He was surprised. He looked self-conscious. His heart pounded. He was still more agitated when the ballots were counted and Gunch said, “It’s a pleasure to announce that Georgie Babbitt will be the next assistant gavel-wielder. I know of no man who stands more stanchly for common sense and enterprise than good old George. Come on, let’s give him our best long yell!” As they adjourned, a hundred men crushed in to slap his back. He had never known a higher moment. He drove away in a blur of wonder. He lunged into his office, chuckling to Miss McGoun, “Well, I guess you better congratulate your boss! Been elected vice-president of the Boosters!” He was disappointed. She answered only, “Yes-- Oh, Mrs. Babbitt’s been trying to get you on the ’phone.” But the new salesman, Fritz Weilinger, said, “By golly, chief, say, that’s great, that’s perfectly great! I’m tickled to death! Congratulations!” Babbitt called the house, and crowed to his wife, “Heard you were trying to get me, Myra. Say, you got to hand it to little Georgie, this time! Better talk careful! You are now addressing the vice-president of the Boosters’ Club!” “Oh, Georgie--” “Pretty nice, huh? Willis Ijams is the new president, but when he’s away, little ole Georgie takes the gavel and whoops ’em up and introduces the speakers--no matter if they’re the governor himself--and--” “George! Listen!” “--it puts him in solid with big men like Doc Dilling and--” “George! Paul Riesling--” “Yes, sure, I’ll ’phone Paul and let him know about it right away.” “Georgie! _Listen!_ Paul’s in jail. He shot his wife, he shot Zilla, this noon. She may not live.” CHAPTER XXII I He drove to the City Prison, not blindly, but with unusual fussy care at corners, the fussiness of an old woman potting plants. It kept him from facing the obscenity of fate. The attendant said, “Naw, you can’t see any of the prisoners till three-thirty--visiting-hour.” It was three. For half an hour Babbitt sat looking at a calendar and a clock on a whitewashed wall. The chair was hard and mean and creaky. People went through the office and, he thought, stared at him. He felt a belligerent defiance which broke into a wincing fear of this machine which was grinding Paul--Paul-- Exactly at half-past three he sent in his name. The attendant returned with “Riesling says he don’t want to see you.” “You’re crazy! You didn’t give him my name! Tell him it’s George wants to see him, George Babbitt.” “Yuh, I told him, all right, all right! He said he didn’t want to see you.” “Then take me in anyway.” “Nothing doing. If you ain’t his lawyer, if he don’t want to see you, that’s all there is to it.” “But, my _God_-- Say, let me see the warden.” “He’s busy. Come on, now, you--” Babbitt reared over him. The attendant hastily changed to a coaxing “You can come back and try to-morrow. Probably the poor guy is off his nut.”