The Turmoil by Booth Tarkington (read aloud books .txt) 📕

“Yessuh!” George chuckled, perfectly understanding that for some unknown reason Bibbs enjoyed hearing him repeat his opinion of the Moor. “You ast me when you firs’ come home, an’ you ast me nex’ day, an’ mighty near ev’y day all time you been here; an’ las’ Sunday you ast me twicet.” He shook his head solemnly. “Look to me mus’ be somep’m might lamidal ’bout ’at statue!”

“Mighty what?”

“Mighty lamidal!” George, burst out laughing. “What do ’at word mean, Mist’ Bibbs?”

“It’s new to me, George. Where did you hear it?”

“I nev’ did hear it!” said George. “I uz dess sittin’ thinkum to myse’f an’ she pop in my head⁠—‘lamidal,’ dess like ’at! An’ she soun’ so good, seem like she gotta mean somep’m!”

“Come to think of it, I believe she does mean something. Why, yes⁠—”

“Do she?” cried George. “What she mean?”

“It’s exactly the word for the statue,” said Bibbs, with conviction, as he climbed into the car. “It’s a lamidal statue.”

“Hiyi!” George exulted. “Man! Man! Listen! Well, suh, she mighty lamidal statue, but lamidal statue heap o’ trouble to dus’!”

“I expect she is!” said Bibbs, as the engine began to churn; and a moment later he was swept from sight.

George turned to Mist’ Jackson, who had been listening benevolently in the hallway. “Same he aw-ways say, Mist’ Jackson⁠—‘I expec’ she is!’ Ev’y day he try t’ git me talk ’bout ’at lamidal statue, an’ aw-ways, las’ thing he say, ‘I expec’ she is!’ You know, Mist’ Jackson, if he git well, ’at young man go’ be pride o’ the family, Mist’ Jackson. Yes-suh, right now I pick ’im fo’ firs’ money!”

“Look out with all ’at money, George!” Jackson warned the enthusiast. “White folks ’n ’is house know ’im heap longer’n you. You the on’y man bettin’ on ’im!”

“I risk it!” cried George, merrily. “I put her all on now⁠—ev’y cent! ’At boy’s go’ be flower o’ the flock!”

This singular prophecy, founded somewhat recklessly upon gratitude for the meaning of “lamidal,” differed radically from another prediction concerning Bibbs, set forth for the benefit of a fair auditor some twenty minutes later.

Jim Sheridan, skirting the edges of the town with Mary Vertrees beside him, in his own swift machine, encountered the invalid upon the highroad. The two cars were going in opposite directions, and the occupants of Jim’s had only a swaying glimpse of Bibbs sitting alone on the back seat⁠—his white face startlingly white against cap and collar of black fur⁠—but he flashed into recognition as Mary bowed to him.

Jim waved his left hand carelessly. “It’s Bibbs, taking his constitutional,” he explained.

“Yes, I know,” said Mary. “I bowed to him, too, though I’ve never met him. In fact, I’ve only seen him once⁠—no, twice. I hope he won’t think I’m very bold, bowing to him.”

“I doubt if he noticed it,” said honest Jim.

“Oh, no!” she cried.

“What’s the trouble?”

“I’m almost sure people notice it when I bow to them.”

“Oh, I see!” said Jim. “Of course they would ordinarily, but Bibbs is funny.”

“Is he? How?” she asked. “He strikes me as anything but funny.”

“Well, I’m his brother,” Jim said, deprecatingly, “but I don’t know what he’s like, and, to tell the truth, I’ve never felt exactly like I was his brother, the way I do Roscoe. Bibbs never did seem more than half alive to me. Of course Roscoe and I are older, and when we were boys we were too big to play with him, but he never played anyway, with boys his own age. He’d rather just sit in the house and mope around by himself. Nobody could ever get him to do anything; you can’t get him to do anything now. He never had any life in him; and honestly, if he is my brother, I must say I believe Bibbs Sheridan is the laziest man God ever made! Father put him in the machine-shop over at the Pump Works⁠—best thing in the world for him⁠—and he was just plain no account. It made him sick! If he’d had the right kind of energy⁠—the kind father’s got, for instance, or Roscoe, either⁠—why, it wouldn’t have made him sick. And suppose it was either of them⁠—yes, or me, either⁠—do you think any of us would have stopped if we were sick? Not much! I hate to say it, but Bibbs Sheridan’ll never amount to anything as long as he lives.”

Mary looked thoughtful. “Is there any particular reason why he should?” she asked.

“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean that, do you? Don’t you believe in a man’s knowing how to earn his salt, no matter how much money his father’s got? Hasn’t the business of this world got to be carried on by everybody in it? Are we going to lay back on what we’ve got and see other fellows get ahead of us? If we’ve got big things already, isn’t it every man’s business to go ahead and make ’em bigger? Isn’t it his duty? Don’t we always want to get bigger and bigger?”

“Ye-es⁠—I don’t know. But I feel rather sorry for your brother. He looked so lonely⁠—and sick.”

“He’s gettin’ better every day,” Jim said. “Dr. Gurney says so. There’s nothing much the matter with him, really⁠—it’s nine-tenths imaginary. ‘Nerves’! People that are willing to be busy don’t have nervous diseases, because they don’t have time to imagine ’em.”

“You mean his trouble is really mental?”

“Oh, he’s not a lunatic,” said Jim. “He’s just queer. Sometimes he’ll say something right bright, but half the time what he says is ’way off the subject, or else there isn’t any sense to it at all. For instance, the other day I heard him talkin’ to one of the darkies in the hall. The darky asked him what time he wanted the car for his drive, and anybody else in the world would have just said what time they did want it, and that would have been all there was to it; but here’s what Bibbs says, and I heard him with my own ears.