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112.2, mtg. $4000 . . . . . . . . . . .
. . Nom
      And this morning Babbitt was too disquieted to
entertain her with items from Mechanics' Liens, Mortgages Recorded,
and Contracts Awarded. He rose. As he looked at her his eyebrows
seemed shaggier than usual. Suddenly:
      "Yes, maybe - Kind of shame to not keep in touch
with folks like the McKelveys. We might try inviting them to
dinner, some evening. Oh, thunder, let's not waste our good time
thinking about 'em! Our little bunch has a lot liver times than all
those plutes. Just compare a real human like you with these
neurotic birds like Lucile McKelvey - all highbrow talk and dressed
up like a plush horse! You're a great old girl, hon.!"
      He covered his betrayal of softness with a
complaining: "Say, don't let Tinka go and eat any more of that
poison nutfudge. For Heaven's sake, try to keep her from ruining
her digestion. I tell you, most folks don't appreciate how
important it is to have a good digestion and regular habits. Be
back 'bout usual time, I guess."
      He kissed her - he didn't quite kiss her - he laid
unmoving lips against her unflushing cheek. He hurried out to the
garage, muttering: "Lord, what a family! And now Myra is going to
get pathetic on me because we don't train with this millionaire
outfit. Oh, Lord, sometimes I'd like to quit the whole game. And
the office worry and detail just as bad. And I act cranky and - I
don't mean to, but I get - So darn tired!"

CHAPTER III
       T o George F.
Babbitt, as to most prosperous citizens of Zenith, his motor car
was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism. The office was his pirate
ship but the car his perilous excursion ashore.
      Among the tremendous crises of each day none was
more dramatic than starting the engine. It was slow on cold
mornings; there was the long, anxious whirr of the starter; and
sometimes he had to drip ether into the cocks of the cylinders,
which was so very interesting that at lunch he would chronicle it
drop by drop, and orally calculate how much each drop had cost
him.
      This morning he was darkly prepared to find
something wrong, and he felt belittled when the mixture exploded
sweet and strong, and the car didn't even brush the door-jamb,
gouged and splintery with many bruisings by fenders, as he backed
out of the garage. He was confused. He shouted "Morning!" to Sam
Doppelbrau with more cordiality than he had intended.
      Babbitt's green and white Dutch Colonial house was
one of three in that block on Chatham Road. To the left of it was
the residence of Mr. Samuel Doppelbrau, secretary of an excellent
firm of bathroom-fixture jobbers. His was a comfortable house with
no architectural manners whatever; a large wooden box with a squat
tower, a broad porch, and glossy paint yellow as a yolk. Babbitt
disapproved of Mr. and Mrs. Doppelbrau as "Bohemian." From their
house came midnight music and obscene laughter; there were
neighborhood rumors of bootlegged whisky and fast motor rides. They
furnished Babbitt with many happy evenings of discussion, during
which he announced firmly, "I'm not strait-laced, and I don't mind
seeing a fellow throw in a drink once in a while, but when it comes
to deliberately trying to get away with a lot of hell-raising all
the while like the Doppelbraus do, it's too rich for my blood!"
      On the other side of Babbitt lived Howard
Littlefield, Ph.D., in a strictly modern house whereof the lower
part was dark red tapestry brick, with a leaded oriel, the upper
part of pale stucco like spattered clay, and the roof red-tiled.
Littlefield was the Great Scholar of the neighborhood; the
authority on everything in the world except babies, cooking, and
motors. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Blodgett College, and a Doctor
of Philosophy in economics of Yale. He was the employment-manager
and publicity-counsel of the Zenith Street Traction Company. He
could, on ten hours' notice, appear before the board of aldermen or
the state legislature and prove, absolutely,