CHAPTER 20 SIDNEY CARTON At the farmhouse where the party were to dine, Miss Pratt with joy discovered a harmonium in the parlor, and seating herself with all the girls, Floppet and Mr. George Krupper gathered around her. She played an accompaniment while George, in a thin tenor of detestable sweetness, sang, I'm falling in love with someone. His performance was rapturously greeted, especially by the accompanist. Oh, wonderfulest, until Georgie comes, she cried, for that was now the gentleman's name. If Johnny McCormack here until Georgie comes, he goes shoot himself dead. Bang! She looked round to where three figures hovered morosely in the rear. Turn on, Synchorus, Big Brother Josie Joe, Johnny Jump Up, and Equal Boy Baxter, all over a din, until Georgie comes, boys and girls all Synchorus. Timments! And so the heart-rending performance continued until it was stopped by Wallace Banks, the altruistic and perspiring youth who had charge of the subscription list for the party, and the consequent collection of assessments.  He mounted a chair. Ladies and gentlemen, he bellowed, I want to say, that is, I am requested to announce that before dinner, we're all supposed to take a walk around the farm and look at things, as this is supposed to be kind of a model farm or supposed to be something like that. There's a Swedish lady named Anna going to show us around. She's out in the yard waiting, so please follow her to inspect the farm. To inspect a farm was probably the least of William's desires.  But he followed with the others, in the wake of the Swedish lady named Anna, and as they stood in the cavernous hollow of the Great Barn, he found his condition suddenly improved. Miss Pratt turned to him unexpectedly and placed Floppet in his arms. Keep Pesh's Floppet cozy, she whispered. Floppet love, old friend's best. William's heart leaped, while a joyous warmth spread all over him, and though the extracurable lummox immediately propelled Miss Pratt forward by her elbow to hear the descriptive remarks of the Swedish lady named Anna, William's soul remained uplifted and entranced. She had not said like, she had said, Floppet love, old friend's best. William pressed forward valiantly and placed himself as close as possible upon the right of Miss Pratt, the lummox being upon her left. A moment later William wished that he had remained in the rear. This was due to the unnecessary frankness of the Swedish lady named Anna, who was briefly pointing out the efficiency of various agricultural devices. Her attention being diverted by some effusions of pride on the part of a passing hen, she thought fit to laugh and say, she just laid egg. William shuddered. This grossness in the presence of Miss Pratt was unthinkable. His mind refused to deal with so impossible a situation. He could not accept it as a fact that such words had actually been uttered in such a presence. And yet it was the truth. His incredulous ears still sizzled, she just laid egg. His entire skin became flushed. His averted eyes glazed themselves with shame. He was not the only person shocked by the ribaldry of the Swedish lady named Anna. Joe Bullitt and Johnny Watson on the outskirts of the group went to Wallace Banks, drew him aside and with feverish eloquence set his responsibilities before him. It was his duty, they urged, to have an immediate interview with this free-spoken Anna and instructor in the proprieties. Wallace had been almost as horrified as they by her loose remark, but he declined the office they'd proposed for him, offering, however, to appoint them as a committee with authority in the matter, whereupon they retorted with unreasonable indignation, demanding to know what he took them for. Unconscious of the embarrassment she had caused in these several masculine minds, the Swedish lady named Anna led the party onward, continuing her agricultural lecture. William walked mechanically, his eyes averted and looking at no one, and throughout this agony he was burningly conscious of the blaspheme presence of Miss Pratt beside him. Therefore it was with no little surprise when the party came out of the barn that William beheld Miss Pratt, not walking at his side, but on the contrary, sitting too causally with George Crooper upon a fallen tree at the edge of a peach orchard just beyond the barnyard. It was Miss Parcher who had been walking beside him, for the truant couple had made their escape at the beginning of the Swedish lady's discourse. In vain William murmured to himself, Flub, love, old friend's best. Purple and black again descended upon his soul, for he could not disguise from himself the damnatory fact that George had flitted with the lady, while he, wretched William, had been permitted to take care of the dog. A spark of dignity still burned within him. He strode to the barnyard fence and, leaning over it, dropped Floppet rather brusquely at his mistress's feet. Then, without a word, even without a look, William walked hotly away, continuing his stern progress straight through the barnyard gate, and thence onward until he found himself in solitude upon the far side of a smokehouse, where his haughtier vanished. Here, in the shade of a great walnut tree which sheltered the little building, he gave way, not to tears certainly, but to faint murmurings and little heavings under impulses as ancient as young love itself. It is to be supposed that William considered his condition a lonely one, but of all the seventeen-year-olds who had known such half-hours could have shown themselves to him then, he would have fled from the mere horror of the billions. Alas, he considered his sufferings a new invention of the world, and there was now inspired in his breast a monologue so eloquently bitter that it might deserve some such title as a passion beside the smokehouse. During the little time that William spent in this sequestration, he passed through phases of emotion which would have kept an older man busy for weeks and left him wrecked at the end of them. William's final mood was one of a beautiful resignation with a kick in it. That is, he nobly gave her up to George and added irresistibly that George was a big fat Lemmicks. Painting pictures such as the billions of other young sufferers before him have painted. William saw himself a sad, gentle old bachelor at the family fireside, sometimes making the sacrifice of his reputation so that she and the children might never know the truth about George. Then he gave himself the solace of a fierce scene or two with George.  After this human little reaction, he passed to a higher field of romance. He would die for George and then she would bring the little boy she had named William to the lonely headstone. Suddenly William saw himself in his true and fitting character, Sidney Carton. He had lately read A Tale of Two Cities, immediately rereading until, as he would have said, he knew it by heart. And even at the time he had seen resemblances between himself and the appealing figure of Carton. Now that the sympathy between them was perfected by Miss Pratt's preference for another, William decided to mount the scaffold in place of George Cooper. The scene became actual to him and setting one foot upon a tin milk pail which someone had carelessly left beside the smokehouse, he lifted his eyes to the pitiless blue sky and unconsciously assumed the familiar attitude of Carton on the steps of the guillotine. He spoke aloud those great last words. It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done. It is a far, far better rest that I go to. A whiskered head on the end of a long corrugated red neck protruded from the smokehouse door. What say? It inquired huskily. Nothing, stammered William. Eyes above whiskers became fierce. You take your feet off that milk bucket. Say, this here's a sanitary farm. Ain't you got any more sense into going? But William had abruptly removed his foot and departed. He found the party noisily established in the farmhouse as two long tables piled with bucolic vians already being violently depleted. Johnny Watson had kept a chair beside himself vacant for William. Johnny was in no frame of mind to sit beside any chattering girl and he had protected himself by Joe Bullitt upon his right and the empty seat upon his left. William took it and gazed upon the nearer foods with a slight renewal of animation. He began to eat. He continued to eat. In fact, he did well. So did his two comrades. Not that the melancholy of these three was dispersed, far from it. With ineffacable gloom, they ate chicken, both white meat and dark, drumsticks, wishbones, and livers. They ate corn on the cob, many ears, and fried potatoes and green peas and string beans. They ate peach preserves and apricot preserves and preserved pears. They ate biscuits with grape jelly and biscuits with crab apple jelly. They ate apple sauce and apple butter and apple pie. They ate pickles, both cucumber pickles and pickles made of watermelon rind. They ate pickled tomatoes, pickled peppers, and also pickled onions. They ate lemon pie. At that, they were no rivals to George Krupper, who was a real eater. Love had not made his appetite ethereal today, and even the attending Swedish lady named Anna felt some apprehensions when it came to George in the gravy, though she was accustomed to the prodigies performed in this line by the robust hands on the farm. George laid waste his section of the table, and from the beginning he allowed himself scarce time to say, I don't know why it is. The pretty companion at his side at first gaze dumbfounded, then with growing enthusiasm for what promised to be a really magnificent performance, she began to utter little ejaculations of wonder and admiration. With this music in his ears, George outdid himself. He could not resist the temptation to be more and more astonishing as a heroic comedian, for these humors sometimes came upon vain people at country dinners. George ate when he had eaten more than he needed. He ate long after everyone understood why he was so vast. He ate on and on sheerly as a flourish, as a spectacle. He ate even when he himself began to understand that there was daring in what he did, for his was a toreador spirit, so long as he could keep bright eyes fastened upon him. Finally he ate to decide wagers made upon his gorging, though at times during this last period his joviality deserted him. Anon, his damp brow, would be troubled, and he knew moments of thoughtfulness. When George did stop, it was abruptly, during one of these intervals of sobriety, and he and Miss Pratt came out of the house together rather quietly, joining one of the groups of young people chatting with after-dinner languor under the trees. However, Mr. Krupper began to revive presently in the sweet air of outdoors, and observing some of the more flashing gentlemen lighting cigarettes, he was moved to laughter. He had not smoked since his childhood, having then been bonded through to twenty-one with a pledge of gold, and he feared that these smoking youths might feel themselves superior. Worse, Miss Pratt might be impressed, therefore he laughed in scorn, saying, Burning up all trash around here, I expect, he sniffed searchingly. Somebody set some old rags on fire. Then, as in discovery, he cried, Oh no, only cigarettes. Miss Pratt, that tactful girl, counted four smokers in the group about her, and only one, abstainer, George. She at once defended the smokers, for it is to be feared that numbers always had weight with her. Oh, but cigarettes is lovely smell, she said, until Georgie comes maybe be too little boy for smokings. This archeness was greeted loudly by the smokers, and Mr. Krupper was put upon his metal. He spoke too quickly to consider whether or no the facts justified his assertion. Me, I don't smoke paper on old carpets, I smoke cigars. He had created the right impression, for Miss Pratt clapped her hands. Oh, blended, light one until Georgie comes, light one ever and ever so quick. Precious floppin' me, we want to see drae big normas men smoke drae big normas cigar. William and Johnny Watson, who had been hovering morbidly, unable to resist the lodestone, came near, Johnny being just in time to hear his cousin's reply. I, I forgot my cigar case. Johnny's expression became one of biting skepticism. What you talkin' about, George? Didn't you promise Uncle George you'd never smoke till you're of age? And Uncle George said he'd give you a thousand dollars on your 21st birthday? What did you say about your cigar case? George felt that he was in a tight place, and the lovely eyes of Miss Pratt turned upon him questioningly. He could not flush, for he was already so pink after his exploits with unnecessary nutriment that more pinkness was impossible. He saw that the only safety for him lay in boisterous prevarication. A thousand dollars, he laughed loudly. I thought that was real money when I was ten years old. It didn't stand in my way very long, I guess. Good old George wanted his smoke, and he went after it. You know how I am, Johnny, when I go after anything. I've been smokin' cigars, I don't know how long. Glancing about him, his eye became reassured. It was obvious that even Johnny had accepted this airy statement as the truth, and to clinch plausibility he added, When I smoke, I smoke. I smoke cigars straight along, light one right off the stub of the other. I only wish I had some with me, because I miss him after a meal. I'd give a good deal for something to smoke right now. I don't mean cigarettes, I don't want any paper, I want something that's all tobacco. William's pale, sad face showed a hint of color. With a pang, he remembered the package of My Little Sweetheart All-Tobacco Cuban Cigarettes, the package of twenty for ten cents, which still reposed untouched in the breast pocket of his coat. His eyes smarted a little as he recalled the thoughts and hopes that had accompanied the purchase, but he thought, What would Sidney Carton do? William brought forth the package of My Little Sweetheart All-Tobacco Cuban Cigarettes, and placed it in the large hand of George Cooper. And this was a noble act, for William believed that George really wished to smoke. Here, he said, Take these, they're all tobacco. I'm going to quit smoking anyway. And thinking of the name, he added gently with a significant slosh upon all his ears. I'm sure you ought to have them instead of me. Then he went away and sat alone upon the fence. Light one, light one, cried Miss Pratt. Everybody must be happy and drape, enormous man. Ted be happy, lest he has his all-tobacco smoked. Light it, light it. George drew as deep a breath as his diaphragm, strangely oppressed since dinner, would permit. And then bravely lit a little Sweetheart. There must have been some valiant blood in him, for as he exhaled the smoke, he covered a slight choking by exclaiming loudly, That's good. That's the old stuff. That's what I was looking for. Miss Pratt was entranced. Oh, plendid, she cried, watching him with fascinated eyes. Now, take drape, enormous puffs. Take drape, enormous puffs. George took great big, enormous puffs. She declared that she loved to watch men smoke. And Williams' heart, as he sat on the distance fence, was rung and rung again by the vision of her playful ecstasies. But when he saw her holding what was left of his first little Sweetheart for George to light a second at its expiring spark, he could not bear it. He dropped from the fence and moped away to be out of sight once more. This was his darkest hour. Studiously avoiding the vicinity of the smokehouse, he sought the little orchard where he had beheld her sitting with George, and there he sat himself in sorrowful reverie upon the self-same fallen tree. How long he remained there is uncertain, but he was roused by the sound of music which came from the lawn before the farmhouse. Bitterly he smiled, remembering that Wallace Banks had engaged Italians with harp, violin, and flute, promising great things for dancing on a fresh-clipped lawn, a turf floor being no impediment to 17's dancing. Music.  She would not miss him. But though he hated the throbbing music and the sound of the laughing voices that came to him, he could not keep away. And when he reached the lawn where the dancers were, he found Miss Pratt moving rhythmically in the thin grasp of Wallace Banks. Johnny Watson approached and spoke in a low tone, tinged with spiteful triumph. Well, anyway, old fat George didn't get the first dance with her. She's the guest of honor, and Wallace had a right to it because he did all the work. He came up to him, and old fat George couldn't say a thing. Wallace just took her right away from him. George didn't say anything at all, but I suppose after this dance he'll be rushing around again and nobody else will have a chance to get near her the rest of the afternoon. My mother told me I ought to invite him over here, but I had no business to do it. He don't know the first principles how to act in a town he don't live in. Where'd he go? William asked listlessly. For Mr. Cooper was nowhere in sight. I don't know. He just walked off without saying anything. But he'll be back time this dance is over, never you fear, and he'll grab her again and what's the matter with Joe? Joseph Bullet had made his appearance at a corner of the house, some distance from where they stood. His face was alert under the impulse of strong excitement, and he beckoned fiercely, come here. And when they had obeyed, he's around back of the house by a kind of shed, said Joe. I think something's wrong. Come on. I'll show him to you. But behind the house, whether they followed him in vague, strange hope, he checked them. Look there, he said. His pointing finger was not needed. Sounds of paroxysm drew their attention sufficiently. Sounds most poignant, soul-rending, and legubrious. William and Johnny perceived the large person of Mr. Cooper. He was seated upon the ground. His back propped obliquely against the smokehouse, though this attitude was not maintained constantly. Facing him at a little distance, a rugged figure in homely garment stood leaning upon a hoe, and regarding George with cold interest. The apex of this figure was a volcanic straw hat, triangular in profile, and cone with an open crater emitting reddish wisps. While below the hat were several features, but more whiskers, at the top of a long, corrugated redneck of Sterlingworth. A husky voice issued from the whiskers, addressing George. I seen you, it said. I seen you eaten. This year's farm is supposed to be a sanitary farm, and you'd ought of knew better.  George complied, and three spectators remaining aloof, but watching zealously, began to feel their lost faith in providence returning into them. Their faces brightened slowly, and without relapse. It was a visible thing how the world became fairer and better in their eyes during that little while they stood there, and William saw that his little sweethearts had been an inspired purchase. After all, they had delivered the final tap upon a tottering edifice. George's deeds at dinner had unsettled, but little sweethearts had overthrown, and now there was awful work among the ruins to an ironical accompaniment of music from the front yard, where people danced in heaven's sunshine. This accompaniment came to a stop, and Johnny Watson jumped. He sees each of his companions by a sleeve and spoke eagerly, his eyes glowing with a warm and brotherly light. Here, he cried, we better get around there. This looks like it was going to last all afternoon. Joe, you get the next dance with her, and just about the time the music slows up, you dance her around so you can stop right near where Bill will be standing, so Bill can get her quick for the dance after that. Then Bill, you do the same for me, and I'll do the same for Joe again, and then Joe, you do it for Bill again, and then Bill for me, and so on. If we go in right now and work together, we can crowd the rest out, and there won't be anybody else get to dance with her the whole day. Come on, quick. United in purpose, the three ran lightly to the dancing lawn, and Mr. Bullet was successful after a little debate in obtaining the next dance with the lovely guest of the day. I did promise, big Uncle Georgey comes, she said looking about her. Well, I don't think he'll come, said Joe. That is, I'm pretty sure he won't. A shade fell upon the exquisite face. Naughty, brother Josie Joe, they've been always turned when Lola promised dances. Mustn't be rude. Well, Joe began, when he was interrupted by the Swedish lady named Anna, who spoke to them from the steps of the house. Of the merry-makers, they were the nearest. Dot pick fella, said Anna. Dot wonder eats. We make him in a Petrum. He holler. He take, he need some help. Does he want a doctor? Joe asked. Doctor? No, he want make him in an ambulance for hospital. I'll go look at him. Johnny Watson volunteered running up. He's my cousin, and I guess I got to take the responsibility. Miss Pratt paid the invalid the tribute of one faintly commiserating glance toward the house. Well, she said, if people would rather eat too much than dance. She meant dance with me, though she thought it prettier not to say so. Come on, bravo, Josie Joe. She cried joyously. And a little later, Johnny Watson approached her where she stood with a restored and refulgent William about to begin succeeding dance. Johnny dropped into her hand a ring, receiving one in return. Thought I better get it, he said, offering no further explanation. I'll take care of his until we get home. He's all right, said Johnny, and then perceiving a sudden advent of apprehension upon the sensitive brow of William, he went on reassuringly. He's doing as well as anybody could expect, that is, after the crazy way he did. He's always been considered the dumbest one in all our relations, never did know how to act. I don't mean he's exactly not got his senses, or ought to be watched, anything like that. And of course, he belongs to an awful good family, but he's just kind of the black sheep when it comes to intelligence, or anything like that. I got him as comfortable as a person could be, and they're giving him hot water and mustard and stuff, but what he needs now is just to be kind of quiet. It'll do him a lot of good, Johnny concluded with a spark in his voice, to lay there the rest of the afternoon and get quieted down, kind of. You don't think there's any William began, and after a pause continued, any hope of his getting strong enough to come out and dance after a while. Johnny shook his head. None in the world, he said conclusively, the best we can do for him is to let him entirely alone till after supper, and then ask nobody to sit on the back seat of the trolley car going home so we can make him comfortable back there and let him kind of stretch out by himself. Then Gailey tinkled harp, Gailey sang flute, and vile in. Over the green sward, William lightly bore his lady, while radiant was the cleared sky above the happy dancers. William's fingers touched those delicate fingers. The exquisite face smiled rosely up to him. Undreamable sweetness beat rhythmically upon his glowing ears. His feet moved in a rhapsody of companionship with hers. They danced, and danced, and danced. Then Joe danced with her, while William and Johnny stood with hands upon each other's shoulders and watched, may have with longing, but without spite. Then Johnny danced with her, while Joe and William watched, and then William danced with her again. So passed the long, ineffable afternoon away. Ah, 17. Did you have a good time at the trolley party? The clerk in the corner drug store inquired that evening. Fine, said William, taking his overcoat from the hook where he had left it. How'd you like them little sweethearts, I sold you? Fine, said William. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of 17 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Birchard, August 2009. 17 by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 22, For Shadowings Now the last rose had blown. The dandelion globes were long since on the wind. Gladioly and Golden Glow and Salvia were here. The season moved toward Asters in the Goldenrod. This haloed summer still idled on its way, yet all the while sped quickly, like some languid lady in an elevator. There came a Sunday, very hot. Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, having walked a scorched half-mile from church, drooped thankfully into wicker chairs on their front porch. Though Jane, who had accompanied them, immediately darted away, swinging her hat by its ribbon and skipping as lidsimally as if she had just come forth upon a cool morning. I don't know how she does it, her father moaned, glancing after her, and drying his forehead temporarily upon a handkerchief.  Then, for a time, the two were content to sit in silence, nodding to occasional acquaintances who passed in the desultory after church procession. Mr. Baxter fanned himself a sporadic little burst of energy, which made his straw hat creak, and Mrs. Baxter sighed with the heat and gently rocked her chair. But as a group of five young people passed along the other side of the street, Mr. Baxter abruptly stopped fanning himself, and following the direction of his gaze, Mrs. Baxter ceased to rock. In half-completed attitudes, they leaned slightly forward, sharing one of those pauses of parents who unexpectedly behold their offspring. My soul, said Williams' father, hasn't that girl gone home yet? He looks pale to me, Mrs. Baxter murmured absently. I don't think he seems at all well lately. During seventeen years, Mr. Baxter had gradually learned not to protest anxieties of this kind, unless he desired to argue with no prospect of ever getting a decision. Hasn't she got any home? he demanded testily. Isn't she ever going to quit visiting the partures and let people have a little piece? Mrs. Baxter disregarded this outburst, as he had disregarded her remark about Williams' pallor. You mean Miss Pratt, she inquired dreamily, her eyes following the progress of her son? No, he really doesn't look well at all. Is she going to visit the partures all summer, Mr. Baxter insisted? She already has about, said Mrs. Baxter. Look at that boy, the father grumbled, mooning along with all those other moon calves, can't even let her go to church alone. I wonder how many weeks of time, counting it out in hours, he's wasted that way this summer. Oh, I don't know. You see, he never goes there in the evening. I wonder how many weeks of time, counting it out in hours, he's wasted there in the evening. Well, what of that?  What do they find to talk about? That's the mystery to me, day after day, hours and hours. My soul, what do they say? Mrs. Baxter laughed indulgently. People are always wondering that about the other ages. Poor Willie. I think that a great deal of the time their conversation would be probably about as inconsequent as it is now. You see, Willie and Joe Bullitt are walking one on each side of Miss Pratt. And Johnny Watson has to walk behind with May Parcher. Joe and Johnny are there about as much as Willie is, and, of course, it's often his turn to be nice to May Parcher. He hasn't many chances to be tate-a-tay with Miss Pratt. Well, she ought to go home. I want that boy to get back into his senses. He's in an awful state. I think she is going soon, said Mrs. Baxter. The Parchers are to have a dance for her Friday night, and I understand there's to be a floor laid in the yard and great things. It's a fair well party. That's one mercy, anyhow. And if you wonder what they say, she resumed, why, probably, they're all talking about the party. And when Willie is alone with her, well, what does anybody say? Mrs. Baxter interrupted herself to laugh. Jane, for instance, she's always fascinated by that darky genesis when he's at work here in the yard, and they have long, long talks. I've seen them from the window. What on earth do you suppose they talk about? That's where Jane is now. She knew I'd told Genesis I'd give him something if he'd come and freeze the ice cream for us today. And when we got here, she heard the freezer and hopped right around there. If you went out to the back porch, you'd find them talking steadily. But what on earth about?  And yet nothing could have been simpler, as a matter of fact. Jane and Genesis, attended by Clematis, were talking about society. That is to say, their discourse was not sociologic. Rather, it was of the frivolous and elegant. Watteau prevailed with them over John Stuart Mill. In a word, they spoke of the Beaumont. Genesis turned the handle of the freezer with his left hand, allowing his right the freedom of gesture which was an intermittent necessity when he talked. In the matter of dress, Genesis has always been among the most informal of his race. But today, there was a change almost unnerving to the Caucasian eye. He wore a balloonish suit of purple, strangely scalloped at pocket and cuff, and more strangely decorated with lines of small parasite buttons, in color blue, obviously buttons of leisure.  Beneath it hung a simple, white, soiled evening tie, draped in a matter unintended by its manufacturer, and heavily overburdened by a green glass medallion of the emperor Tiberius, said in brass. Yesum, said Genesis. And now I'm in it swim, flying round every night with all them blue vein people, I say, must go buy me some blue vein clothes. If I'm going to start, might as well start high. So first, I buy me this year gold neck-dye pin, with this year ladies face carved out of green diamond, sitting in the middle all that gold. Then I buy me pair royal king shoes. I got a friend of mine, this year bluey blowers. He say royal king shoes, same kind of shoes he wear. And I walk straight in that store where they keep him at. Don't waste my time showing me no old time shoes, I say. Run out some of them big yellow lump-toed royal kings before my eyes. And first pair fit me, I pay price, and wear them right off on me. Now I got me this year's suit of clothes. Oh, oh, sign on them in a window. If you wish to be best dressed man in town, take me home for six dollars ninety-seven cents. That's kind of suit Genesis need, I say. If Genesis going to start dressing high, might as well start top. Jane, not at gravely, comprehending the reasonableness of this view. What made you decide to start Genesis? She asked earnestly. I mean, how did it happen you began to get this way? Well, sir, tall come about right like kind of sliding into it. Stid a hoppin' and jumpin'. I spend in the even at ladies house. Fanny, what cook next door last year? Well, sir, at lady Fanny, she quit private cookin'. She cateless. She's what? Jane asked. What's that mean, Genesis? Cateless. She caters, he explained. If it's a man, you call him a cater. If it's a lady, it's she's a cateless. She does catin' for all them blue rain families in town. She make refreshments, bring waiters, that's catin'. You mark give big dinner, she have Fanny cater. And don't take no trouble tall herself. Fanny take all that trouble. I see, said Jane. But I don't see how her being a cateless started you to dress in so high, Genesis. This year way, Fanny say, look here, Genesis, I got big job tomorrow night and I'm man short. Kinda havin' to have an announcer. A what? Fanny talk just that way. Gonna be a big dinner potty. And this year blue rain family tell family they want whole lot extra exclusion. Tell her put fine looking colored man stand by drawin' room doll. You ask everybody name and haul her out whatever name they say just as they walk in. This year family say they go and show what's what in this town. And they bound family, go get him an announcer. Well, what's matter you doin' at Nounson? Fanny say, who me I tell her. Yes, you kin too. She said, and she say she lend me at waitersuit used to belong old Henry Gimlet. What died when he owe in Fanny $16? And Fanny took and keep at waitersuit. She use that suit on extra waiters when she got some on her hands what ain't got no waitersuit. You wear at suit, Fanny say, and you be good announcer. Cause you a fine big man and got big grand voice. Then you learn before long to be a waiter, Genesis, and get dollar and a half every evening you waitin'. Sides all that money and make cuttin' grass daytime. Well, sir, I standin' up doin' at Nounson very next night. White lady and gentlemen walk towards my door. I step up to him. I stepped up to him this way. Here, Genesis found it pleasant to present the scene with some elaboration. He dropped the handle of the freezer, rose, assumed a stately but ingratiating expression, and stepped up to the imagined couple using a pasting and rhythmic gate, a conservative prance, which plainly indicated the simultaneous operation of an orchestra. Then, bending graciously, as though the persons addressed were of dwarfish stature, excuse me, he said, but can I please be so plight as to quire your name? For a moment, he listened attentively, then nodded, and returning with the same aristocratic undulations to an imaginary doorway near the freezer, Mr. and Mrs. Orlosco-Rinctum, he proclaimed, sonorously. Who? cried Jane, fascinated. Genesis announced that again, right away. Genesis heartily complied. Mr. and Mrs. Orlosco-Rinctum, he bawled. Was that really their names? She asked eagerly. Well, I kind of forget, Genesis admitted, resuming his work with the freezer. Seems like I recollect somebody got named Good Deal Like What I Say, because some mighty Blu-Vay names at that dinner party, yes, sir. But I only get to be announced at one time, because Fanny telling me next family have dinner party make heap of fun. Say I done my announcing good, but say what's the use holler in names just for some of the neighbors or their own aunts to and uncles to walk in when everybody already knows them. So Fanny promote me to waiter and I round right in amongst big doings most every night. Pass ice cream, lemonade, lemon ice, cake, sandwiches.  Let me be so kind as to get you fresh cup coffee, sir. Sway old Genesis talking every evening these days. Jane looked at him thoughtfully. Do you like it better than cutting grass, Genesis? She asked. He paused to consider. Yes, when band play all them tunes. My goodness, do sound grand. You can't do it tonight, though, Genesis said Jane. You have to be quiet on Sunday nights, don't you? Yes, I'm ain't got no more Kate until next Friday even. Oh, I bet that's the party for Miss Pratt at Mr. Partures Jane cried. Didn't I guess right? Yes, I reckon I'm a go and see one new family at night. See him dancing. Wait on him at refreshments. Jane's expression became even more serious than usual. Really? I don't know whether he's going, Genesis. Land name Genesis exclaimed. He died if you don't get invited to at ball. Oh, he's invited, said Jane. Only I think maybe he won't go. My goodness, why ain't he going? Jane looked at her friends studiously before replying. Well, it's a secret, she said, finally, but it's a very interesting one. And I'll tell you if you never tell. Yes, I ain't telling nobody. Jane glanced around and stepped a little closer and told the secret with the solemnity it deserved. Well, when Miss Pratt first came to visit Miss Bay Parture, Willie used to keep Papa's evening clothes in his window seat, and Mama wondered what had become of him. Then after dinner, he'd slip up there and put him on him and go out through the kitchen and call on Miss Pratt. Then Mama found him and she thought he oughtn't do that, so she didn't tell him or anything. And she didn't even tell Papa, but she had the tailor make him ever and ever so much bigger because they were getting too tight for Papa. And well, so after that, even if Willie could get him out of Mama's clothes closet where she keeps him now, he'd look so funny in him he couldn't wear him. Well, and then he couldn't go to pay calls on Miss Pratt in the evening since then because Mama says after he started to go there in that suit, he couldn't go without it, or maybe Miss Pratt or the other ones that's in love of her would think it was pretty queer and maybe kind of expect that it was Papa's all the time. Mama says she thinks Willie must have worried a good deal over reasons to say why he'd always go in the daytime after that and never came in the evening. And now they're going to have this party. And she says he's been getting paler and paler every day since he heard about it. Mama says he's pale some because Miss Pratt's going away, but she thinks it's a good deal more because, well, if he would wear those evening clothes just to go calling, how would it be to go to that party and not have any? That's what Mama thinks. And Genesis, you promised you'd never tell as long as you live. Yes, I ain't telling. Genesis chuckled. I'm going to get me one M way to suits before long myself so as I can quit wearing that old Henry Gimlet suit what belong to Fanny and have me a private suit of my own. There's a second hand stole over on the avenue where they got swallowtail suits all away from $7 to $19 $0.98 Ima Jane started interrupting him.  William had entered the yard at the back gate. And approaching over the lawn had arrived at the steps of the porch before Jane perceived him. She gave him an apprehensive look, but he passed into the house absent mindedly, not even flinching at side of Clematis. And Mrs. Baxter was right. William did look pale. I guess he didn't hear us, said Jane, when he had disappeared into the interior. He acts awful funny, she added thoughtfully. First, when he was in love of Miss Pratt, he'd be mad about something almost every minute he was home. Couldn't anybody say anything to him, but he'd just behave as if it was frightful. And then if you'd see him out walking with Miss Pratt, well, he'd look like like Jane paused. Her eye fell upon Clematis. And by a happy inspiration she was able to complete her simile with remarkable accuracy. He'd look like the way Clematis looks at people. That's just exactly the way he'd look, Genesis, when he was walking with Miss Pratt. And then when he was home, he got so quiet, he couldn't answer questions and wouldn't hear what anybody said to him at table or anywhere. And Papa'd nearly almost bust. Mama and Papa'd talk and talk about it. And she lowered her voice. And I knew what they were talking about. Well, and then he'd hardly ever get mad anymore.  And the other evening, after I was in bed, I heard him. And Papa said, well, this is what Papa told Mama. And again, lowering her voice, she proffered the quotation from her father in a tone somewhat awestruck.  Having completed this report in a violent whisper, Jane nodded repeatedly for emphasis, and Genesis shook his head to show that he was as deeply impressed as she wished him to be. I guess she added, after a pause. I guess Willie didn't hear anything you and I talked about him, or clothes, or anything. She was mistaken in part. William had caught no reference to himself, but he had overheard something, and he was now alone in his room, thinking about it almost feverishly. A second hand stow over on the avenue where they got swallowtail suits all way from $7 to $19.98. Civilization is responsible for certain longings in the breast of man, artificial longings, but sometimes as poignant as hunger and thirst. Of these, the strongest are those of the maid for the bridal veil, of the lad for long trousers, and of the youth for a tailed coat of state. To the gratification of this last, only a few of the early joys in life are comparable. Indulged youth, too rich, can know to the unctuous full neither the longing nor the gratification, but one such as William in moderate circumstances is privileged to pant for his first evening clothes as the heart panteth after the waterbrook, and sometimes to pant in vain. Also, this was a crisis in William's life. In addition to his yearning for such apparel, he was wracked by a passionate urgency. As Jane had so precociously understood, unless he should somehow manage to obtain the proper draperies, he could not go to the farewell dance for Miss Pratt. Other unequipped boys could go in their ordinary best clothes, but William could not, for, alack, he had dressed too well too soon. He was in desperate case. The sorrow of the approaching great departure was but the heavier because it had been so long deferred. To William it had seemed that this flower strewn summer could actually end no more than he could actually die, but time had begun its awful lecture, and even 17 was listening. Miss Pratt, that magic girl was going home. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of 17 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard August 2009 17 by Booth Tarkington Chapter 23 Fathers Forget To the competent twenties, hundreds of miles suggesting no impossibility, such departures may be rending, but not tragic. Implacable the difference to 17, Miss Pratt was going home, and 17 could not follow. It could only mourn upon the lonely shore, tracing little angelic footprints left in the sand. To 17 such a departure is final. It is a vanishing. And now it seemed possible that William might be deprived even of the last romantic consolations of the last waltz together, of the last last listening to music in the moonlight together, of all those sacred lasts of the last evening together. He had pleaded strongly for a dress suit as a fitting recognition of his 17th birthday anniversary, but he had been denied by his father with the jocularity more crushing than rigor. Since then, in particular since the arrival of Miss Pratt, Mr. Baxter's temper had been growing steadily more and more even. That is, as affected by William's social activities, it was uniformly bad. Nevertheless, after heavy brooding, William decided to make one final appeal before he resorted to measures which the necessities of despair had caused him to contemplate. He wished to give himself every chance for a good effect. Therefore, he did not act hastily, but went over what he intended to say.  In spite of these little alleviations, his trouble was great and all too real. For unhappily, the previous rehearsal of an emotional scene does not prove the emotion insincere.  Then, standing before them, solemnized, he uttered a prelooting cough and began. Father, he said in a loud voice, I have come to dear me, Mrs. Baxter exclaimed, not perceiving that she was interrupting an intended oration. Willie, you do look pale.  You oughtn't to walk so much in this heat. Father, William repeated, Father, I suppose you got her safely home from church, Mr. Baxter said. She might have been carried off by footpaths if the three boys hadn't been along to take care of her. But William persisted heroically. Father, he said, Father, I have come to what on earth the matter with you? Mr. Baxter ceased to fan himself. Mrs. Baxter stopped rocking and both stared, for I did dawned upon them that something unusual was beginning to take place. William back to the start and tried it again. Father, I have come to, he paused and gulped, evidently expecting to be interrupted, but both of his parents remained silent, regarding him with puzzled surprise. Father, he began once more. I have come, I have come to, to place before you something I think it's your duty as my father to undertake and I have thought over this step before laying it before you. My soul, said Mr. Baxter under his breath. My soul. At my age, William continued swallowing and fixing his earnest eyes upon the roof of the porch to avoid the disconcerting stare of his father. At my age, there's some things that ought to be done and some things that ought not to be done. If you ask me what I thought ought to be done, there is only one answer. When anybody as old as I am has to go out among other young men his own age that already got one like any way half of them have who I go with and their fathers have already taken such a step because they felt it was the only right thing to do because at my age and the young men I go with sage it is the only right thing to do because that is something nobody could deny at my age. Here, William drew a long breath and deciding to abandon that sentence as irrevocably tangled began another. I have thought over this step because there comes a time to every young man when they must lay a step before their father before something happens that they would be sorry for. I have thought this undertaking over and I am certain it would be your honest duty. My soul gasped Mr. Baxter I thought I knew you pretty well but you talk like a stranger to me. What is all this? What you want? A dress suit said William. He had intended to say a great deal more before coming to the point but although through nervousness he had lost some threads of his rehearsed plea it seemed to him that he was getting along well and putting his case with some distinction and power. He was surprised and hurt therefore to hear his father utter a wordless shout in a tone of wondering derision. I have more to say William began but Mr. Baxter cut him off. A dress suit he cried. Well I'm glad you were talking about something because I honestly thought it must be too much sun. At this the troubled William brought his eyes down from the porch roof and forgot his rehearsal. He lifted his hand appealingly. Father he said I got to have one. Got to? Mr. Baxter laughed a laugh that chilled the subsequent through and through. At your age I thought I was lucky if I had any suit that was fit to be seen in. You're too young Willie. I don't want you to get your mind on such stuff. And if I have my way you won't have a dress suit for four years more anyhow. Father I got to have one. I got to have one right away. The urgency in William's voice was almost tearful. I don't ask you to have it made or to go to expensive tailors. But there's plenty of good ready made ones that only cost about forty dollars. They're advertised in the paper. Father wouldn't you spend just forty dollars? I'll pay it back when I'm in business. I'll work. Mr. Baxter waved all this aside. It's not the money. It's the principle that I'm standing for. And I don't intend. Father won't you do it? No I will not. William saw that sentence had been passed and all appeals for a new trial denied. He choked and rushed into the house without more ado. Poor boy, his mother said. Poor boy nothing, fumed Mr. Baxter. He's about lost his mind over that misprat. Think of his coming out here and starting a regular debating society declamation before his mother and father. Why I never heard anything like it in my life. I don't like to hurt his feelings and I'd give him anything I could afford that would do him any good. But all he wants it for now is to splurge around in at this party before that little yellow-haired girl. I guess he can wear the kind of clothes most of the other boys wear, the kind I wore at parties and never thought about wearing anything else. What's the world getting to be like? Seventeen years old and throws a fit because he can't have a dress suit. Mrs. Baxter looked thoughtful. But suppose he felt he couldn't go to the dance unless he wore one, poor boy? All the better, said Mr. Baxter firmly. Do him good to keep away and get his mind on something else. Of course, she suggested with some timidity, $40 isn't a great deal of money and already made suit just to begin with. Naturally, Mr. Baxter perceived whether she was drifting. $40 isn't a thousand, he interrupted. But what you want to throw it away for? One reason a boy of 17 ought to have evening clothes is the way he behaves with any clothes. $40? Why, only this summer he sat down on Jane's open paint box twice in one week. Well, Ms. Pratt is going away and the dance will be here last night. I'm afraid it would really hurt him to miss it. I remember once before we were engaged that evening before papa took me abroad and you, it's no use mama, he said. We were both in the 20s. Why, I was six years older than Willie even then. There's no comparison at all. I'll let him order a dress suit on his 21st birthday and none a minute before. I don't believe in it and I intend to see that he gets all this stuff out of his system. He's got to learn some hard sense. Mrs. Baxter shook her head doubtfully, but she said no more. Perhaps she regretted a little that she had caused Mr. Baxter's evening clothes to be so expansively enlarged, for she looked rather regretful. She also looked rather incomprehensible, not to say cryptic, during the long silence which followed, and Mr. Baxter resumed his rocking, unaware of the fixity of gays which his wife maintained upon him, a thing the most loyal will do sometimes. The incomprehensible look disappeared before long, but the regretful one was renewed in the mother's eyes whenever she caught glimpses of her son that day and at the table where Williams Manor was gentle, even toward his heartless father. Underneath that gentleness, the harried self of William was no longer debating a desperate resolve, but had fixed upon it, and on the following afternoon, Jane chanced to be a witness of some resultant actions. She came to her mother with an account of them. Mama, what you suppose Willie wants of those two old market baskets that were down-seller? Why, Jane?  He looked so funny. What's he want of those old baskets, mama? I don't know. Perhaps he doesn't even know himself, Jane. But William did know. Definitely. He had set the baskets upon chairs, and now, with pale determination, he was proceeding to fill them. When his task was completed, the two baskets contained, one heavyweight winter suit of clothes, one lightweight summer suit of clothes, one cap, one straw hat, two pairs of white flannel trousers, two madras shirts, two flannel shirts, two silk shirts, seven soft collars, three silk neckties, one crocheted tie, eight pairs of socks, one pair of patent leather shoes, one pair of tennis shoes, one overcoat, some underwear, one two-foot shelf of books consisting of several sterling works upon mathematics in a damaged condition, five of Shakespeare's plays expurgated for schools and colleges and also damaged, a work upon political economy and another upon the science of physics, Webster's collegiate dictionary, How to Enter a Drawing Room and Five Hundred Other Hints, with witty sayings from here and there, Lorna Dune, Quentin Derward, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, a very old copy of Moth's and a small Bible. William spread handkerchiefs upon the two over-bolging cargoes that their nature might not be disclosed to the curious, and after listening a moment at his door, took the baskets, one upon each arm, then went quickly down the stairs and out of the house, out of the yard and into the alley, by which route he had modestly chosen to travel. After an absence of about two hours, he returned empty-handed and anxious. Mother, I want to speak to you, he said, addressing Mrs. Baxter in a voice which clearly proved the strain of these racking days. I want to speak to you about something important. Yes, Willie? Please send Jane away. I can't talk about important things with a child in the room. Jane, naturally, wished to stay since he was going to say something important. Mama, do I have to go? Just a few minutes, dear. Jane walked submissively out of the door, leaving it open behind her. Then, having gone about six feet farther, she halted and, preserving a breathless silence, consoled herself for her banishments by listening to what was said, hearing it all as satisfactorily as she had remained in the room. Quiet, thoughtful children like Jane avail themselves of these little pleasures oftener than is suspected. Mother, said William with great intensity, I want to ask you, please, to lend me three dollars and sixty cents. What for, Willie? Mother, I just ask you to lend me three dollars and sixty cents. But what for? Mother, I don't feel I can discuss it any. I simply ask you, will you lend me three dollars and sixty cents? Mrs. Baxter laughed gently. I don't think I could, Willie, but certainly I should want to know what for. Mother, I am going on eighteen years of age, and when I ask for a small sum of money like three dollars and sixty cents, I think I might be trusted to know how to use it for my own good without having to answer questions like a ch- Why, Willie? she exclaimed.  Of course I ought, he agreed warmly. If you'd ask Father to give me a regular allowance. No, no, I mean you ought to have plenty left out of that old junk and furniture I let you sell last month. You had over nine dollars. Well, that was five weeks ago, William explained wearily. But you certainly must have some of it left. Why, it was more than nine dollars, I believe. I think it was nearer ten. Surely you haven't. Yee, gods, cried the goaded William. A person going on eighteen years old ought to be able to spend nine dollars in five weeks without everybody's acting like it was a crime. Mother, I ask you this simple question. Will you please lend me three dollars and sixty cents? I don't think I ought to, dear. I'm sure your Father wouldn't wish me to, unless you'll tell me what you want it for. In fact, I won't consider it at all unless you do tell me. You won't do it, he quavered.  You see, dear, I'm afraid the reason you don't tell me is because you know that I wouldn't give it to you if I knew what you wanted it for. This perfect diagnosis of the case so disheartened him that after a few monosyllabic efforts to continue the conversation with dignity, he gave it up and left in such a preoccupation with despondency that he passed the surprise Jane in the hall without suspecting what she had been doing. That evening, after dinner, he addressed to his father an impassioned appeal for three dollars and sixty cents, laying such stress of pathos on this principal argument that if he couldn't have a dress suit, at least he ought to be given three dollars and sixty cents, the emphasis is Williams, that Mr. Baxter was moved in the direction of consent. But not far enough. I'd like to let you have it, Willie, he said, excusing himself for refusal, but your mother felt she ought to do it unless she'd say what you wanted it for, and I'm sure she wouldn't like me to do it. I can't let you have it unless you get her to say she wants me to. Thus advised, the unfortunate made another appeal to his mother the next day, and having brought about no relaxation of the situation, again petitioned his father on the following evening. So it went, the torn and driven William turning from parent to parent, and surely, since the world began, the special sum of three dollars and sixty cents has never been so often mentioned in any one house and in the same space of time as it was in the house of the Baxter's during Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of that oppressive week. But on Friday, William disappeared after breakfast and did not return to lunch. Chapter 24 Clothes Make the Man Mrs. Baxter was troubled. During the afternoon, she glanced often from the open window of the room where she had gone to sow, but the peaceful neighborhood continued to be peaceful, and no sound of the harassed footsteps of William echoed from the pavement. However, she saw Genesis arrive, in his weekday costume, to do some weeding, and Jane immediately skipped forth for mingled purposes of observation and conversation. What do they say? thought Mrs. Baxter, observing that both Jane and Genesis were unusually animated, but for once that perplexity was to be dispersed. After an exciting half-hour, Jane came flying to her mother, breathless. Mama, she cried, I know where Willie is. Genesis told me, because he saw him and he talked to him while he was doing it. Doing what? Where? Mama, listen, what you think Willie's doing? I bet you can't get... Jane, Mrs. Baxter spoke sharply, tell me what Genesis said at once. Yes, him. Willie's sitting in a lumberyard that Genesis comes by on his way from over on the avenue where all the colored people live, and he's counting knotholes in shingles. He is what? Yes, him. Genesis knows all about it, because he was thinking of doing it himself, only he says it would be too slow. This is the way it is, Mama. Listen, Mama, because this is just exactly the way it is. Well, this lumberyard man got into some sort of a fuss because he bought millions and millions of shingles, Mama, that had too many knots in, and the man don't want to pay for them, or else the store where he bought them won't take him back, and they got to prove how many shingles are bad shingles or something. And anyway, Mama, that's what Willie's doing. Every time he comes to a bad shingle, Mama, he puts it somewhere else. Or something like that, Mama, and every time he's put a thousand bad shingles in this other place, they give him six cents. He gets the six cents to keep, Mama, and that's what he's been doing all day. Good gracious. Oh, but that's nothing, Mama. Just wait till you hear the rest. That part of it isn't anything at all, Mama. You wouldn't hardly notice that part of it if he knew the other part of it, Mama. Why, that isn't anything. Jane made demonstrations of scorn for the insignificant information already imparted. Jane, yes, I want to know everything Genesis told you, said her mother, and I want you to tell it as quickly as you can. Well, I am telling it, Mama, Jane protested. I'm just beginning to tell it. I can't tell it unless there's a beginning, can I? How could there be anything unless you had to begin it, Mama? Try your best to go on, Jane. Yes, well, Genesis says, Mama. Jane interrupted herself with a little outcry. Oh, I bet that's what he had those two market baskets for. Yes, sir, that's just what he did. And then he needed the rest of the money and you and Papa wouldn't give him any. And so he began counting shingles today because tonight's the night of the party and he just has to have it. Mrs. Baxter, who had risen to her feet, recalled the episode of the baskets and sank into a chair. How did Genesis know Willie wanted $40? And if Willie's pawned something, how did Genesis know that? Did Willie tell Jen— Oh, no, Mama. Willie didn't want $40, only $14. But he couldn't get even the cheapest ready-made dress suit for $14. Mama, you're getting it all mixed up, Jane cried. Listen, Mama, Genesis knows all about a second-hand store over on the avenue and it keeps most everything. And Genesis says it's the nicest store. It keeps waiter suits all the way up to $19.99. Well, and Genesis wants to get one of those suits so he goes in there all the time and talks to the man and bargains and bargains with him because Genesis says this man is the bargainous man in the wide world, Mama. That's what Genesis says. Well, and so this man's name is One Eye Belgis, Mama. That's his name and Genesis says so. Well, and so this man that Genesis told me about that keeps the store, I mean One Eye Belgis, Mama. Well, One Eye Belgis had Willie's name written down in a book and he knew Genesis worked for families that have boys like Willie in them. And this morning One Eye Belgis shows Genesis Willie's name written down in this book and One Eye Belgis asked Genesis if he knew anybody by that name and all about him. Well, and so at first, Genesis pretended he was trying to remember because he wanted to find out what Willie went there for. Genesis didn't tell any stories, Mama. He just pretended he couldn't remember. And so One Eye Belgis kept talking and pretty soon Genesis found out all about it. One Eye Belgis said Willie came in there and tried on the coat of one of those waiter suits. Oh no, gasped Mrs. Baxter. Yes, him. And One Eye Belgis said it was the only one that would fit Willie and One Eye Belgis told Willie that suit was worth $14 and Willie said he didn't have any money but he'd like to trade something else for it. Well, and so One Eye Belgis said this was an awful fine suit and the only one that he had that had belonged to a white gentleman. Well, and so they bargained and bargained and bargained and bargained. And then, well, and so at last, Willie said he'd go and get everything that belonged to him and One Eye Belgis could pick out enough to make $14 worth and then Willie could have the suit. Well, and so Willie came home and put everything he had that belonged to him in those two baskets. Mama, that's just what he did because Genesis says he told One Eye Belgis it was everything that belonged to him and that would take two baskets, Mama. Well then, and so he told One Eye Belgis to pick out $14 worth and One Eye Belgis asked Willie if he didn't have a watch. Well, Willie took out his watch and One Eye Belgis says it was an awful bad watch but he would put it in for a dollar and he said I'll put your necktie pin in for 40 cents more so Willie took it out of his necktie and then One Eye Belgis said it would take all the things in the baskets to make, I forget how much, Mama, and the watch would be a dollar more and the pin 40 cents and that would leave just $3 and 60 cents more for Willie to pay before he could get the suit. Mrs. Baxter's face had become suffused with high color but she wished to know all that Genesis had said and mastering her feelings with an effort she told Jane to proceed. A command obeyed after Jane had taken several long breaths. Well, and so the worst part of it is Genesis says it's because that suit is haunted. What? Yesum said Jane solemnly. Genesis says it's haunted. Genesis says everybody over on the avenue knows all about that suit and he says that's why One Eye Belgis could never sell it before. Genesis says One Eye Belgis tried to sell it to a colored man for $3 but the man said he wouldn't put it on for $300 and Genesis said he wouldn't either because it belonged to a dago waiter that Jane's voice sank to a whisper of unctuous horror. She was having a wonderful time. Mama, this dago waiter, he lived over on the avenue and he took a case knife he'd sharpen and he got a lady's head off with it. Mrs. Baxter screamed faintly. And he got hung mama. If you don't believe it, you can ask One Eye Belgis. I guess he knows and you can ask Hush. And he sold this suit to One Eye Belgis when he was in jail mama. He sold it to him before he got hung mama. Hush Jane. But Jane couldn't hush now. And he had that suit on when he cut the lady's head off mama and that's why it's haunted.  Jane shouted her mother. You must not talk about such things and Genesis mustn't tell you stories of that sort. Well, how could he help it if he told me about Willie? Jane urged reasonably. Never mind. Did that crazy ch- Did Willie leave the baskets in that dreadful place? Yes, him and his watch and pin. Jane informed her impressively. And One Eye Belgis wanted to know if Genesis knew Willie because One Eye Belgis wanted to know if Genesis thought Willie could get the three dollars and sixty cents and One Eye Belgis wanted to know if Genesis thought he could get anything more out of him besides that. He told Genesis he hadn't told Willie he could have the suit after all. He just told him he thought he could. But he wouldn't say for certain till he brought him the three dollars and sixty cents. So Willie left all his things there and his watch and that will do. Mrs. Baxter's voice was sharper than it had ever been in Jane's recollection. I don't need to hear any more and I don't want to hear any more. Jane was justly aggrieved. But mama, it isn't my fault. Mrs. Baxter's lips parted to speak. But she checked herself. Fault, she said gravely. I wonder whose fault it really is. With that and with that, she went hurriedly into William's room and made a brief inspection of his clothes closet and dressing table. Then as Jane watched her in odd silence, she strode to the window and called loudly. Genesis! Yes, I'm came the voice from below. Go to that lumberyard where Mr. William is at work and bring him here to me at once. If he declines to come, tell him her voice broke oddly. She choked, but Jane could not decide with what emotion. Tell him I ordered you to use force if necessary. Hurry! Yes, I'm. Jane ran to the window in time to see Genesis departing seriously through the back gate. Mama! Don't talk to me now, Jane, Mrs. Baxter said crisply.  Run! Yes, mama. Jane was pleased with this appointment. She anxiously desired to be the first to see how Willie looked. He looked flurried and flustered and breathless, and there were blisters upon the redded palms of his hand. What on earth the matter, mother, he asked, as he stood panting before her. Genesis said something was wrong and he said you told him to hit me if I wouldn't come. Oh no, she cried. I only meant I thought perhaps you wouldn't obey any ordinary message. Well, it doesn't matter, but please hurry and say what you want to, because I got to get back and, no, Mrs. Baxter said quietly, you're not going back to count any more shingles, Willie. How much have you earned? He swallowed, but spoke bravely. Thirty-six cents, but I've been getting lots faster the last two hours and there's a good deal of time before six o'clock, mother. No, she said. You're going over to that horrible place where you've left your clothes and you're watching all those other things in the two baskets and you're going to bring them home at once. Mother, he cried aghast. Who told you? It doesn't matter. You don't want your father to find out, do you? Then get those things back here as quickly as you can. They'll have to be fumigated after being in that den. They've never been out of the baskets, he protested hotly, except just to be looked at. They're my things, mother, and I had a right to do what I needed to with them, didn't I? His utterance became difficult. You and father just can't understand and you won't do anything to help me. Willie, you can go to the party, she said gently. You didn't need those frightful clothes at all. I do, he cried. I got to have them. I can't go in my day clothes. There's a reason you wouldn't understand why I can't. I just can't. Yes, she said. You can go to the party. I can't either. Not unless you give me $3.24, or unless I can get back to the lumberyard and earn the rest before— No! And the warm color that had rushed over Mrs. Baxter during Jane's sensational recital returned with a vengeance. Her eyes flashed. If you'd rather I sent a policeman for those baskets, I'll send one. I should prefer to do it much and to have that rascal arrested. If you don't want me to send a policeman, you can go for them yourself. And you must start within 10 minutes because if you don't, I'll telephone headquarters. 10 minutes, Willie, and I mean it. He cried out, protesting. She would make him a thing of scorn forever and soil his honor if she sent a policeman. Mr. Belgis was a fair and honest tradesman, he explained passionately, and had not made the approaches in this matter. Also, the garments in question, though not entirely new, nor of the highest mode, were of good material and in splendid condition. Unmistakably, they were evening clothes and such a bargain at $14 that William would guarantee to sell them for $20 after he had worn them this one evening. Mr. Belgis himself had said that he would not even think of letting them go at $14 to anybody else, and as for the two poor baskets of worn and useless articles offered in exchange, and a bent scarf pin and a worn-out silver watch that had belonged to great Uncle Ben, while the $10.40 allowed upon them was beyond all ordinary liberality. It was almost charity. There was only one place in town where evening clothes were rented, and the suspicious persons in charge had insisted that William obtain from his father a guarantee to ensure the return of the garments in perfect condition. So that was hopeless. And wasn't it better, also, to wear clothes which had known only one previous occupant, as was the case with Mr. Belgis's offering, than to hire what chance hundreds had hired? Finally, there was only one thing to be considered, and this was the fact that William had to have those clothes. Six minutes, said Mrs. Baxter, glancing implacably at her watch. When it's 10, I'll telephone. And the end of it was, of course, victory for the woman, victory both moral and physical. Three-quarters of an hour later, she was unburdening the contents of the two baskets and putting the things back in place, illuminating these actions with an expression of strong distaste, in spite of broken assurances that Mr. Belgis had not more than touched any of the articles offered to him for valuation. At dinner, which was unusually early that evening, Mrs. Baxter did not often glance toward her son. She kept her eyes from that white face and spent most of her time in urging upon Mr. Baxter that he should be prompt in dressing for a card club meeting which he and she were to attend that evening. These admonitions of hers were continued so pressingly that Mr. Baxter, after protesting that there was no use in being a whole hour too early, groaningly went to dress without even reading his paper. William had retired to his own room where he lay upon his bed in the darkness. He had heard the evening noises of the house faintly through the closed door, voices and the clatter of metal and china from the far away kitchen, Jane's laugh in the hall, the opening and closing of the doors. Then his father seemed to be in distress about something. William heard him complaining to Mrs. Baxter and though the words were indistinct, the tone was vigorously plaintive. Mrs. Baxter laughed and appeared to make light of his troubles, whatever they were, and presently their footsteps were audible from the stairway. The front door closed emphatically and they were gone. Everything was quiet now. The open window showed as a greenish oblong said in black and William knew that in a little while there would come through the stillness of that window the distant sound of violins. That was a moment he dreaded with a dread that ached.  It did not once enter his mind that he could go to the dance in his best suit or that possibly the other young people at the party would be too busy with their own affairs to notice particularly what he wore. It was the unquestionable and granite fact to his mind that the whole derisive world would know the truth about his earlier appearances in his father's clothes. And that was a form of ruin not to be faced. In the protective darkness and seclusion of William's bedroom, it is possible that smarting eyes relieved themselves by blinking rather energetically. It is even possible that there was a minute damp spot upon the pillow. Seventeen cannot always manage the little boy yet alive under all the coverings. Now arrived, that moment he had most painfully anticipated and dance music drifted on the night. But there came a tapping upon his door and a soft voice spoke, Willie. With a sharp exclamation, William swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Of all things he desired not, he desired no conversation with or on the part of Jane. But he had forgotten to lock his door. The handle turned and a dim little figure marched in. Willie, Adilia is going to put me to bed. You way from here, he said huskily. I haven't got time to talk to you. I'm busy. Well, you can wait a minute, can't you? She asked reasonably. I have to tell you a joke on Mama. I don't want to hear any jokes. Well, I have to tell you this one. Because she told me to. Oh, Jane clapped her hand over her mouth and jumped up and down, offering a fantastic silhouette against the light of the open door.  She said I mustn't, mustn't tell that she told me to tell. My goodness, I forgot that.  But she said above all things. She said, don't let Willie know. I said to tell him that's just what she said. And here that's the very first thing I had to go and do. Well, what of it? Jane quieted down. The pains of her remorse were lost in her love of sensationalism and her voice sank to the thrilling whisper which it was one of her greatest pleasures to use. Did you hear what a fuss Papa was making when he was dressing for the card party? I don't care if he had to close. Whispered Jane triumphantly. And this is the Papa's dress suit way, way out.  And she guesses he must have understood her to tell him to do lots besides just pressing it. Anyway, he went and altered it and he took it way, way in again. And this afternoon when it came back it was even tighter than it was in the first place and Papa couldn't begin to get into it. Well, and so it's all pressed and everything. And she stopped on the way out and whispered to me that she got so upset over the joke on her that she couldn't remember where she put it when she took it out of Papa's room after he gave up trying to get inside of it. And that, cried Jane, was the funniest thing of all. Why it's laying right on her bed this very moment. In one bound William leaped through the open door. Two seconds suffice for his passage through the hall to his mother's bedroom. Chapter 25 of 17. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard. August 2009. 17 by Booth Tarkington. Chapter 25. Youth. And Mr. Parcher. As a hurried whirling in almost perfectly fitting evening clothes, passed out of his father's gateway and hurried toward the place whence faintly came the sound of dance music, a child's voice called sweetly from an unidentified window of the darkened house behind him. Well, anyway, you try and have a good time, Willie. William made no reply. He paused nod in his stride. Jane's farewell injunction, though obviously not ill intended, seemed in poor taste, and a reply might have encouraged her to believe that, in some measure at least, he condescended to discuss his inner life with her. He departed rapidly, but with haughtier. The moon was up, but shade trees were thick along the sidewalk, and the haughtier was invisible to any human eye. Nevertheless, William considered it necessary. Jane's friendly, but ill-chosen anyway had touched doubts already annoying him. He was certain to be late to the party, so late indeed, that it might prove difficult to obtain a proper number of dances with the sacred girl in whose honor the celebration was being held. Too many were steeped in a sense of her sacredness. Well, he want, and he was unable to find room in his apprehensive mind for any doubt that these others would be accursively diligent. But as he hastened onward, his spirits rose, and he did reply to Jane, after all, though he had placed a hundred yards between them. Yes, and you can bet your bottom dollar I will, too, he muttered, between his determined teeth. The very utterance of the words increased the firmness of his decision, and at the same time cheered him. His apprehensions fell away, and a glamorous excitement took their place, as he turned a corner and the music burst more loudly upon his tingling air, for there, not halfway to the next street, the very scene lay spread before him. Spellbound groups of uninvited persons, most of them colored, rested their forearms upon the upper rail of the parter's picket fence, offering to William's view a silhouette like that of a crowd at a fire. Beyond the fence, bright forms went skimming, shimmering, wavering over a white platform, while high overhead, the young moon sprayed a thinner light down through the maple leaves, to where processions of rosy globes hung floating in the blue night. The mild breeze trembled to the silver patterings of a harp, to the sweet barbaric chirping of plucked strings of violin and cello, and swooned among the maple leaves to the rhythmic crooning of a flute. And all the while, from the platform came the sounds of little cries and girlish voices, and the cadence shuffling of young feet, where the witching dance music had its way, as ever and forever, with big and little slippers. The heart of William had behaved tumultuously the summer long, whenever his eyes beheld those pickets of the parter's fence, but now it outdid all its previous riotings. He was forced to open his mouth and gasped for breath, so deep was his draft of that young wine romance. Yonder, somewhere in the breathtaking radiance, danced his queen with all her court about her. Queen in court, thought William, and nothing less exorbitant could have expressed his feeling, for Seventeen needs only some paper lanterns, a fiddle, and a pretty girl, and Versailles is all there. The moment was so rich that William crossed the street with a slower step. His mood changed, and exaltation had come upon him, though he was never for an instant unaware of the tragedy beneath all this worldly show and clamor. It was the last night of the divine visit. Tomorrow the town would lie desolate, a hollow shell in the dust without her. Miss Pratt would be gone, gone utterly, gone away on the train. But tonight was just beginning, and tonight he would dance with her, he would dance and dance with her, he would dance and dance like mad. He and she, poetic and fated pair, would dance on and on. They would be intoxicated by the lights, the lights, the flowers, and the music. Nay, the flowers might droop, the lights might go out, the music cease, and dawn come. She and he would dance recklessly on, on, on. A sense of picturesqueness, his own picturesqueness, made him walk rather theatrically as he passed through the groups of humble onlookers outside the picket fence. Many of these turned to stare at the belated guest, and William was unconscious of neither their low estate, nor his own quality as a patrician man about town in almost perfectly fitting evening dress. A faint, cold smile was allowed to appear upon his lips, and a fragment from a story he had read came momentarily to his mind. Through the gaping crowds, the young Augustan, Noble was born down from the Palatine, scornful in his jeweled litter. An admiring murmur reached William's ear. Oh, oh, honey, look at him long tail suit. That's a rich boy, honey. Yes, um, so. Bet he got his pockets packed full of $20 gold pieces right this minute. You right, honey? William allowed the coldness of his faint smile to increase to become scornful. These poor sidewalk creatures little knew what seathed inside the alabaster of the young Augustan Noble. What was it to them that this was Ms. Pratt's last night, and that he intended to dance and dance with her on and on? Almost sternly, he left these squalid lives behind him, and passed to the festival gateway. Upon one of the posts of that gateway, there rested the elbow of a contemplative man, middle-aged or a little worse. Of all persons having pleasure or business within the bride enclosure, he was that evening the least important, being merely the background parent who paid the bills. However, even this unconsidered elder shared a thought in common with the Augustan now approaching. Mr. Pratcher had just been thinking that there was true romance in the scene before him. But what Mr. Pratcher contemplated as romance arose from the fact that these young people were dancing on a spot where their great grandfathers had scalped Indians. Music was made for them by descendants, it might well be, of Romulus, of Messalina, of Benvenuto, Salini, and around behind the house waiting to serve the dancers with light food and drink, lounged and gossiped grandchildren of the Congo. Only a generation or so removed from dances for which the chance stranger furnished both the occasion and the refreshments. Such, in brief, was Mr. Pratcher's peculiar view of what constituted the romantic element. And upon another subject, preoccupying both Mr. Pratcher and William, their two views, though, again, founded upon one thought, had no real congeniality. The preoccupying subject was the imminence of Miss Pratcher's departure. Neither Mr. Pratcher nor William forgot it for an instant. No matter what else played upon the surface of their attention, each kept saying to himself underneath, this is the last night, the last night, Miss Pratcher is going away, going away tomorrow. Mr. Pratcher's expression was peaceful. It was more peaceful than it had been for a long time. In fact, he wore the look of a man who had been through the mill, but now contemplated a restful and health-restoring vacation. For there are people in this world who have no respect for the memory of Ponce de Leon, and Mr. Pratcher had come to be of their number. The elimination of William from his evenings had lightened the burden. Nevertheless, Mr. Pratcher would have stated freely and openly to any responsible party that he would have that a yearning for the renewal of his youth had not been intensified by his daughters having, as a visitor, all summer long, a howling bell of 18, who talked baby talk even at breakfast and spread her suitors all over the small house, and its one veranda, from eight in the morning until hours of the night long after their mothers, in Mr. Pratcher's opinion, should have sent their fathers to march them home. Upon Mr. Pratcher's optimism, the effect of so much unavoidable observation of young love had been fatal, he declared repeatedly that his faith in the human race was about gone. Furthermore, his physical constitution had proved pathetically vulnerable to nightly quartets, quintets, and even octets on the porch below his bedchamber window, so that he was want to tell his wife that never, never could he expect it to be again the man he had been in the spring before Miss Pratt came to visit May. And, referring to conversation which he almost continuously overheard, per force, Mr. Pratcher said that if this was the way he talked at that age, he would far prefer to drown in an ordinary fountain and be dead and done with it than to bathe in Ponsa De Leons. Altogether, the summer had been a severe one. He doubted that he could have survived much more of it, and now that it was virtually over, at last, he was so resigned to the departure of his daughter's lovely little friend that he felt no regret for the splurge with which her visit was closing. Nay, to speed the parting guest, such was his lavish mood, twice and thrice over he would have paid for the lights, the flowers, the music, the sandwiches, the coffee, the chicken salad, the cake, the lemonade punch, and the ice cream. Thus, did the one thought divide itself between William and Mr. Pratcher, keeping itself deep and pure under all their other thoughts. Miss Pratt is going away, thought William and Mr. Pratcher. Miss Pratt is going away tomorrow. The unuttered words advanced tragically toward the gate in the head of William at the same time that they moved contentedly away in the head of Mr. Pratcher. For Mr. Pratcher caught sight of his wife just then and went to join her as she sank wearily upon the front steps. Taking a rest for a minute, he inquired, by George, we're both entitled to a good long rest after tonight. If we could afford it, we'd go away to a quiet little sanitarium in the hills somewhere and he ceased to speak and there was of the renewal of an old bitterness in his expression as his staring eyes followed the movements of a stately young form entering the gateway. Look at it, said Mr. Pratcher in a whisper. Just look at it. Look at what, asked his wife. That backster boy, said Mr. Pratcher, as William passed on toward the dancers. What's he think he's imitating? Henry Irving? Look at his walk. He walks that way a good deal lately, I've noticed, said Mrs. Pratcher in a tired voice. So does Joe Bullitt and he didn't even come to say good evening to you, Mr. Pratcher interrupted. Talk about manners nowadays. These young, he didn't see us. Well, we're used to that, said Mr. Pratcher. None of them see us. They've worn holes in all the cane-seated chairs.  But they don't even know we're alive. Well, thank the Lord it's over after tonight. His voice became reflective. That backster boy was the worst until he took to coming in the daytime when I was downtown. I couldn't have stood it if he kept on coming in the evening if I'd had to listen to any more of his talking or singing either the embalmer or the lunatic asylum would have had me, sure. I see he's got hold of his daddy's dress suit again for tonight. Is it Mr. Backster's dress suit? Mrs. Pratcher inquired. How do you know? Mr. Pratcher smiled. How I happened to know is a secret, he said. I forgot about that. His little sister Jane told me that Mrs. Backster had hidden it or something so that Willie couldn't wear it.  I suppose he feels grander in the kingess I am. No. Mrs. Pratcher returned thoughtfully. I don't think he does just now. Her gay was fixed upon the dancing platform with which most of the dancers were abandoning as the music fell away to an interval of silence. In the center of the platform there remained one group consisting of Miss Pratt and five orators and of the orators the most impassioned and gesticulative was William. They all seemed to want to dance with her all the time, said Mrs. Pratcher. I'd heard her telling one of the boys half an hour ago that all she could give him was either the 28th regular dance or the 16th extra. Though what? Mr. Pratcher demanded, whirling to face her. Do they think this party is going to keep running till day after tomorrow? And then, as his eyes returned to the group on the platform, that boy seems to have quite a touch of emotional insanity, he remarked, referring to William. What is the matter with him? Oh, nothing. His wife returned, only trying to arrange a dance with her. He seems to be in difficulties. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of 17 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard August 2009 17 by Booth Tarkington Chapter 26 Miss Boak Nothing could have been more evident than William's difficulties. They continued to exist with equal obviousness when the group broke up in some confusion after a few moments of animated discussion. Mr. Wallace Banks, that busy and executive youth bearing Miss Pratt triumphantly off to the lemonade punch bowl while William pursued Johnny Watson and Joe Bullitt. He sought to detain them near the edge of the platform, though they appeared far from anxious to linger in his company, and he was able to arrest their attention only by clutching an arm of each. In fact, the good feeling which had laterally prevailed among these three appeared to be in danger of disintegrating. The occasion was too vital, and the watchword for Miss Pratt's last night was devil take the hindmost. Now you look here, Johnny, William said vehemently, and you listen too, Joe. You both got seven dances apiece with her anyway, all on account of my not getting here early enough. And you got to, it wasn't because of any such reason, young Mr. Watson protested. I asked her for mine two days ago. Well, that wasn't fair, was it? William cried. Just because I never thought of sneaking in ahead like that, you going, well, you ought to thought of it. Johnny retorted, jerking his arm free of William's grasp. I can't stand here gabbing all day, and he hurried away. Joe, William began, fastening more securely upon Mr. Bullet. Joe, I've done a good many favors for you, and I've got to see a man, Mr. Bullet interrupted. Let me go, silly Bill. There's somebody I got to see right away before the next dance begins. I got to, honest I have. William seized impassionately by the lapels of his coat.  You got to give me, honest Bill, his friend expostulated, backing away as forcefully as possible. I got to find a fellow that's here tonight and ask him about something important before, ye gods, can't you wait a minute, William cried, keeping his grip upon Joe's lapels. You got to give me anyway two out of all your dances with her. You heard her tell me yourself that she'd be willing if you or Johnny or, well, I only got five or six with her, and a couple extras. Johnny's got seven. Why don't you go after Johnny? I bet he'd help you out, all right, if you kept after him. What do you want to pester me for, Bill? The brutal selfishness of this speech, as well as its cold-blooded insincerity, produced in William the impulse to smite. Fortunately, his only hope lay in persuasion, and after a momentary struggle with his own features, he was able to conceal what he desired to do to Joe's. He swallowed, and increasingly affectionate desperation of his clutch upon Mr. Bullitt's lapels. Joe, he began huskily. Joe, if I'd got six regular and two extras with Miss Pratt her last night here, and you got here late and it wasn't your fault, I couldn't help being late, could I? It wasn't my fault I was late, I guess, was it? Well, if I was in your place, I wouldn't act the way you and Johnny do. Not in a thousand years, I wouldn't. I'd say, you want a couple of my dances with Miss Pratt, old man? Why certainly, yes, you would, was the cynical comment of Mr. Bullitt, whose averted face and reluctant shoulders indicated a strong desire to conclude the interview. Tonight especially, he added. Look here, Joe, said William desperately. Don't you realize that this is the very last night Miss Pratt's going to be in this town? You bet I do. These words, though vehement, were inaudible, being formed in the mind of Mr. Bullitt, and for diplomatic reasons, not projected upon the air by his vocal organs. William continued, Joe, you and I have been friends ever since you and I were boys. He spoke with emotion, but Joe had no appearance of being favorably impressed. And when I look back, said William, I expect I've done more favors for you than I ever have for any o— But Mr. Bullitt briskly interrupted this appealing reminiscence. Listen here, silly Bill, he said, becoming all at once friendly and encouraging. Bill, there's other girls here you can get dances with. There's one or two of them sitting around in the yard. You can have a bully time, even if you did come late. And with the air of discharging happily, all the obligations of which William had reminded him, he added, I'll tell you that much, Bill. Joe, you've got to give me anyway one de— Look! said Mr. Bullitt eagerly. Look, sit in yonder, over under that tree, all by herself. There's a visiting girl named Miss Boak. She's visiting some old uncle or something. She's got livin' here.  I bet that Miss Boak's a good dancer, Bill. Joe continued warmly. Mae Partridge says so. She was trying to get me to dance with her myself. But I couldn't, or I would've. Honest, Bill, I would've. Bill, if I was you, I'd sail right in there before anybody else got a start. And I'd— Oh, man, said William gently. You remember the time Miss Pratt and I had an engagement to go walkin'? And you wouldn't have seen her for a week on account of your at Diane in Kansas City? If I hadn't let you go along with us? Oh, man, if you— But the music sounded for the next dance, and Joe felt that it was indeed time to end this uncomfortable conversation. I got to go, Bill, he said. I got to! Wait just one minute, William implored. I want to say just this. If here, exclaimed Mr. Bullitt, I got to go! I know it. That's why heedless of remonstrance. Joe wrenched himself free for it would have taken a powerful and ruthless man to detain him longer. What you take me for, he demanded indignantly. I got this with Miss Pratt! And evading a hand which still sought to clutch him, he departed hotly. Mr. Parcher's voice expressed wonder a little later, as he recommended his wife to turn her gaze in the direction of that Baxter boy again. Just look at him, said Mr. Parcher. His face has got more genuine idiocy in it than I've seen around here yet. And God knows I've been seeing some miracles in that line this summer. He's looking at Lola Pratt, said Mrs. Parcher. Don't you suppose I can see that? Mr. Parcher returned with some irritation. That's what's the trouble with him. Why don't he quit looking at her? I think probably he feels badly because she's dancing with one of the other boys, said his wife mildly. Then why can't he dance with somebody else himself? Mr. Parcher inquired testily, instead of standing around like a calf looking out of the butcher's wagon. By George, he looks as if he was just going to moo. Of course, he ought to be dancing with somebody, Mrs. Parcher remarked thoughtfully. There are one or two more girls than boys here, and he's the only boy not dancing. I believe I'll, and not stopping to complete the sentence, she rose and walked across the interval of grass to William. Good evening, William, she said pleasantly. Don't you want to dance? Ma'am, said William blankly, and the eyes he turned upon her were glassy with anxiety. He was still determined to dance on and on and on with Ms. Pratt, but he realized that there were great obstacles to be overcome before he could begin this process. He was feverishly awaiting the next interranium between dances, then he would show Joe Bullet and Johnny Watson and Wallace Banks and some others who had set themselves in his way, but he was absolutely not going to stand it. He couldn't stand it, he told himself, even if he wanted to, not tonight. He had been through enough in order to get to the party, he thought, thus defining sufferings connected with his costume, and now that he was here, he would dance and dance on and on with Ms. Pratt. Anything else was unthinkable. He had to. Don't you want to dance, Mrs. Partia repeated? Have you looked around for a girl without a partner? He continued to stare at her, plainly having no comprehension of her meaning. Girl? He echoed in a tone of feeble inquiry. She smiled and nodded, taking his arm. You come with me, she said. I'll fix you up. William suffered her to conduct him across the yard. Intensely preoccupied with what he meant to do as soon as the music paused, he was somewhat hazy. But when he perceived that he was being led in the direction of a girl, sitting solitary under one of the maple trees, the sudden shock of fear aroused his faculties. What? Where? He stammered, halting and seeking to detach himself from his hostess. What is it? She asked. I got to. I got to. William began uneasily. I got to. His purpose was to excuse himself on the ground that he had to find a man and tell him something important before the next dance. For in the confusion of the moment, his powers refused him greater rib originality. But the vital part of his intended excuse remained unspoken, being disregarded and cut short, as millions of other masculine diplomasies have been throughout the centuries by the decisive action of ladies. Miss Boak had been sitting under the maple tree for a long time, so long indeed that she was acquiring a profound estace for forestry and even for maple syrup. In fact, her state of mind was as desperate in its way as Williams and when a hostess leads a youth in almost perfectly fitting conventional black, toward a girl who has been sitting alone through dance after dance, that girl knows what that youth is going to have to do. It must be confessed for Miss Boak that her eyes had been upon William from the moment Mrs. Parture addressed him. Nevertheless, as the pair came toward her, she looked casually away in an indifferent manner. And yet, this may have been but a seeming unconsciousness, for upon the very instant of Williams halting and before he had managed to stammer I got to for the fourth time, Miss Boak sprang to her feet and met Mrs. Parture more than halfway. Oh, Mrs. Parture, she called, coming forward. I got the panic-stricken William again hastily began. I got to Oh, Mrs. Parture, cried Miss Boak. I've been so worried. There's a candle in that Japanese lantern just over your head, and I think it's going out. I'll run and get a fresh one in a minute, said Mrs. Parture, smiling benevolently and retaining Williams' arm with a little difficulty. We were just coming to find you. I've brought. I got, I got to find him at William made a last stricken effort. Miss Boak, this is Mr. Baxter, said Mrs. Parture, and she added with what seemed to William hideous guerrality, he and you both came late, dear, and he hasn't any dances engaged either, so run and dance and have a nice time together. Thereupon, this disastrous woman returned to her husband. Her look was conscientious. She thought she had done something pleasant. The full horror of his position was revealed to William in the relieved, confident, proprietor smile of Miss Boak. For William lived by a code from which no previous experience had taught him any means of escape. Mrs. Parture had made the statement, so needless and so ruinous that he had no engagements, and in his dismay, he had been unable to deny this fatal truth. He had been obliged to let it stand. Henceforth, he was committed absolutely to Miss Boak until either someone else asked her to dance or while yet in her close company William could obtain an engagement with another girl. The latter alternative presented certain grave difficulties, also contracting William to dance with the other girl before once more obtaining his freedom, but undeniably he regarded it from the first as the more hopeful. He had to give form to the fatal invitation. Mav this dance to you, he muttered doggedly. Very pleased too, Miss Boak responded, whereupon they walked in silence to the platform, stepped upon its surface, and embraced. They made a false start. They made another. They stood swaying to catch the time, then made another. After that, they tried again and were saved from a fall only by spasmodic and noticeable contortions. Miss Boak laughed tolerantly as if forgiving William for his awkwardness and his hot heart grew hotter with that injustice. She was a large ample girl weighing more than William this must be definitely claimed on his behalf. And she had been spending the summer at a lakeside hotel where she had constantly danced man's part. To paint William's predicament at a stroke, his partner was a determined rather than a graceful dancer and their efforts to attune themselves to each other and to the music were in a fair way to attract general attention. A coarse chuckle, a half suppressed snort, a sailed William's scarlet ear, and from the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Joe Bullitt gliding by suffused while over Joe's detested shoulder he'd be seen the adorable and pickwit face of the one girl, also suffused. Dog on it, William panted. Oh, you mustn't be discouraged with yourself, said Miss Boak genially. I've met lots of men that had trouble to get started and turned out to be right good dancers after all. It seems to me we're kind of working against each other. I'll tell you, you kind of let me do the guiding and I'll get you going fine. Now, one two, one two, there. William ceased to struggle for dominance and their efforts to get started were at once successful. With a muscular power that was surprising, Miss Boak bore him out into the circling current, swung him round and round, walked him backwards across the platform, then swung him round and round and round again. For a girl, she guided remarkably well. Nevertheless, a series of collisions, varying the intensity, marked the path of the pair upon the rather crowded platform. In such emergencies, Miss Boak proved herself deft in swinging William to act as a buffer, and he several times found himself heavily stricken from the rear. A non, his face would be press suffocatingly into Miss Boak's hair, without the slightest wish on his part for such intimacy. He had a helpless feeling, fully warranted by the circumstances. Also, he soon became aware that Miss Boak's powerful guiding was observed by the public, for after one collision, more severe than others, a low voice hissed in his ear.  She's only in fun. This voice belonged to the dancer with whom he had just been in painful contact, Johnny Watson. However, Johnny had whirled far upon another orbit before William found a retort, and then it was a feeble one. I wish you try a few dances with her, he whispered inaudibly, but with unprecedented bitterness, as the masterly arm of his partner just saved him from going over the edge of the platform.  More than once, he tried to assert himself and resume his natural place as guide, but each time he did so, he immediately got out of step with his partner. Their knees collided embarrassingly. They staggered and walked upon each other's insteps, and William was forced to abandon the unequal contest. I just love dancing, said Miss Boak serenely. Don't you, Mr. Baxter? What? He gulped? Yeah. It's a beautiful floor for dancing, isn't it? Yeah. I just love dancing, Miss Boak thought proper to declare again. Don't you love it, Mr. Baxter? This time he considered his enthusiasm to be sufficiently indicated by a nod. He needed all his breath. It's lovely, she murmured. I hope they don't play home sweet home very early at parties in this town. I could keep on like this all night. To the gasping William, it seemed that she already had kept on like this all night. And he expressed himself in one great frank agonized moan of relief when the music stopped. I should think those musicians would be dead, he said, as he wiped his brow, and then discovering that May Partcher stood at his elbow, he spoke hastily to her. Mav the next to you, but Miss Partcher had begun to applaud the musicians for an encore. She shook her head. Next is the third extra, she said, and anyhow, this one's going to be encoreed now. You can have the twenty second, if there is any. William threw a wild glance about him, looking for other girls, but the tireless orchestra began to play the encore, and Miss Boak, who had been applauding, instantly cast herself upon his bosom. Come on, she cried. Don't let's miss a second of it, it's just glorious. When the encore was finished, she seized William's arm, and mentioning that she'd left her fan upon the chair under the maple tree added, come on, let's go get it, quick. Under the maple tree, she found herself and talked of her love for dancing until the music sounded again. Come on, she cried then. Don't let's miss a second of it, it's just glorious. And grasping his arm, she propelled him toward the platform with a merry little rush. So past five dances, long, long dances. Likewise, five encorees, long encorees. End of chapter 26.