III
They were on the New York express, incredibly bound for
Maine, incredibly without their families. They were free, in
a man's world, in the smoking-compartment of the Pullman.
Outside the car window was a glaze of darkness stippled
with the gold of infrequent mysterious lights. Babbitt was
immensely conscious, in the sway and authoritative clatter of
the train, of going, of going on. Leaning toward Paul he
grunted, "Gosh, pretty nice to be hiking, eh?''
The small room, with its walls of ocher-colored steel, was
filled mostly with the sort of men he classified as the Best
Fellows You'll Ever Meet—Real Good Mixers. There were
four of them on the long seat; a fat man with a shrewd fat face,
a knife-edged man in a green velour hat, a very young young
man with an imitation amber cigarette-holder, and Babbitt.
Facing them, on two movable leather chairs, were Paul and a
lanky, old-fashioned man, very cunning, with wrinkles bracketing
his mouth. They all read newspapers or trade journals,
boot-and-shoe journals, crockery journals, and waited for the
joys of conversation. It was the very young man, now making
his first journey by Pullman, who began it.
"Say, gee, I had a wild old time in Zenith!'' he gloried.
"Say, if a fellow knows the ropes there he can have as wild a
time as he can in New York!''
"Yuh, I bet you simply raised the old Ned. I figured you
were a bad man when I saw you get on the train!'' chuckled the
fat one.
The others delightedly laid down their papers.
"Well, that's all right now! I guess I seen some things in
the Arbor you never seen!'' complained the boy.
"Oh, I'll bet you did! I bet you lapped up the malted milk
like a reg'lar little devil!''
Then, the boy having served as introduction, they ignored
him and charged into real talk. Only Paul, sitting by himself,
reading at a serial story in a newspaper, failed to join them
and all but Babbitt regarded him as a snob, an eccentric, a person
of no spirit.
Which of them said which has never been determined, and
does not matter, since they all had the same ideas and expressed
them always with the same ponderous and brassy assurance.
If it was not Babbitt who was delivering any given verdict, at
least he was beaming on the chancellor who did deliver it.
"At that, though,'' announced the first "they're selling quite
some booze in Zenith. Guess they are everywhere. I don't
know how you fellows feel about prohibition, but the way it
strikes me is that it's a mighty beneficial thing for the poor
zob that hasn't got any will-power but for fellows like us,
it's an infringement of personal liberty.''
"That's a fact. Congress has got no right to interfere with
a fellow's personal liberty,'' contended the second.
A man came in from the car, but as all the seats were full
he stood up while he smoked his cigarette. He was an Outsider;
he was not one of the Old Families of the smoking-compartment.
They looked upon him bleakly and, after trying
to appear at ease by examining his chin in the mirror, he
gave it up and went out in silence.
"Just been making a trip through the South. Business
conditions not very good down there,'' said one of the council.
"Is that a fact! Not very good, eh?''
"No, didn't strike me they were up to normal.''
"Not up to normal, eh?''
"No, I wouldn't hardly say they were.''
The whole council nodded sagely and decided, "Yump. not
hardly up to snuff.''
"Well, business conditions ain't what they ought to be out
West, neither, not by a long shot.''
"That's a fact. And I guess the hotel business feels it.
That's one good thing, though: these hotels that've been charging
five bucks a day—yes, and maybe six—seven!—for a rotten
room are going to be darn glad to get four, and maybe give you
a little service.''
"That's a fact. Say, uh, speaknubout hotels, I hit the St.
Francis at San Francisco for the first time, the other day, and,
say, it certainly is a first-class place.''
"You're right, brother! The St. Francis is a swell place—
absolutely A1.''
"That's a fact. I'm right with you. It's a first-class place.''
"Yuh, but say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Rippleton,
in Chicago? I don't want to knock—I believe in boosting
wherever you can—but say, of all the rotten dumps that pass
'emselves off as first-class hotels, that's the worst. I'm going
to get those guys, one of these days, and I told 'em so. You
know how I am—well, maybe you don't know, but I'm accustomed
to first-class accommodations, and I'm perfectly willing
to pay a reasonable price. I got into Chicago late the other
night, and the Rippleton's near the station—I'd never been
there before, but I says to the taxi-driver—I always believe
in taking a taxi when you get in late; may cost a little more
money, but, gosh, it's worth it when you got to be up early
next morning and out selling a lot of crabs—and I said to
him, `Oh, just drive me over to the Rippleton.'
"Well, we got there, and I breezed up to the desk and said
to the clerk, `Well, brother, got a nice room with bath for
Cousin Bill?' Saaaay! You'd 'a' thought I'd sold him a
second, or asked him to work on Yom Kippur! He hands me
the cold-boiled stare and yaps, `I dunno, friend, I'll see,' and
he ducks behind the rigamajig they keep track of the rooms
on. Well, I guess he called up the Credit Association and
the American Security League to see if I was all right—he
certainly took long enough—or maybe he just went to sleep;
but finally he comes out and looks at me like it hurts him, and
croaks, `I think I can let you have a room with bath.' `Well,
that's awful nice of you—sorry to trouble you—how much 'll
it set me back?' I says, real sweet. `It'll cost you seven bucks
a day, friend,' he says.
"Well, it was late, and anyway, it went down on my
expense-account—gosh, if I'd been paying it instead of the firm, I'd
'a' tramped the streets all night before I'd 'a' let any hick
tavern stick me seven great big round dollars, believe me! So
I lets it go at that. Well, the clerk wakes a nice young bell
hop—fine lad—not a day over seventy-nine years old—fought
at the Battle of Gettysburg and doesn't know it's over yet—
thought I was one of the Confederates, I guess, from the way
he looked at me—and Rip van Winkle took me up to something—
I found out afterwards they called it a room, but first
I thought there'd been some mistake—I thought they were
putting me in the Salvation Army collection-box! At seven
per each and every
diem! Gosh!''
"Yuh, I've heard the Rippleton was pretty cheesy. Now,
when I go to Chicago I always stay at the Blackstone or the
La Salle—first-class places.''
"Say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Birchdale at Terre
Haute? How is it?''
"Oh, the Birchdale is a first-class hotel.''
(Twelve minutes of conference on the state of hotels in
South Bend, Flint, Dayton, Tulsa, Wichita, Fort Worth, Winona,
Erie, Fargo, and Moose Jaw.)
"Speaknubout prices,'' the man in the velour hat observed,
fingering the elk-tooth on his heavy watch-chain, "I'd like to
know where they get this stuff about clothes coming down.
Now, you take this suit I got on.'' He pinched his trousers-leg.
"Four years ago I paid forty-two fifty for it, and it was
real sure-'nough value. Well, here the other day I went into
a store back home and asked to see a suit, and the fellow yanks
out some hand-me-downs that, honest, I wouldn't put on a
hired man. Just out of curiosity I asks him, `What you
charging for that junk?' `Junk,' he says, `what d' you mean
junk? That's a swell piece of goods, all wool—' Like hell!
It was nice vegetable wool, right off the Ole Plantation!
`It's all wool,' he says, `and we get sixty-seven ninety for it.'
`Oh, you do, do you!' I says. `Not from me you don't,' I
says, and I walks right out on him. You bet! I says to the
wife, `Well,' I said, `as long as your strength holds out and
you can go on putting a few more patches on papa's pants,
we'll just pass up buying clothes.'''
"That's right, brother. And just look at collars,
frinstance—''
"Hey! Wait!'' the fat man protested. "What's the matter
with collars? I'm selling collars! D' you realize the cost
of labor on collars is still two hundred and seven per cent.
above—''
They voted that if their old friend the fat man sold collars,
then the price of collars was exactly what it should be;
but all other clothing was tragically too expensive. They admired
and loved one another now. They went profoundly
into the science of business, and indicated that the purpose of
manufacturing a plow or a brick was so that it might be sold.
To them, the Romantic Hero was no longer the knight, the wandering
poet, the cowpuncher, the aviator, nor the brave young
district attorney, but the great sales-manager, who had an
Analysis of Merchandizing Problems on his glass-topped desk,
whose title of nobility was "Go-getter,'' and who devoted himself
and all his young samurai to the cosmic purpose of Selling—
not of selling anything in particular, for or to anybody
in particular, but pure Selling.
The shop-talk roused Paul Riesling. Though he was a
player of violins and an interestingly unhappy husband, he
was also a very able salesman of tar-roofing. He listened to
the fat man's remarks on "the value of house-organs and bulletins
as a method of jazzing-up the Boys out on the road;''
and he himself offered one or two excellent thoughts on the
use of two-cent stamps on circulars. Then he committed an
offense against the holy law of the Clan of Good Fellows. He
became highbrow.
They were entering a city. On the outskirts they passed
a steel-mill which flared in scarlet and orange flame that licked
at the cadaverous stacks, at the iron-sheathed walls and sullen
converters.
"My Lord, look at that—beautiful!'' said Paul.
"You bet it's beautiful, friend. That's the Shelling-Horton
Steel Plant, and they tell me old John Shelling made a good
three million bones out of munitions during the war!'' the
man with the velour hat said reverently.
"I didn't mean—I mean it's lovely the way the light pulls
that picturesque yard, all littered with junk, right out of the
darkness,'' said Paul.
They stared at him, while Babbitt crowed, "Paul there has
certainly got one great little eye for picturesque places and
quaint sights and all that stuff. 'D of been an author or something
if he hadn't gone into the roofing line.''
Paul looked annoyed. (Babbitt sometimes wondered if
Paul appreciated his loyal boosting.) The man in the velour
hat grunted, "Well, personally, I think Shelling-Horton keep
their works awful dirty. Bum routing. But I don't suppose
there's any law against calling 'em `picturesque' if it gets you
that way!''
Paul sulkily returned to his newspaper and the conversation
logically moved on to trains.
"What time do we get into Pittsburg?'' asked Babbitt.
"Pittsburg? I think we get in at—no, that was last year's
schedule—wait a minute—let's see—got a time-table right
here.''
"I wonder if we're on time?''
"Yuh, sure, we must be just about on time.''
"No, we aren't—we were seven minutes late, last station.''
"Were we? Straight? Why, gosh, I thought we were right
on time.''
"No, we're about seven minutes late.''
"Yuh, that's right; seven minutes late.''
The porter entered—a negro in white jacket with brass
buttons.
"How late are we, George?'' growled the fat man.
" 'Deed, I don't know, sir. I think we're about on time,''
said the porter, folding towels and deftly tossing them up on
the rack above the washbowls. The council stared at him
gloomily and when he was gone they wailed:
"I don't know what's come over these niggers, nowadays.
They never give you a civil answer.''
"That's a fact. They're getting so they don't have a single
bit of respect for you. The old-fashioned coon was a fine old
cuss—he knew his place—but these young dinges don't want
to be porters or cotton-pickers. Oh, no! They got to be lawyers
and professors and Lord knows what all! I tell you, it's
becoming a pretty serious problem. We ought to get together
and show the black man, yes, and the yellow man, his place.
Now, I haven't got one particle of race-prejudice. I'm the first
to be glad when a nigger succeeds—so long as he stays where
he belongs and doesn't try to usurp the rightful authority and
business ability of the white man.''
"That's the i.! And another thing we got to do,'' said the
man with the velour hat (whose name was Koplinsky), "is to
keep these damn foreigners out of the country. Thank the
Lord, we're putting a limit on immigration. These Dagoes
and Hunkies have got to learn that this is a white man's
country, and they ain't wanted here. When we've assimilated
the foreigners we got here now and learned 'em the principles
of Americanism and turned 'em into regular folks, why then
maybe we'll let in a few more.''
"You bet. That's a fact,'' they observed, and passed on to
lighter topics. They rapidly reviewed motor-car prices, tire-mileage, oil-stocks, fishing, and the prospects for the wheat-crop
in Dakota.
But the fat man was impatient at this waste of time. He
was a veteran traveler and free of illusions. Already he had
asserted that he was "an old he-one.'' He leaned forward,
gathered in their attention by his expression of sly humor, and
grumbled, "Oh, hell, boys, let's cut out the formality and get
down to the stories!''
They became very lively and intimate.
Paul and the boy vanished. The others slid forward on the
long seat, unbuttoned their vests, thrust their feet up on the
chairs, pulled the stately brass cuspidors nearer, and ran the
green window-shade down on its little trolley, to shut them
in from the uncomfortable strangeness of night. After each
bark of laughter they cried, "Say, jever hear the one about—''
Babbitt was expansive and virile. When the train stopped at
an important station, the four men walked up and down the
cement platform, under the vast smoky train-shed roof, like a
stormy sky, under the elevated footways, beside crates of
ducks and sides of beef, in the mystery of an unknown city.
They strolled abreast, old friends and well content. At the
long-drawn "Alllll aboarrrrrd''—like a mountain call at dusk—
they hastened back into the smoking-compartment, and till
two of the morning continued the droll tales, their eyes damp
with cigar-smoke and laughter. When they parted they shook
hands, and chuckled, "Well, sir, it's been a great session.
Sorry to bust it up. Mighty glad to met you.''
Babbitt lay awake in the close hot tomb of his Pullman
berth, shaking with remembrance of the fat man's limerick
about the lady who wished to be wild. He raised the shade;
he lay with a puffy arm tucked between his head and the
skimpy pillow, looking out on the sliding silhouettes of trees,
and village lamps like exclamation-points. He was very
happy.