Main Street, Sinclair Lewis [red white and royal blue hardcover txt] 📗

of Greek, and one, Cyrus N. Bogart, a boy of fourteen who was still at home, the most brazen member of the toughest gang in Boytown.

Mrs. Bogart was not the acid type of Good Influence. She was the soft, damp, fat, sighing, indigestive, clinging, melancholy, depressingly hopeful kind. There are in every large chicken-yard a number of old and indignant hens who resemble Mrs. Bogart, and when they are served at Sunday noon dinner, as fricasseed chicken with thick dumplings, they keep up the resemblance.

Carol had noted that Mrs. Bogart from her side window kept an eye upon the house. The Kennicotts and Mrs. Bogart did not move in the same sets⁠—which meant precisely the same in Gopher Prairie as it did on Fifth Avenue or in Mayfair. But the good widow came calling.

She wheezed in, sighed, gave Carol a pulpy hand, sighed, glanced sharply at the revelation of ankles as Carol crossed her legs, sighed, inspected the new blue chairs, smiled with a coy sighing sound, and gave voice:

“I’ve wanted to call on you so long, dearie, you know we’re neighbors, but I thought I’d wait till you got settled, you must run in and see me, how much did that big chair cost?”

“Seventy-seven dollars!”

“Sev⁠—Sakes alive! Well, I suppose it’s all right for them that can afford it, though I do sometimes think⁠—Of course as our pastor said once, at Baptist Church⁠—By the way, we haven’t seen you there yet, and of course your husband was raised up a Baptist, and I do hope he won’t drift away from the fold, of course we all know there isn’t anything, not cleverness or gifts of gold or anything, that can make up for humility and the inward grace and they can say what they want to about the P.E. church, but of course there’s no church that has more history or has stayed by the true principles of Christianity better than the Baptist Church and⁠—In what church were you raised, Mrs. Kennicott?”

“W-why, I went to Congregational, as a girl in Mankato, but my college was Universalist.”

“Well⁠—But of course as the Bible says, is it the Bible, at least I know I have heard it in church and everybody admits it, it’s proper for the little bride to take her husband’s vessel of faith, so we all hope we shall see you at the Baptist Church and⁠—As I was saying, of course I agree with Reverend Zitterel in thinking that the great trouble with this nation today is lack of spiritual faith⁠—so few going to church, and people automobiling on Sunday and heaven knows what all. But still I do think that one trouble is this terrible waste of money, people feeling that they’ve got to have bathtubs and telephones in their houses⁠—I heard you were selling the old furniture cheap.”

“Yes!”

“Well⁠—of course you know your own mind, but I can’t help thinking, when Will’s ma was down here keeping house for him⁠—she used to run in to see me, real often!⁠—it was good enough furniture for her. But there, there, I mustn’t croak, I just wanted to let you know that when you find you can’t depend on a lot of these gadding young folks like the Haydocks and the Dyers⁠—and heaven only knows how much money Juanita Haydock blows in in a year⁠—why then you may be glad to know that slow old Aunty Bogart is always right there, and heaven knows⁠—” A portentous sigh. “⁠—I hope you and your husband won’t have any of the troubles, with sickness and quarreling and wasting money and all that so many of these young couples do have and⁠—But I must be running along now, dearie. It’s been such a pleasure and⁠—Just run in and see me any time. I hope Will is well? I thought he looked a wee mite peaked.”

It was twenty minutes later when Mrs. Bogart finally oozed out of the front door. Carol ran back into the living-room and jerked open the windows. “That woman has left damp fingerprints in the air,” she said.

II

Carol was extravagant, but at least she did not try to clear herself of blame by going about whimpering, “I know I’m terribly extravagant but I don’t seem to be able to help it.”

Kennicott had never thought of giving her an allowance. His mother had never had one! As a wage-earning spinster Carol had asserted to her fellow librarians that when she was married, she was going to have an allowance and be businesslike and modern. But it was too much trouble to explain to Kennicott’s kindly stubbornness that she was a practical housekeeper as well as a flighty playmate. She bought a budget-plan account book and made her budgets as exact as budgets are likely to be when they lack budgets.

For the first month it was a honeymoon jest to beg prettily, to confess, “I haven’t a cent in the house, dear,” and to be told, “You’re an extravagant little rabbit.” But the budget book made her realize how inexact were her finances. She became self-conscious; occasionally she was indignant that she should always have to petition him for the money with which to buy his food. She caught herself criticizing his belief that, since his joke about trying to keep her out of the poorhouse had once been accepted as admirable humor, it should continue to be his daily bon mot. It was a nuisance to have to run down the street after him because she had forgotten to ask him for money at breakfast.

But she couldn’t “hurt his feelings,” she reflected. He liked the lordliness of giving largess.

She tried to reduce the frequency of begging by opening accounts and having the bills sent to him. She had found that staple groceries, sugar, flour, could be most cheaply purchased at Axel Egge’s rustic general store. She said sweetly to Axel:

“I think I’d better open a charge account here.”

“I don’t do no business except for cash,” grunted Axel.

She flared, “Do you know who I am?”

“Yuh,