I
ALL that month Carol was to Kennicott. She a hundred grotesqueries: her at his having tobacco, the when she had to read to him; which had to with no or sequence. Always she that he had been patient in his to join the army. She much of her for him in little things. She liked the of his about the house; his and as he the of a shutter; his when he ran to her to be he had in the of his pump-gun. But at the he was to her another Hugh, without the of Hugh's unknown future.
There was, late in June, a day of heat-lightning.
Because of the work by the of the other doctors the Kennicotts had not moved to the but in town, and irritable. In the afternoon, when she to Oleson & McGuire's (formerly Dahl & Oleson's), Carol was by the of the clerk, come from the farm, that he had to be neighborly and rude. He was no more familiar than a dozen other of the town, but her nerves were heat-scorched.
When she asked for codfish, for supper, he grunted, “What d'you want that old for?”
“I like it!”
“Punk! Guess the can something than that. Try some of the new we got in. Swell. The Haydocks use 'em.”
She exploded. “My dear man, it is not your to me in housekeeping, and it doesn't particularly me what the Haydocks to approve!”
He was hurt. He up the of fish; he as she out. She lamented, “I shouldn't have spoken so. He didn't anything. He doesn't know when he is being rude.”
Her was not proof against Uncle Whittier when she stopped in at his for salt and a of safety matches. Uncle Whittier, in a shirt and with in a his back, was at a clerk, “Come on now, a on and that cake up to Mis' Cass's. Some in this town think a ain't got nothing to do but out 'phone-orders. . . . Hello, Carrie. That dress you got on looks of low in the to me. May be and modest—I I'm old-fashioned—but I much of the whole town a woman's bust! Hee, hee, hee! . . . Afternoon, Mrs. Hicks. Sage? Just out of it. Lemme sell you some other spices. Heh?” Uncle Whittier was “CERTAINLY! Got PLENTY other jus' good as for any purp'se whatever! What's the with—well, with allspice?” When Mrs. Hicks had gone, he raged, “Some don't know what they want!”
“Sweating bully—my husband's uncle!” Carol.
She into Dave Dyer's. Dave up his arms with, “Don't shoot! I surrender!” She smiled, but it to her that for nearly five years Dave had up this game of that she his life.
As she through the prickly-hot she that a citizen of Gopher Prairie not have jests—he has a jest. Every cold for five Lyman Cass had remarked, “Fair to middlin' chilly—get it better.” Fifty times had Ezra Stowbody the public that Carol had once asked, “Shall I this check on the back?” Fifty times had Sam Clark called to her, “Where'd you that hat?” Fifty times had the mention of Barney Cahoon, the town drayman, like a in a produced from Kennicott the of Barney's a minister, “Come to the and your case of religious books—they're leaking!”
She came home by the route. She every house-front, every street-crossing, every billboard, every tree, every dog. She every banana-skin and empty cigarette-box in the gutters. She every greeting. When Jim Howland stopped and at her there was no possibility that he was about to anything but his grudging, “Well, t'day?”
All her life, this same red-labeled bread-crate in of the bakery, this same thimble-shaped in the a of a Stowbody's hitching-post——
She her to the Oscarina. She sat on the porch, rocking, fanning, with Hugh's whining.
Kennicott came home, grumbled, “What the is the kid about?”
“I you can it ten minutes if I can it all day!”
He came to supper in his shirt sleeves, his open, suspenders.
“Why don't you put on your Palm Beach suit, and take off that vest?” she complained.
“Too much trouble. Too to go up-stairs.”
She that for a year she had not definitely looked at her husband. She his table-manners. He of fish about his plate with a knife and the knife after them. She was sick. She asserted, “I'm ridiculous. What do these matter! Don't be so simple!” But she that to her they did matter, these and mixed of the table.
She that they little to say; that, incredibly, they were like the talked-out she had at restaurants.
Bresnahan would have in a lively, exciting, manner.
She that Kennicott's were pressed. His was wrinkled; his would at the when he arose. His shoes were unblacked, and they were of an shapelessness. He to wear soft hats; to a hard derby, as a symbol of and prosperity; and sometimes he to take it off in the house. She at his cuffs. They were in of linen. She had them once; she them every week; but when she had him to the shirt away, last Sunday at the of the bath, he had protested, “Oh, it'll wear a while yet.”
He was (by himself or more by Del Snafflin) only three times a week. This had not been one of the three times.
Yet he was of his new turn-down and ties; he often spoke of the “sloppy dressing” of Dr. McGanum; and he laughed at old men who or Gladstone collars.
Carol did not much for the that evening.
She noted that his were and ill-shaped from his of them with a pocket-knife and a nail-file as and urban. That they were clean, that his were the of the surgeon, his the more jarring. They were wise hands, hands, but they were not the hands of love.
She him in the days of courtship. He had to her, then, had touched her by a on his hat. Was it possible that those days of for each other were gone so completely? He had read books, to her; had said (she it ironically) that she was to point out his every fault; had once, as they sat in the place the of Fort Snelling——
She the door on her thoughts. That was ground. But it WAS a that——
She pushed away her cake and apricots.
After supper, when they had been in from the by mosquitos, when Kennicott had for the two-hundredth time in five years commented, “We must have a new screen on the porch—lets all the in,” they sat reading, and she noted, and herself for noting, and noted again his awkwardness. He in one chair, his up on another, and he the of his left ear with the end of his little finger—she the smack—he it up—he it up——
He blurted, “Oh. Forgot tell you. Some of the in to play this evening. Suppose we have some and and beer?”
She nodded.
“He might have mentioned it before. Oh well, it's his house.”
The poker-party in: Sam Clark, Jack Elder, Dave Dyer, Jim Howland. To her they said, “'Devenin',” but to Kennicott, in a male manner, “Well, well, shall we start playing? Got a I'm going to somebody bad.” No one that she join them. She told herself that it was her own fault, she was not more friendly; but she that they asked Mrs. Sam Clark to play.
Bresnahan would have asked her.
She sat in the living-room, across the at the men as they over the table.
They were in shirt sleeves; smoking, chewing, incessantly; their voices for a moment so that she did not what they said and hoarsely; using over and over the phrases: “Three to dole,” “I you a finif,” “Come on now, up; what do you think this is, a pink tea?” The cigar-smoke was and pervasive. The with which the men mouthed their the part of their expressionless, heavy, unappealing. They were like politicians appointments.
How they her world?
Did that and world exist? Was she a fool? She her world, herself, and was in the acid, smoke-stained air.
She into upon the of the house.
Kennicott was as in as an old man. At he had himself into her with food—the one medium in which she imagination—but now he wanted only his of dishes: steak, beef, pig's-feet, oatmeal, apples. Because at some more period he had from to grape-fruit he himself an epicure.
During their autumn she had over his for his hunting-coat, but now that the leather had come in of yellow thread, and of canvas, with of the and from gun-cleaning, in a border of rags, she the thing.
Wasn't her whole life like that hunting-coat?
She every and spot on each piece of the set of purchased by Kennicott's mother in 1895—discreet with a pattern of washed-out forget-me-nots, with gold: the gravy-boat, in a which did not match, the and vegetable-dishes, the two platters.
Twenty times had Kennicott over the that Bea had the other platter—the medium-sized one.
The kitchen.
Damp black iron sink, whitey-yellow drain-board with of which from long were as soft as thread, table, clock, by Oscarina but an in its doors and and that would keep an heat.
Carol had done her best by the kitchen: painted it white, put up curtains, replaced a six-year-old by a color print. She had for tiling, and a range for cooking, but Kennicott always these expenses.
She was with the in the than with Vida Sherwin or Guy Pollock. The can-opener, soft metal was from some to open a window, was more to her than all the in Europe; and more than the of Asia was the never-settled question as to the small knife with the or the second-best carving-knife was for up cold chicken for Sunday supper.
II
She was by the males till midnight. Her husband called, “Suppose we have some eats, Carrie?” As she passed through the dining-room the men on her, belly-smiles. None of them noticed her while she was the and and and beer. They were the exact of Dave Dyer in pat, two hours before.
When they were gone she said to Kennicott, “Your friends have the manners of a barroom. They me to wait on them like a servant. They're not so much in me as they would be in a waiter, they don't have to me. Unfortunately! Well, good night.”
So did she in this petty, hot-weather fashion that he was than angry. “Hey! Wait! What's the idea? I must say I don't you. The boys——Barroom? Why, Perce Bresnahan was saying there isn't a of good than just the that were here tonight!”
They in the hall. He was too to go on with his of locking the door and his watch and the clock.
“Bresnahan! I'm of him!” She meant nothing in particular.
“Why, Carrie, he's one of the biggest men in the country! Boston just eats out of his hand!”
“I wonder if it does? How do we know but that in Boston, among well-bred people, he may be as an lout? The way he calls 'Sister,' and the way——”
“Now look here! That'll do! Of I know you don't it—you're and tired, and trying to work off your on me. But just the same, I won't your jumping on Perce. You——It's just like your toward the war—so that America will militaristic——”
“But you are the pure patriot!”
“By God, I am!”
“Yes, I you talking to Sam Clark tonight about of the tax!”
He had to lock the door; he up-stairs ahead of her, growling, “You don't know what you're talking about. I'm perfectly to pay my full tax—fact, I'm in of the tax—even though I do think it's a on and enterprise—fact, it's an unjust, darn-fool tax. But just the same, I'll pay it. Only, I'm not to pay more than the government makes me pay, and Sam and I were just out all oughn't to be exemptions. I'll take a off you, Carrie, but I don't for one second to your saying I'm not patriotic. You know well and good that I've to away and join the army. And at the of the whole I said—I've said right along—that we ought to have entered the the minute Germany Belgium. You don't me at all. You can't a man's work. You're abnormal. You've so much with these and books and all this junk——You like to argue!”
It ended, a of an hour later, in his calling her a “neurotic” he away and to sleep.
For the time they had failed to make peace.
“There are two of people, only two, and they live by side. His calls mine 'neurotic'; mine calls his 'stupid.' We'll each other, never; and it's for us to debate—to together in a in a room—enemies, yoked.”
III
It in her the for a place of her own.
“While it's so hot, I think I'll sleep in the room,” she said next day.
“Not a idea.” He was and kindly.
The room was with a and a bureau. She the in the attic; replaced it by a which, with a cover, a by day; put in a dressing-table, a by a cover; had Miles Bjornstam book-shelves.
Kennicott slowly that she meant to keep up her seclusion. In his queries, “Changing the whole room?” “Putting your books in there?” she his dismay. But it was so easy, once her door was closed, to out his worry. That her—the of him.
Aunt Bessie Smail out this anarchy. She yammered, “Why, Carrie, you ain't going to sleep all alone by yourself? I don't in that. Married should have the same room, of course! Don't go notions. No telling what a thing like that might lead to. Suppose I up and told your Uncle Whit that I wanted a room of my own!”
Carol spoke of for corn-pudding.
But from Mrs. Dr. Westlake she encouragement. She had an call on Mrs. Westlake. She was for the time up-stairs, and the old woman in a white and room with a small bed.
“Oh, do you have your own apartments, and the doctor his?” Carol hinted.
“Indeed I do! The doctor says it's to have to my at meals. Do——” Mrs. Westlake looked at her sharply. “Why, don't you do the same thing?”
“I've been about it.” Carol laughed in an embarrassed way. “Then you wouldn't me as a complete if I wanted to be by myself now and then?”
“Why, child, every woman ought to off by herself and turn over her thoughts—about children, and God, and how her is, and the way men don't her, and how much work she to do in the house, and how much patience it takes to some in a man's love.”
“Yes!” Carol said it in a gasp, her hands together. She wanted to not only her for the Aunt Bessies but her toward those she best loved: her from Kennicott, her in Guy Pollock, her in the presence of Vida. She had self-control to herself to, “Yes. Men! The dear souls, we do have to off and laugh at them.”
“Of we do. Not that you have to laugh at Dr. Kennicott so much, but MY man, heavens, now there's a old bird! Reading story-books when he ought to be to business! 'Marcus Westlake,' I say to him, 'you're a old fool.' And he angry? He not! He and says, 'Yes, my beloved, do say that married people to each other!' Drat him!” Mrs. Westlake laughed comfortably.
After such a what Carol do but return the by that as for Kennicott, he wasn't enough—the darling. Before she left she had to Mrs. Westlake her for Aunt Bessie, the that Kennicott's was now more than five thousand a year, her view of the why Vida had married Raymie (which some of Raymie's “kind heart”), her opinion of the library-board, just what Kennicott had said about Mrs. Carthal's diabetes, and what Kennicott of the in the Cities.
She home by confession, by a new friend.
IV
The of the “domestic situation.”
Oscarina home to help on the farm, and Carol had a of maids, with between. The of was one of the most problems of the town. Increasingly the farmers' against village dullness, and against the of the Juanitas toward “hired girls.” They off to city kitchens, or to city shops and factories, that they might be free and after hours.
The Jolly Seventeen were at Carol's by the Oscarina. They her that she had said, “I don't have any trouble with maids; see how Oscarina on.”
Between of Finn from the North Woods, Germans from the prairies, occasional Swedes and Norwegians and Icelanders, Carol did her own work—and Aunt Bessie's in to tell her how to a for dust, how to sugar doughnuts, how to a goose. Carol was deft, and from Kennicott, but as her to sting, she how many millions of had to themselves the death-rimmed years through which they had to the methods in housework.
She the and, as a natural sequent, the of the and home which she had as the of all life.
She her vicious. She to how many of the of the Jolly Seventeen their husbands and were by them.
She did not to Kennicott. But her ached; she was not the girl in and a shirt who had over a camp-fire in the Colorado five years ago. Her was to to at nine; her was over at half-past six to for Hugh. The of her as she got out of bed. She was about the of a life. She why and workmen's are not to their employers.
At mid-morning, when she was free from the in her and back, she was of the of work. The hours were and nimble. But she had no to read the little newspaper in of labor which are daily by the white-browed prophets. She and (though she it) a surly.
In the house she upon the maid's-room. It was a slant-roofed, small-windowed above the kitchen, in summer, in winter. She saw that while she had been herself an good mistress, she had been her friends Bea and Oscarina to live in a sty. She to Kennicott. “What's the with it?” he growled, as they on the stairs up from the kitchen. She upon the of in by the rain, the floor, the and its discouraged-looking quilts, the rocker, the mirror.
“Maybe it ain't any Hotel Radisson parlor, but still, it's so much than anything these girls are to at home that they think it's fine. Seems to money when they wouldn't it.”
But that night he drawled, with the of a man who to be and delightful, “Carrie, don't know but what we might to think about a new house, one of these days. How'd you like that?”
“W-why——”
“I'm to the point now where I we can one—and a corker! I'll this something like a house! We'll put one over on Sam and Harry! Make up an' take notice!”
“Yes,” she said.
He did not go on.
Daily he returned to the of the new house, but as to time and mode he was indefinite. At she believed. She of a low house with and tulip-beds, of brick, of a white with green and windows. To her he answered, “Well, ye-es, might be about. Remember where I put my pipe?” When she pressed him he fidgeted, “I don't know; to me those of houses you speak of have been overdone.”
It proved that what he wanted was a house like Sam Clark's, which was like every third new house in every town in the country: a square, yellow with clapboards, a screened porch, tidy grass-plots, and walks; a house the mind of a merchant who votes the party ticket and goes to church once a month and a good car.
He admitted, “Well, yes, maybe it isn't so but——Matter of fact, though, I don't want a place just like Sam's. Maybe I would cut off that tower he's got, and I think it would look painted a color. That yellow on Sam's house is too of flashy. Then there's another of house that's and substantial-looking, with shingles, in a stain, of clapboards—seen some in Minneapolis. You're way off your when you say I only like one of house!”
Uncle Whittier and Aunt Bessie came in one when Carol was a rose-garden cottage.
“You've had a of with housekeeping, aunty, and don't you think,” Kennicott appealed, “that it would be to have a square house, and pay more attention to a than to all this and doodads?”
Aunt Bessie her as though they were an band. “Why of course! I know how it is with like you, Carrie; you want towers and bay-windows and and what all, but the thing to is and a good and a place to out the washing, and the don't matter.”
Uncle Whittier a little, put his near to Carol's, and sputtered, “Course it don't! What d'you what think about the of your house? It's the you're in. None of my business, but I must say you that'd have than potatoes me riled.”
She her room she savage. Below, near, she the broom-swish of Aunt Bessie's voice, and the mop-pounding of Uncle Whittier's grumble. She had a that they would on her, then a that she would to Gopher Prairie's of toward an Aunt Bessie and go down-stairs to be “nice.” She the for in from all the citizens who sat in their sitting-rooms her with eyes, waiting, demanding, unyielding. She snarled, “Oh, all right, I'll go!” She her nose, her collar, and down-stairs. The three her. They had from the new house to fussing. Aunt Bessie was saying, in a like the of toast:
“I do think Mr. Stowbody ought to have had the rain-pipe at our store right away. I to see him on Tuesday ten, no, it was minutes after ten, but anyway, it was long noon—I know I right from the bank to the meat market to some steak—my! I think it's outrageous, the prices Oleson & McGuire for their meat, and it isn't as if they gave you a good cut either but just any old thing, and I had time to it, and I stopped in at Mrs. Bogart's to ask about her rheumatism——”
Carol was Uncle Whittier. She from his that he was not to Aunt Bessie but his own thoughts, and that he would her bluntly. He did:
“Will, where c'n I an pair of for this and vest? D' want to pay too much.”
“Well, Nat Hicks make you up a pair. But if I were you, I'd into Ike Rifkin's—his prices are than the Bon Ton's.”
“Humph. Got the new in your office yet?”
“No, been looking at some at Sam Clark's but——”
“Well, y' ought 't in. Don't do to put off a all summer, and then have it come cold on you in the fall.”
Carol upon them ingratiatingly. “Do you mind if I up to bed? I'm tired—cleaned the today.”
She retreated. She was that they were her, and her. She till she the of a which that Kennicott had retired. Then she safe.
It was Kennicott who up the of the Smails at breakfast. With no visible he said, “Uncle Whit is of clumsy, but just the same, he's a wise old coot. He's making good with the store.”
Carol smiled, and Kennicott was pleased that she had come to her senses. “As Whit says, after all the thing is to have the of a house right, and the people on the looking in!”
It settled that the house was to be a example of the Sam Clark school.
Kennicott much of it for her and the baby. He spoke of for her frocks, and “a sewing-room.” But when he on a from an old account-book (he was a paper-saver and a string-picker) the plans for the garage, he gave much more attention to a and a work-bench and a gasoline-tank than he had to sewing-rooms.
She sat and was afraid.
In the present there were odd things—a step up from the to the dining-room, a in the and bush. But the new place would be smooth, standardized, fixed. It was probable, now that Kennicott was past forty, and settled, that this would be the last he would make in building. So long as she in this ark, she would always have a possibility of change, but once she was in the new house, there she would for all the of her life—there she would die. Desperately she wanted to put it off, against the of miracles. While Kennicott was about a swing-door for the she saw the swing-doors of a prison.
She returned to the project. Aggrieved, Kennicott stopped plans, and in ten days the new house was forgotten.
V
Every year since their marriage Carol had for a through the East. Every year Kennicott had talked of the American Medical Association convention, “and then we do the East up brown. I know New York clean through—spent near a week there—but I would like to see New England and all these places and have some sea-food.” He talked of it from February to May, and in May he that confinement-cases or land-deals would prevent his “getting away from home-base for very long THIS year—and no going till we can do it right.”
The of dish-washing had her to go. She pictured herself looking at Emerson's manse, in a of and ivory, a and a fur, meeting an Stranger. In the Kennicott had volunteered, “S'pose you'd like to in a good long this summer, but with Gould and Mac away and so many on me, don't see how I can make it. By golly, I like a though, not taking you.” Through all this July after she had Bresnahan's of travel and gaiety, she wanted to go, but she said nothing. They spoke of and a to the Twin Cities. When she suggested, as though it were a joke, “I think and I might up and you, and off to Cape Cod by ourselves!” his only was “Golly, don't know but what you may almost have to do that, if we don't in a next year.”
Toward the end of July he proposed, “Say, the Beavers are a in Joralemon, and everything. We might go tomorrow. And I'd like to see Dr. Calibree about some business. Put in the whole day. Might help some to make up for our trip. Fine fellow, Dr. Calibree.”
Joralemon was a town of the size of Gopher Prairie.
Their was out of order, and there was no passenger-train at an early hour. They by freight-train, after the and of Hugh with Aunt Bessie. Carol was over this jaunting. It was the thing, the of Bresnahan, that had since the of Hugh. They in the caboose, the small red cupola-topped car along at the end of the train. It was a shanty, the of a land schooner, with black seats along the side, and for desk, a to be let on hinges. Kennicott played seven-up with the and two brakemen. Carol liked the about the brakemen's throats; she liked their welcome to her, and their air of independence. Since there were no in her, she in the train's slowness. She was part of these and wheat-fields. She liked the of earth and clean grease; and the chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug of the trucks was a song of in the sun.
She that she was going to the Rockies. When they Joralemon she was with holiday-making.
Her to the moment they stopped at a red station like the one they had just left at Gopher Prairie, and Kennicott yawned, “Right on time. Just in time for dinner at the Calibrees'. I 'phoned the doctor from G. P. that we'd be here. 'We'll catch the that in twelve,' I told him. He said he'd meet us at the and take us right up to the house for dinner. Calibree is a good man, and you'll his wife is a little woman, as a dollar. By golly, there he is.”
Dr. Calibree was a squat, clean-shaven, conscientious-looking man of forty. He was like his own brown-painted car, with eye-glasses for windshield. “Want you to meet my wife, doctor—Carrie, make you 'quainted with Dr. Calibree,” said Kennicott. Calibree and her hand, but he had it he was upon Kennicott with, “Nice to see you, doctor. Say, don't let me to ask you about what you did in that case—that Bohemian woman at Wahkeenyan.”
The two men, on the seat of the car, and her. She did not know it. She was trying to her of by at houses . . . cottages, bungalows, square with and screened and tidy grass-plots.
Calibree her over to his wife, a thick woman who called her “dearie,” and asked if she was and, visibly for conversation, produced, “Let's see, you and the doctor have a Little One, haven't you?” At dinner Mrs. Calibree the and and looked steamy, looked like the of cabbage. The men were of their as they gave the social of Main Street, the opinions on weather, crops, and cars, then away and in the of shop-talk. Stroking his chin, in the of being erudite, Kennicott inquired, “Say, doctor, what success have you had with for of pains in the child-birth?”
Carol did not their that she was too to be to mysteries. She was used to it. But the and Mrs. Calibree's “I don't know what we're to with all this girls” were her with drowsiness. She to clear them by to Calibree, in a manner of liveliness, “Doctor, have the medical in Minnesota for help to nursing mothers?”
Calibree slowly toward her. “Uh—I've never—uh—never looked into it. I don't much in mixed up in politics.” He from her and, at Kennicott, resumed, “Doctor, what's been your with pyelonephritis? Buckburn of Baltimore and nephrotomy, but to me——”
Not till after two did they rise. In the of the Carol to the which added to the of the United and Fraternal Order of Beavers. Beavers, Beavers, were everywhere: thirty-second Beavers in and derbies, more Beavers in crash and hats, Beavers in shirt and suspenders; but his caste-symbols, every Beaver was by an shrimp-colored in silver, “Sir Knight and Brother, U. F. O. B., Annual State Convention.” On the of each of their was a “Sir Knight's Lady.” The Duluth had their famous Beaver band, in Zouave of green jacket, trousers, and fez. The thing was that their the Zouaves' those of American business-men, pink, smooth, eye-glassed; and as they playing in a circle, at the of Main Street and Second, as they on or with into cornets, their as as though they were at under the “This Is My Busy Day.”
Carol had that the Beavers were citizens for the purposes of life-insurance and playing at the lodge-rooms every second Wednesday, but she saw a large which proclaimed:
BEAVERS
U. F. O. B.
The for good in the
country. The of red-blooded,
open-handed, hustle-em-up good in the world.
Joralemon you to her city.
Kennicott read the and to Calibree admired, “Strong lodge, the Beavers. Never joined. Don't know but what I will.”
Calibree adumbrated, “They're a good bunch. Good lodge. See that there that's playing the drum? He's the in Duluth, they say. Guess it would be joining. Oh say, are you doing much examining?”
They on to the fair.
Lining one of Main Street were the “attractions”—two hot-dog stands, a and pop-corn stand, a merry-go-round, and in which might be at dolls, if one to at dolls. The were of the booths, but country boys with necks and pale-blue and bright-yellow shoes, who had into town in and Fords, were sandwiches, out of bottles, and the and gold horses. They and giggled; peanut-roasters whistled; the merry-go-round out music; the bawled, “Here's your chance—here's your chance—come on here, boy—come on here—give that girl a good time—give her a time—here's your to win a gold watch for five cents, a dime, the part of a dollah!” The sun the with that were like the above the stores were glaring; the on Beavers who along in tight new shoes, up two and back, up two and back, what to do next, at having a good time.
Carol's as she the Calibrees along the of booths. She at Kennicott, “Let's be wild! Let's on the merry-go-round and a gold ring!”
Kennicott it, and to Calibree, “Think you would like to stop and try a on the merry-go-round?”
Calibree it, and to his wife, “Think you'd like to stop and try a on the merry-go-round?”
Mrs. Calibree in a washed-out manner, and sighed, “Oh no, I don't I to much, but you go ahead and try it.”
Calibree to Kennicott, “No, I don't we to a whole lot, but you go ahead and try it.”
Kennicott the whole case against wildness: “Let's try it some other time, Carrie.”
She gave it up. She looked at the town. She saw that in from Main Street, Gopher Prairie, to Main Street, Joralemon, she had not stirred. There were the same two-story with lodge-signs above the awnings; the same one-story shop; the same fire-brick garages; the same at the open end of the wide street; the same people the of a hot-dog sandwich would their taboos.
They Gopher Prairie at nine in the evening.
“You look of hot,” said Kennicott.
“Yes.”
“Joralemon is an town, don't you think so?” She broke. “No! I think it's an ash-heap.”
“Why, Carrie!”
He over it for a week. While he ground his plate with his knife as he of bacon, he at her.
