 CHAPTER XXXIV The good citizens' league had spread through the country, but nowhere was it so effective and well-esteemed as in the cities of the type of zenith, commercial cities, of a few hundred thousand inhabitants, most of which, though not all, lay inland, against a background of cornfields and mines, and of small towns which depended upon them for mortgage loans, table manners, art, social philosophy, and millinery. To the league belonged most of the prosperous citizens of zenith. They were not all of the kind who called themselves regular guys. Besides these hearty fellows, these salesmen of prosperity, there were the aristocrats, that is, the men who were richer or had been rich for more generations, the presidents of banks and factories, the landowners, the corporation lawyers, the fashionable doctors, and the few young old men who worked, not at all, but reluctantly remaining in zenith-collected lusterware, and first editions as though they were back in Paris. All of them agreed that the working classes must be kept in their place, and all of them perceived that American democracy did not imply any equality of wealth, but did demand a wholesome sameness of thought, dress, painting, morals, and vocabulary. In this they were like the ruling class of any other country, particularly of Great Britain, but they differed in being more vigorous and in actually trying to produce the accepted standards which all classes everywhere desire, but usually despair and realizing. The longest struggle of the Good Citizens League was against the open shop, which was secretly a struggle against all union labor. Accompanying it was an Americanization movement, with evening classes in English and history and economics, and daily articles in the newspapers, so that newly arrived foreigners might learn that the true blue, and 100% American way of settling labor troubles, was for workmen to trust and love their employers. The league was more than generous in approving other organizations which agreed with its names. It helped the YMCA to raise a $200,000 fund for a new building. Babbit, Virgil Gunsch, Sidney Finkelstein, and even Charles McKelvie, told the spectators at movie theaters how great an influence for manly Christianity, the good ol' Y, had been in their own lives, and the whore and mighty Colonel Redford Snow, owner of the Advocate Times, was photographed clasping the hands of Sheldon Smeeth of the YMCA. It is true that afterwards, when Smeeth lips, you must come to one of our prayer meetings, the ferocious Colonel Bellowed, what the hell would I do that for? Gotta borrow my own. But this did not appear in the public prints. The league was of value to the American Legion at a time when certain of the lesser and looser newspapers were criticizing that organization of veterans of the Great War. One evening a number of young men raided the Zenith Socialist headquarters, burned its records, beat the office staff, and agreeably dumped desks out of the window. All the newspapers, save the Advocate Times and the Evening Advocate, attributed this valuable but perhaps hasty direct action to the American Legion. Then a flying squadron from the Good Citizens League called on the unfair papers and explained that no ex-soldier could possibly do such a thing. And the editors saw the light and retained their advertising. When Zenith's lone conscientious abjector came home from prison and was righteously run out of town, the newspapers referred to the perpetrators as an unidentified mob. Two. In all the activities and triumphs of the Good Citizens League, Babet took part, and completely won back to self-respect, acidity, and the affection of his friends. But he began to protest. Of course, I've done my share in cleaning up the city. I want to tend to business. I think I'll just kind of slacken up on this GCL stuff now. He had returned to the church as he had returned to the Boosters Club. He had even endured the lavish greeting which Sheldon Smeeth gave him. He was worried, at least during his late discontent, he had imperiled his salvation. He was not quite sure there was a heaven to be attained. But Dr. John Jonathan Drew said there was, and Babet was not going to take a chance. One evening, when he was walking past Dr. Drew's parsonage, he impulsively went in and found a pastor in his study. Just a minute and getting a phone call, said Dr. Drew in business-like tones, then aggressively to the telephone. Hello? Hello? There's Berkeley and Haines? Reverend Drew speaking. Where the dickens is approved for next Sunday's calendar? Huh? He ought to have it here. Well, I can't help it. They're all sick. I've got to have it tonight. Get an ADT, boy, and you should have it up here quick. He turned without slacking his briskness. Well, Brother Babet, what can I do for you? I just want to ask, tell you how it is. Dominique, a while ago, I guess I got kind of slack. Took a few drinks and so on. What I wanted to ask is, how is it if a fellow cuts that all out and comes back to his senses? Does it sort of, well, you might say, does it score against him in the long run? Reverend Drew was suddenly interested. And, uh, Brother, what are the things, too? Women? No, practically, you might say, practically not at all. Don't hesitate to tell me, Brother. That's what I'm here for. Been going on joy rides, squeezing girls in cars? The Reverend's eyes like, listen. Oh, no. Well, I'll tell you, I've got a deputation from the Don't Make Prohibition, a joke association, coming to see me in a quarter of an hour, and one from the Anti-Birth Control Union at a quarter of ten. He busily granted his watch, but I can take five minutes off and pray with you, kneel right down by your chair, brother. Don't be ashamed to seek the guidance of God. That scalp itched, and he longed to flee, but Dr. Drew had already flopped down beside his desk-chair, and his voice had changed from rasping efficiency to an uncuteous familiarity with sin, and with the Almighty. Babbot also knelt while Drew gloated. Oh, Lord, thou seest our brother here, who has been led astray by manifold temptations. Oh, Heavenly Father, make his heart to be pure, as pure as a little child's. Oh, let him know again the joy of a manly courage to abstain from evil. Sheldon Smeeth came flockering into the study. At the sight of the two men he smirked, forgivingly patted Babbot on the shoulder, and knelt beside him, his arm about him, while he authorized Dr. Drew's implications with moans of, yes, Lord, help our brother, Lord. Though he was trying to keep his eyes closed, Babbot squinted between his fingers and saw the pastor glance at his watch, as he concluded with a triumphant, and let him never be afraid to come to us for counsel and tender care, and let him know that the church can lead him as a little lamb. Dr. Drew sprang up, rolled his eyes in the general direction of heaven, chucked his watch into his pocket, and demanded, has the deputation come yet, Sheldon? Yep, ran outside, Sheldon answered. With equivocal liveliness, then caressingly to Babbot, brother, if it would help, I'd love to go into the next room and pray with you while Dr. Drew is receiving the brothers from the Don't Make a Prohibition of Joke Association. No, thanks, I can't take the time. Yep, Babbot rushing toward the door. Thereafter, he was often seen at the Catham Road Presbyterian Church, but it is recorded that he avoided shaking hands with the pastor at the door. Three. If his moral fiber had been so weakened by rebellion that he was not quite dependable, in the more rigorous campaigns of the Good Citizens League nor quite appreciative of the church, yet there was no doubt of the joy with which Babbot returned to the pleasures of his home and of the athletic club, the boosters and elks. Verona and Kenneth Escott were eventually and hesitatingly married. For the wedding, Babbot was dressed as carefully as was Verona. He was crammed into the morning coat he wore to tease thrice a year, and with a certain relief after Verona and Kenneth had driven away in a limousine, he returned to the house, removed the morning coat, sat with his aching feet upon a Davenport, and reflected that his wife and he could have the living-room to themselves now, and not have to listen to Verona and Kenneth worrying in a cultured collegiate manner about minimum wages and the drama league. But even this sinking into peace was less consoling than his return to being one of the best-loved men in the Boosters Club. Four. President Willis I. Gems began the Boosters Club luncheon by standing quiet and staring at them so unhappily that they feared he was about to announce the death of a brother-booster. He spoke slowly then and gravely. Boys, I have something shocking to reveal to you, something terrible about one of our own members. Several boosters, including Babbot, looked a little disconcerted. A night of the grip, a trusted friend of mine, recently made a trip upstate, and in a certain town where a certain booster spent his boyhood, he found out something which can no longer be concealed. In fact, he discovered the inward nature of a man whom we have accepted as a real guy, and one of us. Gentlemen, I cannot trust my voice to say it, so I've written it down. He uncovered a large blackboard and on it in huge capitals was the legend. George Volonus B. Babbot. O you folly. The boosters cheered, they laughed, they wept, they threw rolls at Babbot, they cried, speech, speech, O you folly. President I. Gems continued, that gentleman is the awful thing, Georgie Babbot has been concealing all these years. When we thought he was just playing George F., now I want you to tell us, talking in turn, what you've always supposed the F. stood for. Fliver, they suggested, and Frogface, and Flathead, and Finanches, and Freezone, and Flapidoodle, and Flaughorn. By joviality of their insults, Babbot knew that he had been taken back to their hearts, and happily he rose. Boys, I've got to admit it, I've never worn a wrist watch or parted my name in the middle. But I will confess to Volonus B. Only justification is that my old dad, though otherwise he was perfectly sane and packed an awful wallop when it came to trimming the city fathers and checkers, named me after the family Doc, old Doc Ambrose Follensby. I apologize, boys. In my next, what do you call it, I'll see to it that I get named something really practical. Something that sounds swell and yet is good and veral. Something, in fact, like that grand old name so familiar to every household, that bold, and almost overpowering name, Willis Jimmy Jams I Jams. He knew by the cheer that he was secure again and popular. He knew that he would no more endanger his security and popularity by straying from the clan of good fellows. Five Henry Thompson dashed into the office clamming, Georgie, big news, Jake Offit says the traction bunch are dissatisfied with the way Sanders, Tory, and Wing handle their last deal, and they're willing to dicker with us. Babbit was pleased in the realization that the last scar of his rebellion was healed. Yet as he drove home he was annoyed by such background thought as had never weakened him in his days of belligerent conformity. He discovered that he actually did not consider the traction group quite honest. Well, he'd carry out one more deal for them, but as soon as it was practicable, maybe as soon as old Henry Thompson died, he'd break away from all association from them. He was 48 and 12 years he'd be 60. He wanted to leave a clean business to his grandchildren. Of course, there was a lot of money in negotiating for the traction people and the fellow had to look at things in a practical way, only he wiggled uncomfortably. He wanted to tell the traction group what he thought of them. Oh, he couldn't do it none now. If he offended them this second time they would crush him, buuuut. He was conscious that his line of progress seemed confused. He wondered what he would do with his future. He was still young. Was he through with all adventuring? He felt that he had been trapped into the very net from which he had with such fury escaped and supremus jest of all been made to rejoice in the trapping. I've licked me. Licked me to a finish, he whimpered. The house was peaceful that evening and he enjoyed a game of pinocchio with his wife. He indignantly told a tempter that he was content to do things in a good old-fashioned way. The day after he went to see the purchasing agent of the street traction company and they made plans for the secret purchase of lots along the Everston Road. But as he drove to his office he struggled. I'm going to run things and figure out things to suit myself when I retire. 6. Ted had come down from the university for the weekend. Though he no longer spoke of mechanical engineering and though he was resident about his opinion of his instructors, he seemed no more reconciled to college and his chief interest was his wireless telephone set. On Saturday evening he took Eunice Littlefield to a dance at Devon Woods. Babbit had a glimpse of her bouncing in the seat of the car. Brilliant in a scarlet cloak were a frock of thinnest creamy silk. They too had not returned when the Babbits went to bed. At half-past eleven, at a blurred and definite time of late night, Babbit was awakened by the ring of the telephone and gloomily crawled downstairs. Howard Littlefield was speaking. 6. George? Am I isn't back yet, is Ted? 7. Oh, at least his door is open. 8. They ought to be home. Eunice said the dance would be over at midnight. What's the name of those people where they're going? 9. Oh, gosh, tell the truth. I don't know. Howard did some classmate of Ted's out in Devon Woods. Don't see what we can do. We all skip up and ask Mary if she knows her name. 8. Babbit turned on the light in Ted's room. It was a brown boy's room, disordered dresser, worn books, a high school pennant, photographs of basketball teams and baseball teams. Ted was decidedly not there. 9. Mrs. Babbit, awakened irritably, observed that she certainly did not know the name of Ted's host, that it was late that Howard Littlefield was but little better than a born fool and that she was sleepy. But she remained awake and worrying while Babbit, on the sleeping porch, struggled back into sleep through the incessant, soft rain of her remarks. It was after Don, when he was aroused by her shaking him and calling her, George, George! In something like horror. What is it? Come here quick and see. Be quiet. 10. She led him down the hall to the door of Ted's room and pushed it gently open. On the worn brown rug, she saw a fourth of rose-colored chiffon lingerie on the sedate morse chair, a girl's silver slipper, and on the pillows were two sleepy heads, Ted's and Eunice's. 11. Ted woke to grin and mutter with unconvincing defiance. Good morning! Let me introduce my wife, Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt, Eunice Littlefield Babbit. Esquiris. Good God! From Babbit and from his wife along with him, I love coming! We got married last evening. Wife, sit up and say pretty good morning to mother-in-law. 12. But Eunice hit her shoulders and her charming wild hair under the pillow. By nine o'clock the assembly, which was gathered about Ted and Eunice in the living room included Mr. and Mrs. George Babbit, Dr. and Mrs. Howard Littlefield, Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Escott, Mr. and Mrs. Henry T. Thompson, and Tinka Babbit, who was the only pleased member of the inquisition. A crackling shower of phrases filled a room, at their age ought to be a note, never heard of such a thing. Fault of both of them, keeping out of the papers, ought to be packed off to school, do something about it at once, and what I say is, damn good old-fashioned spanking. Worst of them all was Rona. Ted! Some way must be found to make you understand how dreadfully serious this is, instead of standing around with that silly, fully smile on your face. He began to revolt. Well, like Rona, you got married yourself, didn't you? That's entirely different. You bet it is. They didn't have to work on you and me with a chain and tackled to get us to the hold hands. Now, young man, we'll have no more flippancy, old Henry Thompson ordered. You listen to me. You listen to grandfather, said Rona. You listen to your grandfather, said Mrs. Babbit. Dad, you listen to Mr. Thompson, said Howard Littlefield. Oh, for the love of Mike, I am listening, Ted shouted. But you look here, all of you. I am getting sick and tired of being the corpse in this post-mortem. If you want to kill somebody, go kill a preacher that married us. Why, he stung me five dollars, and all the money I had in the world was six dollars and two bits. I am getting just about enough of being hard at. A new voice, booming, authoritative, dominated the room. It was Babbit. Yup, there's two darn many putting in their oar. Rona, you dry up. Howard and I are still pretty strong and able to do our own cussing. Ted, come into the dining-room and we'll talk this over. In the dining-room, the door firmly closed. Babbit walked to his son, put both hands on his shoulders. You're, uh, more or less right. They all talk too much. Now what do you plan to do, old man? Gosh, Dad, are you really going to be human? Well, I remember one time you called us the Babbit men and said we ought to stick together. I want to. I don't pretend to think this isn't serious the way the cards are stacked against a young fellow today. I can't say I'll prove of early marriages, but you couldn't have married a better girl than Eunice. And way I figure it, Littlefield is darn lucky to get a Babbit for a Sun Law. But what do you plan to do? Of course, you could go right ahead with the you, and when you're finished. Dad, I can't stand it anymore. Maybe it's all right for some fellows. Maybe I'll want to go back some day with me. I want to get into mechanics. I think I'll get to be a good inventor. There's a fellow that would give me twenty dollars a week in a factory right now. Well, Babbit crossed the floor slowly, ponderously, seemed a little old. I've always wanted you to have a college degree. He meditatively stomped across the floor again. But I've never now, for heaven's sake, don't repeat this to your mother or she'd remove one little hair I got left. But practically, I've never done a single thing I've wanted to in my whole life. I don't know if I've accomplished anything except just get along. Figure out I've made about a quarter of an inch out of a possible hundred rods. Well, maybe you'll carry things on further. I don't know. But I do get kind of a sneaking pleasure out of the fact that you know what you want to do, and you did it. Well, those folks in there will try to bully you and tame you down. Tell them to go to the devil. I'll back you. Take your factory job if you want to. Don't be scared of the family. No, nor all of Xenath, nor of yourself. The way I've been. Go ahead, old man. The world is yours. Arms about each other's shoulders, the Babbit men marched into the living room and faced the swooping family. End of chapter thirty four, recording by Mike Vendetti, Canyon City, Colorado. Mike Vendetti dot com. End of Babbit by Sinclair Lewis.