Babbitt was precinct-leader on Floral Heights, but
his district was safe and he longed for stouter battling.
His convention paper had given him the beginning of
a reputation for oratory, so the Republican-Democratic
Central Committee sent him to the Seventh Ward and
South Zenith, to address small audiences of workmen
and clerks, and wives uneasy with their new votes.
He acquired a fame enduring for weeks. Now and
then a reporter was present at one of his meetings,
and the headlines (though they were not very large)
indicated that George F. Babbitt had addressed Cheering
Throng, and Distinguished Man of Affairs had pointed
out the Fallacies of Doane. Once, in the rotogravure
section of the Sunday Advocate-Times, there was a
photograph of Babbitt and a dozen other business men,
with the caption “Leaders of Zenith Finance and
Commerce Who Back Prout.”
He deserved his glory. He was an excellent campaigner.
He had faith; he was certain that if Lincoln were
alive, he would be electioneering for Mr. W. G. Harding—unless
he came to Zenith and electioneered for Lucas Prout.
He did not confuse audiences by silly subtleties; Prout
represented honest industry, Seneca Doane represented
whining laziness, and you could take your choice.
With his broad shoulders and vigorous voice, he was
obviously a Good Fellow; and, rarest of all, he really
liked people. He almost liked common workmen.
He wanted them to be well paid, and able to afford
high rents—though, naturally, they must
not interfere with the reasonable profits of stockholders.
Thus nobly endowed, and keyed high by the discovery
that he was a natural orator, he was popular with
audiences, and he raged through the campaign, renowned
not only in the Seventh and Eighth Wards but even in
parts of the Sixteenth.
II
Crowded in his car, they came driving up to Turnverein
Hall, South Zenith—Babbitt, his wife, Verona,
Ted, and Paul and Zilla Riesling. The hall was
over a delicatessen shop, in a street banging with
trolleys and smelling of onions and gasoline and fried
fish. A new appreciation of Babbitt filled all
of them, including Babbitt.
“Don’t know how you keep it up, talking
to three bunches in one evening. Wish I had your
strength,” said Paul; and Ted exclaimed to Verona,
“The old man certainly does know how to kid
these roughnecks along!”
Men in black sateen shirts, their faces new-washed
but with a hint of grime under their eyes, were loitering
on the broad stairs up to the hall. Babbitt’s
party politely edged through them and into the whitewashed
room, at the front of which was a dais with a red-plush
throne and a pine altar painted watery blue, as used
nightly by the Grand Masters and Supreme Potentates
of innumerable lodges. The hall was full.
As Babbitt pushed through the fringe standing at the
back, he heard the precious tribute, “That’s
him!” The chairman bustled down the center aisle
with an impressive, “The speaker? All ready,
sir! Uh—let’s see—what
was the name, sir?”
