Sinclair Lewis - The Collected Works of Sinclair Lewis

“What are we going to do with 'em?” Babbitt consulted.

“Gosh, I don't know. I swear, sometimes I feel like taking Ken aside and putting him over the jumps and saying to him, 'Young fella me lad, are you going to marry young Rone, or are you going to talk her to death? Here you are getting on toward thirty, and you're only making twenty or twenty-five a week. When you going to develop a sense of responsibility and get a raise? If there's anything that George F. or I can do to help you, call on us, but show a little speed, anyway!'”

“Well, at that, it might not be so bad if you or I talked to him, except he might not understand. He's one of these high brows. He can't come down to cases and lay his cards on the table and talk straight out from the shoulder, like you or I can.”

“That's right, he's like all these highbrows.”

“That's so, like all of 'em.”

“That's a fact.”

They sighed, and were silent and thoughtful and happy.

The conductor came in. He had once called at Babbitt's office, to ask about houses. “H' are you, Mr. Babbitt! We going to have you with us to Chicago? This your boy?”

“Yes, this is my son Ted.”

“Well now, what do you know about that! Here I been thinking you were a youngster yourself, not a day over forty, hardly, and you with this great big fellow!”

“Forty? Why, brother, I'll never see forty-five again!”

“Is that a fact! Wouldn't hardly 'a' thought it!”

“Yes, sir, it's a bad give-away for the old man when he has to travel with a young whale like Ted here!”

“You're right, it is.” To Ted: “I suppose you're in college now?”

Proudly, “No, not till next fall. I'm just kind of giving the diff'rent colleges the once-over now.”

As the conductor went on his affable way, huge watch-chain jingling against his blue chest, Babbitt and Ted gravely considered colleges. They arrived at Chicago late at night; they lay abed in the morning, rejoicing, “Pretty nice not to have to get up and get down to breakfast, heh?” They were staying at the modest Eden Hotel, because Zenith business men always stayed at the Eden, but they had dinner in the brocade and crystal Versailles Room of the Regency Hotel. Babbitt ordered Blue Point oysters with cocktail sauce, a tremendous steak with a tremendous platter of French fried potatoes, two pots of coffee, apple pie with ice cream for both of them and, for Ted, an extra piece of mince pie.

“Hot stuff! Some feed, young fella!” Ted admired.

“Huh! You stick around with me, old man, and I'll show you a good time!”

They went to a musical comedy and nudged each other at the matrimonial jokes and the prohibition jokes; they paraded the lobby, arm in arm, between acts, and in the glee of his first release from the shame which dissevers fathers and sons Ted chuckled, “Dad, did you ever hear the one about the three milliners and the judge?”

When Ted had returned to Zenith, Babbitt was lonely. As he was trying to make alliance between Offutt and certain Milwaukee interests which wanted the race-track plot, most of his time was taken up in waiting for telephone calls.... Sitting on the edge of his bed, holding the portable telephone, asking wearily, “Mr. Sagen not in yet? Didn' he leave any message for me? All right, I'll hold the wire.” Staring at a stain on the wall, reflecting that it resembled a shoe, and being bored by this twentieth discovery that it resembled a shoe. Lighting a cigarette; then, bound to the telephone with no ashtray in reach, wondering what to do with this burning menace and anxiously trying to toss it into the tiled bathroom. At last, on the telephone, “No message, eh? All right, I'll call up again.”

One afternoon he wandered through snow-rutted streets of which he had never heard, streets of small tenements and two-family houses and marooned cottages. It came to him that he had nothing to do, that there was nothing he wanted to do. He was bleakly lonely in the evening, when he dined by himself at the Regency Hotel. He sat in the lobby afterward, in a plush chair bedecked with the Saxe-Coburg arms, lighting a cigar and looking for some one who would come and play with him and save him from thinking. In the chair next to him (showing the arms of Lithuania) was a half-familiar man, a large red-faced man with pop eyes and a deficient yellow mustache. He seemed kind and insignificant, and as lonely as Babbitt himself. He wore a tweed suit and a reluctant orange tie.

It came to Babbitt with a pyrotechnic crash. The melancholy stranger was Sir Gerald Doak.

Instinctively Babbitt rose, bumbling, “How 're you, Sir Gerald? 'Member we met in Zenith, at Charley McKelvey's? Babbitt's my name — real estate.”

“Oh! How d' you do.” Sir Gerald shook hands flabbily.

Embarrassed, standing, wondering how he could retreat, Babbitt maundered, “Well, I suppose you been having a great trip since we saw you in Zenith.”

“Quite. British Columbia and California and all over the place,” he said doubtfully, looking at Babbitt lifelessly.

“How did you find business conditions in British Columbia? Or I suppose maybe you didn't look into 'em. Scenery and sport and so on?”

“Scenery? Oh, capital. But business conditions — You know, Mr. Babbitt, they're having almost as much unemployment as we are.” Sir Gerald was speaking warmly now.

“So? Business conditions not so doggone good, eh?”

“No, business conditions weren't at all what I'd hoped to find them.”

“Not good, eh?”

“No, not — not really good.”

“That's a darn shame. Well — I suppose you're waiting for somebody to take you out to some big shindig, Sir Gerald.”

“Shindig? Oh. Shindig. No, to tell you the truth, I was wondering what the deuce I could do this evening. Don't know a soul in Tchicahgo. I wonder if you happen to know whether there's a good theater in this city?”

“Good? Why say, they're running grand opera right now! I guess maybe you'd like that.”

“Eh? Eh? Went to the opera once in London. Covent Garden sort of thing. Shocking! No, I was wondering if there was a good cinema-movie.”

Babbitt was sitting down, hitching his chair over, shouting, “Movie? Say, Sir Gerald, I supposed of course you had a raft of dames waiting to lead you out to some soiree — ”

“God forbid!”

“ — but if you haven't, what do you say you and me go to a movie? There's a peach of a film at the Grantham: Bill Hart in a bandit picture.”

“Right-o! Just a moment while I get my coat.”

Swollen with greatness, slightly afraid lest the noble blood of Nottingham change its mind and leave him at any street corner, Babbitt paraded with Sir Gerald Doak to the movie palace and in silent bliss sat beside him, trying not to be too enthusiastic, lest the knight despise his adoration of six-shooters and broncos. At the end Sir Gerald murmured, “Jolly good picture, this. So awfully decent of you to take me. Haven't enjoyed myself so much for weeks. All these Hostesses — they never let you go to the cinema!”

“The devil you say!” Babbitt's speech had lost the delicate refinement and all the broad A's with which he had adorned it, and become hearty and natural. “Well, I'm tickled to death you liked it, Sir Gerald.”

They crawled past the knees of fat women into the aisle; they stood in the lobby waving their arms in the rite of putting on overcoats. Babbitt hinted, “Say, how about a little something to eat? I know a place where we could get a swell rarebit, and we might dig up a little drink — that is, if you ever touch the stuff.”

“Rather! But why don't you come to my room? I've some Scotch — not half bad.”

“Oh, I don't want to use up all your hootch. It's darn nice of you, but — You probably want to hit the hay.”