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present
juncture - is neither a college president nor a lot of monkeying
with foreign affairs, but a good - sound economical - business -
administration, that will give us a chance to have something like a
decent turnover."
      "Yes. It isn't generally realized that even in China
the schoolmen are giving way to more practical men, and of course
you can see what that implies."
      "Is that a fact! Well, well!" breathed Babbitt,
feeling much calmer, and much happier about the way things were
going in the world. "Well, it's been nice to stop and parleyvoo a
second. Guess I'll have to get down to the office now and sting a
few clients. Well, so long, old man. See you tonight. So long."
      II
      They had labored, these solid citizens. Twenty years
before, the hill on which Floral Heights was spread, with its
bright roofs and immaculate turf and amazing comfort, had been a
wilderness of rank second-growth elms and oaks and maples. Along
the precise streets were still a few wooded vacant lots, and the
fragment of an old orchard. It was brilliant to-day; the apple
boughs were lit with fresh leaves like torches of green fire. The
first white of cherry blossoms flickered down a gully, and robins
clamored.
      Babbitt sniffed the earth, chuckled at the hysteric
robins as he would have chuckled at kittens or at a comic movie. He
was, to the eye, the perfect office-going executive - a well-fed
man in a correct brown soft hat and frameless spectacles, smoking a
large cigar, driving a good motor along a semi-suburban parkway.
But in him was some genius of authentic love for his neighborhood,
his city, his clan. The winter was over; the time was come for the
building, the visible growth, which to him was glory. He lost his
dawn depression; he was ruddily cheerful when he stopped on Smith
Street to leave the brown trousers, and to have the gasoline-tank
filled.
      The familiarity of the rite fortified him: the sight
of the tall red iron gasoline-pump, the hollow-tile and terra-cotta
garage, the window full of the most agreeable accessories - shiny
casings, spark-plugs with immaculate porcelain jackets tire-chains
of gold and silver. He was flattered by the friendliness with which
Sylvester Moon, dirtiest and most skilled of motor mechanics, came
out to serve him. "Mornin', Mr. Babbitt!" said Moon, and Babbitt
felt himself a person of importance, one whose name even busy
garagemen remembered - not one of these cheap-sports flying around
in flivvers. He admired the ingenuity of the automatic dial,
clicking off gallon by gallon; admired the smartness of the sign:
"A fill in time saves getting stuck - gas to-day 31 cents"; admired
the rhythmic gurgle of the gasoline as it flowed into the tank, and
the mechanical regularity with which Moon turned the handle.
      "How much we takin' to-day?" asked Moon, in a manner
which combined the independence of the great specialist, the
friendliness of a familiar gossip, and respect for a man of weight
in the community, like George F. Babbitt.
      "Fill 'er up."
      "Who you rootin' for for Republican candidate, Mr.
Babbitt?"
      "It's too early to make any predictions yet. After
all, there's still a good month and two weeks - no, three weeks -
must be almost three weeks - well, there's more than six weeks in
all before the Republican convention, and I feel a fellow ought to
keep an open mind and give all the candidates a show - look 'em all
over and size 'em up, and then decide carefully."
      "That's a fact, Mr. Babbitt."
      "But I'll tell you - and my stand on this is just
the same as it was four years ago, and eight years ago, and it'll
be my stand four years from now - yes, and eight years from now!
What I tell everybody, and it can't be too generally understood, is
that what we need first, last, and all the time is a good, sound
business administration!"
      "By golly, that's right!"
      "How do those front tires look to you?"
      "Fine! Fine! Wouldn't be much work for garages