I
To George F. Babbitt, as to most prosperous citizens of
Zenith, his motor car was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism.
The office was his pirate ship but the car his perilous
excursion ashore.
Among the tremendous crises of each day none was more
dramatic than starting the engine. It was slow on cold mornings;
there was the long, anxious whirr of the starter; and
sometimes he had to drip ether into the cocks of the cylinders,
which was so very interesting that at lunch he would
chronicle it drop by drop, and orally calculate how much each
drop had cost him.
This morning he was darkly prepared to find something
wrong, and he felt belittled when the mixture exploded sweet
and strong, and the car didn't even brush the door-jamb,
gouged and splintery with many bruisings by fenders, as he
backed out of the garage. He was confused. He shouted
"Morning!'' to Sam Doppelbrau with more cordiality than
he had intended.
Babbitt's green and white Dutch Colonial house was one
of three in that block on Chatham Road. To the left of it
was the residence of Mr. Samuel Doppelbrau, secretary of
an excellent firm of bathroom-fixture jobbers. His was a
comfortable house with no architectural manners whatever; a
large wooden box with a squat tower, a broad porch, and
glossy paint yellow as a yolk. Babbitt disapproved of Mr.
and Mrs. Doppelbrau as "Bohemian.'' From their house
came midnight music and obscene laughter; there were
neighborhood rumors of bootlegged whisky and fast motor
rides. They furnished Babbitt with many happy evenings of
discussion, during which he announced firmly, "I'm not
strait-laced, and I don't mind seeing a fellow throw in a drink once
in a while, but when it comes to deliberately trying to get
away with a lot of hell-raising all the while like the
Doppelbraus do, it's too rich for my blood!''
On the other side of Babbitt lived Howard Littlefield, Ph.D.,
in a strictly modern house whereof the lower part was dark
red tapestry brick, with a leaded oriel, the upper part of pale
stucco like spattered clay, and the roof red-tiled. Littlefield
was the Great Scholar of the neighborhood; the authority on
everything in the world except babies, cooking, and motors.
He was a Bachelor of Arts of Blodgett College, and a Doctor
of Philosophy in economics of Yale. He was the employment-manager
and publicity-counsel of the Zenith Street Traction
Company. He could, on ten hours' notice, appear before
the board of aldermen or the state legislature and prove, absolutely,
with figures all in rows and with precedents from
Poland and New Zealand, that the street-car company loved
the Public and yearned over its employees; that all its stock
was owned by Widows and Orphans; and that whatever it
desired to do would benefit property-owners by increasing
rental values, and help the poor by lowering rents. All his
acquaintances turned to Littlefield when they desired to know
the date of the battle of Saragossa, the definition of the word
"sabotage,'' the future of the German mark, the translation
of "hinc illæ lachrimæ,'' or the number of products of
coal
tar. He awed Babbitt by confessing that he often sat up
till midnight reading the figures and footnotes in Government
reports, or skimming (with amusement at the author's mistakes)
the latest volumes of chemistry, archeology, and ichthyology.
But Littlefield's great value was as a spiritual example.
Despite his strange learnings he was as strict a Presbyterian
and as firm a Republican as George F. Babbitt. He confirmed
the business men in the faith. Where they knew only
by passionate instinct that their system of industry and manners
was perfect, Dr. Howard Littlefield proved it to them, out
of history, economics, and the confessions of reformed radicals.
Babbitt had a good deal of honest pride in being the neighbor
of such a savant, and in Ted's intimacy with Eunice Littlefield.
At sixteen Eunice was interested in no statistics save
those regarding the ages and salaries of motion-picture stars,
but—as Babbitt definitively put it—"she was her father's
daughter.''
The difference between a light man like Sam Doppelbrau
and a really fine character like Littlefield was revealed in their
appearances. Doppelbrau was disturbingly young for a man
of forty-eight. He wore his derby on the back of his head,
and his red face was wrinkled with meaningless laughter. But
Littlefield was old for a man of forty-two. He was tall, broad,
thick; his gold-rimmed spectacles were engulfed in the folds
of his long face; his hair was a tossed mass of greasy blackness;
he puffed and rumbled as he talked; his Phi Beta Kappa
key shone against a spotty black vest; he smelled of old pipes;
he was altogether funereal and archidiaconal; and to real-estate brokerage and the jobbing of bathroom-fixtures he
added an aroma of sanctity.
This morning he was in front of his house, inspecting the
grass parking between the curb and the broad cement sidewalk.
Babbitt stopped his car and leaned out to shout
"Mornin'!'' Littlefield lumbered over and stood with one foot
up on the running-board.
"Fine morning,'' said Babbitt, lighting—illegally early—
his second cigar of the day.
"Yes, it's a mighty fine morning,'' said Littlefield.
"Spring coming along fast now.''
"Yes, it's real spring now, all right,'' said Littlefield.
"Still cold nights, though. Had to have a couple blankets,
on the sleeping-porch last night.''
"Yes, it wasn't any too warm last night,'' said Littlefield.
"But I don't anticipate we'll have any more real cold
weather now.''
"No, but still, there was snow at Tiflis, Montana, yesterday,''
said the Scholar, "and you remember the blizzard they
had out West three days ago—thirty inches of snow at Greeley,
Colorado—and two years ago we had a snow-squall right
here in Zenith on the twenty-fifth of April.''
"Is that a fact! Say, old man, what do you think about
the Republican candidate? Who'll they nominate for president?
Don't you think it's about time we had a real business
administration?''
"In my opinion, what the country needs, first and foremost,
is a good, sound, business-like conduct of its affairs. What
we need is—a business administration!'' said Littlefield.
"I'm glad to hear you say that! I certainly am glad to
hear you say that! I didn't know how you'd feel about it,
with all your associations with colleges and so on, and I'm
glad you feel that way. What the country needs—just at this
present juncture—is neither a college president nor a lot
of monkeying with foreign affairs, but a good—sound—
economical—business—administration, that will give us a chance
to have something like a decent turnover.''
"Yes. It isn't generally realized that even in China the
schoolmen are giving way to more practical men, and of
course you can see what that implies.''
"Is that a fact! Well, well!'' breathed Babbitt, feeling
much calmer, and much happier about the way things were
going in the world. "Well, it's been nice to stop and parleyvoo
a second. Guess I'll have to get down to the office now and
sting a few clients. Well, so long, old man. See you tonight.
So long.''