VI
At that moment in Zenith, Jake Offutt, the politician, and
Henry T. Thompson were in conference. Offutt suggested,
"The thing to do is to get your fool son-in-law, Babbitt, to
put it over. He's one of these patriotic guys. When he
grabs a piece of property for the gang, he makes it look like
we were dyin' of love for the dear peepul, and I do love to
buy respectability—reasonable. Wonder how long we can
keep it up, Hank? We're safe as long as the good little boys
like George Babbitt and all the nice respectable labor-leaders
think you and me are rugged patriots. There's swell pickings
for an honest politician here, Hank: a whole city working to
provide cigars and fried chicken and dry martinis for us, and
rallying to our banner with indignation, oh, fierce indignation,
whenever some squealer like this fellow Seneca Doane comes
along! Honest, Hank, a smart codger like me ought to be
ashamed of himself if he didn't milk cattle like them, when
they come around mooing for it! But the Traction gang
can't get away with grand larceny like it used to. I wonder
when— Hank, I wish we could fix some way to run this
fellow Seneca Doane out of town. It's him or us!''
At that moment in Zenith, three hundred and forty or
fifty thousand Ordinary People were asleep, a vast unpenetrated
shadow. In the slum beyond the railroad tracks, a
young man who for six months had sought work turned on
the gas and killed himself and his wife.
At that moment Lloyd Mallam, the poet, owner of the
Hafiz Book Shop, was finishing a rondeau to show how diverting
was life amid the feuds of medieval Florence, but how
dull it was in so obvious a place as Zenith.
And at that moment George F. Babbitt turned ponderously
in bed—the last turn, signifying that he'd had enough of this
worried business of falling asleep and was about it in earnest.
Instantly he was in the magic dream. He was somewhere
among unknown people who laughed at him. He slipped
away, ran down the paths of a midnight garden, and at the
gate the fairy child was waiting. Her dear and tranquil hand
caressed his cheek. He was gallant and wise and well-beloved;
warm ivory were her arms; and beyond perilous moors the
brave sea glittered.
