I
As he walked through the train, looking for familiar faces,
he saw only one person whom he knew, and that was Seneca
Doane, the lawyer who, after the blessings of being in Babbitt's
own class at college and of becoming a corporation-counsel,
had turned crank, had headed farmer-labor tickets
and fraternized with admitted socialists. Though he was in
rebellion, naturally Babbitt did not care to be seen talking
with such a fanatic, but in all the Pullmans he could find no
other acquaintance, and reluctantly he halted. Seneca Doane
was a slight, thin-haired man, rather like Chum Frink except
that he hadn't Frink's grin. He was reading a book called
"The Way of All Flesh.'' It looked religious to Babbitt, and
he wondered if Doane could possibly have been converted
and turned decent and patriotic.
"Why, hello, Doane,'' he said.
Doane looked up. His voice was curiously kind. "Oh!
How do, Babbitt.''
"Been away, eh?''
"Yes, I've been in Washington.''
"Washington, eh? How's the old Government making out?''
"It's— Won't you sit down?''
"Thanks. Don't care if I do. Well, well! Been quite a
while since I've had a good chance to talk to you, Doane. I
was, uh— Sorry you didn't turn up at the last class-dinner.''
"Oh-thanks.''
"How's the unions coming? Going to run for mayor again?''
Doane seemed restless. He was fingering the pages of his
book. He said "I might'' as though it didn't mean anything
in particular, and he smiled.
Babbitt liked that smile, and hunted for conversation: "Saw
a bang-up cabaret in New York: the `Good-Morning Cutie'
bunch at the Hotel Minton.''
"Yes, they're pretty girls. I danced there one evening.''
"Oh. Like dancing?''
"Naturally. I like dancing and pretty women and good
food better than anything else in the world. Most men do.''
"But gosh, Doane, I thought you fellows wanted to take
all the good eats and everything away from us.''
"No. Not at all. What I'd like to see is the meetings of
the Garment Workers held at the Ritz, with a dance afterward.
Isn't that reasonable?''
"Yuh, might be good idea, all right. Well— Shame I
haven't seen more of you, recent years. Oh, say, hope you
haven't held it against me, my bucking you as mayor, going
on the stump for Prout. You see, I'm an organization Republican,
and I kind of felt—''
"There's no reason why you shouldn't fight me. I have no
doubt you're good for the Organization. I remember—in
college you were an unusually liberal, sensitive chap. I can
still recall your saying to me that you were going to be a
lawyer, and take the cases of the poor for nothing, and fight
the rich. And I remember I said I was going to be one of
the rich myself, and buy paintings and live at Newport. I'm
sure you inspired us all.''
"Well.... Well.... I've always aimed to be liberal.''
Babbitt was enormously shy and proud and self-conscious;
he tried to look like the boy he had been a quarter-century
ago, and he shone upon his old friend Seneca Doane as he
rumbled, "Trouble with a lot of these fellows, even the live
wires and some of 'em that think they're forward-looking, is
they aren't broad-minded and liberal. Now, I always believe
in giving the other fellow a chance, and listening to his ideas.''
"That's fine.''
"Tell you how I figure it: A little opposition is good for all
of us, so a fellow, especially if he's a business man and engaged
in doing the work of the world, ought to be liberal.''
"Yes—''
"I always say a fellow ought to have Vision and Ideals.
I guess some of the fellows in my business think I'm pretty
visionary, but I just let 'em think what they want to and go
right on—same as you do.... By golly, this is nice to have
a chance to sit and visit and kind of, you might say, brush up
on our ideals.''
"But of course we visionaries do rather get beaten. Doesn't
it bother you?''
"Not a bit! Nobody can dictate to me what I think!''
"You're the man I want to help me. I want you to talk
to some of the business men and try to make them a little
more liberal in their attitude toward poor Beecher Ingram.''
"Ingram? But, why, he's this nut preacher that got kicked
out of the Congregationalist Church, isn't he, and preaches
free love and sedition?''
This, Doane explained, was indeed the general conception
of Beecher Ingram, but he himself saw Beecher Ingram as
a priest of the brotherhood of man, of which Babbitt was
notoriously an upholder. So would Babbitt keep his acquaintances
from hounding Ingram and his forlorn little church?
"You bet! I'll call down any of the boys I hear getting
funny about Ingram,'' Babbitt said affectionately to his dear
friend Doane.
Doane warmed up and became reminiscent. He spoke of
student days in Germany, of lobbying for single tax in Washington,
of international labor conferences. He mentioned his
friends, Lord Wycombe, Colonel Wedgwood, Professor Piccoli.
Babbitt had always supposed that Doane associated
only with the I. W. W., but now he nodded gravely, as one
who knew Lord Wycombes by the score, and he got in two references
to Sir Gerald Doak. He felt daring and idealistic and
cosmopolitan.
Suddenly, in his new spiritual grandeur, he was sorry for
Zilla Riesling, and understood her as these ordinary fellows
at the Boosters' Club never could.
