The Turmoil Booth Tarkington (best reads .txt) đ
- Author: Booth Tarkington
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At twenty-two, Bibbs was physically no more than the outer scaffolding of a man, waiting for the building to begin insideâ âa long-shanked, long-faced, rickety youth, sallow and hollow and haggard, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a peculiar expression of countenance; indeed, at first sight of Bibbs Sheridan a stranger might well be solicitous, for he seemed upon the point of tears. But to a slightly longer gaze, not grief, but mirth, was revealed as his emotion; while a more searching scrutiny was proportionately more puzzlingâ âhe seemed about to burst out crying or to burst out laughing, one or the other, inevitably, but it was impossible to decide which. And Bibbs never, on any occasion of his life, either laughed aloud or wept.
He was a âdisappointmentâ to his father. At least that was the parentâs wordâ âa confirmed and established word after his first attempt to make a âbusiness manâ of the boy. He sent Bibbs to âbegin at the bottom and learn from the ground upâ in the machine-shop of the Sheridan Automatic Pump Works, and at the end of six months the family physician sent Bibbs to begin at the bottom and learn from the ground up in a sanitarium.
âYou neednât worry, mamma,â Sheridan told his wife. âThereâs nothinâ the matter with Bibbs except he hates work so much it makes him sick. I put him in the machine-shop, and I guess I know what Iâm doinâ about as well as the next man. Ole Doc Gurney always was one oâ them nutty alarmists. Does he think Iâd do anything âd be bad for my own flesh and blood? He makes me tired!â
Anything except perfectly definite health or perfectly definite disease was incomprehensible to Sheridan. He had a genuine conviction that lack of physical persistence in any task involving money must be due to some subtle weakness of character itself, to some profound shiftlessness or slyness. He understood typhoid fever, pneumonia, and appendicitisâ âone had them, and either died or got over them and went back to workâ âbut when the word ânervousâ appeared in a diagnosis he became honestly suspicious: he had the feeling that there was something contemptible about it, that there was a nigger in the woodpile somewhere.
âLook at me,â he said. âLook at what I did at his age! Why, when I was twenty years old, wasnât I up every morning at four oâclock choppinâ woodâ âyes! and out in the dark and the snowâ âto build a fire in a country grocery store? And here Bibbs has to go and have a doctor because he canâtâ âPho! it makes me tired! If heâd gone at it like a man he wouldnât be sick.â
He paced the bedroomâ âthe usual setting for such parental discussionsâ âin his nightgown, shaking his big, grizzled head and gesticulating to his bedded spouse. âMy Lord!â he said. âIf a little, teeny bit oâ work like this is too much for him, why, he ainât fit for anything! Itâs nine-tenths imagination, and the rest of itâ âwell, I wonât say itâs deliberate, but I would like to know just how much of itâs put on!â
âBibbs didnât want the doctor,â said Mrs. Sheridan. âIt was when he was here to dinner that night, and noticed how he couldnât eat anything. Honey, you better come to bed.â
âEat!â he snorted. âEat! Itâs work that makes men eat! And itâs imagination that keeps people from eatinâ. Busy men donât get time for that kind of imagination; and thereâs another thing youâll notice about good health, if youâll take the trouble to look around you Mrs. Sheridan: busy men havenât got time to be sick and they donât get sick. You just think it over and youâll find that ninety-nine percent of the sick people you know are either women or loafers. Yes, maâam!â
âHoney,â she said again, drowsily, âyou better come to bed.â
âLook at the other boys,â her husband bade her. âLook at Jim and Roscoe. Look at how they work! There isnât a shiftless bone in their bodies. Work never made Jim or Roscoe sick. Jim takes half the load off my shoulders already. Right now there isnât a harder-workinâ, brighter business man in this city than Jim. Iâve pushed him, but he give me something to push against. You canât push ânervous dyspepsiaâ! And look at Roscoe; just look at what that boyâs done for himself, and barely twenty-seven years oldâ âmarried, got a fine wife, and ready to build for himself with his own money, when I put up the New House for you and Edie.â
âPapa, youâll catch cold in your bare feet,â she murmured. âYou better come to bed.â
âAnd Iâm just as proud of Edie, for a girl,â he continued, emphatically, âas I am of Jim and Roscoe for boys. Sheâll make some man a mighty good wife when the time comes. Sheâs the prettiest and talentedest girl in the United States! Look at that poem she wrote when she was in school and took the prize with; itâs the best poem I ever read in my life, and sheâd never even tried to write one before. Itâs the finest thing I ever read,
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