KENNICOTT was not so inhumanly patient that he could continue to forgive Carol’s heresies, to woo her as he had on the venture to California. She tried to be inconspicuous, but she was betrayed by her failure to glow over the boosting. Kennicott believed in it; demanded that she say patriotic things about the White Way and the new factory. He snorted, “By golly, I’ve done all I could, and now I expect you to play the game. Here you been complaining for years about us being so poky, and now when Blausser comes along and does stir up excitement and beautify the town like you’ve always wanted somebody to, why, you say he’s a roughneck, and you won’t jump on the band-wagon.”
Once, when Kennicott announced at noon-dinner, “What do you know about this! They say there’s a chance we may get another factory — cream-separator works!” he added, “You might try to look interested, even if you ain’t!” The baby was frightened by the Jovian roar; ran wailing to hide his face in Carol’s lap; and Kennicott had to make himself humble and court both mother and child. The dim injustice of not being understood even by his son left him irritable. He felt injured.
An event which did not directly touch them brought down his wrath.
In the early autumn, news came from Wakamin that the sheriff had forbidden an organizer for the National Nonpartisan League to speak anywhere in the county. The organizer had defied the sheriff, and announced that in a few days he would address a farmers’ political meeting. That night, the news ran, a mob of a hundred business men led by the sheriff — the tame village street and the smug village faces ruddled by the light of bobbing lanterns, the mob flowing between the squatty rows of shops — had taken the organizer from his hotel, ridden him on a fence-rail, put him on a freight train, and warned him not to return.
The story was threshed out in Dave Dyer’s drug store, with Sam Clark, Kennicott, and Carol present.
“That’s the way to treat those fellows — only they ought to have lynched him!” declared Sam, and Kennicott and Dave Dyer joined in a proud “You bet!”
Carol walked out hastily, Kennicott observing her.
Through supper-time she knew that he was bubbling and would soon boil over. When the baby was abed, and they sat composedly in canvas chairs on the porch, he experimented; “I had a hunch you thought Sam was kind of hard on that fellow they kicked out of Wakamin.”
“Wasn’t Sam rather needlessly heroic?”
“All these organizers, yes, and a whole lot of the German and Squarehead farmers themselves, they’re seditious as the devil — disloyal, non-patriotic, pro-German pacifists, that’s what they are!”
“Did this organizer say anything pro-German?”
“Not on your life! They didn’t give him a chance!” His laugh was stagey.
“So the whole thing was illegal — and led by the sheriff! Precisely how do you expect these aliens to obey your law if the officer of the law teaches them to break it? Is it a new kind of logic?”
“Maybe it wasn’t exactly regular, but what’s the odds? They knew this fellow would try to stir up trouble. Whenever it comes right down to a question of defending Americanism and our constitutional rights, it’s justifiable to set aside ordinary procedure.”
“What editorial did he get that from?” she wondered, as she protested, “See here, my beloved, why can’t you Tories declare war honestly? You don’t oppose this organizer because you think he’s seditious but because you’re afraid that the farmers he is organizing will deprive you townsmen of the money you make out of mortgages and wheat and shops. Of course, since we’re at war with Germany, anything that any one of us doesn’t like is ‘pro-German,’ whether it’s business competition or bad music. If we were fighting England, you’d call the radicals ‘pro-English.’ When this war is over, I suppose you’ll be calling them ‘red anarchists.’ What an eternal art it is — such a glittery delightful art — finding hard names for our opponents! How we do sanctify our efforts to keep them from getting the holy dollars we want for ourselves! The churches have always done it, and the political orators — and I suppose I do it when I call Mrs. Bogart a ‘Puritan’ and Mr. Stowbody a ‘capitalist.’ But you business men are going to beat all the rest of us at it, with your simple-hearted, energetic, pompous ——”
She got so far only because Kennicott was slow in shaking off respect for her. Now he bayed:
“That’ll be about all from you! I’ve stood for your sneering at this town, and saying how ugly and dull it is. I’ve stood for your refusing to appreciate good fellows like Sam. I’ve even stood for your ridiculing our Watch Gopher Prairie Grow campaign. But one thing I’m not going to stand: I’m not going to stand my own wife being seditious. You can camouflage all you want to, but you know darn well that these radicals, as you call ’em, are opposed to the war, and let me tell you right here and now, and you and all these long-haired men and short-haired women can beef all you want to, but we’re going to take these fellows, and if they ain’t patriotic, we’re going to make them be patriotic. And — Lord knows I never thought I’d have to say this to my own wife — but if you go defending these fellows, then the same thing applies to you! Next thing, I suppose you’ll be yapping about free speech. Free speech! There’s too much free speech and free gas and free beer and free love and all the rest of your damned mouthy freedom, and if I had my way I’d make you folks live up to the established rules of decency even if I had to take you ——”
“Will!” She was not timorous now. “Am I pro-German if I fail to throb to Honest Jim Blausser, too? Let’s have my whole duty as a wife!”
He was grumbling, “The whole thing’s right in line with the criticism you’ve always been making. Might have known you’d oppose any decent constructive work for the town or for ——”
“You’re right. All I’ve done has been in line. I don’t belong to Gopher Prairie. That isn’t meant as a condemnation of Gopher Prairie, and it may be a condemnation of me. All right! I don’t care! I don’t belong here, and I’m going. I’m not asking permission any more. I’m simply going.”
He grunted. “Do you mind telling me, if it isn’t too much trouble, how long you’re going for?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps for a year. Perhaps for a lifetime.”
“I see. Well, of course, I’ll be tickled to death to sell out my practise and go anywhere you say. Would you like to have me go with you to Paris and study art, maybe, and wear velveteen pants and a woman’s bonnet, and live on spaghetti?”
“No, I think we can save you that trouble. You don’t quite understand. I am going — I really am — and alone! I’ve got to find out what my work is ——”
“Work? Work? Sure! That’s the whole trouble with you! You haven’t got enough work to do. If you had five kids and no hired girl, and had to help with the chores and separate the cream, like these farmers’ wives, then you wouldn’t be so discontented.”
“I know. That’s what most men — and women — like you WOULD say. That’s how they would explain all I am and all I want. And I shouldn’t argue with them. These business men, from their crushing labors of sitting ............