his  line  of  progress  seemed  confused. 
He  wondered  what  he  would  do  with  his  future.  He  was  still 
young;  was  he  through  with  all  adventuring?  He  felt  that 
he  had  been  trapped  into  the  very  net  from  which  he  had  with 
such  fury  escaped  and,  supremest  jest  of  all,  been  made  to 
rejoice  in  the  trapping. 

"They've  licked  me;  licked  me  to  a  finish!"  he  whimpered. 

The  house  was  peaceful,  that  evening,  and  he  enjoyed  a 
game  of  pinochle  with  his  wife.     He  indignantly   told  the 


398  BABBITT 

Tempter  that  he  was  content  to  do  things  in  the  good  old- 
fashioned  way.  The  day  after,  he  went  to  see  the  purchasing- 
agent  of  the  Street  Traction  Company  and  they  made  plans 
for  the  secret  purchase  of  lots  along  the  Evanston  Road.  But 
as  he  drove  to  his  office  he  struggled,  "I'm  going  to  run  things 
and  figure  out  things  to  suit  myself — when  I  retire." 


VI 

Ted  had  come  down  from  the  University  for  the  week-end. 
Though  he  no  longer  spoke  of  mechanical  engineering  and 
though  he  was  reticent  about  his  opinion  of  his  instructors,  he 
seemed  no  more  reconciled  to  college,  and  his  chief  interest 
was  his  wireless  telephone  set. 

On  Saturday  evening  he  took  Eunice  Littlefield  to  a  dance 
at  Devon  Woods.  Babbitt  had  a  glimpse  of  her,  bouncing  in 
the  seat  of  the  car,  brilliant  in  a  scarlet  cloak  over  a  frock 
of  thinnest  creamy  silk.  They  two  had  not  returned  when 
the  Babbitts  went  to  bed,  at  half-past  eleven.  At  a  blurred 
indefinite  time  of  late  night  Babbitt  was  awakened  by  the  ring 
of  the  telephone  and  gloomily  crawled  down-stairs.  Howard 
Littlefield  was  speaking: 

"George,  Euny  isn't  back  yet.    Is  Ted?" 

"No — at  least  his  door  is  open — " 

"They  ought  to  be  home.  Eunice  said  the  dance  would  be 
over  at  midnight.  What's  the  name  of  those  people  where 
they're  going?" 

"Why,  gosh,  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  know,  Howard.  It's 
some  classmate  of  Ted's,  out  in  Devon  Woods.  Don't  see 
what  we  can  do.  Wait,  I'll  skip  up  and  ask  Myra  if  she  knows 
their  name." 

Babbitt  turned  on  the  light  in  Ted's  room.  It  was  a  brown 
boyish  room;  disordered  dresser,  worn  books,  a  high-school 
pennant,  photographs  of  basket-ball  teams  and  baseball  teams. 
Ted  was  decidedly  not  there. 


BABBITT  399 

Mrs.  Babbitt,  awakened,  irritably  observed  that  she  certainly 
did  not  know  the  name  of  Ted's  host,  that  it  was  late,  that 
Howard  Littlefield  was  but  little  better  than  a  born  fool,  and 
that  she  was  sleepy.  But  she  remained  awake  and  worrying 
while  Babbitt,  on  the  sleeping-porch,  struggled  back  into  sleep 
through  the  incessant  soft  rain  of  her  remarks.  It  was  after 
dawn  when  he  was  aroused  by  her  shaking  him  and  calling 
"George!  George!"  in  something  like  horror. 

"Wha—    wha—    what  is  it?" 

"Come  here  quick  and  see.    Be  quiet!" 

She  led  him  down  the  hall  to  the  door  of  Ted's  room  and 
pushed  it  gently  open.  On  the  worn  brown  rug  he  saw  a  froth 
of  rose-colored  chiffon  lingerie;  on  the  sedate  Morris  chair  a 
girl's  silver  slipper.  And  on  the  pillows  were  two  sleepy  heads 
— Ted's  and  Eunice's. 

Ted  woke  to  grin,  and  to  mutter  with  unconvincing  defiance, 
"Good  morning!  Let  me  introduce  my  wife — Mrs.  Theodore 
Roosevelt  Eunice  Littlefield  Babbitt,  Esquiress." 

"Good  God! "  from  Babbitt,  and  from  his  wife  a  long  wailing, 
"You've  gone  and — " 

"We  got  married  last  evening.  Wife!  Sit  up  and  say  a 
pretty  good  morning  to  mother-in-law." 

But  Eunice  hid  her  shoulders  and  her  charming  wild  hair 
under  the  pillow. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  assembly  which  was  gathered  about  Ted 
and  Eunice  in  the  living-room  included  INIr.  and  Mrs.  George 
Babbitt,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Howard  Littlefield,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ken- 
neth Escott,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry  T.  Thompson,  and  Tinka 
Babbitt,  who  was  the  only  pleased  member  of  the  inquisition. 

A  crackling  shower  of  phrases  filled  the  room: 

"At  their  age — "  "Ought  to  be  annulled — "  "Never 
heard  of  such  a  thing  in — "  "Fault  of  both  of  them  and — " 
"Keep  it  out  of  the  papers — "  "Ought  to  be  packed  off  to 
school — "  "Do  something  about  it  at  once,  and  what  I  say 
is — "     "Damn  good  old-fashioned  spanking — " 


400  BABBITT 

Worst  of  them  all  was  Verona.  "Ted!  Some  way  must  be 
found  to  make  you  Mnd.eistand  how  dreadfully  serious  this  is, 
instead  of  standing  around  with  that  silly  foolish  smile  on  your 
face!" 

He  began  to  revolt.  "Gee  whittakers,  Rone,  you  got  mar- 
ried yourself,  didn't  you?" 

"That's  entirely  different." 

"You  bet  it  is!  They  didn't  have  to  work  on  Eu  and  me 
with  a  chain  and  tackle  to  get  us  to  hold  hands!" 

"Now,  young  man,  we'll  have  no  more  flippancy,"  old  Henry 
Thompson  ordered.    "You  listen  to  me." 

"You  listen  to  Grandfather!"  said  Verona. 

"Yes,  listen  to  your  Grandfather!"  said  Mrs.  Babbitt. 

"Ted,  you  listen  to  Mr.  Thompson!"  said  Howard  Little- 
field. 

"Oh,  for  the  love  o'  Mike,  I  am  listening!"  Ted  shouted. 
"But  you  look  here,  all  of  you!  I'm  getting  sick  and  tired 
of  being  the  corpse  in  this  post  mortem!  If  you  want  to  kill 
somebody,  go  kill  the  preacher  that  married  us!  Why,  he  stung 
me  five  dollars,  and  all  the  money  I  had  in  the  world  was  six 
dollars  and  two  bits.  I'm  getting  just  about  enough  of  being 
hollered  at!" 

A  new  voice,  booming,  authoritative,  dominated  the  room. 
It  was  Babbitt.  "Yuh,  there's  too  darn  many  putting  in  their 
oar!  Rone,  you  dry  up.  Howard  and  I  are  still  pretty  strong, 
and  able  to  do  our  own  cussing.  Ted,  come  into  the  dining- 
room  and  we'll  talk  this  over." 

In  the  dining-room,  the  door  firmly  closed.  Babbitt  walked 
to  his  son,  put  both  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "You're  more  or 
less  right.  They  all  talk  too  much.  Now  what  do  you  plan 
to  do,  old  man?" 

"Gosh,  dad,  are  you  really  going  to  be  human?" 

''Well,  I —  Remember  one  time  you  called  us  'the  Babbitt 
men'  and  said  we  ought  to  stick  together?  I  want  to.  I  don't 
pretend  to  think  this  isn't  serious.     The  way  the  cards  are 


BABBITT  401 

stacked  against  a  young  fellow  to-day,  I  can't  say  I  approve  of 
early  marriages.  But  you  couldn't  have  married  a  better  girl 
than  Eunice;  and  way  I  figure  it,  Littlefield  is  darn  lucky  to 
get  a  Babbitt  for  a  son-in-law!  But  what  do  you  plan  to  do? 
Course  you  could  go  right  ahead  with  the  U.,  and  when  you'd 
finished — " 

"Dad,  I  can't  stand  it  any  more.  Maybe  it's  all  right  for 
some  fellows.  Maybe  I'll  want  to  go  back  some  day.  But  me, 
I  want  to  get  into  mechanics.  I  think  I'd  get  to  be  a  good 
inventor.  There's  a  fellow  that  would  give  me  twenty  dollars 
a  week  in  a  factory  right  now." 

"Well — "  Babbitt  crossed  the  floor,  slowly,  ponderously, 
seeming  a  little  old.  "I've  always  wanted  you  to  have  a  col- 
lege degree."  He  meditatively  stamped  across  the  floor  again. 
"But  I've  never —  Now,  for  hteaven's  sake,  don't  repeat  this 
to  your  mother,  or  she'd  remove  what  little  hair  I've  got  left, 
but  practically,  I've  never  done  a  single  thing  I've  wanted  to 
in  my  whole  life!  I  don't  know  's  I've  accomplished  anything 
except  just  get  along.  I  figure  out  I've  made  about  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  out  of  a  possible  hundred  rods.  Well,  maybe  you'll 
carry  things  on  further.  I  don't  know.  But  I  do  get  a  kind 
of  sneaking  pleasure  out  of  the  fact  that  you  knew  what  you 
wanted  to  do  and  did  it.  Well,  those  folks  in  there  will  try 
to  bully  you,  and  tame  you  down.  Tell  'em  to  go  to  the  devil ! 
I'll  back  you.  Take  your  factory  job,  if  you  want  to.  Don't 
be  scared  of  the  family.  No,  nor  all  of  Zenith.  Nor  of  your- 
self,  the  way  I've  been.  Go  ahead,  old  man!  The  world  is 
yours ! " 

Arms  about  each  other's  shoulders,  the  Babbitt  men  marched 
into  the  living-room  and  faced  the  swooping  family.