He joined the Masons, the Odd Fellows, and the Maccabees. He made the Memorial Day address to the G. A. R., and he made the speech welcoming the local representative home from Congress after having won the poker championship of the House.
Vulcan was marked, aside from his labors for perfection, by the birth of his two children—Nat, in 1916, and Bernice, whom they called Bunny, in 1917—and by his ceasing to educate his wife in his ideals of amour.
It all blew up a month after the birth of Bunny.
Elmer had, that evening, been addressing the Rod and Gun Club dinner. He had pointed out that our Lord must have been in favor of Rods and Guns for, he said, “I want you boys to notice that the Master, when he picked out his first disciples, didn’t select a couple of stoop-shouldered, pigeon-toed mollycoddles but a pair of first-class fishermen!”
He was excited to intoxication by their laughter.
Since Bunny’s birth he had been sleeping in the guest-room, but now, walking airily, he tiptoed into Cleo’s room at eleven, with that look of self-conscious innocence which passionless wives instantly catch and dread.
“Well, you sweet thing, it sure went off great! They all liked my spiel. Why, you poor lonely girl, shame you have to sleep all alone here, poor baby!” he said, stroking her shoulder as she sat propped against the pillows. “Guess I’ll have to come sleep here tonight.”
She breathed hard, tried to look resolute. “Please! Not yet!”
“What do you mean?”
“Please! I’m tired tonight. Just kiss me good-night, and let me pop off to sleep.”