I

THE Good Citizens’ League had spread through the country, but nowhere was it so effective and well esteemed as in cities of the type of Zenith, commercial cities of a few hundred thousand inhabitants, most of which — though not all — lay inland, against a background of cornfields and mines and of small towns which depended upon them for mortgage-loans, table-manners, art, social philosophy and millinery.

To the League belonged most of the prosperous citizens of Zenith. They were not all of the kind who called themselves “Regular Guys.” Besides these hearty fellows, these salesmen of prosperity, there were the aristocrats, that is, the men who were richer or had been rich for more generations: the presidents of banks and of factories, the land-owners, the corporation lawyers, the fashionable doctors, and the few young-old men who worked not at all but, reluctantly remaining in Zenith, collected luster-ware and first editions as though they were back in Paris. All of them agreed that the working-classes must be kept in their place; and all of them perceived that American Democracy did not imply any equality of wealth, but did demand a wholesome sameness of thought, dress, painting, morals, and vocabulary.

In this they were like the ruling-class of any other country, particularly of Great Britain, but they differed in being more vigorous and in actually trying to produce the accepted standards which all classes, everywhere, desire, but usually despair of realizing.

The longest struggle of the Good Citizens’ League was against the Open Shop — which was secretly a struggle against all union labor. Accompanying it was an Americanization Movement, with evening classes in English and history and economics, and daily articles in the newspapers, so that newly arrived foreigners might learn that the true-blue and one hundred per cent. American way of settling labor-troubles was for workmen to trust and love their employers.

The League was more than generous in approving other organizations which agreed with its aims. It helped the Y.M. C.A. to raise a two-hundred-thousand-dollar fund for a new building. Babbitt, Vergil Gunch, Sidney Finkelstein, and even Charles McKelvey told the spectators at movie theaters how great an influence for manly Christianity the “good old Y.” had been in their own lives; and the hoar and mighty Colonel Rutherford Snow, owner of the Advocate–Times, was photographed clasping the hand of Sheldon Smeeth of the Y.M.C.A. It is true that afterward, when Smeeth lisped, “You must come to one of our prayer-meetings,” the ferocious Colonel bellowed, “What the hell would I do that for? I’ve got a bar of my own,” but this did not appear in the public prints.

The League was of value to the American Legion at a time when certain of the lesser and looser newspapers were criticizing that organization of veterans of the Great War. One evening a number of young men raided the Zenith Socialist Headquarters, burned its records, beat the office staff, and agreeably dumped desks out of the window. All of the newspapers save the Advocate–Times and the Evening Advocate attributed this valuable but perhaps hasty direct-action to the American Legion. Then a flying squadron from the Good Citizens’ League called on the unfair papers and explained that no ex-soldier could possibly do such a thing, and the editors saw the light, and retained their advertising. When Zenith’s lone Conscientious Objector came home from prison and was righteously run out of town, the newspapers referred to the perpetrators as an “unidentified mob.”
II

In all the activities and triumphs of the Good Citizens’ League Babbitt took part, and completely won back to self-respect, placidity, and the affection of his friends. But he began to protest, “Gosh, I’ve done my share in cleaning up the city. I want to tend to business. Think I’ll just kind of slacken up on this G.C.L. stuff now.”

He had returned to the church as he had returned to the Boosters’ Club. He had even endured the lavish greeting which Sheldon Smeeth gave him. He was worried lest during his late discontent he had imperiled his salvation. He was not quite sure there was a Heaven to be attained, but Dr. John Jennison Drew said there was, and Babbitt was not going to take a chance.

One evening when he was walking past Dr. Drew’s parsonage he impulsively went in and found the pastor in his study.

“Jus’ minute — getting ‘phone call,” said Dr. Drew in businesslike tones, then, aggressively, to the telephone: “‘Lo —‘lo! This Berkey and Hannis? Reverend Drew speaking. Where the dickens is the proof for next Sunday’s calendar? Huh? Y’ ought to have it here. Well, I can’t help it if they’re ALL sick! I got to have it to-night. Get an A.D.T. boy and shoot it up here quick.”

He turned, without slackening his briskness. “Well, Brother Babbitt, what c’n I do for you?”

“I just wanted to ask — Tell you how it is, dominie: Here a while ago I guess I got kind of slack. Took a few drinks and so on. What I wanted to ask is: How is it if a fellow cuts that all out and comes back to his senses? Does it sort of, well, you might say, does it score against him in the long run?”

The Reverend Dr. Drew was suddenly interested. “And, uh, brother — the other things, too? Women?”

“No, practically, you might say, practically not at all.”

“Don’t hesitate to tell me, brother! That’s what I’m here for. Been going on joy-rides? Squeezing girls in cars?” The reverend eyes glistened.

“No — no —”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve got a deputation from the Don’t Make Prohibition a Joke Association coming to see me in a quarter of an hour, and one from the Anti–Birth-Control Union at a quarter of ten.” He busily glanced at his watch. “But I can take five minutes off and pray with you. Kneel right down by your chair, brother. Don’t be ashamed to seek the guidance of God.”

Babbitt’s scalp itched and he longed to flee, but Dr. Drew had already flopped down beside his desk-chair and his voice had changed from rasping efficiency to an unctuous familiarity with sin and with the Almighty. Babbitt also knelt, while Drew gloated:

“O Lord, thou seest our brother here, who has been led astray by manifold temptations. O Heavenly Father, make his heart to be pure, as pure as a little child’s. Oh, let him know again the joy of a manly courage to abstain from evil —”

Sheldon Smeeth came frolicking into the study. At the sight of the two men he smirked, forgivingly patted Babbitt on the shoulder, and knelt beside him, his arm about him, while he authorized Dr. Drew’s imprecations with moans of “Yes, Lord! Help our brother, Lord!”

Though he was trying to keep his eyes closed, Babbitt squinted between his fingers and saw the pastor glance at his watch as he concluded with a triumphant, “And let him never be afraid to come to Us for counsel and tender care, and let him know that the church can lead him as a little lamb.”

Dr. Drew sprang up, rolled his eyes in the general direction of Heaven, chucked his watch into his pocket, and demanded, “Has the deputation come yet, Sheldy?”

“Yep, right outside,” Sheldy answered, with equal liveliness; then, caressingly, to Babbitt, “Brother, if it would help, I’d love to go into the next room and pray with you while Dr. Drew is receiving the brothers from the Don’t Make Prohibition a Joke Association.”

“No — no thanks — can’t take the time!” yelped Babbitt, rushing toward the door.

Thereafter he was often seen at the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church, but it is recorded that he avoided shaking hands with the pastor at the door.
III

If his moral fiber had been so weakened by rebellion that he was not quite dependable in the more rigorous campaigns of the Good Citizens’ League nor quite appreciative of the church, yet there was no doubt of the joy with which Babbitt returned to the pleasures of his home and of the Athletic Club, the Boosters, the Elks.

Verona and Kenneth Escott were eventually and hesitatingly married. For the wedding Babbitt was dressed as carefully as was Verona; he was crammed into the morning-coat he wore to teas thrice a year; and with a certain relief, after Verona and Kenneth had driven away in a limousine, he returned to the house, removed the morning coat, sat with his aching feet up on the davenport, and reflected that his wife and he could have the living-room to themselves now, and not have to listen to Verona and Kenneth worrying, in a cultured collegiate manner, about minimum wages and the Drama League.

But even this sinking into peace was less consoling than his return to being one of the best-loved men in the Boosters’ Club.
IV

President Willis Ijams began that Boosters’ Club luncheon by standing quiet and staring at them so unhappily that they feared he was about to announce the death of a Brother Booster. He spoke slowly then, and gravely:

“Boys, I have something shocking to reveal to you; something terrible about one of our own members.”

Several Boosters, including Babbitt, looked disconcerted.

“A knight of the grip, a trusted friend of mine, recently made a trip up-state, and in a certain town, where a certain Booster spent his boyhood, he found out something which can no longer be concealed. In fact, he discovered the inward nature of a man whom we have accepted as a Real Guy and as one of us. Gentlemen, I cannot trust my voice to say it, so I have written it down.”

He uncovered a large blackboard and on it, in huge capitals, was the legend:

George Follansbee Babbitt — oh you Folly!

The Boosters cheered, they laughed, they wept, they threw rolls at Babbitt, they cried, “Speech, speech! Oh you Folly!”

President Ijams continued:

“That, gentlemen, is the awful thing Georgie Babbitt has been concealing all these years, when we thought he was just plain George F. Now I want you to tell us, taking it in turn, what you’ve always supposed the F. stood for.”

Flivver, they suggested, and Frog-face and Flathead and Farinaceous and Freezone and Flapdoodle an............