Babbitt

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"Yes. What was he doing?"

"How do you mean?" He unbuttoned his overcoat, sat tentatively on the
arm of a chair.

"You know how I mean!" She slapped the pages of a magazine with an
irritable clatter. "I suppose he was trying to make love to some hotel
waitress or manicure girl or somebody."

"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 dinging 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 miserable."

"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 surprised you can act so doggone common, Zilla!"

She brooded over her linked fingers. "Oh, I know. I do go and get
mean sometimes, and I'm sorry 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 righteous 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 Rieslings 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 XXI

THE International Organization of Boosters' Clubs has be come a
world-force for optimism, manly 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 March 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 Riteway 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 portrait-painting,
medicine and the manufacture of chewing-gum.

Babbitt's table was particularly happy to-day, because Professor
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 bottle! 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 fambly?" 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 progressive tenets of ethics, senses unceasingly and is motived by
active adherence and loyalty to that which is the essential principle of
Boosterism--Good Citizenship in all its factors and aspects.

DAD PETERSEN.

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.

The meeting opened with the regular weekly "stunts." Retiring 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 Southland, 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 actresses--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
ourselves proud, and Mr. Prout will now say a few words about the
problems and duties--"

By rising vote the Boosters decided which was the handsomest 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 was laughter, this week,
when it was announced that one of the contributors was Barnabas Joy, the
undertaker. Everybody 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. Presently 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 B56,876 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 Kiwanis 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 flatfooted and
ask you boys to O.K. the proposition of a Symphony Orchestra for Zenith.
Now, where a lot of you make your mistake is in assuming that if you
don't like classical 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 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 CULTURE; 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 orchestra 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 A1 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.

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 Gunch said, "It's
a pleasure to announce that Georgie Babbitt will be the next assistant
gavel-wielder. 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, chuckling 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 Ijams 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 Dilling and--"

"George! Paul Riesling--"

"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

I

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 prisoners 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; 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 corridor 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, admitted
Babbitt, and left them together. He spoke slowly: "Go on! 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 committed 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 mumble. 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 it! 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 horified
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 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 testimony 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."


II

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.


III

He had, doubtless from some story-book, pictured Paul's trial as a
long struggle, with bitter arguments, a taut crowd, 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 been temporarily insane. Next day
Paul was sentenced 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

I

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 emancipated 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 Verona, hesitating
but not disapproving when Verona stated her opinion of Kenneth Escott's
opinion of Dr. John Jennison Drew's opinion of the opinions of the
evolutionists. Ted was working in a garage through the summer vacation,
and he related 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
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: