The Turmoil: A Novel

CHAPTER XXI

And so Bibbs sat in the porch of the temple with the money-changers. But no one came to scourge him forth, for this was the temple of Bigness, and the changing of money was holy worship and true religion. The priests wore that “settish” look Bibbs's mother had seen beginning to develop about his mouth and eyes—a wary look which she could not define, but it comes with service at the temple; and it was the more marked upon Bibbs for his sharp awakening to the necessities of that service.

He did as little “useless” thinking as possible, giving himself no time for it. He worked continuously, keeping his thoughts still on his work when he came home at night; and he talked of nothing whatever except his work. But he did not sing at it. He was often in the streets, and people were not allowed to sing in the streets. They might make any manner of hideous uproar—they could shake buildings; they could out-thunder the thunder, deafen the deaf, and kill the sick with noise; or they could walk the streets or drive through them bawling, squawking, or screeching, as they chose, if the noise was traceably connected with business; though street musicians were not tolerated, being considered a nuisance and an interference. A man or woman who went singing for pleasure through the streets—like a crazy Neopolitan—would have been stopped, and belike locked up; for Freedom does not mean that a citizen is allowed to do every outrageous thing that comes into his head. The streets were dangerous enough, in all conscience, without any singing! and the Motor Federation issued public warnings declaring that the pedestrian's life was in his own hands, and giving directions how to proceed with the least peril. However, Bibbs Sheridan had no desire to sing in the streets, or anywhere. He had gone to his work with an energy that, for the start, at least, was bitter, and there was no song left in him.

He began to know his active fellow-citizens. Here and there among them he found a leisurely, kind soul, a relic of the old period of neighborliness, “pioneer stock,” usually; and there were men—particularly among the merchants and manufacturers—“so honest they leaned backward”; reputations sometimes attested by stories of heroic sacrifices to honor; nor were there lacking some instances of generosity even nobler. Here and there, too, were book-men, in their little leisure; and, among the Germans, music-men. And these, with the others, worshiped Bigness and the growth, each man serving for his own sake and for what he could get out of it, but all united in their faith in the beneficence and glory of their god.

To almost all alike that service stood as the most important thing in life, except on occasion of some such vital, brief interregnum as the dangerous illness of a wife or child. In the way of “relaxation” some of the servers took golf; some took fishing; some took “shows”—a mixture of infantile and negroid humor, stockings, and tin music; some took an occasional debauch; some took trips; some took cards; and some took nothing. The high priests were vigilant to watch that no “relaxation” should affect the service. When a man attended to anything outside his business, eyes were upon him; his credit was in danger—that is, his life was in danger. And the old priests were as ardent as the young ones; the million was as eager to be bigger as the thousand; seventy was as busy as seventeen. They strove mightily against one another, and the old priests were the most wary, the most plausible, and the most dangerous. Bibbs learned he must walk charily among these—he must wear a thousand eyes and beware of spiders indeed!

And outside the temple itself were the pretenders, the swarming thieves and sharpers and fleecers, the sly rascals and the open rascals; but these were feeble folk, not dangerous once he knew them, and he had a good guide to point them out to him. They were useful sometimes, he learned, and many of them served as go-betweens in matters where business must touch politics. He learned also how breweries and “traction” companies and banks and other institutions fought one another for the political control of the city. The newspapers, he discovered, had lost their ancient political influence, especially with the knowing, who looked upon them with a skeptical humor, believing the journals either to be retained partisans, like lawyers, or else striving to forward the personal ambitions of their owners. The control of the city lay not with them, but was usually obtained by giving the hordes of negroes gin-money, and by other largesses. The revenues of the people were then distributed as fairly as possible among a great number of men who had assisted the winning side. Names and titles of offices went with many of the prizes, and most of these title-holders were expected to present a busy appearance at times; and, indeed, some among them did work honestly and faithfully.

Bibbs had been very ignorant. All these simple things, so well known and customary, astonished him at first, and once—in a brief moment of forgetting that he was done with writing—he thought that if he had known them and written of them, how like a satire the plainest relation of them must have seemed! Strangest of all to him was the vehement and sincere patriotism. On every side he heard it—it was a permeation; the newest school-child caught it, though just from Hungary and learning to stammer a few words of the local language. Everywhere the people shouted of the power, the size, the riches, and the growth of their city. Not only that, they said that the people of their city were the greatest, the “finest,” the strongest, the Biggest people on earth. They cited no authorities, and felt the need of none, being themselves the people thus celebrated. And if the thing was questioned, or if it was hinted that there might be one small virtue in which they were not perfect and supreme, they wasted no time examining themselves to see if what the critic said was true, but fell upon him and hooted him and cursed him, for they were sensitive. So Bibbs, learning their ways and walking with them, harkened to the voice of the people and served Bigness with them. For the voice of the people is the voice of their god.

Sheridan had made the room next to his own into an office for Bibbs, and the door between the two rooms usually stood open—the father had established that intimacy. One morning in February, when Bibbs was alone, Sheridan came in, some sheets of typewritten memoranda in his hand.

“Bibbs,” he said, “I don't like to butt in very often this way, and when I do I usually wish I hadn't—but for Heaven's sake what have you been buying that ole busted inter-traction stock for?”

Bibbs leaned back from his desk. “For eleven hundred and fifty-five dollars. That's all it cost.”

“Well, it ain't worth eleven hundred and fifty-five cents. You ought to know that. I don't get your idea. That stuff's deader'n Adam's cat!”

“It might be worth something—some day.”

“How?”

“It mightn't be so dead—not if we went into it,” said Bibbs, coolly.

“Oh!” Sheridan considered this musingly; then he said, “Who'd you buy it from?”

“A broker—Fansmith.”

“Well, he must 'a' got it from one o' the crowd o' poor ninnies that was soaked with it. Don't you know who owned it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ain't sayin', though? That it? What's the matter?”

“It belonged to Mr. Vertrees,” said Bibbs, shortly, applying himself to his desk.

“So!” Sheridan gazed down at his son's thin face. “Excuse me,” he said. “Your business.” And he went back to his own room. But presently he looked in again.

“I reckon you won't mind lunchin' alone to-day”—he was shuffling himself into his overcoat—“because I just thought I'd go up to the house and get THIS over with mamma.” He glanced apologetically toward his right hand as it emerged from the sleeve of the overcoat. The bandages had been removed, finally, that morning, revealing but three fingers—the forefinger and the finger next to it had been amputated. “She's bound to make an awful fuss, and better to spoil her lunch than her dinner. I'll be back about two.”

But he calculated the time of his arrival at the New House so accurately that Mrs. Sheridan's lunch was not disturbed, and she was rising from the lonely table when he came into the dining-room. He had left his overcoat in the hall, but he kept his hands in his trousers pockets.

“What's the matter, papa?” she asked, quickly. “Has anything gone wrong? You ain't sick?”

“Me!” He laughed loudly. “Me SICK?”

“You had lunch?”

“Didn't want any to-day. You can give me a cup o' coffee, though.”

She rang, and told George to have coffee made, and when he had withdrawn she said querulously, “I just know there's something wrong.”

“Nothin' in the world,” he responded, heartily, taking a seat at the head of the table. “I thought I'd talk over a notion o' mine with you, that's all. It's more women-folks' business than what it is man's, anyhow.”

“What about?”

“Why, ole Doc Gurney was up at the office this morning awhile—”

“To look at your hand? How's he say it's doin'?”

“Fine! Well, he went in and sat around with Bibbs awhile—”

Mrs. Sheridan nodded pessimistically. “I guess it's time you had him, too. I KNEW Bibbs—”

“Now, mamma, hold your horses! I wanted him to look Bibbs over BEFORE anything's the matter. You don't suppose I'm goin' to take any chances with BIBBS, do you? Well, afterwards, I shut the door, and I an' ole Gurney had a talk. He's a mighty disagreeable man; he rubbed it in on me what he said about Bibbs havin' brains if he ever woke up. Then I thought he must want to get something out o' me, he got so flattering—for a minute! 'Bibbs couldn't help havin' business brains,' he says, 'bein' YOUR son. Don't be surprised,' he says—'don't be surprised at his makin' a success,' he says. 'He couldn't get over his heredity; he couldn't HELP bein' a business success—once you got him into it. It's in his blood. Yes, sir' he says, 'it doesn't need MUCH brains,' he says, 'an only third-rate brains, at that,' he says, 'but it does need a special KIND o' brains,' he says, 'to be a millionaire. I mean,' he says, 'when a man's given a start. If nobody gives him a start, why, course he's got to have luck AND the right kind o' brains. The only miracle about Bibbs,' he says, 'is where he got the OTHER kind o' brains—the brains you made him quit usin' and throw away.'”

“But what'd he say about his health?” Mrs. Sheridan demanded, impatiently, as George placed a cup of coffee before her husband. Sheridan helped himself to cream and sugar, and began to sip the coffee.

“I'm comin' to that,” he returned, placidly. “See how easy I manage this cup with my left hand, mamma?”

“You been doin' that all winter. What did—”

“It's wonderful,” he interrupted, admiringly, “what a fellow can do with his left hand. I can sign my name with mine now, well's I ever could with my right. It came a little hard at first, but now, honest, I believe I RATHER sign with my left. That's all I ever have to write, anyway—just the signature. Rest's all dictatin'.” He blew across the top of the cup unctuously. “Good coffee, mamma! Well, about Bibbs. Ole Gurney says he believes if Bibbs could somehow get back to the state o' mind he was in about the machine-shop—that is, if he could some way get to feelin' about business the way he felt about the shop—not the poetry and writin' part, but—” He paused, supplementing his remarks with a motion of his head toward the old house next door. “He says Bibbs is older and harder'n what he was when he broke down that time, and besides, he ain't the kind o' dreamy way he was then—and I should say he AIN'T! I'd like 'em to show ME anybody his age that's any wider awake! But he says Bibbs's health never need bother us again if—”

Mrs. Sheridan shook her head. “I don't see any help THAT way. You know yourself she wouldn't have Jim.”

“Who's talkin' about her havin' anybody? But, my Lord! she might let him LOOK at her! She needn't 'a' got so mad, just because he asked her, that she won't let him come in the house any more. He's a mighty funny boy, and some ways I reckon he's pretty near as hard to understand as the Bible, but Gurney kind o' got me in the way o' thinkin' that if she'd let him come back and set around with her an evening or two sometimes—not reg'lar, I don't mean—why—Well, I just thought I'd see what YOU'D think of it. There ain't any way to talk about it to Bibbs himself—I don't suppose he'd let you, anyhow—but I thought maybe you could kind o' slip over there some day, and sort o' fix up to have a little talk with her, and kind o' hint around till you see how the land lays, and ask her—”

“ME!” Mrs. Sheridan looked both helpless and frightened. “No.” She shook her head decidedly. “It wouldn't do any good.”

“You won't try it?”

“I won't risk her turnin' me out o' the house. Some way, that's what I believe she did to Sibyl, from what Roscoe said once. No, I CAN'T—and, what's more, it'd only make things worse. If people find out you're runnin' after 'em they think you're cheap, and then they won't do as much for you as if you let 'em alone. I don't believe it's any use, and I couldn't do it if it was.”

He sighed with resignation. “All right, mamma. That's all.” Then, in a livelier tone, he said: “Ole Gurney took the bandages off my hand this morning. All healed up. Says I don't need 'em any more.”

“Why, that's splendid, papa!” she cried, beaming. “I was afraid—Let's see.”

She came toward him, but he rose, still keeping his hand in his pocket. “Wait a minute,” he said, smiling. “Now it may give you just a teeny bit of a shock, but the fact is—well, you remember that Sunday when Sibyl came over here and made all that fuss about nothin'—it was the day after I got tired o' that statue when Edith's telegram came—”

“Let me see your hand!” she cried.

“Now wait!” he said, laughing and pushing her away with his left hand. “The truth is, mamma, that I kind o' slipped out on you that morning, when you wasn't lookin', and went down to ole Gurney's office—he'd told me to, you see—and, well, it doesn't AMOUNT to anything.” And he held out, for her inspection, the mutilated hand. “You see, these days when it's all dictatin', anyhow, nobody'd mind just a couple o'—”

He had to jump for her—she went over backward. For the second time in her life Mrs. Sheridan fainted.