righteousness he flung his cigar-case out of the
smoking-compartment window. He went back and was kind to his wife
about nothing in particular; he admired his own purity, and decided,
"Absolutely simple. Just a matter of will-power." He started a magazine
serial about a scientific detective. Ten miles on, he was conscious that
he desired to smoke. He ducked his head, like a turtle going into its
shell; he appeared uneasy; he skipped two pages in his story and didn't
know it. Five miles later, he leaped up and sought the porter. "Say,
uh, George, have you got a--" The porter looked patient. "Have you got a
time-table?" Babbitt finished. At the next stop he went out and bought a
cigar. Since it was to be his last before he reached Zenith, he finished
it down to an inch stub.

Four days later he again remembered that he had stopped smoking, but he
was too busy catching up with his office-work to keep it remembered.

II

Baseball, he determined, would be an excellent hobby. "No sense a man's
working his fool head off. I'm going out to the Game three times a week.
Besides, fellow ought to support the home team."

He did go and support the team, and enhance the glory of Zenith, by
yelling "Attaboy!" and "Rotten!" He performed the rite scrupulously. He
wore a cotton handkerchief about his collar; he became sweaty; he opened
his mouth in a wide loose grin; and drank lemon soda out of a bottle. He
went to the Game three times a week, for one week. Then he compromised
on watching the Advocate-Times bulletin-board. He stood in the thickest
and steamiest of the crowd, and as the boy up on the lofty platform
recorded the achievements of Big Bill Bostwick, the pitcher, Babbitt
remarked to complete strangers, "Pretty nice! Good work!" and hastened
back to the office.

He honestly believed that he loved baseball. It is true that he hadn't,
in twenty-five years, himself played any baseball except back-lot catch
with Ted--very gentle, and strictly limited to ten minutes. But the
game was a custom of his clan, and it gave outlet for the homicidal and
sides-taking instincts which Babbitt called "patriotism" and "love of
sport."

As he approached the office he walked faster and faster, muttering,
"Guess better hustle." All about him the city was hustling, for
hustling's sake. Men in motors were hustling to pass one another in
the hustling traffic. Men were hustling to catch trolleys, with another
trolley a minute behind, and to le