CHAPTER XIII

by Sinclair Lewis

　　CHAPTER XIIIIIT 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 universalpassion for mysterious and important-sounding initials, was the StateAssociation of Real Estate Boards; the organization of brokers andoperators. It was to hold its annual convention at Monarch, Zenith'schief rival among the cities of the state. Babbitt was an officialdelegate; another was Cecil Rountree, whom Babbitt admired for hispicaresque speculative building, and hated for his social position,for being present at the smartest dances on Royal Ridge. Rountree waschairman of the convention program-committee.Babbitt had growled to him, "Makes me tired the way these doctors andprofs and preachers put on lugs about being 'professional men.' A goodrealtor 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 itat the S. A. R. E. B.?" suggested Rountree."Well, if it would help you in making up the program--Tell you: the wayI look at it is this: First place, we ought to insist that folks callus 'realtors' and not 'real-estate men.' Sounds more like a reg'larprofession. Second place--What is it distinguishes a profession from amere trade, business, or occupation? What is it? Why, it's the publicservice and the skill, the trained skill, and the knowledge and, uh,all that, whereas a fellow that merely goes out for the jack, he neverconsiders the-public service and trained skill and so on. Now as aprofessional--""Rather! That's perfectly bully! Perfectly corking! Now you write it ina paper," said Rountree, as he rapidly and firmly moved away.IIHowever accustomed to the literary labors of advertisements andcorrespondence, Babbitt was dismayed on the evening when he sat down toprepare a paper which would take a whole ten minutes to read.He laid out a new fifteen-cent school exercise-book on his wife'scollapsible sewing-table, set up for the event in the living-room. Thehousehold had been bullied into silence; Verona and Ted requested todisappear, and Tinka threatened with "If I hear one sound out of you--ifyou holler for a glass of water one single solitary time--You betternot, that's all!" Mrs. Babbitt sat over by the piano, making a nightgownand gazing with respect while Babbitt wrote in the exercise-book, to therhythmical 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 thingsright out of your own head!""Oh, it's the training in constructive imagination that a fellow gets inmodern business life."He had written seven pages, whereof the first page set forth:{illustration omitted: consists of several doodles and "(1) a profession(2) Not just a trade crossed out (3) Skill & vision (3) Shd be called"realtor" & not just real est man"}The other six pages were rather like the first.For a week he went about looking important. Every morning, as hedressed, he thought aloud: "Jever stop to consider, Myra, that beforea town can have buildings or prosperity or any of those things, somerealtor has got to sell 'em the land? All civilization starts with him.Jever realize that?" At the Athletic Club he led unwilling men aside toinquire, "Say, if you had to read a paper before a big convention, wouldyou start in with the funny stories or just kind of scatter 'em allthrough?" He asked Howard Littlefield for a "set of statistics aboutreal-estate sales; something good and impressive," and Littlefieldprovided something exceedingly good and impressive.But it was to T. Cholmondeley Frink that Babbitt most often turned. Hecaught Frink at the club every noon, and demanded, while Frinklooked hunted and evasive, "Say, Chum--you're a shark on thiswriting stuff--how would you put this sentence, see here in mymanuscript--manuscript now where the deuce is that?--oh, yes, here.Would you say 'We ought not also to alone think?' or 'We ought also notto think alone?' or--"One evening when his wife was away and he had no one to impress, Babbittforgot about Style, Order, and the other mysteries, and scrawled offwhat 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 andinteresting, and such splendid ideas! Why, it's just--it's justsplendid!"Next day he cornered Chum Frink and crowed, "Well, old son, I finishedit last evening! Just lammed it out! I used to think you writing-guysmust have a hard job making up pieces, but Lord, it's a cinch. Prettysoft for you fellows; you certainly earn your money easy! Some day whenI get ready to retire, guess I'll take to writing and show you boys howto do it. I always used to think I could write better stuff, and morepunch and originality, than all this stuff you see printed, and now I'mdoggone sure of it!"He had four copies of the paper typed in black with a gorgeous redtitle, had them bound in pale blue manilla, and affably presented one toold 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 itall 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.IIIBesides the five official delegates to the convention--Babbitt,Rountree, W. A. Rogers, Alvin Thayer, and Elbert Wing--there were fiftyunofficial delegates, most of them with their wives.They met at the Union Station for the midnight train to Monarch. Allof them, save Cecil Rountree, who was such a snob that he never worebadges, displayed celluloid buttons the size of dollars and lettered "Wezoom for Zenith." The official delegates were magnificent with silverand magenta ribbons. Martin Lumsen's little boy Willy carried a tasseledbanner inscribed "Zenith the Zip City--Zeal, Zest and Zowie--1,000,000in 1935." As the delegates arrived, not in taxicabs but in the familyautomobile driven by the oldest son or by Cousin Fred, they formedimpromptu processions through the station waiting-room.It was a new and enormous waiting-room, with marble pilasters, andfrescoes depicting the exploration of the Chaloosa River Valley by PereEmile Fauthoux in 1740. The benches were shelves of ponderous mahogany;the news-stand a marble kiosk with a brass grill. Down the echoingspaces of the hall the delegates paraded after Willy Lumsen's banner,the men waving their cigars, the women conscious of their new frocks andstrings of beads, all singing to the tune of Auld Lang Syne the officialCity Song, written by Chum Frink: Good old Zenith, Our kin and kith, Wherever we may be, Hats in the ring, We blithely sing Of thy Prosperity. Warren Whitby, the broker, who had a gift of verse for banquets andbirthdays, had added to Frink's City Song a special verse for therealtors' 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 inunenvious wonder--Italian women with shawls, old weary men with brokenshoes, roving road-wise boys in suits which had been flashy when theywere new but which were faded now and wrinkled.Babbitt perceived that as an official delegate he must be moredignified. With Wing and Rogers he tramped up and down the cementplatform beside the waiting Pullmans. Motor-driven baggage-trucksand red-capped porters carrying bags sped down the platform with anagreeable effect of activity. Arc-lights glared and stammered overhead.The glossy yellow sleeping-cars shone impressively. Babbitt made hisvoice to be measured and lordly; he thrust out his abdomen and rumbled,"We got to see to it that the convention lets the Legislature understandjust where they get off in this matter of taxing realty transfers." Winguttered approving grunts and Babbitt swelled--gloated.The blind of a Pullman compartment was raised, and Babbitt lookedinto an unfamiliar world. The occupant of the compartment was LucileMcKelvey, the pretty wife of the millionaire contractor. Possibly,Babbitt thrilled, she was going to Europe! On the seat beside her was abunch of orchids and violets, and a yellow paper-bound book which seemedforeign. While he stared, she picked up the book, then glanced out ofthe window as though she was bored. She must have looked straight athim, and he had met her, but she gave no sign. She languidly pulled downthe blind, and he stood still, a cold feeling of insignificance in hisheart.But on the train his pride was restored by meeting delegates fromSparta, Pioneer, and other smaller cities of the state, who listenedrespectfully when, as a magnifico from the metropolis of Zenith,he explained politics and the value of a Good Sound BusinessAdministration. They fell joyfully into shop-talk, the purest and mostrapturous form of conversation:"How'd this fellow Rountree make out with this big apartment-hotel hewas going to put up? Whadde do? Get out bonds to finance it?" asked aSparta broker."Well, I'll tell you," said Babbitt. "Now if I'd been handling it--""So," Elbert Wing was droning, "I hired this shop-window for a week, andput up a big sign, 'Toy Town for Tiny Tots,' and stuck in a lot of dollhouses and some dinky little trees, and then down at the bottom, 'BabyLikes This Dollydale, but Papa and Mama Will Prefer Our BeautifulBungalows,' and you know, that certainly got folks talking, and firstweek we sold--"The trucks sang "lickety-lick, lickety-lick" as the train ran throughthe factory district. Furnaces spurted flame, and power-hammers wereclanging. Red lights, green lights, furious white lights rushed past,and Babbitt was important again, and eager.IVHe did a voluptuous thing: he had his clothes pressed on the train. Inthe morning, half an hour before they reached Monarch, the porter cameto his berth and whispered, "There's a drawing-room vacant, sir. I putyour suit in there." In tan autumn overcoat over his pajamas, Babbittslipped down the green-curtain-lined aisle to the glory of his firstprivate compartment. The porter indicated that he knew Babbitt wasused to a man-servant; he held the ends of Babbitt's trousers, that thebeautifully sponged garment might not be soiled, filled the bowl in theprivate washroom, and waited with a towel.To have a private washroom was luxurious. However enlivening a Pullmansmoking-compartment was by night, even to Babbitt it was depressingin the morning, when it was jammed with fat men in woolen undershirts,every hook filled with wrinkled cottony shirts, the leather seat piledwith dingy toilet-kits, and the air nauseating with the smell of soapand toothpaste. Babbitt did not ordinarily think much of privacy, butnow he reveled in it, reveled in his valet, and purred with pleasure ashe gave the man a tip of a dollar and a half.He rather hoped that he was being noticed as, in his newly pressedclothes, with the adoring porter carrying his suit-case, he disembarkedat Monarch.He was to share a room at the Hotel Sedgwick with W. A. Rogers, thatshrewd, rustic-looking Zenith dealer in farm-lands. Together they hada noble breakfast, with waffles, and coffee not in exiguous cups butin large pots. Babbitt grew expansive, and told Rogers about the art ofwriting; he gave a bellboy a quarter to fetch a morning newspaper fromthe lobby, and sent to Tinka a post-card: "Papa wishes you were here tobat round with him."VThe meetings of the convention were held in the ballroom of the AllenHouse. In an anteroom was the office of the chairman of the executivecommittee. He was the busiest man in the convention; he was so busy thathe got nothing done whatever. He sat at a marquetry table, in a roomlittered with crumpled paper and, all day long, town-boosters andlobbyists and orators who wished to lead debates came and whispered tohim, whereupon he looked vague, and said rapidly, "Yes, yes, that's afine idea; we'll do that," and instantly forgot all about it, lighteda cigar and forgot that too, while the telephone rang mercilessly andabout him men kept beseeching, "Say, Mr. Chairman--say, Mr. Chairman!"without penetrating his exhausted hearing.In the exhibit-room were plans of the new suburbs of Sparta, picturesof the new state capitol, at Galop de Vache, and large ears of corn withthe label, "Nature's Gold, from Shelby County, the Garden Spot of God'sOwn Country."The real convention consisted of men muttering in hotel bedrooms or ingroups amid the badge-spotted crowd in the hotel-lobby, but there was ashow of public meetings.The first of them opened with a welcome by the mayor of Monarch. Thepastor of the First Christian Church of Monarch, a large man with a longdamp frontal lock, informed God that the real-estate men were here now.The venerable Minnemagantic realtor, Major Carlton Tuke, read a paper inwhich he denounced cooperative stores. William A. Larkin of Eureka gavea comforting prognosis of "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 MonarchChamber of Commerce gave them a banquet, and the Manufacturers'Association an afternoon reception, at which a chrysanthemum waspresented to each of the ladies, and to each of the men a leatherbill-fold inscribed "From Monarch the Mighty Motor Mart."Mrs. Crosby Knowlton, wife of the manufacturer of Fleetwing Automobiles,opened her celebrated Italian garden and served tea. Six hundredreal-estate men and wives ambled down the autumnal paths. Perhapsthree hundred of them were quietly inconspicuous; perhaps three hundredvigorously exclaimed, "This is pretty slick, eh?" surreptitiously pickedthe late asters and concealed them in their pockets, and tried to getnear enough to Mrs. Knowlton to shake her lovely hand. Without request,the Zenith delegates (except Rountree) gathered round a marble dancingnymph and sang "Here we come, the fellows from Zenith, the Zip Citee."It chanced that all the delegates from Pioneer belonged to the Brotherlyand Protective Order of Elks, and they produced an enormous bannerlettered: "B. P. O. E.--Best People on Earth--Boost Pioneer, Oh Eddie."Nor was Galop de Vache, the state capital, to be slighted. The leaderof the Galop de Vache delegation was a large, reddish, roundish man,but active. He took off his coat, hurled his broad black felt hat onthe ground, rolled up his sleeves, climbed upon the sundial, spat, andbellowed:"We'll tell the world, and the good lady who's giving the show thisafternoon, 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 Galophas the largest proportion of home-owning citizens in the state; andwhen folks own their homes, they ain't starting labor-troubles, andthey're raising kids instead of raising hell! Galop de Vache! Thetown 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. CrosbyKnowlton sighed as she looked at a marble seat warm from five hundredsummers of Amalfi. On the face of a winged sphinx which supported itsome one had drawn a mustache in lead-pencil. Crumpled paper napkinswere dumped among the Michaelmas daisies. On the walk, like shreddedlovely flesh, were the petals of the last gallant rose. Cigarette stubsfloated in the goldfish pool, trailing an evil stain as they swelled anddisintegrated, and beneath the marble seat, the fragments carefully puttogether, was a smashed teacup.VIAs he rode back to the hotel Babbitt reflected, "Myra would have enjoyedall this social agony." For himself he cared less for the garden partythan for the motor tours which the Monarch Chamber of Commercehad arranged. Indefatigably he viewed water-reservoirs, suburbantrolley-stations, and tanneries. He devoured the statistics which weregiven to him, and marveled to his roommate, W. A. Rogers, "Of coursethis town isn't a patch on Zenith; it hasn't got our outlook andnatural resources; but did you know--I nev' did till to-day--that theymanufactured seven hundred and sixty-three million feet of lumber lastyear? What d' you think of that!"He was nervous as the time for reading his paper approached. When hestood on the low platform before the convention, he trembled and sawonly a purple haze. But he was in earnest, and when he had finished theformal paper he talked to them, his hands in his pockets, his spectacledface a flashing disk, like a plate set up on edge in the lamplight.They shouted "That's the stuff!" and in the discussion afterward theyreferred with impressiveness to "our friend and brother, Mr. George F.Babbitt." He had in fifteen minutes changed from a minor delegate toa personage almost as well known as that diplomat of business, CecilRountree. 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 gladyou had the courage to stand up and give the Profession a real boost.Now I've always maintained--"Next morning, with tremendous casualness, Babbitt asked the girl at thehotel news-stand for the newspapers from Zenith. There was nothing inthe 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, ProminentZiptown Realtor, Keynoter in Fine Address."He murmured reverently, "I guess some of the folks on Floral Heightswill sit up and take notice now, and pay a little attention to oldGeorgie!"VIIIt was the last meeting. The delegations were presenting the claimsof their several cities to the next year's convention. Orators wereannouncing that "Galop de Vache, the Capital City, the site of KremerCollege and of the Upholtz Knitting Works, is the recognized center ofculture and high-class enterprise;" and that "Hamburg, the Big LittleCity with the Logical Location, where every man is open-handed and everywoman a heaven-born hostess, throws wide to you her hospitable gates."In the midst of these more diffident invitations, the golden doors ofthe ballroom opened with a blatting of trumpets, and a circusparade rolled in. It was composed of the Zenith brokers, dressed ascowpunchers, bareback riders, Japanese jugglers. At the head wasbig Warren Whitby, in the bearskin and gold-and-crimson coat of adrum-major. Behind him, as a clown, beating a bass drum, extraordinarilyhappy 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 tocases. A dyed-in-the-wool Zenithite sure loves his neighbors, but we'vemade up our minds to grab this convention off our neighbor burgs likewe've grabbed the condensed-milk business and the paper-box businessand--"J. Harry Barmhill, the convention chairman, hinted, "We're grateful toyou, Mr. Uh, but you must give the other boys a chance to hand in theirbids now."A fog-horn voice blared, "In Eureka we'll promise free motor ridesthrough the prettiest country--"Running down the aisle, clapping his hands, a lean bald young man cried,"I'm from Sparta! Our Chamber of Commerce has wired me they've set asideeight thousand dollars, in real money, for the entertainment of theconvention!"A clerical-looking man rose to clamor, "Money talks! Move we accept thebid from Sparta!"It was accepted.VIIIThe Committee on Resolutions was reporting. They said that WhereasAlmighty God in his beneficent mercy had seen fit to remove to a sphereof higher usefulness some thirty-six realtors of the state the pastyear, Therefore it was the sentiment of this convention assembled thatthey were sorry God had done it, and the secretary should be, and herebywas, instructed to spread these resolutions on the minutes, and toconsole the bereaved families by sending them each a copy.A second resolution authorized the president of the S.A.R.E.B. to spendfifteen thousand dollars in lobbying for sane tax measures in the StateLegislature. This resolution had a good deal to say about Menaces toSound Business and clearing the Wheels of Progress from ill-advised andshortsighted obstacles.The Committee on Committees reported, and with startled awe Babbittlearned that he had been appointed a member of the Committee on TorrensTitles.He rejoiced, "I said it was going to be a great year! Georgie, old son,you got big things ahead of you! You're a natural-born orator and a goodmixer and--Zowie!"IXThere was no formal entertainment provided for the last evening. Babbitthad planned to go home, but that afternoon the Jered Sassburgers ofPioneer suggested that Babbitt and W. A. Rogers have tea with them atthe Catalpa Inn.Teas were not unknown to Babbitt--his wife and he earnestly attendedthem at least twice a year--but they were sufficiently exotic to makehim feel important. He sat at a glass-covered table in the Art Room ofthe Inn, with its painted rabbits, mottoes lettered on birch bark, andwaitresses being artistic in Dutch caps; he ate insufficient lettucesandwiches, and was lively and naughty with Mrs. Sassburger, who was assmooth and large-eyed as a cloak-model. Sassburger and he had met twodays before, so they were calling each other "Georgie" and "Sassy."Sassburger said prayerfully, "Say, boys, before you go, seeing this isthe last chance, I've GOT IT, up in my room, and Miriam here is the bestlittle mixelogist in the Stati Unidos like us Italians say."With wide flowing gestures, Babbitt and Rogers followed the Sassburgersto their room. Mrs. Sassburger shrieked, "Oh, how terrible!" when shesaw that she had left a chemise of sheer lavender crepe on the bed. Shetucked it into a bag, while Babbitt giggled, "Don't mind us; we're acouple o' little divvils!"Sassburger telephoned for ice, and the bell-boy who brought it said,prosaically and unprompted, "Highball glasses or cocktail?" MiriamSassburger mixed the cocktails in one of those dismal, nakedly whitewater-pitchers which exist only in hotels. When they had finishedthe first round she proved by intoning "Think you boys could standanother--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 comesover 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 aparty, heh?""George, you speak with the tongue of wisdom and sagashiteriferousness.El Wing's wife has gone on to Pittsburg. Let's see if we can't gatherhim in."At half-past seven they sat in their room, with Elbert Wing and twoup-state delegates. Their coats were off, their vests open, their facesred, their voices emphatic. They were finishing a bottle of corrosivebootlegged whisky and imploring the bell-boy, "Say, son, can you get ussome more of this embalming fluid?" They were smoking large cigars anddropping ashes and stubs on the carpet. With windy guffaws they weretelling stories. They were, in fact, males in a happy state of nature.Babbitt sighed, "I don't know how it strikes you hellions, butpersonally I like this busting loose for a change, and kicking over acouple of mountains and climbing up on the North Pole and waving theaurora borealis around."The man from Sparta, a grave, intense youngster, babbled, "Say! I guessI'm as good a husband as the run of the mill, but God, I do get so tiredof going home every evening, and nothing to see but the movies. That'swhy I go out and drill with the National Guard. I guess I got the nicestlittle 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 Iwanted to do. But Dad chased me out on the road selling kitchenware, andhere I'm settled down--settled for LIFE--not a chance! Oh, who the devilstarted this funeral talk? How 'bout 'nother lil drink? 'And a-noth-erdrink wouldn' do 's 'ny harmmmmmmm.'""Yea. Cut the sob-stuff," said W. A. Rogers genially. "You boys know I'mthe village songster? Come on nowsing up: Said the old Obadiah to the young Obadiah, 'I am dry, Obadiah, I am dry.' Said the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah, 'So am I, Obadiah, so am I.'" XThey had dinner in the Moorish Grillroom of the Hotel Sedgwick.Somewhere, somehow, they seemed to have gathered in two other comrades:a manufacturer of fly-paper and a dentist. They all drank whisky fromtea-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' friedelephants' ears.""Sorry, sir, we haven't any.""Huh? No elephants' ears? What do you know about that!" Rogers turned toBabbitt. "Pedro says the elephants' ears are all out!""Well, I'll be switched!" said the man from Sparta, with difficultyhiding his laughter."Well, in that case, Carlo, just bring me a hunk o' steak and a coupleo' bushels o' French fried potatoes and some peas," Rogers went on. "Isuppose back in dear old sunny It' the Eyetalians get their fresh gardenpeas out of the can.""No, sir, we have very nice peas in Italy.""Is that a fact! Georgie, do you hear that? They get their fresh gardenpeas out of the garden, in Italy! By golly, you live and learn, don'tyou, Antonio, you certainly do live and learn, if you live long enoughand keep your strength. All right, Garibaldi, just shoot me in thatsteak, with about two printers'-reams of French fried spuds on thepromenade deck, comprehenez-vous, Michelovitch Angeloni?"Afterward Elbert Wing admired, "Gee, you certainly did have that poorDago going, W. A. He couldn't make you out at all!"In the Monarch Herald, Babbitt found an advertisement which he readaloud, to applause and laughter:Old Colony TheatreShake the Old Dogs to the WROLLICKING WRENS The bonniest bevy ofbeauteous bathing babes in burlesque. Pete Menutti and his Oh, Gee,Kids.This is the straight steer, Benny, the painless chicklets of theWrollicking Wrens are the cuddlingest bunch that ever hit town. Steerthe feet, get the card board, and twist the pupils to the PDQest showever. You will get 111% on your kale in this fun-fest. The CalrozaSisters 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 ofreal laughter. Shoot the up and down to Jackson and West for gracefultappers. They run 1-2 under the wire. Provin and Adams will blow theblues in their laugh skit "Hootch Mon!" Something doing, boys. Listen towhat the Hep Bird twitters."Sounds like a juicy show to me. Let's all take it in," said Babbitt.But they put off departure as long as they could. They were safe whilethey sat here, legs firmly crossed under the table, but they feltunsteady; they were afraid of navigating the long and slippery floor ofthe grillroom under the eyes of the other guests and the too-attentivewaiters.When they did venture, tables got in their way, and they sought to coverembarrassment by heavy jocularity at the coatroom. As the girl handedout their hats, they smiled at her, and hoped that she, a cool andexpert judge, would feel that they were gentlemen. They croaked at oneanother, "Who owns the bum lid?" and "You take a good one, George; I'lltake what's left," and to the check-girl they stammered, "Better comealong, sister! High, wide, and fancy evening ahead!" All of them triedto tip her, urging one another, "No! Wait! Here! I got it right here!"Among them, they gave her three dollars.XIFlamboyantly smoking cigars they sat in a box at the burlesque show,their feet up on the rail, while a chorus of twenty daubed, worried,and inextinguishably respectable grandams swung their legs in the moreelementary chorus-evolutions, and a Jewish comedian made vicious fun ofJews. In the entr'actes they met other lone delegates. A dozen of themwent in taxicabs out to Bright Blossom Inn, where the blossoms weremade of dusty paper festooned along a room low and stinking, like acow-stable no longer wisely used.Here, whisky was served openly, in glasses. Two or three clerks, whoon pay-day longed to be taken for millionaires, sheepishly danced withtelephone-girls and manicure-girls in the narrow space between thetables. Fantastically whirled the professionals, a young man in sleekevening-clothes and a slim mad girl in emerald silk, with amber hairflung up as jaggedly as flames. Babbitt tried to dance with her. Heshuffled along the floor, too bulky to be guided, his steps unrelatedto the rhythm of the jungle music, and in his staggering he would havefallen, had she not held him with supple kindly strength. He was blindand deaf from prohibition-era alcohol; he could not see the tables, thefaces. But he was overwhelmed by the girl and her young pliant warmth.When she had firmly returned him to his group, he remembered, by aconnection 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 companionship. Theman from Sparta said he was a "bum singer," and for ten minutes Babbittquarreled with him, in a loud, unsteady, heroic indignation. They calledfor drinks till the manager insisted that the place was closed. All thewhile Babbitt felt a hot raw desire for more brutal amusements. WhenW. A. Rogers drawled, "What say we go down the line and look over thegirls?" he agreed savagely. Before they went, three of them secretlymade appointments with the professional 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 ofsmall brown wooden cottages of workmen, characterless as cells, as theyrattled across warehouse-districts which by drunken night seemed vastand perilous, as they were borne toward the red lights and violentautomatic pianos and the stocky women who simpered, Babbitt wasfrightened. He wanted to leap from the taxicab, but all his body was amurky fire, and he groaned, "Too late to quit now," and knew that he didnot want to quit.There was, they felt, one very humorous incident on the way. A brokerfrom Minnemagantic said, "Monarch is a lot sportier than Zenith. YouZenith tightwads haven't got any joints like these here." Babbitt raged,"That's a dirty lie! Snothin' you can't find in Zenith. Believe me, wegot more houses and hootch-parlors an' all kinds o' dives than any burgin the state."He realized they were laughing at him; he desired to fight; and forgotit in such musty unsatisfying experiments as he had not known sincecollege.In the morning, when he returned to Zenith, his desire for rebellion waspartly satisfied. He had retrograded to a shamefaced contentment. He wasirritable. He did not smile when W. A. Rogers complained, "Ow, what ahead! I certainly do feel like the wrath of God this morning. Say! Iknow what was the trouble! Somebody went and put alcohol in my boozelast night."Babbitt's excursion was never known to his family, nor to any one inZenith save Rogers and Wing. It was not officially recognized even byhimself. If it had any consequences, they have not been discovered.