II
Crowded in his car, they came driving up to Turnverein
Hall, South Zenith—Babbitt, his wife, Verona, Ted, and Paul
and Zilla Riesling. The hall was over a delicatessen shop, in
a street banging with trolleys and smelling of onions and
gasoline and fried fish. A new appreciation of Babbitt filled
all of them, including Babbitt.
"Don't know how you keep it up, talking to three bunches
in one evening. Wish I had your strength,'' said Paul; and
Ted exclaimed to Verona, "The old man certainly does know
how to kid these roughnecks along!''
Men in black sateen shirts, their faces new-washed but with
a hint of grime under their eyes, were loitering on the broad
stairs up to the hall. Babbitt's party politely edged through
them and into the whitewashed room, at the front of which
was a dais with a red-plush throne and a pine altar painted
watery blue, as used nightly by the Grand Masters and Supreme
Potentates of innumerable lodges. The hall was full.
As Babbitt pushed through the fringe standing at the back,
he heard the precious tribute, "That's him!'' The chairman
bustled down the center aisle with an impressive, "The speaker?
All ready, sir! Uh—let's see—what was the name, sir?''
Then Babbitt slid into a sea of eloquence:
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Sixteenth Ward, there is one
who cannot be with us here to-night, a man than whom there
is no more stalwart Trojan in all the political arena—I refer
to our leader, the Honorable Lucas Prout, standard-bearer of
the city and county of Zenith. Since he is not here, I trust
that you will bear with me if, as a friend and neighbor, as
one who is proud to share with you the common blessing
of being a resident of the great city of Zenith, I tell you in
all candor, honesty, and sincerity how the issues of this critical
campaign appear to one plain man of business—to one who,
brought up to the blessings of poverty and of manual labor,
has, even when Fate condemned him to sit at a desk, yet
never forgotten how it feels, by heck, to be up at five-thirty
and at the factory with the ole dinner-pail in his hardened
mitt when the whistle blew at seven, unless the owner sneaked
in ten minutes on us and blew it early! (Laughter.) To
come down to the basic and fundamental issues of this campaign,
the great error, insincerely promulgated by Seneca
Doane—''
There were workmen who jeered—young cynical workmen,
for the most part foreigners, Jews, Swedes, Irishmen, Italians
—but the older men, the patient, bleached, stooped carpenters
and mechanics, cheered him; and when he worked up to his
anecdote of Lincoln their eyes were wet.
Modestly, busily, he hurried out of the hall on delicious
applause, and sped off to his third audience of the evening.
"Ted, you better drive,'' he said. "Kind of all in after that
spiel. Well, Paul, how'd it go? Did I get 'em?''
"Bully! Corking! You had a lot of pep.''
Mrs. Babbitt worshiped, "Oh, it was fine! So clear and
interesting, and such nice ideas. When I hear you orating I
realize I don't appreciate how profoundly you think and what
a splendid brain and vocabulary you have. Just—splendid.''
But Verona was irritating. "Dad,'' she worried, "how do
you know that public ownership of utilities and so on and so
forth will always be a failure?''
Mrs. Babbitt reproved, "Rone, I should think you could see
and realize that when your father's all worn out with orating,
it's no time to expect him to explain these complicated subjects.
I'm sure when he's rested he'll be glad to explain it to
you. Now let's all be quiet and give Papa a chance to get
ready for his next speech. Just think! Right now they're
gathering in Maccabee Temple, and waiting for
us!''
