petted and protected. Paul had gone into his father's business,
after graduation; he was now a wholesaler and small manufacturer of
prepared-paper roofing. But Babbitt strenuously believed and lengthily
announced to the world of Good Fellows that Paul could have been a great
violinist or painter or writer. "Why say, the letters that boy sent me
on his trip to the Canadian Rockies, they just absolutely make you see
the place as if you were standing there. Believe me, he could have given
any of these bloomin' authors a whale of a run for their money!"

Yet on the telephone they said only:

"South 343. No, no, no! I said SOUTH--South 343. Say, operator, what
the dickens is the trouble? Can't you get me South 343? Why certainly
they'll answer. Oh, Hello, 343? Wanta speak Mist' Riesling, Mist'
Babbitt talking. . . 'Lo, Paul?"

"Yuh."

"'S George speaking."

"Yuh."

"How's old socks?"

"Fair to middlin'. How 're you?"

"Fine, Paulibus. Well, what do you know?"

"Oh, nothing much."