The Turmoil - Booth Tarkington (good books to read for 12 year olds .txt) 📗

work right up to the scratch, I wouldn’t be the one to baste him if he got good an’ drunk once in two, three years, maybe. It ain’t my way. I let it alone, but I never believed in forcin’ my way on a grown-up son in moral matters. I guess I was wrong! You think them men out there are waitin’ to talk business with a drunkard? You think you can come to your office and do business drunk? By George! I wonder how often this has been happening and me not on to it! I’ll have a look over your books tomorrow, and I’ll⁠—”

Roscoe stumbled to his feet, laughing wildly, and stood swaying, contriving to hold himself in position by clutching the back of the heavy chair in which he had been sitting.

“Hoo⁠—hoorah!” he cried. “ ’S my principles, too. Be drunkard all you want to⁠—outside business hours. Don’ for Gossake le’n’thing innerfere business hours! Business! Thassit! You’re right, father. Drink! Die! L’everything go to hell, but don’ let innerfere business!”

Sheridan had seized the telephone upon Roscoe’s desk, and was calling his own office, overhead. “Abercrombie? Come down to my son Roscoe’s suite and get rid of some gentlemen that are waitin’ there to see him in room two-fourteen. There’s Maples and Schirmer and a couple o’ fellows on the Kinsey business. Tell ’em something’s come up I have to go over with Roscoe, and tell ’em to come back day after tomorrow at two. You needn’t come in to let me know they’re gone; we don’t want to be disturbed. Tell Pauly to call my house and send Claus down here with a closed car. We may have to go out. Tell him to hustle, and call me at Roscoe’s room as soon as the car gets here. ’T’s all!”

Roscoe had laughed bitterly throughout this monologue. “Drunk in business hours! Thass awf’l! Mus’n’ do such thing! Mus’n’ get drunk, mus’n’ gamble, mus’n’ kill ’nybody⁠—not in business hours! All right any other time. Kill ’nybody you want to⁠—’s long ’tain’t in business hours! Fine! Mus’n’ have any trouble ’t’ll innerfere business. Keep your trouble ’t home. Don’ bring it to th’ office. Might innerfere business! Have funerals on Sunday⁠—might innerfere business! Don’ let your wife innerfere business! Keep all, all, all your trouble an’ your meanness, an’ your trad⁠—your tradegy⁠—keep ’em all for home use! If you got die, go on die ’t home⁠—don’ die round th’ office! Might innerfere business!”

Sheridan picked up a newspaper from Roscoe’s desk, and sat down with his back to his son, affecting to read. Roscoe seemed to be unaware of his father’s significant posture.

“You know wh’ I think?” he went on. “I think Bibbs only one the fam’ly any ’telligence at all. Won’ work, an’ di’n’ get married. Jim worked, an’ he got killed. I worked, an’ I got married. Look at me! Jus’ look at me, I ask you. Fine ’dustriss young business man. Look whass happen’ to me! Fine!” He lifted his hand from the sustaining chair in a deplorable gesture, and, immediately losing his balance, fell across the chair and caromed to the floor with a crash, remaining prostrate for several minutes, during which Sheridan did not relax his apparent attention to the newspaper. He did not even look round at the sound of Roscoe’s fall.

Roscoe slowly climbed to an upright position, pulling himself up by holding to the chair. He was slightly sobered outwardly, having progressed in the prostrate interval to a state of befuddlement less volatile. He rubbed his dazed eyes with the back of his left hand.

“What⁠—what you ask me while ago?” he said.

“Nothin’.”

“Yes, you did. What⁠—what was it?”

“Nothin’. You better sit down.”

“You ask’ me what I thought about Lamhorn. You did ask me that. Well, I won’t tell you. I won’t say dam’ word ’bout him!”

The telephone-bell tinkled. Sheridan placed the receiver to his ear and said, “Right down.” Then he got Roscoe’s coat and hat from a closet and brought them to his son. “Get into this coat,” he said. “You’re goin’ home.”

“All ri’,” Roscoe murmured, obediently.

They went out into the main hall by a side door, not passing through the outer office; and Sheridan waited for an empty elevator, stopped it, and told the operator to take on no more passengers until they reached the ground floor. Roscoe walked out of the building and got into the automobile without lurching, and twenty minutes later walked into his own house in the same manner, neither he nor his father having spoken a word in the interval.

Sheridan did not go in with him; he went home, and to his own room without meeting any of his family. But as he passed Bibbs’s door he heard from within the sound of a cheerful young voice humming jubilant fragments of song:

Who looks a mustang in the eye?⁠ ⁠…
With a leap from the ground
To the saddle in a bound.
And away⁠—and away!
Hi-yay!

It was the first time in Sheridan’s life that he had ever detected any musical symptom whatever in Bibbs⁠—he had never even heard him whistle⁠—and it seemed the last touch of irony that the useless fool should be merry today.

To Sheridan it was Tom o’ Bedlam singing while the house burned; and he did not tarry to enjoy the melody, but went into his own room and locked the door.

XIX

He emerged only upon a second summons to dinner, two hours later, and came to the table so white and silent that his wife made her anxiety manifest and was but partially reassured by his explanation that his lunch had “disagreed” with him a little.

Presently, however, he spoke effectively. Bibbs, whose appetite had become hearty, was helping himself to a second breast of capon from white-jacket’s salver. “Here’s another difference between Midas and chicken,” Sheridan remarked, grimly. “Midas can eat rooster, but rooster can’t eat Midas. I reckon you overlooked that. Midas looks to me like he had the advantage there.”

Bibbs retained