By warmly taking Purdy’s part, Babbitt persuaded
the benevolent Mr. Lyte to reduce his price to twenty-one
thousand dollars. At the right moment Babbitt
snatched from a drawer the agreement he had had Miss
McGoun type out a week ago and thrust it into Purdy’s
hands. He genially shook his fountain pen to
make certain that it was flowing, handed it to Purdy,
and approvingly watched him sign.
The work of the world was being done. Lyte had
made something over nine thousand dollars, Babbitt
had made a four-hundred-and-fifty dollar commission,
Purdy had, by the sensitive mechanism of modern finance,
been provided with a business-building, and soon the
happy inhabitants of Linton would have meat lavished
upon them at prices only a little higher than those
down-town.
It had been a manly battle, but after it Babbitt drooped.
This was the only really amusing contest he had been
planning. There was nothing ahead save details
of leases, appraisals, mortgages.
He muttered, “Makes me sick to think of Lyte
carrying off most of the profit when I did all the
work, the old skinflint! And—What else
have I got to do to-day?... Like to take a good
long vacation. Motor trip. Something.”
He sprang up, rekindled by the thought of lunching
with Paul Riesling.
Babbitt’s preparations for leaving the
office to its feeble self during the hour and a half
of his lunch-period were somewhat less elaborate than
the plans for a general European war.
He fretted to Miss McGoun, “What time you going
to lunch? Well, make sure Miss Bannigan is in
then. Explain to her that if Wiedenfeldt calls
up, she’s to tell him I’m already having
the title traced. And oh, b’ the way, remind
me to-morrow to have Penniman trace it. Now if
anybody comes in looking for a cheap house, remember
we got to shove that Bangor Road place off onto somebody.
If you need me, I’ll be at the Athletic Club.
And—uh—And—uh—I’ll
be back by two.”
He dusted the cigar-ashes off his vest. He placed
a difficult unanswered letter on the pile of unfinished
work, that he might not fail to attend to it that
afternoon. (For three noons, now, he had placed the
same letter on the unfinished pile.) He scrawled on
a sheet of yellow backing-paper the memorandum:
“See abt apt h drs,” which gave him an
agreeable feeling of having already seen about the
apartment-house doors.
He discovered that he was smoking another cigar.
He threw it away, protesting, “Darn it, I thought
you’d quit this darn smoking!” He courageously
returned the cigar-box to the correspondence-file,
locked it up, hid the key in a more difficult place,
and raged, “Ought to take care of myself.
And need more exercise—walk to the club,
every single noon—just what I’ll
do—every noon-cut out this motoring all
the time.”
The resolution made him feel exemplary. Immediately
after it he decided that this noon it was too late
to walk.
