Bab Bab 34 · Chapter XXXIV

I

The Good Citizens’ League had spread through the country, but nowhere

was it so effective and well esteemed as in cities of the type of

Zenith, commercial cities of a few hundred thousand inhabitants, most of

which--though not all--lay inland, against a background of cornfields

and mines and of small towns which depended upon them for

mortgage-loans, table-manners, art, social philosophy and millinery.

To the League belonged most of the prosperous citizens of Zenith. They

were not all of the kind who called themselves “Regular Guys.” Besides

these hearty fellows, these salesmen of prosperity, there were the

aristocrats, that is, the men who were richer or had been rich for more

generations: the presidents of banks and of factories, the land-owners,

the corporation lawyers, the fashionable doctors, and the few young-old

men who worked not at all but, reluctantly remaining in Zenith,

collected luster-ware and first editions as though they were back in

Paris. All of them agreed that the working-classes must be kept in their

place; and all of them perceived that American Democracy did not imply

any equality of wealth, but did demand a wholesome sameness of thought,

dress, painting, morals, and vocabulary.

In this they were like the ruling-class of any other country,

particularly of Great Britain, but they differed in being more vigorous

and in actually trying to produce the accepted standards which all

classes, everywhere, desire, but usually despair of realizing.

The longest struggle of the Good Citizens’ League was against the Open

Shop--which was secretly a struggle against all union labor.

Accompanying it was an Americanization Movement, with evening classes in

English and history and economics, and daily articles in the newspapers,

so that newly arrived foreigners might learn that the true-blue and one

hundred per cent. American way of settling labor-troubles was for

workmen to trust and love their employers.

The League was more than generous in approving other organizations which

agreed with its aims. It helped the Y.M.C.A. to raise a

two-hundred-thousand-dollar fund for a new building. Babbitt, Vergil

Gunch, Sidney Finkelstein, and even Charles McKelvey told the spectators

at movie theaters how great an influence for manly Christianity the

“good old Y.” had been in their own lives; and the hoar and mighty

Colonel Rutherford Snow, owner of the _Advocate-Times_, was photographed

clasping the hand of Sheldon Smeeth of the Y.M.C.A. It is true that

afterward, when Smeeth lisped, “You must come to one of our

prayer-meetings,” the ferocious Colonel bellowed, “What the hell would I

do that for? I’ve got a bar of my own,” but this did not appear in the

public prints.

The League was of value to the American Legion at a time when certain of

the lesser and looser newspapers were criticizing that organization of

veterans of the Great War. One evening a number of young men raided the

Zenith Socialist Headquarters, burned its records, beat the office

staff, and agreeably dumped desks out of the window. All of the

newspapers save the _Advocate-Times_ and the _Evening Advocate_

attributed this valuable but perhaps hasty direct-action to the American

Legion. Then a flying squadron from the Good Citizens’ League called on

the unfair papers and explained that no ex-soldier could possibly do

such a thing, and the editors saw the light, and retained their

advertising. When Zenith’s lone Conscientious Objector came home from

prison and was righteously run out of town, the newspapers referred to

the perpetrators as an “unidentified mob.”

II

In all the activities and triumphs of the Good Citizens’ League Babbitt

took part, and completely won back to self-respect, placidity, and the

affection of his friends. But he began to protest, “Gosh, I’ve done my

share in cleaning up the city. I want to tend to business. Think I’ll

just kind of slacken up on this G.C.L. stuff now.”

He had returned to the church as he had returned to the Boosters’ Club.

He had even endured the lavish greeting which Sheldon Smeeth gave him.

He was worried lest during his late discontent he had imperiled his

salvation. He was not quite sure there was a Heaven to be attained, but

Dr. John Jennison Drew said there was, and Babbitt was not going to take

a chance.

One evening when he was walking past Dr. Drew’s parsonage he impulsively

went in and found the pastor in his study.

“Jus’ minute--getting ’phone call,” said Dr. Drew in business-like

tones, then, aggressively, to the telephone: “’Lo--’lo! This Berkey and

Hannis? Reverend Drew speaking. Where the dickens is the proof for next

Sunday’s calendar? Huh? Y’ ought to have it here. Well, I can’t help it

if they’re _all_ sick! I got to have it to-night. Get an A.D.T. boy and

shoot it up here quick.”

He turned, without slackening his briskness. “Well, Brother Babbitt,

what c’n I do for you?”

“I just wanted to ask-- Tell you how it is, dominie: Here a while ago I

guess I got kind of slack. Took a few drinks and so on. What I wanted to

ask is: How is it if a fellow cuts that all out and comes back to his

senses? Does it sort of, well, you might say, does it score against him

in the long run?”

The Reverend Dr. Drew was suddenly interested. “And, uh, brother--the

other things, too? Women?”

“No, practically, you might say, practically not at all.”

“Don’t hesitate to tell me, brother! That’s what I’m here for. Been

going on joy-rides? Squeezing girls in cars?” The reverend eyes

glistened.

“No--no--”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve got a deputation from the Don’t Make

Prohibition a Joke Association coming to see me in a quarter of an hour,

and one from the Anti-Birth-Control Union at a quarter of ten.” He

busily glanced at his watch. “But I can take five minutes off and pray

with you. Kneel right down by your chair, brother. Don’t be ashamed to

seek the guidance of God.”

Babbitt’s scalp itched and he longed to flee, but Dr. Drew had already

flopped down beside his desk-chair and his voice had changed from

rasping efficiency to an unctuous familiarity with sin and with the

Almighty. Babbitt also knelt, while Drew gloated:

“O Lord, thou seest our brother here, who has been led astray by

manifold temptations. O Heavenly Father, make his heart to be pure, as

pure as a little child’s. Oh, let him know again the joy of a manly

courage to abstain from evil--”

Sheldon Smeeth came frolicking into the study. At the sight of the two

men he smirked, forgivingly patted Babbitt on the shoulder, and knelt

beside him, his arm about him, while he authorized Dr. Drew’s

imprecations with moans of “Yes, Lord! Help our brother, Lord!”

Though he was trying to keep his eyes closed, Babbitt squinted between

his fingers and saw the pastor glance at his watch as he concluded with

a triumphant, “And let him never be afraid to come to Us for counsel and

tender care, and let him know that the church can lead him as a little

lamb.”

Dr. Drew sprang up, rolled his eyes in the general direction of Heaven,

chucked his watch into his pocket, and demanded, “Has the deputation

come yet, Sheldy?”

“Yep, right outside,” Sheldy answered, with equal liveliness; then,

caressingly, to Babbitt, “Brother, if it would help, I’d love to go

into the next room and pray with you while Dr. Drew is receiving the

brothers from the Don’t Make Prohibition a Joke Association.”

“No--no thanks--can’t take the time!” yelped Babbitt, rushing toward the

door.

Thereafter he was often seen at the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church,

but it is recorded that he avoided shaking hands with the pastor at the

door.

III

If his moral fiber had been so weakened by rebellion that he was not

quite dependable in the more rigorous campaigns of the Good Citizens’

League nor quite appreciative of the church, yet there was no doubt of

the joy with which Babbitt returned to the pleasures of his home and of

the Athletic Club, the Boosters, the Elks.

Verona and Kenneth Escott were eventually and hesitatingly married. For

the wedding Babbitt was dressed as carefully as was Verona; he was

crammed into the morning-coat he wore to teas thrice a year; and with a

certain relief, after Verona and Kenneth had driven away in a limousine,

he returned to the house, removed the morning coat, sat with his aching

feet up on the davenport, and reflected that his wife and he could have

the living-room to themselves now, and not have to listen to Verona and

Kenneth worrying, in a cultured collegiate manner, about minimum wages

and the Drama League.

But even this sinking into peace was less consoling than his return to

being one of the best-loved men in the Boosters’ Club.

IV

President Willis Ijams began that Boosters’ Club luncheon by standing

quiet and staring at them so unhappily that they feared he was about to

announce the death of a Brother Booster. He spoke slowly then, and

gravely:

“Boys, I have something shocking to reveal to you; something terrible

about one of our own members.”

Several Boosters, including Babbitt, looked disconcerted.

“A knight of the grip, a trusted friend of mine, recently made a trip

up-state, and in a certain town, where a certain Booster spent his

boyhood, he found out something which can no longer be concealed. In

fact, he discovered the inward nature of a man whom we have accepted as

a Real Guy and as one of us. Gentlemen, I cannot trust my voice to say

it, so I have written it down.”

He uncovered a large blackboard and on it, in huge capitals, was the

legend:

George Follansbee Babbitt--oh you Folly!

The Boosters cheered, they laughed, they wept, they threw rolls at

Babbitt, they cried, “Speech, speech! Oh you Folly!”

President Ijams continued:

“That, gentlemen, is the awful thing Georgie Babbitt has been concealing

all these years, when we thought he was just plain George F. Now I want

you to tell us, taking it in turn, what you’ve always supposed the F.

stood for.”

Flivver, they suggested, and Frog-face and Flathead and Farinaceous and

Freezone and Flapdoodle and Foghorn. By the joviality of their insults

Babbitt knew that he had been taken back to their hearts, and happily he

rose.

“Boys, I’ve got to admit it. I’ve never worn a wrist-watch, or parted my

name in the middle, but I will confess to ‘Follansbee.’ My only

justification is that my old dad--though otherwise he was perfectly

sane, and packed an awful wallop when it came to trimming the City

Fellers at checkers--named me after the family doc, old Dr. Ambrose

Follansbee. I apologize, boys. In my next what-d’you-call-it I’ll see to

it that I get named something really practical--something that sounds

swell and yet is good and virile--something, in fact, like that grand

old name so familiar to every household--that bold and almost

overpowering name, Willis Jimjams Ijams!”

He knew by the cheer that he was secure again and popular; he knew that

he would no more endanger his security and popularity by straying from

the Clan of Good Fellows.

V

Henry Thompson dashed into the office, clamoring, “George! Big news!

Jake Offutt says the Traction Bunch are dissatisfied with the way

Sanders, Torrey and Wing handled their last deal, and they’re willing to

dicker with us!”

Babbitt was pleased in the realization that the last scar of his

rebellion was healed, yet as he drove home he was annoyed by such

background thoughts as had never weakened him in his days of belligerent

conformity. He discovered that he actually did not consider the Traction

group quite honest. “Well, he’d carry out one more deal for them, but as

soon as it was practicable, maybe as soon as old Henry Thompson died,

he’d break away from all association from them. He was forty-eight; in

twelve years he’d be sixty; he wanted to leave a clean business to his

grandchildren. Course there was a lot of money in negotiating for the

Traction people, and a fellow had to look at things in a practical way,

only--” He wriggled uncomfortably. He wanted to tell the Traction group

what he thought of them. “Oh, he couldn’t do it, not now. If he offended

them this second time, they would crush him. But--”

He was conscious that his line of progress seemed confused. He wondered

what he would do with his future. He was still young; was he through

with all adventuring? He felt that he had been trapped into the very net

from which he had with such fury escaped and, supremest jest of all,

been made to rejoice in the trapping.

“They’ve licked me; licked me to a finish!” he whimpered.

The house was peaceful, that evening, and he enjoyed a game of pinochle

with his wife. He indignantly told the Tempter that he was content to

do things in the good old-fashioned way. The day after, he went to see

the purchasing-agent of the Street Traction Company and they made plans

for the secret purchase of lots along the Evanston Road. But as he drove

to his office he struggled, “I’m going to run things and figure out

things to suit myself--when I retire.”

VI

Ted had come down from the University for the week-end. Though he no

longer spoke of mechanical engineering and though he was reticent about

his opinion of his instructors, he seemed no more reconciled to college,

and his chief interest was his wireless telephone set.

On Saturday evening he took Eunice Littlefield to a dance at Devon

Woods. Babbitt had a glimpse of her, bouncing in the seat of the car,

brilliant in a scarlet cloak over a frock of thinnest creamy silk. They

two had not returned when the Babbitts went to bed, at half-past eleven.

At a blurred indefinite time of late night Babbitt was awakened by the

ring of the telephone and gloomily crawled down-stairs. Howard

Littlefield was speaking:

“George, Euny isn’t back yet. Is Ted?”

“No--at least his door is open--”

“They ought to be home. Eunice said the dance would be over at midnight.

What’s the name of those people where they’re going?”

“Why, gosh, tell the truth, I don’t know, Howard. It’s some classmate of

Ted’s, out in Devon Woods. Don’t see what we can do. Wait, I’ll skip up

and ask Myra if she knows their name.”

Babbitt turned on the light in Ted’s room. It was a brown boyish room;

disordered dresser, worn books, a high-school pennant, photographs of

basket-ball teams and baseball teams. Ted was decidedly not there.

Mrs. Babbitt, awakened, irritably observed that she certainly did not

know the name of Ted’s host, that it was late, that Howard Littlefield

was but little better than a born fool, and that she was sleepy. But she

remained awake and worrying while Babbitt, on the sleeping-porch,

struggled back into sleep through the incessant soft rain of her

remarks. It was after dawn when he was aroused by her shaking him and

calling “George! George!” in something like horror.

“Wha--wha--what is it?”

“Come here quick and see. Be quiet!”

She led him down the hall to the door of Ted’s room and pushed it gently

open. On the worn brown rug he saw a froth of rose-colored chiffon

lingerie; on the sedate Morris chair a girl’s silver slipper. And on the

pillows were two sleepy heads--Ted’s and Eunice’s.

Ted woke to grin, and to mutter with unconvincing defiance, “Good

morning! Let me introduce my wife--Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt Eunice

Littlefield Babbitt, Esquiress.”

“Good God!” from Babbitt, and from his wife a long wailing, “You’ve gone

and--”

“We got married last evening. Wife! Sit up and say a pretty good morning

to mother-in-law.”

But Eunice hid her shoulders and her charming wild hair under the

pillow.

By nine o’clock the assembly which was gathered about Ted and Eunice in

the living-room included Mr. and Mrs. George Babbitt, Dr. and Mrs.

Howard Littlefield, Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Escott, Mr. and Mrs. Henry T.

Thompson, and Tinka Babbitt, who was the only pleased member of the

inquisition.

A crackling shower of phrases filled the room:

“At their age--” “Ought to be annulled--” “Never heard of such a thing

in--” “Fault of both of them and--” “Keep it out of the papers--” “Ought

to be packed off to school--” “Do something about it at once, and what I

say is--” “Damn good old-fashioned spanking--”

Worst of them all was Verona. “_Ted!_ Some way _must_ be found to make

you under_stand_ how dreadfully _serious_ this is, instead of standing

_around_ with that silly foolish _smile_ on your face!”

He began to revolt. “Gee whittakers, Rone, you got married yourself,

didn’t you?”

“That’s entirely different.”

“You bet it is! They didn’t have to work on Eu and me with a chain and

tackle to get us to hold hands!”

“Now, young man, we’ll have no more flippancy,” old Henry Thompson

ordered. “You listen to me.”

“You listen to Grandfather!” said Verona.

“Yes, listen to your Grandfather!” said Mrs. Babbitt.

“Ted, you listen to Mr. Thompson!” said Howard Littlefield.

“Oh, for the love o’ Mike, I am listening!” Ted shouted. “But you look

here, all of you! I’m getting sick and tired of being the corpse in this

post mortem! If you want to kill somebody, go kill the preacher that

married us! Why, he stung me five dollars, and all the money I had in

the world was six dollars and two bits. I’m getting just about enough of

being hollered at!”

A new voice, booming, authoritative, dominated the room. It was Babbitt.

“Yuh, there’s too darn many putting in their oar! Rone, you dry up.

Howard and I are still pretty strong, and able to do our own cussing.

Ted, come into the dining-room and we’ll talk this over.”

In the dining-room, the door firmly closed, Babbitt walked to his son,

put both hands on his shoulders. “You’re more or less right. They all

talk too much. Now what do you plan to do, old man?”

“Gosh, dad, are you really going to be human?”

“Well, I-- Remember one time you called us ‘the Babbitt men’ and said we

ought to stick together? I want to. I don’t pretend to think this isn’t

serious. The way the cards are stacked against a young fellow to-day, I

can’t say I approve of early marriages. But you couldn’t have married a

better girl than Eunice; and way I figure it, Littlefield is darn lucky

to get a Babbitt for a son-in-law! But what do you plan to do? Course

you could go right ahead with the U., and when you’d finished--”

“Dad, I can’t stand it any more. Maybe it’s all right for some fellows.

Maybe I’ll want to go back some day. But me, I want to get into

mechanics. I think I’d get to be a good inventor. There’s a fellow that

would give me twenty dollars a week in a factory right now.”

“Well--” Babbitt crossed the floor, slowly, ponderously, seeming a

little old. “I’ve always wanted you to have a college degree.” He

meditatively stamped across the floor again. “But I’ve never-- Now, for

heaven’s sake, don’t repeat this to your mother, or she’d remove what

little hair I’ve got left, but practically, I’ve never done a single

thing I’ve wanted to in my whole life! I don’t know ’s I’ve accomplished

anything except just get along. I figure out I’ve made about a quarter

of an inch out of a possible hundred rods. Well, maybe you’ll carry

things on further. I don’t know. But I do get a kind of sneaking

pleasure out of the fact that you knew what you wanted to do and did it.

Well, those folks in there will try to bully you, and tame you down.

Tell ’em to go to the devil! I’ll back you. Take your factory job, if

you want to. Don’t be scared of the family. No, nor all of Zenith. Nor

of yourself, the way I’ve been. Go ahead, old man! The world is yours!”

Arms about each other’s shoulders, the Babbitt men marched into the

living-room and faced the swooping family.