CHAPTER VIII

by Sinclair Lewis

　　CHAPTER VIIIITHE great events of Babbitt's spring were the secret buying ofreal-estate options in Linton for certain street-traction officials,before the public announcement that the Linton Avenue Car Line would beextended, and a dinner which was, as he rejoiced to his wife, not only"a regular society spread but a real sure-enough highbrow affair, withsome of the keenest intellects and the brightest bunch of little womenin town." It was so absorbing an occasion that he almost forgot hisdesire to run off to Maine with Paul Riesling.Though he had been born in the village of Catawba, Babbitt had risento that metropolitan social plane on which hosts have as many as fourpeople 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 thecut-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 onnothing but a poem or so every day and just writing a few advertisementspulls down fifteen thousand berries a year!""Yes, and Howard Littlefield. Do you know, the other evening Eunice toldme 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. Think howwonderful it must be to speak three languages, and so useful and--Andwith 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 aboutgardening? 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 Jonesesa dinner. Besides, gosh, we got to have some boob for audience, when abunch 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 oughtto sit back and listen, and let your guests have a chance to talk oncein a while!""Oh, you do, do you! Sure! I talk all the time! And I'm just a businessman--oh sure!--I'm no Ph.D. like Littlefield, and no poet, and I haven'tanything to spring! Well, let me tell you, just the other day your darnChum Frink comes up to me at the club begging to know what I thoughtabout the Springfield school-bond issue. And who told him? I did! Youbet your life I told him! Little me! I certainly did! He came up andasked me, and I told him all about it! You bet! And he was darn glad tolisten to me and--Duty as a host! I guess I know my duty as a host andlet me tell you--"In fact, the Orville Joneses were invited.IIOn the morning of the dinner, Mrs. Babbitt was restive."Now, George, I want you to be sure and be home early tonight. Remember,you have to dress.""Uh-huh. I see by the Advocate that the Presbyterian General Assemblyhas voted to quit the Interchurch World Movement. That--""George! Did you hear what I said? You must be home in time to dressto-night.""Dress? Hell! I'm dressed now! Think I'm going down to the office in myB.V.D.'s?""I will not have you talking indecently before the children! And you dohave to put on your dinner-jacket!""I guess you mean my Tux. I tell you, of all the doggone nonsensicalnuisances that was ever invented--"Three minutes later, after Babbitt had wailed, "Well, I don't knowwhether I'm going to dress or NOT" in a manner which showed that he wasgoing to dress, the discussion moved on."Now, George, you mustn't forget to call in at Vecchia's on the way homeand get the ice cream. Their delivery-wagon is broken down, and I don'twant 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 daylong, training the girl that's to help with the dinner--""All nonsense, anyway, hiring an extra girl for the feed. Matilda couldperfectly well--""--and I have to go out and buy the flowers, and fix them, and setthe table, and order the salted almonds, and look at the chickens, andarrange for the children to have their supper upstairs and--And I simplymust depend on you to go to Vecchia'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 fromVecchia's.He was surprised and blasted then by a thought. He wondered whetherFloral Heights dinners were worth the hideous toil involved. But herepented the sacrilege in the excitement of buying the materials forcocktails.Now this was the manner of obtaining alcohol under the reign ofrighteousness and prohibition:He drove from the severe rectangular streets of the modern businesscenter into the tangled byways of Old Town--jagged blocks filled withsooty warehouses and lofts; on into The Arbor, once a pleasant orchardbut now a morass of lodging-houses, tenements, and brothels. Exquisiteshivers chilled his spine and stomach, and he looked at every policemanwith 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 fromHealey Hanson's saloon, worrying, "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-prohibition 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 somethingwhich resembled whisky, and with two men at the bar, drinking somethingwhich resembled beer, and giving that impression of forming a largecrowd which two men always give in a saloon. The bartender, a tall paleSwede with a diamond in his lilac scarf, stared at Babbitt as he stalkedplumply up to the bar and whispered, "I'd, uh--Friend of Hanson's sentme here. Like to get some gin."The bartender gazed down on him in the manner of an outraged bishop."I guess you got the wrong place, my friend. We sell nothing but softdrinks here." He cleaned the bar with a rag which would itself have donewith a little cleaning, and glared across his mechanically moving elbow.The old dreamer at the table petitioned the bartender, "Say, Oscar,listen."Oscar did not listen."Aw, say, Oscar, listen, will yuh? Say, lis-sen!"The decayed and drowsy voice of the loafer, the agreeable stink ofbeer-dregs, threw a spell of inanition over Babbitt. The bartender movedgrimly toward the crowd of two men. Babbitt followed him as delicatelyas 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 blackand the sharpest red, announcing that Mr. George F. Babbitt was Estates,Insurance, Rents. The bartender held it as though it weighed ten pounds,and read it as though it were a hundred words long. He did not bend fromhis episcopal dignity, but he growled, "I'll see if he's around."From the back room he brought an immensely old young man, a quietsharp-eyed man, in tan silk shirt, checked vest hanging open, andburning brown trousers--Mr. Healey Hanson. Mr. Hanson said only "Yuh?"but his implacable and contemptuous eyes queried Babbitt's soul, and heseemed not at all impressed by the new dark-gray suit for which (as hehad admitted to every acquaintance at the Athletic Club) Babbitt hadpaid a hundred and twenty-five dollars."Glad meet you, Mr. Hanson. Say, uh--I'm George Babbitt of theBabbitt-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 tofix me up with a little gin." In alarm, in obsequiousness, as Hanson'seyes grew more bored, "You telephone to Jake about me, if you want to."Hanson answered by jerking his head to indicate the entrance to theback room, and strolled away. Babbitt melodramatically crept intoan apartment containing four round tables, eleven chairs, a brewerycalendar, and a smell. He waited. Thrice he saw Healey Hanson saunterthrough, humming, hands in pockets, ignoring him.By this time Babbitt had modified his valiant morning vow, "I won't payone cent over seven dollars a quart" to "I might pay ten." On Hanson'snext weary entrance he besought "Could you fix that up?" Hanson scowled,and grated, "Just a minute--Pete's sake--just a min-ute!" In growingmeekness Babbitt went on waiting till Hanson casually reappeared witha quart of gin--what is euphemistically known as a quart--in hisdisdainful long white hands."Twelve bucks," he snapped."Say, uh, but say, cap'n, Jake thought you'd be able to fix me up foreight or nine a bottle.""Nup. Twelve. This is the real stuff, smuggled from Canada. This isnone o' your neutral spirits with a drop of juniper extract," the honestmerchant 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 thebills, uncounted, into his radiant vest, and swaggered away.He had a number of titillations out of concealing the gin-bottle underhis coat and out of hiding it in his desk. All afternoon he snorted andchuckled and gurgled over his ability to "give the Boys a real shot inthe arm to-night." He was, in fact, so exhilarated that he was within ablock of his house before he remembered that there was a certainmatter, mentioned by his wife, of fetching ice cream from Vecchia's. Heexplained, "Well, darn it--" and drove back.Vecchia was not a caterer, he was The Caterer of Zenith. Most coming-outparties were held in the white and gold ballroom of the Maison Vecchia;at all nice teas the guests recognized the five kinds of Vecchiasandwiches and the seven kinds of Vecchia cakes; and all really smartdinners ended, as on a resolving chord, in Vecchia Neapolitan ice creamin one of the three reliable molds--the melon mold, the round mold likea 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 therefinement that inheres in whites of eggs. Babbitt felt heavy and thickamid this professional daintiness, and as he waited for the ice cream hedecided, with hot prickles at the back of his neck, that a girl customerwas giggling at him. He went home in a touchy temper. The first thing heheard 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, aftergoing into a pink-tea joint like Vecchia's and having to stand aroundlooking at a lot of half-naked young girls, all rouged up like they weresixty 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 prettygirls!"With a jar Babbitt realized that his wife was too busy to be impressedby that moral indignation with which males rule the world, and hewent humbly up-stairs to dress. He had an impression of a glorifieddining-room, of cut-glass, candles, polished wood, lace, silver, roses.With the awed swelling of the heart suitable to so grave a business asgiving a dinner, he slew the temptation to wear his plaited dress-shirtfor a fourth time, took out an entirely fresh one, tightened his blackbow, and rubbed his patent-leather pumps with a handkerchief. He glancedwith pleasure at his garnet and silver studs. He smoothed and pattedhis ankles, transformed by silk socks from the sturdy shanks of GeorgeBabbitt to the elegant limbs of what is called a Clubman. He stoodbefore the pier-glass, viewing his trim dinner-coat, his beautifultriple-braided trousers; and murmured in lyric beatitude, "By golly,I don't look so bad. I certainly don't look like Catawba. If the hicksback home could see me in this rig, they'd have a fit!"He moved majestically down to mix the cocktails. As he chipped ice, ashe squeezed oranges, as he collected vast stores of bottles, glasses,and spoons at the sink in the pantry, he felt as authoritative as thebartender at Healey Hanson's saloon. True, Mrs. Babbitt said he wasunder foot, and Matilda and the maid hired for the evening brushed byhim, elbowed him, shrieked "Pleasopn door," as they tottered throughwith trays, but in this high moment he ignored them.Besides the new bottle of gin, his cellar consisted of one half-bottleof Bourbon whisky, a quarter of a bottle of Italian vermouth, andapproximately one hundred drops of orange bitters. He did not possessa cocktail-shaker. A shaker was proof of dissipation, the symbol of aDrinker, and Babbitt disliked being known as a Drinker even more thanhe liked a Drink. He mixed by pouring from an ancient gravy-boat into ahandleless pitcher; he poured with a noble dignity, holding his alembicshigh beneath the powerful Mazda globe, his face hot, his shirt-front aglaring white, the copper sink a scoured red-gold.He tasted the sacred essence. "Now, by golly, if that isn't prettynear 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 aninch, rushing back with resolution implacable on her face her gray andsilver-lace party frock protected by a denim towel, Mrs. Babbitt glaredat him, and rebuked him, "Certainly not!""Well," in a loose, jocose manner, "I think the old man will!"The cocktail filled him with a whirling exhilaration behind which hewas aware of devastating desires--to rush places in fast motors, to kissgirls, to sing, to be witty. He sought to regain his lost dignity byannouncing to Matilda:"I'm going to stick this pitcher of cocktails in the refrigerator. Besure 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!" Withenormous impressiveness he commanded, "Well, be sure now," and mincedinto the safety of the living-room. He wondered whether he couldpersuade "as slow a bunch as Myra and the Littlefields to go some placeaft' dinner and raise Cain and maybe dig up smore booze." He perceivedthat he had gifts of profligacy which had been neglected.By the time the guests had come, including the inevitable late couplefor whom the others waited with painful amiability, a great grayemptiness had replaced the purple swirling in Babbitt's head, and he hadto force the tumultuous greetings suitable to a host on Floral Heights.The guests were Howard Littlefield, the doctor of philosophy whofurnished publicity and comforting economics to the Street TractionCompany; Vergil Gunch, the coal-dealer, equally powerful in the Elksand in the Boosters' Club; Eddie Swanson the agent for the Javelin MotorCar, who lived across the street; and Orville Jones, owner of the LilyWhite Laundry, which justly announced itself "the biggest, busiest,bulliest cleanerie shoppe in Zenith." But, naturally, the mostdistinguished of all was T. Cholmondeley Frink, who was not only theauthor of "Poemulations," which, syndicated daily in sixty-seven leadingnewspapers, gave him one of the largest audiences of any poet in theworld, but also an optimistic lecturer and the creator of "Ads thatAdd." Despite the searching philosophy and high morality of his verses,they were humorous and easily understood by any child of twelve; and itadded a neat air of pleasantry to them that they were set not as versebut 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 inthe evening, as at first glance they all looked alike, and as they allsaid, "Oh, ISN'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 andmouse-like hair, advertising his profession as poet by a silk cord onhis eye-glasses; Vergil Gunch, broad, with coarse black hair en brosse;Eddie Swanson, a bald and bouncing young man who showed his tastefor elegance by an evening waistcoat of figured black silk with glassbuttons; Orville Jones, a steady-looking, stubby, not very memorableperson, with a hemp-colored toothbrush mustache. Yet they were all sowell fed and clean, they all shouted "'Evenin', Georgie!" with suchrobustness, that they seemed to be cousins, and the strange thing isthat the longer one knew the women, the less alike they seemed;while the longer one knew the men, the more alike their bold patternsappeared.The drinking of the cocktails was as canonical a rite as the mixing. Thecompany waited, uneasily, hopefully, agreeing in a strained manner thatthe weather had been rather warm and slightly cold, but still Babbittsaid nothing about drinks. They became despondent. But when the latecouple (the Swansons) had arrived, Babbitt hinted, "Well, folks, do youthink you could stand breaking the law a little?"They looked at Chum Frink, the recognized lord of language. Frink pulledat his eye-glass cord as at a bell-rope, he cleared his throat and saidthat which was the custom:"I'll tell you, George: I'm a law-abiding man, but they do say VergGunch is a regular yegg, and of course he's bigger 'n I am, and I justcan't figure out what I'd do if he tried to force me into anythingcriminal!"Gunch was roaring, "Well, I'll take a chance--" when Frink held up hishand and went on, "So if Verg and you insist, Georgie, I'll park my caron the wrong side of the street, because I take it for granted that'sthe crime you're hinting at!"There was a great deal of laughter. Mrs. Jones asserted, "Mr. Frink issimply too killing! You'd think he was so innocent!"Babbitt clamored, "How did you guess it, Chum? Well, you-all just waita moment while I go out and get the--keys to your cars!" Through a frothof merriment he brought the shining promise, the mighty tray of glasseswith the cloudy yellow cocktails in the glass pitcher in the center. Themen babbled, "Oh, gosh, have a look!" and "This gets me right where Ilive!" and "Let me at it!" But Chum Frink, a traveled man and not unusedto woes, was stricken by the thought that the potion might be merelyfruit-juice with a little neutral spirits. He looked timorous asBabbitt, a moist and ecstatic almoner, held out a glass, but as hetasted it he piped, "Oh, man, let me dream on! It ain't true, but don'twaken me! Jus' lemme slumber!"Two hours before, Frink had completed a newspaper lyric beginning:"I sat alone and groused and thunk, and scratched my head and sighedand wunk, and groaned, There still are boobs, alack, who'd like theold-time gin-mill back; that den that makes a sage a loon, the vile andsmelly old saloon! I'll never miss their poison booze, whilst I thebubbling spring can use, that leaves my head at merry morn as clear asany babe new-born!"Babbitt drank with the others; his moment's depression was gone; heperceived that these were the best fellows in the world; he wanted togive them a thousand cocktails. "Think you could stand another?" hecried. The wives refused, with giggles, but the men, speaking in a wide,elaborate, enjoyable manner, gloated, "Well, sooner than have you getsore at me, Georgie--""You got a little dividend coming," said Babbitt to each of them, andeach intoned, "Squeeze it, Georgie, squeeze it!"When, beyond hope, the pitcher was empty, they stood and talked aboutprohibition. The men leaned back on their heels, put their hands intheir trousers-pockets, and proclaimed their views with the boomingprofundity of a prosperous male repeating a thoroughly hackneyedstatement about a matter of which he knows nothing whatever."Now, I'll tell you," said Vergil Gunch; "way I figure it is this, andI can speak by the book, because I've talked to a lot of doctors andfellows that ought to know, and the way I see it is that it's a goodthing to get rid of the saloon, but they ought to let a fellow have beerand light wines."Howard Littlefield observed, "What isn't generally realized is that it'sa dangerous prop'sition to invade the rights of personal liberty.Now, take this for instance: The King of--Bavaria? I think it wasBavaria--yes, Bavaria, it was--in 1862, March, 1862, he issued aproclamation against public grazing of live-stock. The peasantry hadstood for overtaxation without the slightest complaint, but when thisproclamation came out, they rebelled. Or it may have been Saxony. Butit just goes to show the dangers of invading the rights of personalliberty.""That's it--no one got a right to invade personal liberty," said OrvilleJones."Just the same, you don't want to forget prohibition is a mighty goodthing for the working-classes. Keeps 'em from wasting their money andlowering their productiveness," said Vergil Gunch."Yes, that's so. But the trouble is the manner of enforcement," insistedHoward Littlefield. "Congress didn't understand the right system. Now,if I'd been running the thing, I'd have arranged it so that the drinkerhimself was licensed, and then we could have taken care of the shiftlessworkman--kept him from drinking--and yet not 've interfered with therights--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 tococaine," sighed Eddie Swanson.They bobbed more violently, and groaned, "That's so, there is a dangerof that."Chum Frink chanted, "Oh, say, I got hold of a swell new receipt forhome-made beer the other day. You take--"Gunch interrupted, "Wait! Let me tell you mine!" Littlefield snorted,"Beer! Rats! Thing to do is to ferment cider!" Jones insisted, "I'vegot the receipt that does the business!" Swanson begged, "Oh, say, lemmetell you the story--" But Frink went on resolutely, "You take and savethe shells from peas, and pour six gallons of water on a bushel ofshells and boil the mixture till--"Mrs. Babbitt turned toward them with yearning sweetness; Frink hastenedto finish even his best beer-recipe; and she said gaily, "Dinner isserved."There was a good deal of friendly argument among the men as to whichshould go in last, and while they were crossing the hall from theliving-room to the dining-room Vergil Gunch made them laugh bythundering, "If I can't sit next to Myra Babbitt and hold her hand underthe table, I won't play--I'm goin' home." In the dining-room they stoodembarrassed while Mrs. Babbitt fluttered, "Now, let me see--Oh, I wasgoing to have some nice hand-painted place-cards for you but--Oh, let mesee; Mr. Frink, you sit there."The dinner was in the best style of women's-magazine art, whereby thesalad was served in hollowed apples, and everything but the invinciblefried chicken resembled something else. Ordinarily the men found it hardto talk to the women; flirtation was an art unknown on Floral Heights,and the realms of offices and of kitchens had no alliances. But underthe inspiration of the cocktails, conversation was violent. Each of themen still had a number of important things to say about prohibition, andnow 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 aquart--""Did you read about this fellow that went and paid a thousand dollarsfor ten cases of red-eye that proved to be nothing but water? Seems thisfellow was standing on the corner and fellow comes up to him--""They say there's a whole raft of stuff being smuggled across atDetroit--""What I always say is--what a lot of folks don't realize aboutprohibition--""And then you get all this awful poison stuff--wood alcohol andeverything--""Course I believe in it on principle, but I don't propose to haveanybody telling me what I got to think and do. No American 'll everstand for that!"But they all felt that it was rather in bad taste for Orville Jones--andhe not recognized as one of the wits of the occasion anyway--to say, "Infact, the whole thing about prohibition is this: it isn't the initialcost, it's the humidity."Not till the one required topic had been dealt with did the conversationbecome general.It was often and admiringly said of Vergil Gunch, "Gee, that fellow canget away with murder! Why, he can pull a Raw One in mixed company andall the ladies 'll laugh their heads off, but me, gosh, if I crackanything that's just the least bit off color I get the razz for fair!"Now Gunch delighted them by crying to Mrs. Eddie Swanson, youngestof the women, "Louetta! I managed to pinch Eddie's doorkey out of hispocket, and what say you and me sneak across the street when the folksaren't looking? Got something," with a gorgeous leer, "awful importantto tell you!"The women wriggled, and Babbitt was stirred to like naughtiness. "Say,folks, I wished I dared show you a book I borrowed from Doc Patten!""Now, George! The idea!" Mrs. Babbitt warned him."This book--racy isn't the word! It's some kind of an anthropologicalreport about--about Customs, in the South Seas, and what it doesn't SAY!It's a book you can't buy. Verg, I'll lend it to you.""Me first!" insisted Eddie Swanson. "Sounds spicy!"Orville Jones announced, "Say, I heard a Good One the other day abouta coupla Swedes and their wives," and, in the best Jewish accent, heresolutely carried the Good One to a slightly disinfected ending.Gunch capped it. But the cocktails waned, the seekers dropped back intocautious reality.Chum Frink had recently been on a lecture-tour among the small towns,and he chuckled, "Awful good to get back to civilization! I certainlybeen seeing some hick towns! I mean--Course the folks there are thebest on earth, but, gee whiz, those Main Street burgs are slow, and youfellows can't hardly appreciate what it means to be here with a bunch oflive ones!""You bet!" exulted Orville Jones. "They're the best folks on earth,those small-town folks, but, oh, mama! what conversation! Why, say,they can't talk about anything but the weather and the ne-oo Ford, byheckalorum!""That's right. They all talk about just the same things," said EddieSwanson."Don't they, though! They just say the same things over and over," saidVergil Gunch."Yes, it's really remarkable. They seem to lack all power of looking atthings impersonally. They simply go over and over the same talk aboutFords and the weather and so on." said Howard Littlefield."Still, at that, you can't blame 'em. They haven't got any intellectualstimulus such as you get up here in the city," said Chum Frink."Gosh, that's right," said Babbitt. "I don't want you highbrows to getstuck on yourselves but I must say it keeps a fellow right up on histoes to sit in with a poet and with Howard, the guy that put the conin economics! But these small-town boobs, with nobody but each other totalk 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 advantages--themovies, frinstance. These Yapville sports think they're all-get-out ifthey have one change of bill a week, where here in the city you got yourchoice of a dozen diff'rent movies any evening you want to name!""Sure, and the inspiration we get from rubbing up against high-classhustlers 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 itto the city, like we done--did. And, just speaking in confidence amongfriends, they're jealous as the devil of a city man. Every time I go upto Catawba I have to go around apologizing to the fellows I was broughtup with because I've more or less succeeded and they haven't. And if youtalk natural to 'em, way we do here, and show finesse and what you mightcall 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 myDad used to keep. Say, I'll bet he don't know there is such a thing asa Tux--as a dinner-jacket. If he was to come in here now, he'd think wewere 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 lack of cultureand appreciation of the Beautiful--if you'll excuse me for beinghighbrow. Now, I like to give a high-class lecture, and read some of mybest 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 ofcheesy old stories and slang and junk that if any of us were to indulgein 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 livingamong a bunch of city-folks, that recognize artistic things andbusiness-punch equally. We'd feel pretty glum if we got stuck in someMain Street burg and tried to wise up the old codgers to the kind oflife 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 modernideals. And darn if a lot of 'em don't put it across! Somebody startspanning a rube crossroads, telling how he was there in 1900 and itconsisted of one muddy street, count 'em, one, and nine hundred humanclams. Well, you go back there in 1920, and you find pavements and aswell little hotel and a first-class ladies' ready-to-wear shop-realperfection, in fact! You don't want to just look at what these smalltowns are, you want to look at what they're aiming to become, and theyall got an ambition that in the long run is going to make 'em the finestspots on earth--they all want to be just like Zenith!"IIIHowever intimate they might be with T. Cholmondeley Frink as a neighbor,as a borrower of lawn-mowers and monkey-wrenches, they knew that he wasalso a Famous Poet and a distinguished advertising-agent; that behindhis easiness were sultry literary mysteries which they could notpenetrate. But to-night, in the gin-evolved confidence, he admitted themto the arcanum:"I've got a literary problem that's worrying me to death. I'm doing aseries of ads for the Zeeco Car and I want to make each of 'em a reallittle gem--reg'lar stylistic stuff. I'm all for this theory thatperfection is the stunt, or nothing at all, and these are as toughthings as I ever tackled. You might think it'd be harder to do mypoems--all these Heart Topics: home and fireside and happiness--butthey're cinches. You can't go wrong on 'em; you know what sentimentsany decent go-ahead fellow must have if he plays the game, and you stickright to 'em. But the poetry of industrialism, now there's a literaryline where you got to open up new territory. Do you know the fellowwho's really THE American genius? The fellow who you don't know hisname and I don't either, but his work ought to be preserved so's futuregenerations can judge our American thought and originality to-day? Why,the fellow that writes the Prince Albert Tobacco ads! Just listen tothis:It's P.A. that jams such joy in jimmy pipes. Say--bet you've oftenbent-an-ear to that spill-of-speech about hopping from five tof-i-f-t-y p-e-r by "stepping on her a bit!" Guess that's going some, allright--BUT just among ourselves, you better start a rapidwhiz systemto keep tabs as to how fast you'll buzz from low smoke spirits toTIP-TOP-HIGH--once you line up behind a jimmy pipe that's all aglow withthat peach-of-a-pal, Prince Albert.Prince Albert is john-on-the-job--always joy'usly more-ISH in flavor;always delightfully cool and fragrant! For a fact, you never hooked suchdouble-decked, copper-riveted, two-fisted smoke enjoyment!Go to a pipe--speed-o-quick like you light on a good thing! Why--packedwith Prince Albert you can play a joy'us jimmy straight across theboards! AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!""Now that," caroled the motor agent, Eddie Swanson, "that's what I callhe-literature! That Prince Albert fellow--though, gosh, there can'tbe just one fellow that writes 'em; must be a big board of classyink-slingers in conference, but anyway: now, him, he doesn't write forlong-haired pikers, he writes for Regular Guys, he writes for ME, and Itip 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 idearun 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, becauseit doesn't tell me anything about the stuff. It's just a bunch offluff."Frink faced him: "Oh, you're crazy! Have I got to sell you the idea ofStyle? Anyway that's the kind of stuff I'd like to do for the Zeeco. ButI simply can't. So I decided to stick to the straight poetic, and I tooka 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 faraway for every man or woman that has red blood in his veins and on hislips 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 amoment's exhilaration--it's Life for you and me! This great new truththe 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, yetpowerful 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 tillyou TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST--THE ZEECO!""Yes," Frink mused, "that's got an elegant color to it, if I do sayso, but it ain't got the originality of 'spill-of-speech!'" The wholecompany sighed with sympathy and admiration.