 CHAPTER XII. Mrs. Baxter's little stroke of diplomacy had gone straight to the mark. She was a woman of insight. For every reason, she was well content to have her son spend his evenings at home, though it cannot be claimed that his presence enlivened the household, his condition being one of strange, trans-like irascibility. Evening after evening passed, while he sat dreaming painfully of Mr. Parcher's porch. But in the daytime, though William did not literally make hay while the sun shone, he at least gathered a harvest somewhat resembling hay and general character. Thus, one afternoon, having locked his door to secure himself against intrusion on the part of his mother or Jane, William seated himself at his writing table. And from a drawer therein took a small cardboard box, which he uncovered, placing the contents in view before him upon the table. How meager, how chilling a word is contents! In the box were a faded rose, several other faded roses disintegrated into leaves, three withered four-leaf clovers, a white ribbon still faintly smelling of violets, a small silver shoe-buckle, a large pearl-button, a small pearl-button, a tortoise-shell hairpin, a cross-section from the heel of a small slipper, a stringy remnant probably once an improvised wreath of daisies, four or five withered dandelions, other dried vegetation of a nature now indistinguishable. William gazed reverently upon this junk of precious souvenirs. Then from the inner pocket of his coat he brought forth, warm and crumpled, a lumpish cluster of red geranium blossoms, still aromatic and not quite dead, though naturally after three hours of such intimate confinement they wore an unmistakable look of suffering. With a tenderness which his family had never observed in him since that piteous day in his fifth year when he tried to mend his broken doll, William laid the geranium blossoms in the cardboard box among the botanical and other relics. His gentle eyes showed what the treasures meant to him, and yet it was strange that they should have meant so much, because the source of supply was not more than a quarter of a mile distant, and practically inexhaustible. Ms. Pratt had now been a visitor at the partures for something less than five weeks, but she had made no mention of prospective departure, and there was every reason to suppose that she meant to remain all summer. And as any foliage or anything whatever that she touched, or that touched her, was thenceforth suitable for William's museum, there appeared to be some probability that Autumn might see it so enlarged as to lack that rarity in the component items which is the underlying value of most collections. William's writing table was beside an open window, through which came an insistent whirring, unagreeable to his mood, and looking down upon the sunny lawn he beheld three lowly creatures. One was Genesis, he was cutting the grass, another was Climatis, he had assumed a transient attitude, curiously triangular in order to scratch his ear, the while his anxious eyes never wavered from the third creature. This was Jane. In one hand she held a little stack of sugar sprinkled wafers, which she slowly but steadily depleted, unconscious of the increasingly earnest protest at last nearing agony in the eyes of Climatis. Wearing unaccustomed garments of fashion and festivity, Jane stood in speckless starchy white and a blue sash, watching the lawnmower spout showers of grass as the powerful Genesis easily propelled it along overlapping lanes, back and forth across the yard. From a height of illimitable loftiness, the owner of the cardboard treasury looked down upon the squat common-placeness of those three lives. The condition of Jane and Genesis and Climatis seemed almost laughably pityable to him, the more so because they were unaware of it. They breathed not the starry air that William breathed, but what did it matter to them? The wretched things did not even know that they meant nothing to Miss Pratt. Climatis found his ear too pliable for any great solace from his foot, but he was not disappointed. He had expected little, and his thoughts were elsewhere. Rising, he permitted his nose to follow his troubled eyes with the result that it touched the rim of the last wafer in Jane's external possession. This incident annoyed William. Look there, he called from the window. You mean to eat that cake after the dogs had his face on it? Jane remained placid. It wasn't his face. Well, if it wasn't his face, I'd like to know what? It wasn't his face, Jane repeated. It was his nose. It wasn't all of his nose touched it either. It was only a little outside piece of his nose. Well, are you going to eat that cake, I ask you? Jane broke off a small bit of the wafer. She gave the bit to Climatis and slowly ate what remained, continuing to watch Genesis and apparently unconscious of the scorching gaze from the window. I never saw anything as disgusting as long as I've lived, William announced. I wouldn't have believed it if anybody told me a sister of mine would eat after I didn't, said Jane. I like Climatis anyway. Hey, God, Sir Brother cried. Do you think that makes it any better? And by the way he continued in a tone of even greater severity, I'd like to know where you got those cakes. Where'd you get them? I'd just like to inquire. In the pantry, Jane turned and moved toward the house. I'm going in for some more now. William uttered a cry. These little cakes were sacred. His mother, growing curious to meet a visiting lady of whom, so to speak, she had heard much and thought more, had asked Mae Parcher to bring her guest for iced tea that afternoon. A few others of congenial age had been invited. There was to be a small matinee, in fact, for the honor and pleasure of the son of the house. And the cakes of Jane's onslaught were part of Mrs. Baxter's preparations. There was no telling where Jane would stop. It was conceivable that Miss Pratt herself might go waferless. William returned the cardboard box to its drawer with reverent haste. Then increasing the haste, but dropping the reverence, he hide himself to the pantry with such advantage of longer legs that within the minute he and the wafers appeared in conjunction before his mother, who was arranging fruit and flowers upon a table in the living room. William entered in the stained glass attitude of one bearing gifts. Overhead, both hands supported a tin pan, well laden with small cakes and wafers, for which Jane was silently, but repeatedly and systematically jumping. Even under the stress of these efforts, her expression was cool and collected. She maintained the self-possession that was characteristic of her. Not so with William. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes indignant. You see what this child is doing, he demanded. Are you going to let her ruin everything? Ruin, Mrs. Baxter repeated absently, refreshing with fair water a bowl of flour syrup upon the table. Ruin? Yes, ruin. William was hotly emphatic. If you don't do something with her, it'll all be ruined before they even get here. Mrs. Baxter laughed. Set the pan down, Willie. Set it down, he echoed incredulously, with that child in the room and grabbing like, there! Mrs. Baxter took the pan from him, placed it upon a chair, and with the utmost coolness, selected five wafers and gave them to Jane. I had already promised her she could have five more. You know, the doctor said Jane's digestion was the finest he'd ever misunderstood. They won't hurt her at all, Willie. This deliberate misinterpretation of his motives made it difficult for William to speak. Do you think, he began hoarsely, do you think they're so small, too? Mrs. Baxter went on. She probably wouldn't be sick if she ate them all. My heavens, he burst forth. Do you think I was worrying about he broke off, unable to express himself, saved by a few gestures of despair? Again, finding his voice, and a great deal of it, he demanded. Do you realize that Miss Pratt will be here within less than half an hour? What do you suppose she'd think of the people of this town if she was invited out, expecting decent treatment, and found two-thirds of the cake eaten up before she got there, and what was left of them all mauled and potted over and crumby and chewed up looking from some wretched child? Here William became oratorical, but not with marked effect. Since Jane regarded him with unmoved eyes, while Mrs. Baxter continued to be mildly preoccupied in arranging the table. In fact, throughout this episode in controversy, the ladies' party had not only the numerical, but the emotional advantage. Obviously, the approach of Miss Pratt was not to them what it was to William. I tell you, he declaimed, yes, I tell you that it wouldn't take much of this kind of thing to make Miss Pratt think the people of this town were... Well, it wouldn't take much to make her think the people of this town hadn't learned much of how to behave in society and were pretty uncivilized. He corrected himself, uncivilized, and to think Miss Pratt has to find that out in my house, to think, now, Willie, said Mrs. Baxter gently, you'd better go and brush your hair again before your friends come. You mustn't let yourself get so excited. Excited, he cried incredulously. Do you think I'm excited? Yee-kawts! He smote his hands together and in his despair of her intelligence would have flung himself down upon a chair but was arrested halfway by simultaneous loud outcries from his mother and Jane. Don't sit on the cakes! They both screamed. Saving himself and the pan of wafers by a supreme contortion at the last instant, William decided to remain upon his feet. What do I care for the cakes? He demanded contemptuously, beginning to pace the floor. It's the question of principle I'm talking about. Do you think it's right to give the people of this town a poor name when strangers like Miss Pratt come to v— Willie, his mother looked at him hopelessly, do go and brush your hair. If you could see how you've tousled it, you would. He gave her a dazed glance and strode from the room. Jane looked after him plazedly. Don't he talk funny, she murmured. Yes, dear, said Mrs. Baxter. She shook her head and uttered the enigmatic words. They do. I mean Willie, Mama, said Jane. If it's anything about Miss Pratt, he always talks awful funny. Don't you think Willie talks awful funny if it's anything about Miss Pratt, Mama? Yes, but what, Mama? Jane asked as her mother paused. Well, it happens. People do get like that at his age, Jane. Does everybody? No, I suppose not everybody. Just some. Jane's interest was roused. Well, do those that do, Mama, she inquired. Do they all act like Willie? No, said Mrs. Baxter. That's the trouble. You can't tell what's coming. Jane nodded. I think I know, she said. You mean Willie, William himself interrupted her. He returned violently to the doorway. His hair still tousled and standing upon the threshold said sternly. What is that child wearing her best dress for? Willie, Mrs. Baxter cried. Go brush your hair. I wish to know what that child is all dressed up for, he insisted. To please you. Don't you want her to look her best at your tea? I thought that was it, he cried. And upon this confirmation of his worst fears, he did increased violence to his rumbled hair. I suspected it, but I wouldn't have believed it. You mean to let this child, you mean to let here his agitation affected his throat and his utterance became clouded? A few detached phrases fell from him. Invite my friends, children's party, ye gods. Think Miss Pratt plays dolls. Jane will be very good, his mother said. I shouldn't think of not having her, Willie. And you needn't bother about your friends. They'll be very glad to see her. They all know her, except Miss Pratt perhaps, and Mrs. Baxter paused. And then she asked absently. By the way, haven't I heard somewhere that she likes pretending to be a little girl herself? What? Yes, said Mrs. Baxter, remaining calm. I'm sure I've heard somewhere that she likes to talk, baby talk. Upon this, a tremor passed over William, after which he became rigid. You ask a lady to your house, he began. And even before she gets here, before you've even seen her, you pass judgment upon one of the noblest good gracious. I haven't passed judgment. If she does talk, baby talk, I imagine she does it very prettily. And I'm sure I have no objection. And if she does do it, why should you be insulted by my mentioning it? It was the way you said it, he informed her, icily. Good gracious, I just said it. Mrs. Baxter laughed. And then, probably a little out of patience with him, she gave way to that innate mischievousness in such affairs which is not unknown to her sex. You see, Willie, if she pretends to be a cunning little girl, it will be helpful to Jane to listen and learn how. William uttered a cry. He knew that he was struck, but he was not sure how or where. He was left with a blank mind and no repartee. Again, he dashed from the room. In the hall, near the open front door, he came to a sudden halt. And Mrs. Baxter and Jane heard him calling loudly to the industrious genesis. Here, you go cut the grass in the backyard. And for heaven's sake, take that dog with you. Grass already cut round back. Responded the amiable voice of genesis, while the lawnmower ceased not to work. Cut all that backyard's morning. Well, you can't cut the front yard now. Go around in the backyard and take that dog with you. Never mind about that backyard. Old Clem ain't trouble nobody. You hear what I tell you, William shouted. You do what I say, and you do it quick. Genesis laughed gaily. I got my grass to cut. You declined to do what I command you, William roared. Yes, indeedy. Who pay me my wages? That's my boss. Yo, Marseille, genesis, you get all that lawnmower before sundown. No, sir, mean waste your breath on me, because I got all my time good and took up. Once more, William presented himself faithfully to his mother and Jane. May I just kindly ask you to look out in the front yard? I'm familiar with it, Willie. Mrs. Baxter returned a little weirly. I mean, I want you to look at Genesis. I'm familiar with his appearance, too, she said. Why in the world do you mind his cutting the grass? William groaned, do you honestly want guests coming to this house to see that awful old darkie out there and know that he is the kind of servants we employ? Ye gods. Why, Genesis is just a neighborhood outdoors darkie, Willie. He works for half a dozen families besides us. Everybody in this part of town knows him. Yes, he cried, but a lady that didn't live here wouldn't. Ye gods, what do you suppose she would think? You know what he's got on? Well, it's sort of a sleeveless jersey he wears, Willie, I think. No, you don't think that, he cried with great bitterness. You know it's not a jersey. You know perfectly well what it is, and yet you expect to keep him out there when one of the, when my friends arrived. And they'll think that's our dog out there, won't they? When intelligent people come to a house and see a dog sitting out front, they think it's the family in the house's dog, don't they? William's condition becoming more and more disordered. He paced the room while his agony rose to a climax. Ye gods, what do you think Miss Pratt will think of the people of this town when she's invited to meet a few of my friends and the first thing she sees is a nigger in his undershirt? What'll she think when she finds that child's eaten up half the food and the people have to explain that the dog in the front yard belongs to the darkie? He interrupted himself with a groan. And probably she wouldn't believe it. Anybody'd say they didn't own a dog like that. And that's what you want her to see before she even gets inside the house instead of a regular gardener in livery like we ought to have and a bulldog or a good air dale or a foxhound or something. The first things you want intelligent people from out of town to see are that awful old darkie and his mongrel scratching fleas and like is not letting them get on other people. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? Go out to tea expecting decent treatment and get fl... Willie! Mrs. Baxter managed to obtain his attention. If you'll go and brush your hair, I'll send Genesis and Clematis away for the rest of the afternoon. And then if you'll sit down quietly and try to keep cool until your friends get here, I'll quietly, he echoed, shaking his head over this mystery. I'm the only one that is quiet around here. Things would be in a fine condition to receive guests if I didn't keep pretty cool, I guess. There, there, she said soothingly. Go and brush your hair and change your collar, Willie. It's all wilted. I'll send Genesis away. His wandering eye failed to meet hers with any intelligence. Collar, he muttered, as if in soliloquy. Collar! Change it! Said Mrs. Baxter, raising her voice. It's wilted! He departed in a dazed manner. Passing through the hall, he paused abruptly, his eye having fallen with sudden disapproval upon a large, heavily-framed glass-covered engraving, the Battle of Gettysburg, which hung upon the wall near the front door. Undeniably, it was a picture feeble in decorative quality. No doubt, too, William was right in thinking it as unworthy of misprat, as were Jane and Genesis and Clematis. He felt that she must never see it, especially as the frame had been chipped and had a corner broken. But it was more pleasantly effective where he found it than where, in his nervousness, he left it. A few hasty jerks snapped the elderly green cords by which it was suspended. Then he laid the picture upon the floor, and with his handkerchief made a curious labyrinth of avenues in the large, oblong area of fine dust, which this removal disclosed upon the wall. Pausing to wipe his hot brow with the same implement, he remembered that someone had made illusions to his collar and hair, whereupon he sprang to the stairs, mounted two at a time, rushed into his own room, and confronted his streaked image in the mirror. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of 17. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, May 2009. 17 by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 13, at home to his friends. After ablutions, he found his wet hair plastic, and easily obtained the long, even sweet backward from the brow, lacking which no male person, unless bald, fulfilled his definition of a man of the world. But there ensued a period of vehemence and activity caused by a bent collar button, which went on strike with a desperation that was downright savage. The day was warm, and William was warmer. Moisture bedewed him afresh. The elated victory no sooner arrived than he perceived a fatal dimpling of the new collar, and was forced to begin the operation of exchanging it for a successor. Another exchange, however, he unfortunately forgot to make. The handkerchief, with which he had wiped the wall, remained in his pocket. Voices from below, making polite laughter, warned him that already some of the Bidden Party had arrived, and as he completed the tasking of his third consecutive collar, an ecstasy of sound reached him through the open window, and then, oh then, his breath behaved in an abnormal manner, and he began to tremble. It was the voice of Miss Pratt, no less. He stopped for one heart-struck look from his casement, all in fluffy white and heliotrope she was, a blonde rapture floating over the sidewalk toward William's front gate. Her little white, cottony dog, with a heliotrope ribbon round his neck, bobbed his head over her cuddling arm. A heliotrope parasol shielded her, infinitesimally, from the amorous sun. Poor William. Two youths entirely in William's condition of heart accompanied the glamorous girl and hung upon her rosely flips, while Miss Parture appeared dimly upon the outskirts of the group, the well-known penalty for hostesses who entertained such radiance. Probably it serves them right. To William's reddening ear, Miss Pratt's voice came clearly as the chiming of tiny bells, for she spoke whimsically to her little dog in that tinkling, childlike fashion, which was part of the spell she cast. "'Darling Floppet,' she said, "'wake up! Who tumbled to tea-body was all the drodups! Pesh's Floppet, wake up!' Dizzy with enchantment, half suffocated, his heart melting within him, William turned from the angelic sounds and fairy vision of the window. He ran out of the room and plunged down the front stairs. And the next moment, the crash of breaking glass and the loud thump-bump of a heavily falling human body resounded through the house. Mrs. Baxter, alarmed, quickly excused herself from the tea table, round which were gathered four or five young people and hastened to the front hall, followed by Jane. Through the open door were seen Miss Pratt, Miss Parture, Mr. Johnny Watson and Mr. Joe Bullitt coming leisurely up the sunny front walk, laughing and unaware of the catastrophe which had just occurred within the shadows of the portal. And at a little distance from the foot of the stairs, William was seated among the prostrate, battle of Gettysburg. "'It's slid,' he said hoarsely. "'I carried it upstairs with me,' he believed this. "'And somebody brought it down "'and left it lying flat on the floor "'by the bottom step on purpose to trip me. "'I stepped on it and it slid.' He was in a state of shock. It seemed important to oppress upon his mother the fact that the picture had not remained firmly in place when he stepped upon it. "'It's slid,' I tell you, "'get up, Willie,' she urged under her breath. "'And as he summoned enough presence of mine to obey, "'she beheld ruins other than the wrecked engraving.' She stifled a cry, "'Willie, did the glass cut you?' He felt himself, "'No, it did your trousers. "'You'll have to change them, hurry.' Some of William's normal faculties were restored to him by one hasty glance at the back of his left leg, which had a dismantled appearance, a long blue strip of cloth hung there with white showing underneath. "'Hurry!' said Mrs. Baxter. "'And hastily gathering some fragments of glass, "'she dropped them upon the engraving, "'pushed it out of the way, "'and went forward to greet Miss Pratt and her attendants. "'As for William, "'he did not even pause to close his mouth, "'but fled with it open. "'Upward he sped, unseen, "'and came to a breathless halt "'upon the landing at the top of the stairs. "'As it were in a dream, "'he heard his mother's hospitable greetings at the door. "'And then the little party lingered in the hall, "'detained by Miss Pratt's discovery of Jane.' "'Oh, Tweedum's Tootum's Ickled Earl,' "'he heard the ravishing voice exclaim. "'Oh, Tootum's Ickled Blue Sash!' "'It cost a dollar and eighty-nine cents,' said Jane. "'Willie sat on the cakes.' "'Oh, no, he didn't,' Mrs. Baxter laughed. "'He didn't quite.' "'He had to go upstairs,' said Jane. "'And as the stricken listener "'above smote his forehead, "'she added placidly. "'He tore a hole in his clothes.' "'She seemed about to furnish details, "'her mood being communicative. "'But Mrs. Baxter led the way into the living room. "'The hall was vacated, "'and only the murmur of voices and laughter reached William. "'What descriptive information Jane may have added "'was spared his hearing, which was a mercy. "'And yet it may be that he could not have felt worse "'than he did. "'For there is nothing worse than to be seventeen "'and to hear one of the noblest girls in the world "'told by a little child that you sat on the cakes "'and tore a hole in your clothes.' "'William leaned upon the banister railing "'and thought thoughts about Jane. "'For several long, seething moments "'he thought of her exclusively. "'Then, spurred by the loud laughter of rivals "'and the agony of knowing that even in his own house "'they were monopolizing the attention "'of one of the noblest, "'he hastened into his own room "'and took account of his reverses. "'Standing with his back to the mirror, "'he obtained over his shoulder "'a view of his trousers, "'which caused him to break out in a fresh perspiration. "'Again, he wiped his forehead with the handkerchief "'and the result was instantly visible in the mirror. "'The air thickened with sounds of frenzy, "'followed by a torrential roar "'and great sputtering in a bathroom, "'which, tumult subsiding, "'William returned at a tragic gallop to his room "'and having removed his trousers, "'began a feverous examination of the garments "'hanging in a clothes closet. "'There were two pairs of flannel trousers "'which would probably again be white "'and possible when cleaned and pressed. "'But a glance showed that until then "'they were not to be considered "'as even the last resort of desperation. "'Beside them hung his last year's summer suit "'of light gray. "'Feverishly he brought it forth, "'through off his coat, "'and then, deflected by another glance at the mirror, "'began to change his collar again. "'This was obviously necessary "'and to quicken the process "'he decided to straighten the bent collar button. "'Using a shoehorn as a lever, "'he succeeded in bringing the little cap "'or head of the button into its proper plain. "'But unfortunately, his final effort "'dyslogged the cap from the rod between it and the base, "'and it flew off malignantly into space. "'Here was a calamity. "'Few things are more useless "'than a decapitated collar button, "'and William had no other. "'He had made sure that it was his last "'before he put it on that day. "'Also he had ascertained that there was none "'in, on, or about his father's dressing table. "'Finally in the possession of neither William "'nor his father was there a shirt "'with an indigenous collar.' "'For decades, collar buttons have been "'on the hand-me-down shelves of humor. "'It is a mistake in the catalog. "'They belong to Pathos. "'They have done harm in the world, "'and there have been collar buttons "'that failed when the destinies of families "'hung upon them. "'There have been collar buttons "'that thwarted proper matings. "'There have been collar buttons "'that bore last hopes, "'and falling to the floor never were found. "'William's broken collar button "'was really the only collar button in the house, "'except such as were engaged "'in serving his male guests below. "'At first he did not realize "'the extent of his misfortune. "'How could he? "'Fate is always expected to deal "'its great blows in the grand manner. "'But our expectations are fustian, "'spangled with pinch-beck. "'We look for tragedy to be theatrical. "'Meanwhile, every day before our eyes, "'Fate works on, "'employing for its instruments the infinitesimal, "'the ignoble and the petty, "'in a word, collar buttons. "'Of course, William searched his dressing table "'and his fathers, "'although he had been thoroughly over-both "'once before that day. "'Next, he went through most of his mothers "'and Jane's accessories to the toilette, "'through trinket boxes, glove boxes, "'hairpin boxes, handkerchief cases, "'even through sewing baskets. "'Utterly he convinced himself "'that ladies not only use no collar buttons, "'but also never pick them up "'and put them away among their own belongings. "'How much time he consumed in this search "'is difficult to reckon. "'It is almost impossible to believe "'that there is absolutely no collar button in a house.' "'And what, William's state of mind, "'had become his matter for exorbitant conjecture, "'Jane, arriving at his locked door upon an errand, "'was bitten by a thick, unnatural voice to depart?' "'Mama says, "'What in Mercy's name is the matter?' "'Jane called. "'She whispered to me, "'Go and see when what in Mercy's name "'is the matter with Willie, "'and if the glass cut him after all, "'and why don't he come down? "'And why don't you, Willie, "'we're all having the nicest time.' "'You, Gway,' said the strange voice within the room, "'Go away.' "'Well, did the glass cut you?' "'No, keep quiet. "'Go away.' "'Well, are you ever coming down to your party?' "'Yes, I am. "'Go away.' "'Jane obeyed, "'and William somehow completed the task "'upon which he was engaged. "'Genius had burst forth from his despair. "'Necessity had become a mother again, "'and William's collar was in place. "'It was tied there. "'Under his necktie was a piece of string. "'He had lost count of time, "'but he was frantically aware of its passage. "'Agony was in the thoughts "'of so many rich moments frittered away, "'upstairs, "'while Joe Bullitt and Johnny Watson made hay below. "'And there was another spur to hasten in his fear "'that the behavior of Mrs. Baxter "'might not be all that the guest of honor "'would naturally expect of William's mother. "'As for Jane, his mind filled with dread, "'shivers passed over him at intervals. "'It was a dismal thing to appear at a party, "'and that his own, in last summer's suit. "'But when he had hastily put it on and faced the mirror, "'he felt a little better, for three or four seconds. "'Then he turned to see how the back of it looked, "'and collapsed in a chair, moaning. "'End of Chapter 13. "'Chapter 14 of 17. "'This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. "'Recording by Jonathan Burchard, May 2009. "'17 by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 14. "'Time does fly.' "'He remembered now what he had been too hurried "'to remember earlier. "'He had worn these clothes on the previous Saturday, "'and returning from a glorified walk with Miss Pratt, "'he had demonstrated a fact to which his near demolition "'of the wafers this afternoon was additional testimony. "'This fact, roughly stated, is that a person of 17 in love "'is liable to sit down anywhere. "'William had dreamily seated himself upon a tabaret "'in the library without noticing that Jane "'had left her open paint box there. "'Jane had just been painting sunsets. "'Naturally, all the little blocks of color were wet, "'and the effect upon William's pale gray trousers "'was marvelous, far beyond the capacity of his coat "'to conceal. "'Color buttons and children's paint boxes, "'those are the trolls that lie in wait. "'The gray clothes and the flannel trousers "'had been destined for the professional cleaner, "'and William, rousing himself from a brief stupor, "'made a piteous effort to substitute himself "'for that expert so far as the gray trousers "'were concerned. "'He divested himself of them and brought the water, "'towels, bath soap, and a rubber bath sponge "'to the bright light of his window, "'and there, with touching courage and persistence, "'he tried to scrub the paint out of the cloth. "'He obtained cloud studies and marines, "'which would have interested a post-impressionist, "'but upon trousers they seemed out of place. "'There came one seeking and calling him again. "'Rap sounded upon the door, "'which he had not forgotten to lock. "'Willie,' said a serious voice, "'Mama wants to know what in Mercy's name "'is the matter. "'She wants to know if you know for Mercy's name "'what time it is. "'She wants to know what in Mercy's name "'you think they're all going to think. "'She says, go away. "'Well, she said I had to find out "'what in Mercy's name you're doing, Willie. "'You tell her,' he shouted hoarsely, "'tell her I'm playing dominoes. "'What's she think I'm doing?' "'I guess,' Jane paused, "'evidently to complete the swallowing of something. "'I guess she thinks you're going crazy. "'I don't like Miss Pratt, "'but she lets me play with that little dog. "'Its name's Floppet. "'You go away from that door "'and stop bothering me,' said William. "'I've got enough on my mind.' "'Mama looks at Miss Pratt,' Jane remarked. "'Miss Pratt puts cakes in that Mr. Bullet's mouth "'and Johnny Watson's mouth too. "'She's awful.' "'William made it plain that these bulletins "'from the party found no favor with him. "'He bellowed. "'If you don't get away from that door!' "'Jane was interested in the conversation, "'but felt that it wouldn't be better "'to return to the refreshment table. "'There she made use of her own conception of a whisper "'to place before her mother a report, "'which was considered interesting "'and even curious by every one present. "'Though such was the courtesy of the little assembly, "'there was a general pretense of not hearing.' "'I told him,' thus whispered Jane, "'and he said, "'You go away from that door or I'll do something.' "'He didn't say, what, Mama?' "'He said, "'What do you think I'm doing? "'I'm playing dominoes. "'He didn't mean he was playing dominoes, Mama. "'He just said he was. "'I think maybe he was just looking "'in the looking glass some more.' Mrs. Baxter was becoming embarrassed. She resolved to go to William's room herself at the first opportunity, but for some time her conscientiousness as a hostess continued to occupy her at the table. And then, when she would have gone, Ms. Pratt detained her by a roguish appeal to make Mr. Bullet and Mr. Watson behave. Both refused all nourishment, except such as was placed in their mouths by the delicate hand of one of the noblest. And the latter said that really she wanted to eat a little Tweety now and then herself, and not to spend her whole time feeding them in. For Ms. Pratt had the same playfulness with older people that she had with those of her own age, and she elaborated her pretended quarrel with the two young gentlemen, taking others of the dazzled company into her confidence about it, and insisting upon Mama Baxter's acting formally as judge to settle the difficulty. However, having thus arranged matters, Ms. Pratt did not resign the center of interest, but herself proposed a compromise. She would continue to feed Mr. Bullet and Mr. Watson every other Tweety, that is, each must agree to eat a cake all by him own self after every cake fed to him. So the Comediata went on to the running accompaniment of laughter with Mr. Bullet and Mr. Watson swept by such gusts of adoration they were like to perish where they sat. But Mrs. Baxter's smiling approval was beginning to be painful to the muscles of her face, for it was hypocritical. And if William had known her thoughts about one of the noblest, he could only have attributed them to that demon of groundless prejudice which besets all females, but most particularly and outrageously the mothers and sisters of men. A colored serving maid entered with a laden tray and having disposed of its freight of bonbons among the guests, spoke to Mrs. Baxter in a low voice. Could you may have stepped in the back hall a minute, please, ma'am? Mrs. Baxter managed and having closed the door upon the laughing voices asked quickly, what is it, Adelia? Have you seen Mr. William? Do you know why he doesn't come down? Yes, said Adelia. He gone mighty near out of his head, Ms. Baxter. What? Yes, he come flopping down the back stairs in his bathrobe a little while ago. He just gone up again. He ain't got no britches, Ms. Baxter. No, what? No, he said, Adelia. He ain't got no britches at all. A statement of this kind is startling under almost any circumstances and it is unusually so when made in reference to a person for whom a party is being given. Therefore, it was not unreasonable of Mrs. Baxter to lose her breath. But it can't be, she gasped. He has, he has plenty. No, he ain't, Adelia assured her. And he's carrying on so I don't scarcely think he knows much what he's doing, Ms. Baxter. He brung down some gray britches to the kitchen to see if I could press and clean them right quick. They was the ones Ms. Jane, when she's painting all them sunset, left her paint box open. And when them sunsets got on the easier gray britches, Ms. Baxter, and honestly, Ms. Baxter, he's fixed him up in a condition, trying to get that paint out. I don't believe it'll be no use sending them to the cleaner. Clean them and press them quick, I says. I couldn't clean them by resurrection. Let alone pressing them, no. Well, he had his blue britches too, but they so ripped it torn and kind of shredded away in one place. The cook she just hollered when he spread them out and he didn't even ask me, could I mend them? And then he had two pairs of them white flat end britches. And honestly, Ms. Baxter, I don't scarcely think Genesis would wear them the way they is now. Well, I says, but one thing left to do, I can see. I says, why don't you put on that nice black suit you had last winter? Of course, Ms. Baxter cried. I'll go in. No, Ms. said, Adelia, you don't need to. He's up in the attic now, raring around amongst them trunks, but seem to me like I remember you put that suit away under the heavy blankets in the big seat or chest with the padlock. If you just tell me where is the key, I take it up to him. Under the bureau in the spare room, said Mrs. Baxter, hurried. Adelia hurried and 15 minutes later, William, for the last time that afternoon, surveyed himself in his mirror. His face showed the strain that had been upon him and under which he still labored. The black suit was a map of creases and William was perspiring more freely than ever under the heavy garments, but at least he was clothed. He emptied his pockets, disgorging upon the floor a multitude of small white spheres like marbles. Then as he stepped out into the hall, he discovered that their odor still remained about him. So he stopped and carefully turned his pockets inside out one after another, but finding that he still smelled vehemently of the mothballs, though not one remained upon him. He went to his mother's room and sprinkled violet toilet water upon his chest and shoulders. He disliked such odors, but that left by the mothballs was intolerable and laying hands upon a canister labeled hyacinth, he contrived to pour a quantity of scented powder inside his collar, thence to be distributed by the force of gravity so far as his dampness permitted. Low, William was now ready to go to his party. Moist, wilted, smelling indeed strangely, he was ready. But when he reached the foot of the stairs, he discovered that there was one thing more to be done. Indignation seized him, and also a creeping fear chilled his spine, as he beheld a lurking shape upon the porch, stealthily moving toward the open door. It was the lowly Clematis, dog unto Genesis. William instantly divine the purpose of Clematis. It was debatable whether Clematis had remained upon the premises after the departure of Genesis or had lately returned thither upon some errand of his own, but one thing was certain and the manner of Clematis, his attitude, his every look, his every gesture made it as clear as day. Clematis had discovered by one means or another the presence of Floppet in the house and had determined to see him personally. Clematis wore his most misleading expression. A stranger would have thought him shy and easily turned from his purpose, but William was not deceived. He knew that if Clematis meant to see Floppet, a strong will, a ready brain and stern action were needed to thwart him, but at all costs that meeting must be prevented. Things had been awful enough without that. He was well aware that Clematis could not be driven away, except temporarily, for nothing was further fixed upon Clematis than his habit of retiring under pressure, only to return and return again. True, the door could have been shut in the intruder's face, but he would have sought other entrance with possible success or failing that would have awaited in the front yard the dispersal of the guests and Floppet's consequent emerging. This was a contra-tempts not to be endured. The door of the living room was closed, muffling festival noises and permitting safe passage through the hall. William cast a hunted look over his shoulder, then he approached Clematis. Good old doggy, he said, huskily, hiya, Clem, hiya, Clem! Clematis moved side long, retreating with his head low and his tail denoting anxious thoughts. Hiya, Clem, said William, trying with only fair success to keep his voice from sounding venomous. Hiya, Clem! Clematis continued his deprecatory retreat. Thereupon, Williamus said a bruise. He pretended to nibble at something and then extended his hand as if it held forth a gift of food. Look, Clem, he said, yum, yum, meat, Clem, good meat. For once, Clematis was half credulous. He did not advance, but he elongated himself to investigate the extended hand and the next instant found himself seized viciously by the scruff of the neck. He submitted to capture in absolute silence. Only the slightest change of countenance betrayed his mortification in having been found so easy a gull. This passed and a look of resolute stoicism took its place. He refused to walk but offered merely nominal resistance as a formal protest which he wished to be of record, though perfectly understanding that it availed nothing at present. William dragged him through the long hall and down a short passageway to the cellar door. This, he opened, thrust Clematis upon the other side of it, closed and bolted it. Immediately, a stentorian howl raised blood-curdling echoes and resounded horribly through the house. It was obvious that Clematis intended to make a scene, whether he was present at it or not. He lifted his voice in Sonora's doler, stating that he did not like the cellar and would continue thus to protest as long as he was left in it alone. He added that he was anxious to see Floppet and considered it an unexampled outrage that he was withheld from the opportunity. Smitten with horror, William reopened the door and charged down the cellar stairs after Clematis, who closed his cate of mouth and gave way precipitately. He fled from one end of the cellar to the other and back while William pursued, choking and calling in low ferocious tones, good doggy, good ol' doggy, hiya, clam meat, meat, clam meat. There was dodging through coal bins, there was squirming between barrels, there was high jumping and broad jumping, and there was a final aspiring but baffled dash for the top of the cellar stairs, where the door, forgotten by William, stood open. But it was here that Clematis, after a long and admirable exhibition of ingenuity, no less than agility, submitted to capture. That is to say, finding himself hopelessly pinioned, he resumed the stoic. Grimly, the panting and dripping William dragged him through the kitchen, where the cook cried out unintelligibly, seeming to summon Adelia, who was not present. Through the backyard went capture and prisoner, the latter now maintaining a seated posture, his pathetic conception of dignity under duress. Finally, into a small shed or tool house behind Mrs. Baxter's flower beds went Clematis in a hurried and spasmodic manner. The instant the door slammed, he lifted his voice and was bitten to use it now as much as he liked. Adelia, with a tray of used plates, encountered the son of the house as he passed through the kitchen on his return, and her eyes were those of one who looks upon miracles. William halted fiercely. What's the matter, he demanded? Is my face dirty? You mean, are it too dirty to go in yonder to the party? Adelia asked slowly. No, sir, you look all right to go in there. You looking just fine to go in there now, Mr. Quilly. Something in her tone struck him as peculiar, even as ominous, but his blood was up. He would not turn back now. He strode into the hall and opened the door of the living room. Jane was sitting on the floor, busily painting sunsets in a large blank book which she had obtained for that exclusive purpose. She looked up brightly as William appeared in the doorway and in answer to his wild gaze she said, I got a little sick, so Mama told me to keep quiet awhile. She's looking for you all over the house. She told Papa she don't know what in Mercy's name people are going to think about you, Willie, the distraught youth strode to her. The party, he choked, where? They all stayed pretty long, said Jane, but the last one said they had to go home to their dinners when Papa came a little while ago. Johnny Watson was carrying Floppet for that misprat. William dropped into the chair beside which Jane had established herself upon the floor. Then he uttered a terrible cry and rose. Again, Jane had painted a sunset she had not intended. End of chapter 14, chapter 15 of 17. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, May 2009. 17 by Booth Tarkington, chapter 15, Romance of Statistics. On a warm morning, 10 days later, William stood pensively among his mother's flower beds behind the house, his attitude denoting a low state of vitality. Not far away, an aged negro sat upon a wheelbarrow in the hot sun, tremulously yet skillfully whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a boat, labor more to his taste, evidently, than that which he had abandoned at the request of Jane. Illusion to this preference for a lighter task was made by Genesis, who is erecting a trellis on the border of the little garden. Pappy, whittle all day, he chuckled, whittle all night, too. Pappy, I thought you was gonna get at long bed all spayed up for me by noon. Ain't that what you told me? You let him alone, Genesis, said Jane, who sat by the old man's side, deeply fascinated. There's going to be a great deal of rain in the next few days, maybe, and I have to have this boat ready. The age of dark, he lifted his streaky and diminished eyes to the burnish sky and laughed. Rain come someday, anyways, he said. We get the boat ready before she fall that show. His glance wandered to William and rested upon him with feeble curiosity. That ain't your Pappy, is it? He asked Jane. I should say it isn't, she exclaimed. It's Willie, he was only 17 about two or three months ago, Mr. Genesis. This was not the old man's name, but Jane had evolved it, inspired by respect for one so aged and so kind about whittling. He was the father of Genesis and the latter, neither to her knowledge nor to her imagination, possessed a surname. I got catrack in my left eye, said Mr. Genesis, and the right one, she kinda tricksy too. Tell black man from white man, little from big. I hated if he was Papa, said Jane, confidentially. He's always crossed about something because he's in love. She approached her mouth to her wittling friend's ear and continued in a whisper. He's in love of Miss Brad. She's out, I was in the front yard with Willie and we saw him go by, he's mad. William did not hear her. Moodly, he had discovered that there was something amiss with the buckle of his belt and having ungirded himself, he was biting the metal tongue of the buckle in order to straighten it. This fell under the observation of Genesis who remonstrated, you break your teeth on that buckle, he said. No, I won't either, William returned crossly. Aim my teeth, said Genesis, break him if you want to. The attention of Mr. Genesis did not seem to be attracted to the speakers. He continued his wittling in a craftsman-like manner, which brought praise from Jane. You can see to wittle Mr. Genesis, she said. You wittle better than anybody in the world. I speak so, maybe, Mr. Genesis returned with a little complacency. How old, yo Bappy? Oh, he's old, Jane explained. William dained a corrector. He's not old, he's middle-aged. Well, sir, said Mr. Genesis. I had three chillum foieus 20. I had two when I was eight-team. William showed sudden interest. You did, he exclaimed. How old were you when you had the first one? I was just yo age, said the old man. I was 17. Why, George, cried William. Jane seemed less impressed than William, 17 being a long way from 10, though, of course, to 17 itself hardly any information could be imagined as more interesting than that conveyed by the words of the aged Mr. Genesis. The impression made upon William was obviously profound and favorable. But, George, he cried again. Genesis, he the youngest one, said the old man. Genesis, he is born when I was 61. William moved closer. What became of the one that was born when you were 17? He asked. Well, sir, said Mr. Genesis. I never did know. At this, Jane's interest equalled William's. Her eyes consented to leave the busy hands of the aged Darkie and, much enlarged, rose to his face. After a little pause of awe and sympathy, she inquired, was it a boy or a girl? The old man deliberated within himself. Seems like it must be a boy. Did it die, Jane asked softly. I reckon it must be dead by now. He returned musingly. Good many of them dead. What I knows is dead. Yes, am I reckoned so. How old were you when you were married? William asked, with a manner of peculiar earnestness. It was the manner of one who addresses a colleague. Me? Well, sir, that pens. He seemed to search his memory. I recollect, I has made once in Louisville, he said. Jane's interest still followed the first child. Was that where it was born, Mr. Genesis? She asked. He looked puzzled and paused in his whittling to rub his deeply corrugated forehead. Well, sir, must been some bone in Louisville. Genesis, he called to his industrious son. Why is you born? Right in his town, laughed Genesis. You forget a good deal, Pappy, but I notice you don't forget come to meals. The old man grunted, resuming his whittling, busily. Ain't much use, he complained. Can't eat enough of him, lest it is all gruely. Man can't eat enough of him, lest he got teeth. Genesis, did not hear you telling this white gem him take care of his teeth, not bite on no iron. William smiled in pity. I don't need to bother about that, I guess, he said. I can crack nuts with my teeth. Yes, sir, said the old man, you can now. Every nut you crack now go and cost you a yell when you get long about 40 and 50. You crack nuts now and you holler then. Well, I guess I won't worry myself much now about what won't happen till I'm 40 or 50, said William. My teeth will last my time, I guess. That brought a chuckle from Genesis. Just listen, he exclaimed. Young man think he never gonna be old man. Else he think that old man what I'm gonna be, that ain't gonna be me tall. That gonna be somebody else. What I care about that old man? I ain't gonna take care of no teeth for him. Yes, sir. And then when he get to be old man, he say, what become of that young man I used to be? Where is that young man I gone to? He is a fool, that's what. And I ain't no fool. So he must be somebody else, not me. But I do just wish I had him here about two minutes long enough to lamb him for not taking care of my teeth for me, yes, sir. William laughed, his good humor was restored, and he found the conversation of Mr. Genesis attractive. He seated himself upon an upturned bucket near the wheelbarrow and reverted to a former theme. Well, I have heard of people getting married even younger and newer, he said. You take India for instance, why they get married in India when they're 12 and even seven and eight years old. They do not, said Jane promptly. Their mothers and fathers wouldn't let them and they wouldn't want to anyway. I suppose you've been to India and know all about it, William retorted. For the matter of that, there was a young couple got married in Pennsylvania the other day. The girl was only 15 and the man was 16. It was in the papers and their parents consented and said it was a good thing. Then there was a case in Fall River, Massachusetts where a young man 18 years old buried a woman 41 years old. It was in the papers too. And I heard of another case somewhere in Iowa. A boy began shaving when he was 13 and shaved every day for four years and now he's got a full beard and he's going to get married this year before he's 18 years old. Joe Bullitt's got a cousin in Iowa that knows about this case. He knows the girl this fellow with the beard is going to marry and he says he expected it'll turn out the best thing that could have happened. They're going to live on a farm. There's hundreds of cases like that only you don't hear more than just a few of them. People used to get married at 16, 17, 18, anywhere in there and never think anything of it at all. Right up to about 100 years ago there were more people married at those ages than there were along about 24 and 25 the way they are now. For instance, you take Shakespeare, William paused. Mr. Genesis was scraping the hull of the miniature boat with a piece of broken glass in lieu of sandpaper but he seemed to be following his young friends or remarks with attention. William had mentioned Shakespeare impulsively in the order of demonstrating his point. However, upon second thought he decided to withdraw the name. I mean, you take the olden times he went on. Hardly anybody got married after they were 19 or 20 years old unless they were widowers because they were all married by that time. And right here in our own county there were 11 couples married in the last six months under 21 years of age. I've got a friend named Johnny Watson. His uncle works out at the courthouse and told him about it. So it can't be denied. Then there was a case I heard of over in Mr. Genesis uttered a loud chuckle. My goodness, he exclaimed. How you click all them facts. Land name, what puzzling me is how you remember them after you done click them. If it is me, I couldn't collect them into first place and if I could, they wouldn't be no use to me because I couldn't recollect them. Well, it isn't so hard said William if you kind of get the hang of it. Obviously pleased. He plucked a spear of grass and placed it between his teeth, adding. I always did have a pretty good memory. Mama says you're the most forgetful boy she ever heard of, said Jane Comley. She says you can't remember anything two minutes. Williams brow darkened. Now look here, he began with severity but the old dark intervened. Some folks got good recollection and some folks got bad, he said pacifically. Young what, gem them? Recollect Moe in two minutes and I can in two years. Jane appeared to accept this as settlement of the pointed issue while William bestowed upon Mr. Genesis a glance of increased favor. Williams expression was pleasant to see. In fact, it was the pleasantest expression Jane had seen him wearing for several days. Almost always lately, he was profoundly preoccupied and so easily annoyed that there was no need to be careful of his feelings because as his mother observed, he was certain to break out every so often no matter what happened. I pretty much remember everything he said as if in modest explanation of the performance which had excited the aged man's admiration. I can remember things that happened when I was four years old. So can I, said Jane. I can remember when I was two. I had a kitten fell down the cistern and Papa said it hurt the water. My goodness, Mr. Genesis exclaimed and you is only two year old, honey. Best I can do recollect is when I was about 50. Oh no, Jane protested. You said you remembered having a baby when you were 17, Mr. Genesis. Yes, him he admitted. I mean recollect good like you do about your little cat and how your pappy tuck on about it. I can recollect some, but I can't recollect good. William coughed with a certain importance. Do you remember, he asked, when you were married, how did you feel about it? Were you kind of nervous or anything like that beforehand? Mr. Genesis, again, passed a wavering hand across his troubled brow. I mean, said William, observing his perplexity. Were you in, were you sort of shaky, for instance, as if you were taking an important step in life? Let me see, the old man pondered for a moment. I felt mighty shaky once. I recollect that time. Yellow mulata man shooting at me from behind a snake fence. Shooting at you, Jane cried, stirred from her accustomed placidity. Mr. Genesis, what did he do that for? Nuffim, replied Mr. Genesis with feeling. Nuffim in the wide world. He bound to shoot somebody and pick on me, because I was the handiest. He closed his knife, gave the little boat a final scrape with a broken glass and then a soothing rub with the palm of his hand. Da, honey, he said. And simultaneously factory whistles began to blow. Da, you old little steamboat, good as I can get her without no biler and nor no smokestack. I reckon your Pappy'll buy him for ya. Jane was grateful. It's a beautiful boat, Mr. Genesis. I do thank you. Genesis, the son, laid aside his tools and approached. Pappy finished whittlin', spang on them noon whistles. He chuckled, come long, Pappy. I bet you walk fast enough going towards dinner. I hear fry cakes ploppin' and skillet. Mr. Genesis laughed loudly, his son's words evidently painting a merry and alluring picture. And the two, followed by Clematis, moved away in the direction of the alley gate. William and Jane watched the brisk departure of the antique with sincere esteem and liking. He must have been 16, said William musingly. When? Jane asked. William, in deep thought, was still looking after Mr. Genesis. He was almost unconscious that he had spoken aloud and he replied, automatically, when he was married. Then, with a start, he realized into how great a condescension he had been betrayed and hastily added with pronounced haughtier, things she don't understand, you run in the house. Jane went into the house, but she did not carry her obedience to the point of running. She walked slowly and in that state of profound reverie, which was characteristic of her when she was immersed in the serious study of William's affairs. End of chapter 15. Chapter 16 of 17. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Bercher, June 2009. 17 by Booth-Tarkington, chapter 16, The Shower. She continued to be thoughtful until after lunch, when, upon the sun's disappearance behind a fat cloud, Jane and the heavens exchanged dispositions for the time, the heavens darkened and Jane brightened. She was in the front hall when the sunshine departed rather abruptly and she jumped for joy, pointing to the open door. Looky, looky there, she called to her brother. Richly ornamented, he was descending the front stairs. His embellishments, including freshly pressed white trousers, a new straw hat, unusual shoes, and a blasphemous tie. I'm going to get to sail my boat, Jane shouted. It's going to rain. It is not, said William irritated. It's not going to anything like rain. I suppose you think it ought to rain just to let you sail that chunk of wood. It's going to rain, it's going to rain. Jane made a little sing-song chant of it. It's going to rain, it gives William pain. It's going to rain, it gives William pain. It's going to, he interrupted her sternly. Look here, you're old enough to know better. I suppose you think there isn't anything as important in the world as you're getting the chance to sail that little boat. I suppose you think business and everything else has got to stop and get ruined, maybe, just to please you. As he spoke, he walked to an umbrella stand in the hall and deliberately took therefrom a bamboo walking stick of his father's. Indeed, his denunciation of Jane's selfishness about the weather was made partly to reassure himself and settle his nerves, strained by the unusual procedure he contemplated, and partly to divert Jane's attention. In the latter effort, he was unsuccessful. Her eyes became strange and unbearable. She uttered a shriek, Willie's going to carry a cane! You hush up, he said fiercely, and hurried out through the front door. She followed him to the edge of the porch. She stood there while he made his way to the gate, and she continued to stand there as he went down the street, trying to swing the cane in an unaccustomed and unembarrassed manner. Jane made this difficult. Willie's got a cane! She screamed, he's got Papa's cane! Then, resuming her little chant, she began to sing, it's going to rain! Willie's got Papa's cane! It's going to rain! Willie's got Papa's cane! She put all her voice into a final effort. Miss Prattlegift! The attention of several chance pedestrians had been attracted, and the burning William, breaking into an agonized half trot, disappeared around the corner. Then Jane retired within the house, feeling that she had done her duty. It would be his own fault if he got wet. Rain was coming. Rain was in the feel of the air, and in Jane's hope. She was not disappointed. Mr. Genesis, so secure of fair weather in the morning, was proved by the afternoon to be a bad profit. The fat cloud was succeeded by others. Fatter, a corpulent army assailed the vault of heaven, heavy outriders before a giant of evil complexion and devastating temper. An hour after William had left the house, the dust in the streets and all loose paper and rubbish outdoors rose suddenly to a considerable height and started for somewhere else. The trees had colic. Everything became as dark as winter twilight. Streaks of wildfire ran miles in a second, and somebody seemed to be ripping up sheets of copper and tin the size of farms. The rain came with a swish, then with a rattle, and then with a roar, while people listened at their garret doorways and marveled. Windowpains turned to running water. It poured. Then it relented, dribbled, shook down a last few drops and passed on to the countryside. Windows went up. Eaves and full gutters plashed and gurgled. Clear light fell. Then in a moment, sunshine rushed upon shining green trees and green grass. Doors opened and out came the children. Shouting, they ran to the flooded gutters. Here were rivers, lakes and oceans for navigation. Easy pilotage for the steersman had but to wade beside his craft and guide it with a twig. Jane's timely boat was one of the first to reach the water. Her mother had been kind, and Jane, with shoes and stockings left behind her on the porch, was a happy sailor as she waded knee deep along the brimming curb stones. At the corner below the house of the backsters, the street was flooded clear across, and Jane's boat, following the current, proceeded gallantly onward here, sailed down the next block and was thoughtlessly entering a sewer when she snatched it out of the water. Looking about her, she perceived a gutter which seemed even lovelier than the one she had followed. It was deeper and broader and perhaps a little browner. Wherefore, she launched her ship upon its dimpled bosom and explored it as far as the next sewer hole or portage. Thus, the voyage continued for several blocks with only one accident, which might have happened to anybody. It was an accident in the nature of a fall, caused by the sliding of Jane's left foot on some slippery mud. This treacherous substance, covered with water, could not have been anticipated, and consequently, Jane's emotions were those of indignation rather than of culpability. Upon rising, she debated whether or not she should return to her dwelling, inclining to the opinion that the authorities there would have taken the affirmative, but as she was wet not much above the waist and the guilt lay all upon the mud, she decided that such an interruption of her journey would be a gross injustice to herself. Navigation was reopened. Presently, the boat wandered into a miniature whirlpool, grooved in a spiral and pleasant to see. Slowly the water went round and round and so did the boat, without any assistance from Jane. Watching this movement thoughtfully, she brought forth from her drenched pocket some sodden whitish discs, recognizable as having been crackers and began to eat them. Thus absorbed, she failed at first to notice the approach of two young people along the sidewalk. They were the entranced William and Miss Pratt, and their appearance offered a suggestive contrast in relative humidity. In charming and tender-colored fabrics, fluffy and cool and summery, she was speculously dry. Not a drop had touched even the pink parasol over her shoulder. Not one had fallen upon the tiny white doglet drowsing upon her arm. But William was wet. He was still more than merely damp, though they had evidently walked some distance since the rain had ceased to fall. His new hat was a musiloginous ruin. His dank coat sagged. His shapeless trousers flopped heavily, and his shoes gave forth marshy sounds as he won. No brilliant analyst was needed to diagnose this case. Surely any observer must have said, here is a dry young lady, and at her side walks a wet young gentleman who carries an umbrella in one hand and a walking stick in the other. Obviously the young lady and gentleman were out for a stroll for which the stick was sufficient, and they were caught by the rain. Before any fell, however, he found her a place of shelter, such as a corner drugstore, and then himself gallantly went forth into the storm for an umbrella. He went to the young lady's house, or to the house where she may be visiting, for if he had gone to his own, he would have left his stick. It may be, too, that at his own, his mother would have detained him, since he is still at the age when it is just possible sometimes for mothers to get their sons into the house when it rains. He returned with the umbrella to the corner drugstore at probably about the time when the rain ceased to fall, because his extreme moistness makes necessary the deduction that he was out in all the rain that rained, but he does not seem to care. The fact was that William did not even know that he was wet. With his head sideways and his entranced eyes continuously upon the pretty face so near, his state was almost some nambulistic. Not conscious of his soggy garments or of the deluge streets, he floated upon a rosy cloud, incense about him, far away music enchanting his ears. If Jane had not recognized the modeling of his features, she might not have known them to be Williams, for they had altered their grouping to produce an expression with which she was totally unfamiliar. To be explicit, she was unfamiliar with this expression in that place, that is to say, upon William, though she had seen something like it upon other people once or twice in church. William's thoughts might have seemed to her as queer as his expression. Could she have known them? They were not very definite, however, taking the form of sweet, vague pictures of the future. These pictures were of married life, that is, married life as William conceived it for himself in Miss Pratt, something strikingly different from that he had observed as led by his mother and father or their friends and relatives. In his rapt mind, he beheld Miss Pratt walking beside him through life with her little parasol and her little dog. Her exquisite face always lifted playfully toward his own with admiration underneath the playfulness and he heard her voice of silver always rippling baby talk throughout all the years to come. He saw her applauding his triumphs, though these remained indefinite in his mind and he was unable to foreshadow the business or profession which was to provide the amazing mansion, mainly conservatory, which he pictured as their home. Surrounded by flowers and maintaining a private orchestra, he saw Miss Pratt and himself growing old together. Attaining to such ages as 30 and even 35, still in perfect harmony and always either dancing in the evenings or strolling hand in hand in the moonlight. Sometimes they would visit the nursery where curly-headed rosy cherubs played upon a white bear rug in the firelight. These were all boys and ready-made, the youngest being three years old and without a past. They would be beautiful children, happy with their luxurious toys on the bear rug and they would never be seen in any part of the house except the nursery. Their deportment would be flawless and willy. The aviator struck a hole in the air. His heart misgave him. Then he came to earth, a sickening drop and instantaneous. Willy! There was Jane, a figurine in a plastic state and altogether disgraceful. She came up out of the waters and stood before them with feet of clay, indeed pedestal upon the curb stone. Who is that curious child? Said Miss Pratt, stopping. William shuddered. What's she calling you? Miss Pratt asked incredulously. Willie, I told you you better take an umbrella, said Jane, instead of Papa's cane and she added triumphantly. Now you see, moving forward, she seemed to have in mind a dreadful purpose. There was something about her that made William think she intended casually to accompany him and Miss Pratt. You go home, he commanded hoarsely. Miss Pratt uttered a little scream of surprise and recognition. It's your little sister, she exclaimed and then reverting to her favorite playfulness of enunciation. Or equal sissa, she exclaimed gaily as a translation. Jane misunderstood it. She thought Miss Pratt meant our little sister. Go home, said William. Naughty, naughty, said Miss Pratt, shaking her head. Me frayed ooze and naughty, naughty equal dural, all dirty, Jane advanced. I wish you'd let me carry floppet for you, she said. Giving forth another gentle scream, Miss Pratt hopped prettily backward from Jane's extended hands. Oo, oo, she cried childingly. Mustn't touch, pussish floppet, all soap, water wash clean. Equal duraly, all muddy nasty. Equal duraly must go home that all soap and water wash clean like nice equal sissa. Everybody would love for equal sissa then, she concluded, turning to William. Tell equal sissa must go home that soap and water wash. Jane stared at Miss Pratt with fixed solemnity during the delivery of these admonitions. And it was to be seen that they made an impression upon her. Her mouth slowly opened, but she spake not. An extraordinary idea had just begun to make itself at home in her mind. It was an idea which had been hovering in the neighborhood of that domain ever since William's comments upon the conversation of Mr. Genesis in the morning. Go home, repeated William. And then, as Jane stood motionless and inarticulate, transfixed by her idea, he said almost brokenly to his dainty companion, I don't know what you'll think of my mother to let this child Miss Pratt laughed comfortingly as they started on again. Is it Mama's fault, foolish boy Baxter? Bickle-durleys will debt deity. The profoundly mortified William glanced back over his shoulder, bestowing upon Jane a look in which bitterness was mingled with apprehension. But she remained where she was and did not follow. That was a little to be thankful for. And he found some additional consolation in believing that Miss Pratt had not caught the frightful words Papa's cane at the beginning of the interview. He was encouraged to this belief by her presently taking from his hand the decoration in question and examining it with tokens of pleasure. Well, pity Wachtick! She called it, with a tact he failed to suspect. And so he began to float upward again. Glamours enveloped him and the earth fell away. He was alone in space with Miss Pratt once more. End of chapter 16. Chapter 17 of 17. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Bercher, June 2009. 17 by Booth Tarkington. Chapter 17. Jane's Theory. The pale end of sunset was framed in the dining room windows. And Mr. and Mrs. Baxter and the rehabilitated Jane were at the table when William made his belated return from the afternoon's excursion. Seating himself, he waved his mother's references to the rain, his clothes, and probable colds. And after one laden glance at Jane denoting a grievance so elaborate that he disparate of setting it forth in a formal complaint to the powers, he fell into a state of trance. He took nourishment automatically and roused himself but once during the meal, a pathetic encounter with his father resulting from this awakening. Everybody in town seemed to be on the streets this evening as I walked home, Mr. Baxter remarked, addressing his wife. I suppose there's something in the clean air after a rain that brings him out. I noticed one thing though, maybe it's the way they dress nowadays, but you certainly don't see as many pretty girls on the streets as there used to be. William looked up absently. I used to think that too, he said with dreamy condescension. When I was younger, Mr. Baxter stared. Well, I'll be darned, he said. Papa, papa, his wife called reprovingly. When you were younger, Mr. Baxter repeated, with considerable irritation, how old do you think you are? I'm going on 18, said William firmly. I know plenty of cases, cases where he paused relapsing into lethargy. What's the matter with him? Mr. Baxter inquired heatedly of his wife. William again came to life. I was saying that a person's age is different according to circumstances, he explained with dignity, if not lucidity. You take Genesis' father. Well, he was married when he was 16. Then there was a case over in Iowa that lots of people know about and nobody thinks anything of. A young man over there in Iowa that's 17 years old began shaving when he was 13 and shaved every day for four years and now he was interrupted by his father, who was no longer able to contain himself. And now I suppose he's got whiskers, he burst forth. There's an ambition for you, my soul. It was Jane who took up the tale. She had been listening with growing excitement. Her eyes fixed piercingly upon William. He's got a beard, she cried, alluding not to her brother, but to the fabled Iowan. I heard Willie tell old Mr. Genesis about it. It seems to lie heavily on your mind, Mr. Baxter said to William. I suppose you feel that in the face of such an example, your life between the ages of 13 and 17 has been virtually thrown away. William had again relapsed, but he roused himself feebly. Sir, he said. What is the matter with him? Mr. Baxter demanded. Half the time lately he seems to be hibernating and only responds by a slight twitching when poked with a stick. The other half of the time he either behaves like I don't know what, or talks about children growing whiskers in Iowa. Hasn't that girl left town yet? William was not so deep in trance that this failed to stir him. He left the table. Mrs. Baxter looked distressed, though as the meal was about concluded and William had partaken of his share in spite of his dreaminess, she had no anxieties connected with his sustenance. As for Mr. Baxter, he felt a little remorse undoubtedly, but he was also puzzled. So plain a man was he that he had no perception of the callous brutality of the words that girl when applied to some girls. He referred to his mystification a little later as he sat with his evening paper in the library. I don't know what I said to that techy boy to hurt him. He began in an apologetic tone. I don't see that there was anything too rough for him to stand in a little sarcasm. He needn't be so sensitive on the subject of whiskers, it seems to me. Mrs. Baxter smiled faintly and shook her head. It was Jane who responded. She was seated upon the floor, disporting herself mildly with her paint box. Papa, I know what's the matter with Willie, she said. Do you? Mr. Baxter returned. Well, if you make it pretty short, you've got just about long enough to tell us before your bedtime. I think he's married, said Jane. What? And her parents united their hilarity. I do think he's married, Jane insisted, unmoved. I think he's married with that Miss Pratt. Well, said her father, he does seem upset. And it may be that her visit and the idea of whiskers coming so close together is more than mere coincidence. But I hardly think Willie is married, Jane. Well, then, she returned thoughtfully. He's almost married, I know that much anyway. What makes you think so? Well, because I kind of thought he must be married, or anyway, something, when he talked to Mr. Genesis this morning. He said he knew how some people got married in Pennsylvania and India, and he said they were only seven or eight years old. He said so, and I heard him. And he said there were 11 people married that were only 17, and this boy in Iowa got a full beard and got married too. And he said Mr. Genesis was only 16 when he was married. He talked all about getting married when you're 17 years old, and he said how people thought it was the best thing could happen. So I just know he's almost married. Mr. Baxter chuckled, and Mrs. Baxter smiled. But a shade of thoughtfulness, a remote anxiety, fell upon the face of the latter. You haven't any other reason, have you, Jane? She asked. Yes, I'm, said Jane promptly, and it's more reason than any. Miss Pratt calls you mama as if you were her mama. She does it when she talks to Willie. Jane, yes, I heard her. And Willie said, I don't know what you'll think about mother. He said, I don't know what you'll think about mother to Miss Pratt. Mrs. Baxter looked a little startled and her husband frowned. Jane mistook their expressions for incredulity. They did mama, she protested. That's just the way they talk to each other. I heard him this afternoon when Willie had Papa's cane, or maybe they were doing it to tease you if you were with them, Mr. Baxter suggested. I wasn't with them. I was sailing my boat, and they came along. And first they never saw me. And Willie looked, oh Papa, I wish you'd seen him. Jane rose to her feet in her excitement. His face was so funny, you never saw anything like it. He was walking along with it turned sideways, and all the time he kept walking front ways. He kept his face sideways, like this Papa, look Papa. And she gave what she considered a faithful imitation of Willie of walking with Miss Pratt. Look Papa, this is the way Willie went. He had it sideways so as he could see Miss Pratt, Papa. And his face was just like this. Look Papa, she contorted her features in a terrifying manner. Look Papa, don't Jane, her mother exclaimed. Well, I have to show Papa how Willie looked, don't I? Said Jane, relaxing. That's just the way he looked. Well, and then they stopped and talked to me and Miss Pratt said, it's our little sister. Did she really, Mrs. Baxter asked gravely? Yes, she did. Soon as she saw who I was, she said, why, it's our little sister. Only she said it the way she talks, sort of foolish. It's our little sissy. Something like that, Mama. She said it twice and told me to go home and get washed up. And Miss Pratt told Willie, Miss Pratt said, it isn't Mama's fault, Jane's so dirty. Just like that, are you sure she said, our little sister, said Mrs. Baxter. Why, you can ask Willie. She said it that funny way. Or little sissy. That's what she said. And Miss Pratt said, everybody would love our little sister if Mama washed her in soap and water. You can ask Willie. That's exactly what Miss Pratt said. And if you don't believe it, you can ask her. If you don't want to believe it, why you can ask, hush dear, said Mrs. Baxter. All this doesn't mean anything at all. Especially such nonsense as Willie's thinking of being married. It's your bedtime. Well, but Mama, was that all they said? Mr. Baxter inquired. Jane turned to him eagerly. They said all lots of things like that, Papa. They, nonsense, Mrs. Baxter interrupted. Come, it's bedtime. I'll go up with you. You mustn't think such nonsense. But Mama, come along Jane. Jane was obedient in the flesh, but her spirit was free. Her opinions were her own. Disappointed in the sensation she had expected to produce, she followed her mother out of the room wearing the expression of a person who says, you'll see someday when everything's ruined. Mr. Baxter, left alone, laughed quietly, lifted his neglected newspaper to obtain the light at the right angle and then allowed it to languish upon his lap again. Frowning, he began to tap the floor with his shoe. He was trying to remember what things were in his head when he was 17, and it was difficult. It seemed to him that he had been a steady, sensible young fellow, really quite a man at that age. Looking backward at the blur of youthful years, the period from 16 to 25 appeared to him as pretty much all of a piece. He could not recall just when he stopped being a boy. It must have been at about 15, he thought. All at once he sat up stiffly in his chair and the paper slid from his knee. He remembered one autumn long ago when he had decided to abandon the educational plans of his parents and become an actor. He had located this project exactly for it dated from the night of his 17th birthday when he saw John McCulloch play Virginia's. Even now, Mr. Baxter grew a little red as he remembered the remarkable letter he had written a few weeks later to the manager of a passing theatrical company. He had confidently expected an answer and had made his plans to leave town quietly with the company and afterward reassure his parents by telegraph. In fact, he might have been on the stage at this moment if that manager had taken him. Mr. Baxter began to look nervous. Still, there is a difference between going on the stage and getting married. I don't know though, Mr. Baxter thought and will he certainly not so well-balanced in a general way as I was? He wished his wife would come down and reassure him. Though, of course, it was all nonsense. But when Mrs. Baxter came downstairs, she did not reassure him. Of course, Jane's too absurd, she said. I don't mean that she made it up. She never does that. And no doubt, this little Miss Pratt did say about what Jane thought she said. But it all amounts to nothing. Of course, will he's just going through what several of the other boys about his age are going through like Johnny Watson and Joe Bullitt and Wallace Banks. They all seem to be frantic over her. I caught a glimpse of her the day you had her to tea. She's rather pretty. Adorably. And perhaps Willie has been just a little bit more frantic than the others. He certainly seems in a queer state. At this, his wife's tone became serious. Do you think he would do as crazy a thing as that? Mr. Baxter laughed. Well, I don't know what he'd do it on. I don't suppose he has more than a dollar in his possession. Yes, he has, she returned quickly. Day before yesterday, there was a second hand furniture man here, and I was too busy to see him. But I wanted the storeroom in the cellar cleared out. And I told Willie he could have whatever the man would pay him for the junk in there. If he'd watched to see that they didn't take anything. They found some old pieces that I'd forgotten underneath things. And altogether the man paid Willie $9.85. But mercy me, exclaimed Mr. Baxter. The girl may be an idiot, but she wouldn't run away and marry a boy just barely 17 on $9.85. Oh no, said Mrs. Baxter. At least I don't think so. Of course, girls do as crazy things as boys sometimes in their way. I was thinking, she paused. Of course, there couldn't be anything in it, but it did seem a little strange. What did? Why, just before I came downstairs, Adelia came for the laundry, and I asked her if she'd seen Willie. And she said he'd put on his dark suit after dinner, and he went out through the kitchen carrying his suitcase. He did. Of course, Mrs. Baxter went on solely. I couldn't believe he'd do such a thing, but he really is in a preposterous way over this little misprat. And he did have that money. By George, Mr. Baxter got upon his feet. The way he talked at dinner, I would come pretty near believing he has in any more brains left than to get married on $9.85. I wouldn't put it past him by George. I wouldn't. Well, I don't think he would, she remonstrated feebly. Besides, the law wouldn't permit it. Mr. Baxter paced the floor. Oh, I suppose they could manage it. They could go to some little town and give false ages, and he broke off. Adelia was sure he had his suitcase. She nodded. Do you think we'd better go down to the partures? We'd just say we came to call, of course, and if get your hat on, he said. I don't think there's anything in it at all, but we'd just as well drop down there. It can't hurt anything. Of course, I don't think she began. Neither do I, he interrupted irassably, but with a boy of his age crazy enough to think he's in love, how do we know what'll happen? We're only his parents. Get your hat on. But when the uneasy couple found themselves upon the pavement before the house of the partures, they paused under the shade trees in the darkness and presently decided that it was not necessary to go in. Suddenly their uneasiness had fallen from them. From the porch came the laughter of several young voices and then one silvery voice which pretended to be that of a tiny child. Oh, same. Save our new big brother, Josie Joe. Must be polite to Johnny Jump-Up or taunt play with May and Lola. That's Miss Pratt, whispered Mrs. Baxter. She's talking to Johnny Watson and Joe Bullet in May Parture. Let's go home. It's all right. Of course, I knew it would be. Well, I certainly said Mr. Baxter as they turned. Even if Willie were as crazy as that, the little girl would have more sense. I wouldn't have thought anything of it if you hadn't told me about the suitcase. That looked sort of queer. She agreed that it did, but immediately added that she had thought nothing of it. What had seemed more significant to her was William's interest in the early marriage of Genesis' father. And in the Iowa Beard story, she said, then she said that it was curious about the suitcase. And when they came to their own house again, there was William sitting alone and silent upon the steps of the porch. I thought you'd gone out, Willie, said his mother, as they paused beside him. Ma'am, Adelia said you went out, carrying your suitcase. Oh, yes, he said languidly. If you leave clothes at Schwartz's in the evening, they have impressed in the morning. You said I looked damp at dinner, so I took him over and left him there. I see Mrs. Baxter followed her husband to the door, but she stopped on the threshold and called back. Don't sit there too long, Willie. Ma'am, the dew is falling and it rained so hard today. I'm afraid it might be damp. Ma'am, come on, Mrs. Baxter said to his wife. He's down on the parcher's porch, not out in front here. Of course he can't hear you. It's three blocks and a half. But William's father was mistaken. Little he knew. William was not upon the porch of the parchers with Mae Parcher and Joe Bullitt and Johnny Watson to interfere. He was far from there in a land where time was not, upon a planet floating in pink mist and uninhabited, unless old Mr. Genesis and some Hindu princes and the diligent Iowan may have established themselves in its remote regions. William was alone with Miss Pratt in the conservatory. And after a time, they went together and looked into the door of a room where an indefinite number of little boys, all over three years of age, were playing in the firelight upon a white bear rug. For in the rosy at gossamer that boys' dreams are made of, William had indeed entered the married state. His condition was growing worse every day. End of chapter 17. Chapter 18 of 17. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Berger, July 2009. 17 by Booth Tarkington. Chapter 18, The Big Fat Lummix. In the morning sunshine, Mrs. Baxter stood at the top of the steps of the front porch, addressing her son, who listened impatiently and edged himself a little nearer the gate every time he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Willie, she said, you must really pay some attention to the laws of health or you'll never live to be an old man. I don't want to live to be an old man, said William earnestly. I'd rather do what I please now and die a little sooner. You talked very foolishly, his mother returned. Either come back and put on some heavier things or take your overcoat. My overcoat, William groaned. They think I was a lunatic carrying an overcoat in August. Not to a picnic, she said. Mother, it isn't a picnic. I've told you a hundred times. You think it's one of those old fashioned things you used to go to, sit on the damp ground and eat sardines with ants all over them? This isn't anything like that. We just go out on the trolley to this farmhouse and have noon dinner and dance all afternoon and have supper and then come home on the trolley. I guess we'd hardly have got up anything as out of date as a picnic in honor of Miss Pratt. Mrs. Baxter seemed unimpressed. It doesn't matter whether you call it a picnic or not, Willie, it will be cool on the open trolley car coming home, especially with only those white trousers on. Yay, gods, he cried. I've got other things on besides my trousers. I wish he wouldn't always act as if I was a perfect child. Good heavens, isn't a person my age supposed to know how much clothes to wear? Well, if he is, she returned. It's a mere supposition and not founded on fact. Don't get so excited, Willie, please, but you'll either have to give up the picnic or come in and change my things, he wailed. I can't change my things. I've got just 20 minutes to get to May Parchers. The crowd meets there and they're going to take the trolley in front of the Parchers at exactly a quarter after 11. Please don't keep me any longer, mother. I got to go. She stepped into the hall and returned immediately. Here's your overcoat, Willie. His expression was of despair. They'll think I'm a lunatic and they'll say so before everybody. And I don't blame them. Overcoat on a hot day like this, except me, I don't suppose there was ever anybody who lived in the world and got to be going on 18 years and had to carry a silly old overcoat around with him in August because his mother made him. Willie, said Mrs. Baxter, you don't know how many thousands and thousands of mothers for thousands and thousands of years have kept their sons from taking thousands and thousands of colds just this way. He moaned, well, and I got to be called a lunatic just because you're nervous, I suppose. All right. She hung it upon his arm, kissed him, and he departed in a desperate manner. However, having worn his tragic face for three blocks, he halted before a corner drugstore and permitted his expression to improve as he gazed upon the window display of my little sweetheart all tobacco Cuban cigarettes, the package of 20 for 10 cents. William was not a smoker, that is to say, he had made the usual boyhood experiments, finding them discouraging, and though at times he considered it humorously man about town to say to a smoking friend, well, I'll tackle one of your old coffin nails, he had never made a purchase of tobacco in his life. But it struck him now that it would be rather debonair to despot himself with the package of little sweethearts upon the excursion and the name. It thrilled him inexpressibly, bringing a tenderness into his eyes and a glow into his bosom. He felt that when he should smoke a little sweetheart, it would be a tribute to the ineffable visitor for whom this party was being given. It would bring her closer to him. His young brow grew almost stern with determination, for he made up his mind on the spot that he would smoke oftener in the future. He would become a confirmed smoker and all his life he would smoke my little sweetheart all tobacco cube and cigarettes. He entered and managed to make his purchase in a matter of fact way, as if he were doing something quite unemotional. Then he said to the clerk, oh, by the way, the clerk stared, well, what else? I mean, said William Hurriedly, there's something I wanted to tend to, now I happen to be here. I was on my way to take this overcoat to get something altered at the tailors for next winter. Of course, I wouldn't want it till winter, but I thought I might as well get it done. He paused, laughing carelessly for greater plausibility. I thought he'd probably want lots of time on the job. He's a slow worker, I've noticed. And so I decided I might just as well go ahead and let him get at it. Well, so I was on my way there, but I just noticed I only got about six minutes more to get to a mighty important engagement I got this morning and I'd like to leave it here and come by and get it on my way home this evening. Sure, said the clerk, hang it on that hook inside the prescription counter. There's one there already, belongs to your friend, that young bullet fella. He was in here a while ago and said he wanted to leave his because he didn't have time to take it to be pressed in time for next winter. Then he went on and joined that crowded Mr. Partcher's yard around the corner that's going on a trolley party. I says, bet your mother made you carry it. And he says, oh no, oh no. He says, honest, I was going to get it pressed. You can hang yours on the same nail. The clerk spoke no more and went to serve another customer while William stared after him a little uneasily. It seemed that here was a man of suspicious nature, though of course, Joe Bullitt's shallow talk about getting an overcoat pressed before winter would not have imposed upon anybody. However, William felt strongly that the private life of the customers of a store should not be pried into and speculated about by employees. And he was conscious of a distaste for this clerk. Nevertheless, it was with a lighter heart that he left his overcoat behind him and stepped out of the side door of the drugstore. That brought him with inside of the gaily dressed young people, about 30 in number, gathered upon the small lawn beside Mr. Partcher's house. Miss Pratt stood among them in heliotrope and white, floppet nestling in her arms. She was encircled by girls who were enthusiastically caressing the board and blinking floppet. And when William beheld this charming group, his breath became eccentric, his kneecaps became cold and convulsive, his neck became hot, and he broke into a light perspiration. She saw him. The small, blonde head and the delirious little fluffy hat above it shimmered a nod to him. Then his mouth fell unconsciously open and his eyes grew glassy with the intensity of meaning he put into the silent response he sent across the picket fence and through the interstices of the intervening group. Pressing with his elbow upon the package of cigarettes in his pocket, he murmured inonably, my little sweetheart, always for you, a repetition of his vow that, come what might, he would forever remain a loyal smoker of that symbolic brand. In fact, William's mental condition had never shown one moment's turn for the better since the fateful day of the distracting visitor's arrival. Mr. Johnny Watson and Mr. Joe Bullitt met him at the gate and offered him hearty greeting. All bickering and dissension among these three had passed. The lady was so wondrous and partial that as time went on, the sufferers had come to be drawn together rather than thrust asunder by their common feeling. It had grown to be a bond uniting them. They were not so much rivals as ardent novices serving a single altar, each worshiping there without visible gain over the other. Each had even come to possess in the eyes of his two fellows almost a sacredness as a sharer in the celestial glamour. They were tender one with another. They were in the last stages. Johnny Watson had with him today a visitor of his own, a vastly overgrown person of 18 who, at Johnny's beckoning, abandoned a fair companion of the moment and came forward as William entered the gate. I want to introduce you to two of my most intimate friends, George, said Johnny, with the anxious gravity of a person about to do something important and unfamiliar. Mr. Maxter, let me introduce my cousin, Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper, this is my friend, Mr. Maxter. The gentleman shook hands solemnly, saying, I'm very glad to meet you. And Johnny turned to Joe Bullitt. Mr. Crew, I mean, Mr. Bullitt, let me introduce my friend, Mr. Cooper. I mean my cousin, Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper is a cousin of mine. Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cooper, said Joe. I suppose you're a cousin of Johnny's then. Yep, said Mr. Cooper, becoming more informal. Johnny wrote me to come over for this shindig, so I thought I might as well come. He laughed loudly, and the others laughed with the same heartiness. Yes, sir, he added. I thought I might as well come, because I'm pretty apt to be on hand if there's anything doing. Well, that's right, said William. And while they all laughed again, Mr. Cooper struck his cousin, a jovial blow upon the back. Hi, old sport, he cried. I want to meet that Miss Pratt before we start. The car will be along pretty soon, and I got her picked for the girl I'm going to sit by. The laughter of William and Joe Bullitt, designed to express cordiality, suddenly became flaccid and died. If Mr. Cooper had been a sensitive person, he might have perceived the chilling disapproval in their glances, for they had just begun to be most unfavorably impressed with him. The careless loudness, almost a notoriety, with which he had uttered Miss Pratt's name, demanding loosely to be presented to her, regardless of the well-known law that a lady must first express some wish in such matters. These were indications of a coarse nature, sure to be more than uncongenial to Miss Pratt. Its presence might make the whole occasion distasteful to her, might spoil her day. Both William and Joe Bullitt began to wonder why on earth Johnny Watson didn't have any more sense than to invite such a big, fat, limits of a cousin to the party. This severe phrase of theirs, almost simultaneous in the two minds, was not wholly a failure as a thumbnail sketch of Mr. George Cooper. And yet there was the impressiveness of size about him, especially about his legs and chin. At 17 and 18, growth is still going on, sometimes in a sporadic way, several parts seeming to have sprouted faster than others. Often the features have not quite settled down together in harmony. A mouth, for instance, appearing to have gained such a lead over the rest of a face, that even a mother may fear it can never be overtaken. Voices too often seem misplaced. One hears outside the door, the base rumble of a sinister giant and a mild boy thin as a cricket walks in. The contrary was George Cooper's case. His voice was an unexpected piping tenor, half falsetto and frequently girlish, as surprising as the absurd voice of an elephant. He had the general outwardness of a vast and lumpy child. His chin had so distanced his other features that his eyes, nose and brows seemed almost baby-like in comparison. While his mountainous legs were the great part of the rest of him, he was one of those huge bottle-shaped boys who are always in motion in spite of their cumbersomeness. His gestures were continuous, though difficult to interpret as bearing upon the subject of his equally continuous conversation. And under all circumstances, he kept his conspicuous legs incessantly moving, whether he was going anywhere or remaining in comparatively one spot. His expression was pathetically offensive, the result of his bland confidence in the audible opinions of a small town where of his father was the richest inhabitant. And the one thing about him, even more obvious than his chin, his legs and his spectacular taste in flannels was his perfect trust that he was as welcome to everyone as he was to his mother. This might someday lead him in the direction of great pain, but on the occasion of the subscription party for Miss Pratt, it gave him an advantage. When do I get to meet that cutie, he insisted, as Johnny Watson moved backward from the Cousinly Arm, which threatened further flailing. You introduced me to about seven, I can't do much for, but I want to get the Howdy business over with this Miss Pratt, so I and she can get things started. I'm going to keep her busy all day. Well, don't be in such a hurry, said Johnny uneasily. You can meet her when we get out in the country, if I get a chance, George. No, sir, George protested jovially. I guess you're sad birds over in this town, but look out. When I hit a town, it don't take long till they all hear there's something doing. You know how I am when I get started, Johnny. Here he turned upon William, tucking his fat arm affectionately through William's thin one. Hi, sport. Oh, Johnny's so slow. You toddle me over and get me fixed up with this Miss Pratt, and I'll tell her you're the real stuff after we get engaged. He was evidently a true cloud compeler, this horrible George. End of chapter 18. Chapter 19 of 17. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, July, 2009. 17 by Booth Tarkington, chapter 19. I didn't know why it is. William extricated his arm, huskily muttering words, which were lost in the general outcry, car's coming. The young people poured out through the gate, and as the car stopped, scrambled aboard. For a moment, everything was hurried and confused. William struggled anxiously to push through to Miss Pratt and climb up beside her. But Mr. George Krupper made his way into the crowd in a beaming, though bull-like manner, and a fat back in a purple and white blazer flattened William's nose, while ponderous heels damaged William's toes and just managed to clamber upon the footboard as the car started. The friendly hand of Joe Bullitt pulled him to a seat, and William found himself rubbing his nose and sitting between Joe and Johnny Watson, directly behind the dashing Krupper and Miss Pratt. Mr. Krupper had already taken Floppet upon his lap. Dogs are always crazy about me, they heard him say, for his high voice was but too audible over all other sounds. Dogs and children, I don't know why it is, but they always take to me. My name's George Krupper III, Johnny Watson's cousin. He was trying to introduce me before the car came along, but he never got the chance. I guess as this shindigs for you, and I'm the only other guest from out of town, we'll have to introduce ourselves, the two guests of honor, as it were. Miss Pratt laughed her silvery laugh, murmured politely, and turned no freezing glance upon her neighbor. Indeed, it seemed that she was far from regarding him with the desais anticipated by William and Joe Bullitt. Floppet looks so tooted-tunnin'. She was heard to remark, Floppet looks so ittle-undray, big, enormous man's lap. Mr. Krupper laughed defrecatingly. He does look kind of small compared to the good old man that's got charge of him now. Well, I always was a good deal bigger than the fellows I went with. I don't know why it is, but I was always kind of quicker too, as it were, and the strongest in any crowd I ever got with. I'm kind of muscle bound, I guess, but I don't let that interfere with my quickness any. Take me in an automobile. Now, I got a racing car at home, and I keep my head better than most people do, as it were. I can kind of handle myself better. I don't know why it is. My brain seemed to work better than other people's. That's all it is. I don't mean that I got more sense or anything like that. It's just the way my brains work. They kind of put me at an advantage, as it were. Well, for instance, if I'd been living in this town and joined in with the crowd to get up this party, well, it would have been done a good deal different. I won't say better, but different. That's always the way with me if I go into anything. Pretty soon I'm running the whole shebang. I don't know why it is. The other people might try to run it their way for a while, but pretty soon you notice them beginning to step out of the way for good ol' George. I don't know why it is, but that's the way it goes. Well, if I'd been running this party, I'd have had automobiles to go out in, not a trolley car where you all got to sit together. I'd have sent over home for my little racer, and I'd have taken you out in her myself. I wish I'd sent for it anyway. We could have let the rest go out in the trolley, and you and I could have got off by ourselves. I'd like you to see that little car. Well anyway, I bet you'd have seen something pretty different and a whole lot better if I'd have come over to this town in time to get up this party for you. For us, Miss Pratt corrected him suddenly. Both strangers, party for us too, all both. And she gave him one of her looks. Mr. Cooper flushed with emotion. He was annexed, he became serious. Say, he said, that's a mighty smooth hat you got on. And he touched the fluffy rim of it with his forefinger. His fat shoulders leaned toward her yearningly. We'd certainly have had a lot better time sizzling along in that little racer I got, he said. I'd like to have you see how I handle that little car. Girls over home, they say they like to go out with me just to watch the way I handle her. They say it ain't so much just the ride, but more the way I handle that little car. I don't know why it is, but that's what they say. That's the way I do anything I make up my mind to tackle though. I don't try to tackle everything. There's lots of things I wouldn't take enough interest in them, as it were, but just let me make up my mind once and it's all off. I don't know why it is. There was a breakman on the train, got kind of fresh. He didn't know who I was. Well, I just put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him down in his seat like this. And he set his hand upon Miss Pratt's shoulder. I didn't want to hit him because there was women and children in the car. So I just shoved my face up close to him like this. I guess you don't know how much stock my father's got in this road, I says. Did he wilt? Well, you ought to have seen that breakman when I got through telling him who I was. Nessie old breakman, said Miss Pratt with unfailing sympathy. Mr. Cooper's fat hand, as if unconsciously, gave Miss Pratt's delicate shoulder a little pat in reluctant withdrawal. Well, that's the way with me, he said. Much as I've been around this world, nobody ever tried to put anything over on me and got away with it. They always come out the little end of the horn. I don't know why it is. Say, that's a muddy, smooth locket you got on the end of that chain hit there. And again, stretching forth his hand in a proprietor-like way, he began to examine the locket. Three hot hearts, just behind, pulsated hatred toward him, for Johnny Watson had perceived his error and his sentiments were now linked to those of Joe Bullitt and William. The unhappiness of these three helpless spectators was the more poignant, because not only were they witnesses of the impression of greatness which George Cooper was obviously producing upon Miss Pratt, but they were unable to prevent themselves from being likewise impressed. They were not analytical. They dumbly accepted George at his own rating, not even being able to charge him with a lack of modesty. Did he not always accompany his testimonials to himself with his deprecating falsetto laugh and I don't know why it is? An official disclaimer of merit, as it were. Here was a formidable candidate indeed, a traveler, a man of the world, with brains better and quicker than other people's brains, an athlete yet nightly. He would not destroy even a breakman in the presence of women and children. And finally, most enviable and deadly, the owner and operator of a little racer. All this glitter was not far short of overpowering, and yet, though accepting it as fact, the woeful three shared the inconsistent belief that in spite of everything, George was nothing but a big fat lumex. For thus, they even rather loudly whispered of him, almost as if hopeful that Miss Pratt and maybe George himself might overhear. Impotent their seething. The overwhelming crouper pursued his conquering way. He leaned more and more toward the magnetic girl, his growing tenderness having that effect upon him, and his head inclining so far that his bedewed brow now and then touched the fluffy hat. He was constitutionally restless, but his movements never ended by placing a greater distance between himself and Miss Pratt. Though they sometimes discommoted Miss Parcher, who sat at the other side of him, a side of him which appeared to be without consciousness. He played naively with Miss Pratt's locket and with the filmy border of her collar. He flicked his nose for some time with her little handkerchief, loudly sniffing its scent, and finally he became interested in a ring she wore, removed it, and tried unsuccessfully to place it upon one of his own fingers. I've worn lots of girls' rings on my watch fob. I'd let him wear mine on a chain or something. I guess they like to do that with me, he said. I don't know why it is. At this subtle hint the three unfortunates held their breath, and then lost it as the lovely girl acquiesced in the horrible exchange. As for William, life was of no more use to him. Out of the blue heaven of that bright morning's promise had fallen a pall, draping his soul in black and purple. He had been horror stricken when first the pudgy finger of George Kruber had touched the fluffy edge of that sacred little hat. Then during George's subsequent pawings and leanings, William felt that he must either rise and murder or go mad. But when the exchange of rings was accomplished, his spirit broke, and even resentment oozed away. For a time there was no room in him for anything except misery. Dully, William's eyes watched the fat shoulders hitching and twitching, while the heavy arms flourished in gesture and in further pawings. Again and again were William's ears afflicted with, I don't know why it is, following upon tribute after tribute paid by Mr. Kruber to himself and received with little cries of admiration and sweet child words on the part of Miss Pratt. It was a long and a cursed ride. End of chapter 19.