“Wait now, Stan. This may all be true, but I’ve been having a lot of complaints about you. Now I don’t s’pose you ever mean to do wrong, and I think if you just get a good lesson that’ll jog you up a little, you’ll turn out a first-class realtor yet. But I don’t see how I can keep you on.”
Graff leaned against the filing-cabinet, his hands in his pockets, and laughed. “So I’m fired! Well, old Vision and Ethics, I’m tickled to death! But I don’t want you to think you can get away with any holier-than-thou stuff. Sure I’ve pulled some raw stuff—a little of it—but how could I help it, in this office?”
“Now, by God, young man—”
“Tut, tut! Keep the naughty temper down, and don’t holler, because everybody in the outside office will hear you. They’re probably listening right now. Babbitt, old dear, you’re crooked in the first place and a damn skinflint in the second. If you paid me a decent salary I wouldn’t have to steal pennies off a blind man to keep my wife from starving. Us married just five months, and her the nicest girl living, and you keeping us flat broke all the time, you damned old thief, so you can put money away for your saphead of a son and your wishywashy fool of a daughter! Wait, now! You’ll by God take it, or I’ll bellow so the whole office will hear it! And crooked— Say, if I told the prosecuting attorney what I know about this last Street Traction option steal, both you and me would go to jail, along with some nice, clean, pious, high-up traction guns!”
“Well, Stan, looks like we were coming down to cases. That deal— There was nothing crooked about it. The only way you can get progress is for the broad-gauged men to get things done; and they got to be rewarded—”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, don’t get virtuous on me! As I gather it, I’m fired. All right. It’s a good thing for me. And if I catch you knocking me to any other firm, I’ll squeal all I know about you and Henry T. and the dirty little lickspittle deals that you corporals of industry pull off for the bigger and brainier crooks, and you’ll get chased out of town. And me—you’re right, Babbitt, I’ve been going crooked, but now I’m going straight, and the first step will be to get a job in some office where the boss doesn’t talk about Ideals. Bad luck, old dear, and you can stick your job up the sewer!”
Babbitt sat for a long time, alternately raging, “I’ll have him arrested,” and yearning “I wonder— No, I’ve never done anything that wasn’t necessary to keep the Wheels of Progress moving.”
Next day he hired in Graff’s place Fritz Weilinger, the salesman of his most injurious rival, the East Side Homes and Development Company, and thus at once annoyed his competitor and acquired an excellent man. Young Fritz was a curly-headed, merry, tennis-playing youngster. He made customers welcome to the office. Babbitt thought of him as a son, and in him had much comfort.
III
An abandoned race-track on the outskirts of Chicago, a plot excellent for factory sites, was to be sold, and Jake Offut asked Babbitt to bid on it for him. The strain of the Street Traction deal and his disappointment in Stanley Graff had so shaken Babbitt that he found it hard to sit at his desk and concentrate. He proposed to his family, “Look here, folks! Do you know who’s going to trot up to Chicago for a couple of days—just week-end; won’t lose but one day of school—know who’s going with that celebrated business-ambassador, George F. Babbitt? Why, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt Babbitt!”