They glided from these serious topics into the jocose
insults which are the wit of Main Street. Sam
Clark was particularly apt at them. “What’s
this wild-eyed sale of summer caps you think you’re
trying to pull off?” he clamored at Harry Haydock.
“Did you steal ’em, or are you just overcharging
us, as usual? . . . Oh say, speaking about caps,
d’I ever tell you the good one I’ve got
on Will? The doc thinks he’s a pretty good
driver, fact, he thinks he’s almost got human
intelligence, but one time he had his machine out
in the rain, and the poor fish, he hadn’t put
on chains, and thinks I——”
Carol had heard the story rather often. She fled
back to the dancers, and at Dave Dyer’s masterstroke
of dropping an icicle down Mrs. McGanum’s back
she applauded hysterically.
They sat on the floor, devouring the food. The
men giggled amiably as they passed the whisky bottle,
and laughed, “There’s a real sport!”
when Juanita Haydock took a sip. Carol tried
to follow; she believed that she desired to be drunk
and riotous; but the whisky choked her and as she
saw Kennicott frown she handed the bottle on repentantly.
Somewhat too late she remembered that she had given
up domesticity and repentance.
“Let’s play charades!” said Raymie
Wutherspoon.
“Oh yes, do let us,” said Ella Stowbody.
“That’s the caper,” sanctioned Harry
Haydock.
They interpreted the word “making” as
May and King. The crown was a red flannel mitten
cocked on Sam Clark’s broad pink bald head.
They forgot they were respectable. They made-believe.
Carol was stimulated to cry:
“Let’s form a dramatic club and give a
play! Shall we? It’s been so much
fun tonight!”
They looked affable.
“Sure,” observed Sam Clark loyally.
“Oh, do let us! I think it would be lovely
to present ’Romeo and Juliet’!”
yearned Ella Stowbody.
“Be a whale of a lot of fun,” Dr. Terry
Gould granted.
“But if we did,” Carol cautioned, “it
would be awfully silly to have amateur theatricals.
We ought to paint our own scenery and everything,
and really do something fine. There’d be
a lot of hard work. Would you—would
we all be punctual at rehearsals, do you suppose?”
“You bet!” “Sure.” “That’s
the idea.” “Fellow ought to be prompt
at rehearsals,” they all agreed.
“Then let’s meet next week and form the
Gopher Prairie Dramatic Association!” Carol
sang.
She drove home loving these friends who raced through
moonlit snow, had Bohemian parties, and were about
to create beauty in the theater. Everything was
solved. She would be an authentic part of the
town, yet escape the coma of the Village Virus. .
. . She would be free of Kennicott again, without
hurting him, without his knowing.
She had triumphed.
The moon was small and high now, and unheeding.
