No apartment-house in Zenith had more resolutely experimented in condensation than the Revelstoke Arms, in which Paul and Zilla Riesling had a flat. By sliding the beds into low closets the bedrooms were converted into living-rooms. The kitchens were cupboards each containing an electric range, a copper sink, a glass refrigerator, and, very intermittently, a Balkan maid. Everything about the Arms was excessively modern, and everything was compressed — except the garages.

The Babbitts were calling on the Rieslings at the Arms. It was a speculative venture to call on the Rieslings; interesting and sometimes disconcerting. Zilla was an active, strident, full-blown, high-bosomed blonde. When she condescended to be good-humored she was nervously amusing. Her comments on people were saltily satiric and penetrative of accepted hypocrisies. “That’s so!” you said, and looked sheepish. She danced wildly, and called on the world to be merry, but in the midst of it she would turn indignant. She was always becoming indignant. Life was a plot against her and she exposed it furiously.

She was affable to-night. She merely hinted that Orville Jones wore a toupe, that Mrs. T. Cholmondeley Frink’s singing resembled a Ford going into high, and that the Hon. Otis Deeble, mayor of Zenith and candidate for Congress, was a flatulent fool (which was quite true). The Babbitts and Rieslings sat doubtfully on stone-hard brocade chairs in the small living-room of the flat, with its mantel unprovided with a fireplace, and its strip of heavy gilt fabric upon a glaring new player-piano, till Mrs. Riesling shrieked, “Come on! Let’s put some pep in it! Get out your fiddle, Paul, and I’ll try to make Georgie dance decently.”

The Babbitts were in earnest. They were plotting for the escape to Maine. But when Mrs. Babbitt hinted with plump smilingness, “Does Paul get as tired after the winter’s work as Georgie does?” then Zilla remembered an injury; and when Zilla Riesling remembered an injury the world stopped till something had been done about it.

“Does he get tired? No, he doesn’t get tired, he just goes crazy, that’s all! You think Paul is so reasonable, oh, yes, and he loves to make out he’s a little lamb, but he’s stubborn as a mule. Oh, if you had to live with him —! You’d find out how sweet he is! He just pretends to be meek so he can have his own way. And me, I get the credit for being a terrible old crank, but if I didn’t blow up once in a while and get something started, we’d die of dry-rot. He never wants to go any place and — Why, last evening, just because the car was out of order — and that was his fault, too, because he ought to have taken it to the service-station and had the battery looked at — and he didn’t want to go down to the movies on the trolley. But we went, and then there was one of those impudent conductors, and Paul wouldn’t do a thing.

“I was standing on the platform waiting for the people to let me into the car, and this beast, this conductor, hollered at me, ‘Come on, you, move up!’ Why, I’ve never had anybody speak to me that way in all my life! I was so astonished I just turned to him and said — I thought there must be some mistake, and so I said to him, perfectly pleasant, ‘Were you speaking to me?’ and he went on and bellowed at me, ‘Yes, I was! You’re keeping the whole car from starting!’ he said, and then I saw he was one of these dirty ill-bred hogs that kindness is wasted on, and so I stopped and looked right at him, and I said, ‘I — beg — your — pardon, I am not doing anything of the kind,’ I said, ‘it’s the people ahead of me, who won’t move up,’ I said, ‘and furthermore, let me tell you, young man, that you’re a low-down, foul-mouthed, impertinent skunk,’ I said, ‘and you’re no gentleman! I certainly intend to report you, and we’ll see,’ I said, ‘whether a lady is to be insulted by any drunken bum that chooses to put on a ragged uniform, and I’d thank you,’ I said, ‘to keep your filthy abuse to yourself.’ And then I waited for Paul to show he was half a man and come to my defense, and he just stood there and pretended he hadn’t heard a word, and so I said to him, ‘Well,’ I said —”

“Oh, cut it, cut it, Zill!” Paul groaned. “We all know I’m a mollycoddle, and you’re a tender bud, and let’s let it go at that.”

“Let it go?” Zilla’s face was wrinkled like the Medusa, her voice was a dagger of corroded brass. She was full of the joy of righteousness and bad temper. She was a crusader and, like every crusader, she exulted in the opportunity to be vicious in the name of virtue. “Let it go? If people knew how many things I’ve let go —”

“Oh, quit being such a bully.”

“Yes, a fine figure you’d cut if I didn’t bully you! You’d lie abed till noon and play your idiotic fiddle till midnight! You’re born lazy, and you’re born shiftless, and you’re born cowardly, Paul Riesling —”

“Oh, now, don’t say that, Zilla; you don’t mean a word of it!” protested Mrs. Babbitt.

“I will say that, and I mean every single last word of it!”

“Oh, now, Zilla, the idea!” Mrs. Babbitt was maternal and fussy. She was no older than Zilla, but she seemed so — at first. She was placid and puffy and mature, where Zilla, at forty-five, was so bleached and tight-corseted that you knew only that she was older than she looked. “The idea of talking to poor Paul like that!”

“Poor Paul is right! We’d both be poor, we’d be in the poorhouse, if I didn’t jazz him up!”

“Why, now, Zilla, Georgie and I were just saying how hard Paul’s been working all year, and we were thinking it would be lovely if the Boys could run off by themselves. I’ve been coaxing George to go up to Maine ahead of the rest of us, and get the tired out of his system before we come, and I think it would be lovely if Paul could manage to get away and join him.”

At this exposure of his plot to escape, Paul was startled out of impassivity. He rubbed his fingers. His hands twitched.

Zilla bayed, “Yes! You’re lucky! You can let George go, and not have to watch him. Fat old Georgie! Never peeps at another woman! Hasn’t got the spunk!”

“The hell I haven’t!” Babbitt was fervently defending his priceless immorality when Paul interrupted him — and Paul looked dangerous. He rose quickly; he said gently to Zilla:

“I suppose you imply I have a lot of sweethearts.”

“Yes, I do!”

“Well, then, my dear, since you ask for it — There hasn’t been a time in the last ten years when I haven’t found some nice little girl to comfort me, and as long as you continue your amiability I shall probably continue to deceive you. It isn’t hard. You’re so stupid.”

Zilla gibbered; she howled; words could not be distinguished in her slaver of abuse.

Then the bland George F. Babbitt was transformed. If Paul was dangerous, if Zilla was a snake-locked fury, if the neat emotions suitable to the Revelstoke Arms had been slashed into raw hatreds, it was Babbitt who was the most formidable. He leaped up. He seemed very large. He seized Zilla’s shoulder. The cautions of the broker were wiped from his face, and his voice was cruel:

“I’ve had enough of all this damn nonsense! I’ve known you for twenty-five years, Zil, and I never knew you to miss a chance to take your disappointments out on Paul. You’re not wicked. You’re worse. You’re a fool. And let me tell you that Paul is the finest boy God ever made. Every decent person is sick and tired of your taking advantage of being a woman and springing every mean innuendo you can think of. Who the hell are you that a person like Paul should have to ask your PERMISSION to go with me? You act like you were a combination of Queen Victoria and Cleopatra. You fool, can’t you see how people snicker at you, and sneer at you?”

Zilla was sobbing, “I’ve never — I’ve never — nobody ever talked to me like this in all my life!”

“No, but that’s the way they talk behind your back! Always! They say you’re a scolding old woman. Old, by God!”

That cowardly attack broke her. Her eyes were blank. She wept. But Babbitt glared stolidly. He felt that he was the all-powerful official in charge; that Paul and Mrs. Babbitt looked on him with awe; that he alone could handle this case.

Zilla writhed. She begged, “Oh, they don’t!”

“They certainly do!”

“I’ve been a bad woman! I’m terribly sorry! I’ll kill myself! I’ll do anything. Oh, I’ll — What do you want?”

She abased herself completely. Also, she enjoyed it. To the connoisseur of scenes, nothing is more enjoyable than a thorough, melodramatic, egoistic humility.

“I want you to let Paul beat it off to Maine with me,” Babbitt demanded.

“How can I help his going? You’ve just said I was an idiot and nobody paid any attention to me.”

“Oh, you can help it, all right, all right! What you got to do is to cut out hinting that the minute he gets out of your sight, he’ll go chasing after some petticoat. Matter fact, that’s the way you start the boy off wrong. You ought to have more sense —”

“Oh, I will, honestly, I will, George. I know I was bad. Oh, forgive me, all of you, forgive me —”

She enjoyed it.

So did Babbitt. He condemned magnificently and forgave piously, and as he went parading out with his wife he was grandly explanatory to her:

“Kind of a shame to bully Zilla, but course it was the only way to handle her. Gosh, I certainly did have her crawling!”

She said calmly, “Yes. You were horrid. You were showing off. You were having a lovely time thinking what a great fine person you were!”

“Well, by golly! Can you beat it! Of course I might of expected you to not stand by me! I might of expected you’d stick up for your own sex!”

“Yes. Poor Zilla, she’s so unhappy. She takes it out on Paul. She hasn’t a single thing to do, in that little flat. And she broods too much. And she used to be so pretty and gay, and she resents losing it. And you were just as nasty and mean as you could be. I’m not a bit proud of you — or of Paul, boasting about his horrid love-affairs!”

He was sulkily silent; he maintained his bad temper at a high level of outraged nobility all the four blocks home. At the door he left her, in self-approving haughtiness, and tramped the lawn.

With a shock it was revealed to him: “Gosh, I wonder if she was right — if she was partly right?” Overwork must have flayed him to abnormal sensitiveness; it was one of the few times in his life when he had queried his eternal excellence; and he perceived the summer night, smelled the wet grass. Then: “I don’t care! I’ve pulled it off. We’re going to have our spree. And for Paul, I’d do anything.”
II

They were buying their Maine tackle at Ijams Brothers’, the Sporting Goods Mart, with the help of Willis Ijams, fellow member of the Boosters’ Club. Babbitt was completely mad. He trumpeted and danced. He muttered to Paul, “Say, this is pretty good, eh? To be buying the stuff, eh? And good old Willis Ijams himself coming down on the floor to wait on us! Say, if those fellows that are getting their kit for the North Lakes knew we were going clear up to Maine, they’d have a fit, eh? . . . Well, come on, Brother Ijams — Willis, I mean. Here’s your chance! We’re a couple of easy marks! Whee! Let me at it! I’m going to buy out the store!”

He gloated on fly-rods and gorgeous rubber hip-boots, on tents with celluloid windows and folding chairs and ice-boxes. He simple-heartedly wanted to buy all of them. It was the Paul whom he was always vaguely protecting who kept him from his drunken desires.

But even Paul lightened when Willis Ijams, a salesman with poetry and diplomacy, discussed flies. “Now, of course, you boys know.” he said, “the great scrap is between dry flies and wet flies. Personally, I’m for dry flies. More sporting.”

“That’s so. Lots more sporting,” fulminated Babbitt, who knew very little about flies either wet or dry.

“Now if you’ll take my advice, Georgie, you’ll stock up well on these pale evening dims, and silver sedges, and red ants. Oh, boy, there’s a fly, that red ant!”

“You bet! That’s what it is — a fly!” rejoiced Babbitt.

“Yes, sir, that red ant,” said Ijams, “is a real honest-to-God FLY!”

“Oh, I guess ole Mr. Trout won’t come a-hustling when I drop one of those red ants on the water!” asserted Babbitt, and his thick wrists made a rapturous motion of casting.

“Yes, and the landlocked salmon will take it, too,” said Ijams, who had never seen a landlocked salmon.

“Salmon! Trout! Say, Paul, can you see Uncle George with his khaki pants on haulin’ ’em in, some morning ‘bout seven? Whee!”
III

They were on the New York express, incredibly bound for Maine, incredibly without their families. They were free, in a man’s world, in the smoking-compartment of the Pullman.

Outside the car window was a glaze of darkness stippled with the gold of infrequent mysterious lights. Babbitt was immensely conscious, in the sway and authoritative clatter of the train, of going, of going on. Leaning toward Paul he grunted, “Gosh, pretty nice to be hiking, eh?”

The small room, with its walls of ocher-colored steel, was filled mostly with the sort of men he classified as the Best Fellows You’ll Ever Meet — Real Good Mixers. There were four of them on the long seat; a fat man with a shrewd fat face, a knife-edged man in a green velour hat, a very young young man with an imitation amber cigarette-holder, and Babbitt. Facing them, on two movable leather chairs, were Paul and a lanky, old-fashioned man, very cunning, with wrinkles bracketing his mouth. They all read newspapers or trade journals, boot-and-shoe journals, crockery journals, and waited for the joys of conversation. It was the very young man, now making his first journey by Pullman, who began it.

“Say, gee, I had a wild old time in Zenith!” he gloried. “Say, if a fellow knows the ropes there he can have as wild a time as he can in New York!&r............