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

people thus celebrated. And if the thing was questioned, or if it was hinted that there might be one small virtue in which they were not perfect and supreme, they wasted no time examining themselves to see if what the critic said was true, but fell upon him and hooted him and cursed him, for they were sensitive. So Bibbs, learning their ways and walking with them, harkened to the voice of the people and served Bigness with them. For the voice of the people is the voice of their god.

Sheridan had made the room next to his own into an office for Bibbs, and the door between the two rooms usually stood open⁠—the father had established that intimacy. One morning in February, when Bibbs was alone, Sheridan came in, some sheets of typewritten memoranda in his hand.

“Bibbs,” he said, “I don’t like to butt in very often this way, and when I do I usually wish I hadn’t⁠—but for Heaven’s sake what have you been buying that ole busted inter-traction stock for?”

Bibbs leaned back from his desk. “For eleven hundred and fifty-five dollars. That’s all it cost.”

“Well, it ain’t worth eleven hundred and fifty-five cents. You ought to know that. I don’t get your idea. That stuff’s deader’n Adam’s cat!”

“It might be worth something⁠—some day.”

“How?”

“It mightn’t be so dead⁠—not if we went into it,” said Bibbs, coolly.

“Oh!” Sheridan considered this musingly; then he said, “Who’d you buy it from?”

“A broker⁠—Fansmith.”

“Well, he must ’a’ got it from one o’ the crowd o’ poor ninnies that was soaked with it. Don’t you know who owned it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ain’t sayin’, though? That it? What’s the matter?”

“It belonged to Mr. Vertrees,” said Bibbs, shortly, applying himself to his desk.

“So!” Sheridan gazed down at his son’s thin face. “Excuse me,” he said. “Your business.” And he went back to his own room. But presently he looked in again.

“I reckon you won’t mind lunchin’ alone today”⁠—he was shuffling himself into his overcoat⁠—“because I just thought I’d go up to the house and get this over with mamma.” He glanced apologetically toward his right hand as it emerged from the sleeve of the overcoat. The bandages had been removed, finally, that morning, revealing but three fingers⁠—the forefinger and the finger next to it had been amputated. “She’s bound to make an awful fuss, and better to spoil her lunch than her dinner. I’ll be back about two.”

But he calculated the time of his arrival at the New House so accurately that Mrs. Sheridan’s lunch was not disturbed, and she was rising from the lonely table when he came into the dining-room. He had left his overcoat in the hall, but he kept his hands in his trousers pockets.

“What’s the matter, papa?” she asked, quickly. “Has anything gone wrong? You ain’t sick?”

“Me!” He laughed loudly. “Me sick?”

“You had lunch?”

“Didn’t want any today. You can give me a cup o’ coffee, though.”

She rang, and told George to have coffee made, and when he had withdrawn she said querulously, “I just know there’s something wrong.”

“Nothin’ in the world,” he responded, heartily, taking a seat at the head of the table. “I thought I’d talk over a notion o’ mine with you, that’s all. It’s more women-folks’ business than what it is man’s, anyhow.”

“What about?”

“Why, ole Doc Gurney was up at the office this morning awhile⁠—”

“To look at your hand? How’s he say it’s doin’?”

“Fine! Well, he went in and sat around with Bibbs awhile⁠—”

Mrs. Sheridan nodded pessimistically. “I guess it’s time you had him, too. I knew Bibbs⁠—”

“Now, mamma, hold your horses! I wanted him to look Bibbs over before anything’s the matter. You don’t suppose I’m goin’ to take any chances with Bibbs, do you? Well, afterwards, I shut the door, and I an’ ole Gurney had a talk. He’s a mighty disagreeable man; he rubbed it in on me what he said about Bibbs havin’ brains if he ever woke up. Then I thought he must want to get something out o’ me, he go so flattering⁠—for a minute! ‘Bibbs couldn’t help havin’ business brains,’ he says, ‘bein’ your son. Don’t be surprised,’ he says⁠—‘don’t be surprised at his makin’ a success,’ he says. ‘He couldn’t get over his heredity; he couldn’t help bein’ a business success⁠—once you got him into it. It’s in his blood. Yes, sir,’ he says, ‘it doesn’t need much brains,’ he says, ‘an only third-rate brains, at that,’ he says, ‘but it does need a special kind o’ brains,’ he says, ‘to be a millionaire. I mean,’ he says, ‘when a man’s given a start. If nobody gives him a start, why, course he’s got to have luck and the right kind o’ brains. The only miracle about Bibbs,’ he says, ‘is where he got the other kind o’ brains⁠—the brains you made him quit usin’ and throw away.’ ”

“But what’d he say about his health?” Mrs. Sheridan demanded, impatiently, as George placed a cup of coffee before her husband. Sheridan helped himself to cream and sugar, and began to sip the coffee.

“I’m comin’ to that,” he returned, placidly. “See how easy I manage this cup with my left hand, mamma?”

“You been doin’ that all winter. What did⁠—”

“It’s wonderful,” he interrupted, admiringly, “what a fellow can do with his left hand. I can sign my name with mine now, well’s I ever could with my right. It came a little hard at first, but now, honest, I believe I rather sign with my left. That’s all I ever have to write, anyway⁠—just the signature. Rest’s all dictatin’.” He blew across the top of the cup unctuously. “Good coffee, mamma! Well, about Bibbs. Ole Gurney says he believes if Bibbs could somehow get back to the state o’ mind he was in about the machine-shop⁠—that is, if he could some way get to feelin’ about business the way he felt about the shop⁠—not the poetry and writin’ part, but⁠—” He paused, supplementing his remarks with a motion of his head toward the old house next door. “He says