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!”