Babbit (37 page)

  Service finds its finest opportunity and development
only in its broadest and deepest application and the consideration
of its perpetual action upon reaction. I believe the highest type
of Service, like the most progressive tenets of ethics, senses
unceasingly and is motived by active adherence and loyalty to that
which is the essential principle of Boosterism - Good Citizenship
in all its factors and aspects. DAD PETERSEN.

  Compliments of Dadbury Petersen Advertising Corp.
"Ads, not Fads, at Dad's"

  The Boosters all read Mr. Peterson's aphorism and
said they understood it perfectly.

  The meeting opened with the regular weekly "stunts."
Retiring President Vergil Gunch was in the chair, his stiff hair
like a hedge, his voice like a brazen gong of festival. Members who
had brought guests introduced them publicly. "This tall red-headed
piece of misinformation is the sporting editor of the Press," said
Willis Ijams; and H. H. Hazen, the druggist, chanted, "Boys, when
you're on a long motor tour and finally get to a romantic spot or
scene and draw up and remark to the wife, 'This is certainly a
romantic place,' it sends a glow right up and down your vertebrae.
Well, my guest to-day is from such a place, Harper's Ferry,
Virginia, in the beautiful Southland, with memories of good old
General Robert E. Lee and of that brave soul, John Brown who, like
every good Booster, goes marching on - "

  There were two especially distinguished guests: the
leading man of the "Bird of Paradise" company, playing this week at
the Dodsworth Theater, and the mayor of Zenith, the Hon. Lucas
Prout.

  Vergil Gunch thundered, "When we manage to grab this
celebrated Thespian off his lovely aggregation of beautiful
actresses - and I got to admit I butted right into his
dressing-room and told him how the Boosters appreciated the
high-class artistic performance he's giving us - and don't forget
that the treasurer of the Dodsworth is a Booster and will
appreciate our patronage - and when on top of that we yank Hizzonor
out of his multifarious duties at City Hall, then I feel we've done
ourselves proud, and Mr. Prout will now say a few words about the
problems and duties - "

  By rising vote the Boosters decided which was the
handsomest and which the ugliest guest, and to each of them was
given a bunch of carnations, donated, President Gunch noted, by
Brother Booster H. G. Yeager, the Jennifer Avenue florist.

  Each week, in rotation, four Boosters were
privileged to obtain the pleasures of generosity and of publicity
by donating goods or services to four fellow-members, chosen by
lot. There was laughter, this week, when it was announced that one
of the contributors was Barnabas Joy, the undertaker. Everybody
whispered, "I can think of a coupla good guys to be buried if his
donation is a free funeral!"

  Through all these diversions the Boosters were
lunching on chicken croquettes, peas, fried potatoes, coffee, apple
pie, and American cheese. Gunch did not lump the speeches.
Presently he called on the visiting secretary of the Zenith Rotary
Club, a rival organization. The secretary had the distinction of
possessing State Motor Car License Number 5.

  The Rotary secretary laughingly admitted that
wherever he drove in the state so low a number created a sensation,
and "though it was pretty nice to have the honor, yet traffic cops
remembered it only too darn well, and sometimes he didn't know but
what he'd almost as soon have just plain B56,876 or something like
that. Only let any doggone Booster try to get Number 5 away from a
live Rotarian next year, and watch the fur fly! And if they'd
permit him, he'd wind up by calling for a cheer for the Boosters
and Rotarians and the Kiwanis all together!"

  Babbitt sighed to Professor Pumphrey, "Be pretty
nice to have as low a number as that! Everybody 'd say, 'He must be
an important guy!' Wonder how he got it? I'll bet he wined and
dined the superintendent of the Motor License Bureau to a
fare-you-well!"

  Then Chum Frink addressed them:

  "Some of you may feel that it's out of place here to
talk on a strictly highbrow and artistic subject, but I want to
come out flatfooted and ask you boys to O.K. the proposition of a
Symphony Orchestra for Zenith. Now, where a lot of you make your
mistake is in assuming that if you don't like classical music and
all that junk, you ought to oppose it. Now, I want to confess that,
though I'm a literary guy by profession, I don't care a rap for all
this long-haired music. I'd rather listen to a good jazz band any
time than to some piece by Beethoven that hasn't any more tune to
it than a bunch of fighting cats, and you couldn't whistle it to
save your life! But that isn't the point. Culture has become as
necessary an adornment and advertisement for a city to-day as
pavements or bank-clearances. It's Culture, in theaters and
art-galleries and so on, that brings thousands of visitors to New
York every year and, to be frank, for all our splendid attainments
we haven't yet got the Culture of a New York or Chicago or Boston -
or at least we don't get the credit for it. The thing to do then,
as a live bunch of go-getters, is to CAPITALIZE CULTURE; to go
right out and grab it.

  "Pictures and books are fine for those that have the
time to study 'em, but they don't shoot out on the road and holler
'This is what little old Zenith can put up in the way of Culture.'
That's precisely what a Symphony Orchestra does do. Look at the
credit Minneapolis and Cincinnati get. An orchestra with
first-class musickers and a swell conductor - and I believe we
ought to do the thing up brown and get one of the highest-paid
conductors on the market, providing he ain't a Hun - it goes right
into Beantown and New York and Washington; it plays at the best
theaters to the most cultured and moneyed people; it gives such
class-advertising as a town can get in no other way; and the guy
who is so short-sighted as to crab this orchestra proposition is
passing up the chance to impress the glorious name of Zenith on
some big New York millionaire that might-that might establish a
branch factory here!

  "I could also go into the fact that for our
daughters who show an interest in highbrow music and may want to
teach it, having an A1 local organization is of great benefit, but
let's keep this on a practical basis, and I call on you good
brothers to whoop it up for Culture and a World-beating Symphony
Orchestra!"

  They applauded.

  To a rustle of excitement President Gunch
proclaimed, "Gentlemen, we will now proceed to the annual election
of officers." For each of the six offices, three candidates had
been chosen by a committee. The second name among the candidates
for vice-president was Babbitt's.

  He was surprised. He looked self-conscious. His
heart pounded. He was still more agitated when the ballots were
counted and Gunch said, "It's a pleasure to announce that Georgie
Babbitt will be the next assistant gavel-wielder. I know of no man
who stands more stanchly for common sense and enterprise than good
old George. Come on, let's give him our best long yell!"

  As they adjourned, a hundred men crushed in to slap
his back. He had never known a higher moment. He drove away in a
blur of wonder. He lunged into his office, chuckling to Miss
McGoun, "Well, I guess you better congratulate your boss! Been
elected vice-president of the Boosters!"

  He was disappointed. She answered only, "Yes - Oh,
Mrs. Babbitt's been trying to get you on the 'phone." But the new
salesman, Fritz Weilinger, said, "By golly, chief, say, that's
great, that's perfectly great! I'm tickled to death!
Congratulations!"

  Babbitt called the house, and crowed to his wife,
"Heard you were trying to get me, Myra. Say, you got to hand it to
little Georgie, this time! Better talk careful! You are now
addressing the vice-president of the Boosters' Club!"

  "Oh, Georgie - "

  "Pretty nice, huh? Willis Ijams is the new
president, but when he's away, little ole Georgie takes the gavel
and whoops 'em up and introduces the speakers - no matter if
they're the governor himself - and - "

  "George! Listen!"

  " - It puts him in solid with big men like Doc
Dilling and - "

  "George! Paul Riesling - "

  "Yes, sure, I'll 'phone Paul and let him know about
it right away."

  "Georgie! LISTEN! Paul's in jail. He shot his wife,
he shot Zilla, this noon. She may not live."

  I

  
H
E drove to the
City Prison, not blindly, but with unusual fussy care at corners,
the fussiness of an old woman potting plants. It kept him from
facing the obscenity of fate.

  The attendant said, "Naw, you can't see any of the
prisoners till three-thirty - visiting-hour."

  It was three. For half an hour Babbitt sat looking
at a calendar and a clock on a whitewashed wall. The chair was hard
and mean and creaky. People went through the office and, he
thought, stared at him. He felt a belligerent defiance which broke
into a wincing fear of this machine which was grinding Paul -
Paul

  Exactly at half-past three he sent in his name.

  The attendant returned with "Riesling says he don't
want to see you."

  "You're crazy! You didn't give him my name! Tell him
it's George wants to see him, George Babbitt."

  "Yuh, I told him, all right, all right! He said he
didn't want to see you."

  "Then take me in anyway."

  "Nothing doing. If you ain't his lawyer, if he don't
want to see you, that's all there is to it."

  "But, my GOD - Say, let me see the warden."

  "He's busy. Come on, now, you - " Babbitt reared
over him. The attendant hastily changed to a coaxing "You can come
back and try to-morrow. Probably the poor guy is off his nut."

  Babbitt drove, not at all carefully or fussily,
sliding viciously past trucks, ignoring the truckmen's curses, to
the City Hall; he stopped with a grind of wheels against the curb,
and ran up the marble steps to the office of the Hon. Mr. Lucas
Prout, the mayor. He bribed the mayor's doorman with a dollar; he
was instantly inside, demanding, "You remember me, Mr. Prout?
Babbitt - vice-president of the Boosters - campaigned for you? Say,
have you heard about poor Riesling? Well, I want an order on the
warden or whatever you call um of the City Prison to take me back
and see him. Good. Thanks."

  In fifteen minutes he was pounding down the prison
corridor to a cage where Paul Riesling sat on a cot, twisted like
an old beggar, legs crossed, arms in a knot, biting at his clenched
fist.

  Paul looked up blankly as the keeper unlocked the
cell, admitted Babbitt, and left them together. He spoke slowly:
"Go on! Be moral!"

  Babbitt plumped on the couch beside him. "I'm not
going to be moral! I don't care what happened! I just want to do
anything I can. I'm glad Zilla got what was coming to her."

  Paul said argumentatively, "Now, don't go jumping on
Zilla. I've been thinking; maybe she hasn't had any too easy a
time. Just after I shot her - I didn't hardly mean to, but she got
to deviling me so I went crazy, just for a second, and pulled out
that old revolver you and I used to shoot rabbits with, and took a
crack at her. Didn't hardly mean to - After that, when I was trying
to stop the blood - It was terrible what it did to her shoulder,
and she had beautiful skin - Maybe she won't die. I hope it won't
leave her skin all scarred. But just afterward, when I was hunting
through the bathroom for some cotton to stop the blood, I ran onto
a little fuzzy yellow duck we hung on the tree one Christmas, and I
remembered she and I'd been awfully happy then - Hell. I can't
hardly believe it's me here." As Babbitt's arm tightened about his
shoulder, Paul sighed, "I'm glad you came. But I thought maybe
you'd lecture me, and when you've committed a murder, and been
brought here and everything - there was a big crowd outside the
apartment house, all staring, and the cops took me through it - Oh,
I'm not going to talk about it any more."