Sinclair Lewis - The Collected Works of Sinclair Lewis

By rising vote the Boosters decided which was the handsomest and which the ugliest guest, and to each of them was given a bunch of carnations, donated, President Gunch noted, by Brother Booster H. G. Yeager, the Jennifer Avenue florist.

Each week, in rotation, four Boosters were privileged to obtain the pleasures of generosity and of publicity by donating goods or services to four fellow-members, chosen by lot. There was laughter, this week, when it was announced that one of the contributors was Barnabas Joy, the undertaker. Everybody whispered, “I can think of a coupla good guys to be buried if his donation is a free funeral!”

Through all these diversions the Boosters were lunching on chicken croquettes, peas, fried potatoes, coffee, apple pie, and American cheese. Gunch did not lump the speeches. Presently he called on the visiting secretary of the Zenith Rotary Club, a rival organization. The secretary had the distinction of possessing State Motor Car License Number 5.

The Rotary secretary laughingly admitted that wherever he drove in the state so low a number created a sensation, and “though it was pretty nice to have the honor, yet traffic cops remembered it only too darn well, and sometimes he didn't know but what he'd almost as soon have just plain B56,876 or something like that. Only let any doggone Booster try to get Number 5 away from a live Rotarian next year, and watch the fur fly! And if they'd permit him, he'd wind up by calling for a cheer for the Boosters and Rotarians and the Kiwanis all together!”

Babbitt sighed to Professor Pumphrey, “Be pretty nice to have as low a number as that! Everybody 'd say, 'He must be an important guy!' Wonder how he got it? I'll bet he wined and dined the superintendent of the Motor License Bureau to a fare-you-well!”

Then Chum Frink addressed them:

“Some of you may feel that it's out of place here to talk on a strictly highbrow and artistic subject, but I want to come out flatfooted and ask you boys to O.K. the proposition of a Symphony Orchestra for Zenith. Now, where a lot of you make your mistake is in assuming that if you don't like classical music and all that junk, you ought to oppose it. Now, I want to confess that, though I'm a literary guy by profession, I don't care a rap for all this long-haired music. I'd rather listen to a good jazz band any time than to some piece by Beethoven that hasn't any more tune to it than a bunch of fighting cats, and you couldn't whistle it to save your life! But that isn't the point. Culture has become as necessary an adornment and advertisement for a city to-day as pavements or bank-clearances. It's Culture, in theaters and art-galleries and so on, that brings thousands of visitors to New York every year and, to be frank, for all our splendid attainments we haven't yet got the Culture of a New York or Chicago or Boston — or at least we don't get the credit for it. The thing to do then, as a live bunch of go-getters, is to CAPITALIZE CULTURE; to go right out and grab it.

“Pictures and books are fine for those that have the time to study 'em, but they don't shoot out on the road and holler 'This is what little old Zenith can put up in the way of Culture.' That's precisely what a Symphony Orchestra does do. Look at the credit Minneapolis and Cincinnati get. An orchestra with first-class musickers and a swell conductor — and I believe we ought to do the thing up brown and get one of the highest-paid conductors on the market, providing he ain't a Hun — it goes right into Beantown and New York and Washington; it plays at the best theaters to the most cultured and moneyed people; it gives such class-advertising as a town can get in no other way; and the guy who is so short-sighted as to crab this orchestra proposition is passing up the chance to impress the glorious name of Zenith on some big New York millionaire that might-that might establish a branch factory here!

“I could also go into the fact that for our daughters who show an interest in highbrow music and may want to teach it, having an A1 local organization is of great benefit, but let's keep this on a practical basis, and I call on you good brothers to whoop it up for Culture and a World-beating Symphony Orchestra!”

They applauded.

To a rustle of excitement President Gunch proclaimed, “Gentlemen, we will now proceed to the annual election of officers.” For each of the six offices, three candidates had been chosen by a committee. The second name among the candidates for vice-president was Babbitt's.

He was surprised. He looked self-conscious. His heart pounded. He was still more agitated when the ballots were counted and Gunch said, “It's a pleasure to announce that Georgie Babbitt will be the next assistant gavel-wielder. I know of no man who stands more stanchly for common sense and enterprise than good old George. Come on, let's give him our best long yell!”

As they adjourned, a hundred men crushed in to slap his back. He had never known a higher moment. He drove away in a blur of wonder. He lunged into his office, chuckling to Miss McGoun, “Well, I guess you better congratulate your boss! Been elected vice-president of the Boosters!”

He was disappointed. She answered only, “Yes — Oh, Mrs. Babbitt's been trying to get you on the 'phone.” But the new salesman, Fritz Weilinger, said, “By golly, chief, say, that's great, that's perfectly great! I'm tickled to death! Congratulations!”

Babbitt called the house, and crowed to his wife, “Heard you were trying to get me, Myra. Say, you got to hand it to little Georgie, this time! Better talk careful! You are now addressing the vice-president of the Boosters' Club!”

“Oh, Georgie — ”

“Pretty nice, huh? Willis Ijams is the new president, but when he's away, little ole Georgie takes the gavel and whoops 'em up and introduces the speakers — no matter if they're the governor himself — and — ”

“George! Listen!”

“ — It puts him in solid with big men like Doc Dilling and — ”

“George! Paul Riesling — ”

“Yes, sure, I'll 'phone Paul and let him know about it right away.”

“Georgie! LISTEN! Paul's in jail. He shot his wife, he shot Zilla, this noon. She may not live.”

Table of Contents

I

He drove to the City Prison, not blindly, but with unusual fussy care at corners, the fussiness of an old woman potting plants. It kept him from facing the obscenity of fate.

The attendant said, “Naw, you can't see any of the prisoners till three-thirty — visiting-hour.”

It was three. For half an hour Babbitt sat looking at a calendar and a clock on a whitewashed wall. The chair was hard and mean and creaky. People went through the office and, he thought, stared at him. He felt a belligerent defiance which broke into a wincing fear of this machine which was grinding Paul — Paul ——

Exactly at half-past three he sent in his name.

The attendant returned with “Riesling says he don't want to see you.”

“You're crazy! You didn't give him my name! Tell him it's George wants to see him, George Babbitt.”

“Yuh, I told him, all right, all right! He said he didn't want to see you.”

“Then take me in anyway.”

“Nothing doing. If you ain't his lawyer, if he don't want to see you, that's all there is to it.”

“But, my GOD — Say, let me see the warden.”

“He's busy. Come on, now, you — ” Babbitt reared over him. The attendant hastily changed to a coaxing “You can come back and try to-morrow. Probably the poor guy is off his nut.”

Babbitt drove, not at all carefully or fussily, sliding viciously past trucks, ignoring the truckmen's curses, to the City Hall; he stopped with a grind of wheels against the curb, and ran up the marble steps to the office of the Hon. Mr. Lucas Prout, the mayor. He bribed the mayor's doorman with a dollar; he was instantly inside, demanding, “You remember me, Mr. Prout? Babbitt — vice-president of the Boosters — campaigned for you? Say, have you heard about poor Riesling? Well, I want an order on the warden or whatever you call um of the City Prison to take me back and see him. Good. Thanks.”