Babbit

I

The great events of Babbitt’s spring were the secret buying of real-estate options in Linton for certain street-traction officials, 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 berries a year!”

“Yes, and Howard Littlefield.  Do you know, the other evening 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.  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.  Besides, 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.

II

On 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 Assembly has voted to quit the Interchurch World Movement.  That—­”

“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 dinner—­”

“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 upstairs and—­And I simply must 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 from Vecchia’s.

He was surprised and blasted then by a thought.  He wondered whether Floral Heights dinners were worth the hideous toil involved.  But he repented the sacrilege in the excitement of buying the materials for cocktails.

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

He drove from the severe rectangular streets of the modern 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 policeman 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, 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 something which resembled whisky, and with two men at the bar, drinking something which resembled beer, and giving that impression of forming a large crowd which two men always give in a saloon.  The bartender, 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 outraged 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.

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 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 bartender 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 Hanson.  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 Babbitt 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 obsequiousness, 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 entrance to the back room, and strolled away.  Babbitt melodramatically crept into an apartment containing four round tables, eleven chairs, a brewery calendar, and a smell.  He waited.  Thrice he saw Healey Hanson saunter through, humming, 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—­in 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 Canada.  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, uncounted, 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, mentioned 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 ballroom of the Maison Vecchia; at all nice teas the guests recognized the five kinds of Vecchia sandwiches and the seven kinds of Vecchia cakes; and all really smart dinners ended, as on 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 refinement 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 having 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 of what is called a Clubman.  He stood before the pier-glass, viewing his trim dinner-coat, his beautiful triple-braided trousers; 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 saloon.  True, Mrs. Babbitt said he was under foot, and Matilda 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 disliked 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!”

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 refrigerator.  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 Babbitt’s head, and he had to force the tumultuous greetings suitable 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 powerful in the Elks and in the Boosters’ Club; Eddie Swanson the 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 distinguished 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 lecturer and the creator of “Ads that Add.”  Despite the searching 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, 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 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 Swanson, 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 mustache.  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 language.  Frink pulled at his eye-glass cord as at a bell-rope, he cleared his throat and said that which was the custom: 

“I’ll 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 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, because 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 innocent!”

Babbitt clamored, “How did you guess it, Chum?  Well, you-all 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 traveled 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: 

“I 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 giggles, but the men, speaking in a wide, elaborate, enjoyable manner, gloated, “Well, sooner than have you get sore at me, Georgie—­”

“You got a little dividend coming,” said Babbitt to each of 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 repeating 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 personal 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 personal 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 enforcement,” insisted Howard Littlefield.  “Congress didn’t understand the right system.  Now, if I’d been running the thing, 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!” Littlefield 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 everything but the invincible fried chicken resembled something else.  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 thousand dollars for ten cases of red-eye that proved to be nothing 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 ’ll 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 ’ll 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 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 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 anthropological report 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 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 cocktails 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 civilization!  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 conversation!  Why, say, they can’t talk about anything but the weather and the ne-oo 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 things 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.

“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 highbrows 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 Howard, 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 advantages—­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 lack of culture and appreciation of the Beautiful—­if you’ll 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!”

III

However intimate they might be with T. Cholmondeley Frink as a neighbor, as a borrower of lawn-mowers and monkey-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.  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!” Guess that’s going some, all right—­but just among ourselves, you better start a rapidwhiz system to keep tabs as to how fast you’ll buzz from low smoke spirits to tiptophigh—­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-ISH in flavor; always delightfully cool and fragrant!  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, 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!”

“Yes,” Frink mused, “that’s got an elegant color to it, if I do say so, but it ain’t got the originality of ‘spill-of-speech!’” The whole company sighed with sympathy and admiration.