The Turmoil Booth Tarkington (best reads .txt) đ
- Author: Booth Tarkington
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Sheridan had made the room next to his own into an office for Bibbs, and the door between the two rooms usually stood openâ âthe father had established that intimacy. One morning in February, when Bibbs was alone, Sheridan came in, some sheets of typewritten memoranda in his hand.
âBibbs,â he said, âI donât like to butt in very often this way, and when I do I usually wish I hadnâtâ âbut for Heavenâs sake what have you been buying that ole busted inter-traction stock for?â
Bibbs leaned back from his desk. âFor eleven hundred and fifty-five dollars. Thatâs all it cost.â
âWell, it ainât worth eleven hundred and fifty-five cents. You ought to know that. I donât get your idea. That stuffâs deaderân Adamâs cat!â
âIt might be worth somethingâ âsome day.â
âHow?â
âIt mightnât be so deadâ ânot if we went into it,â said Bibbs, coolly.
âOh!â Sheridan considered this musingly; then he said, âWhoâd you buy it from?â
âA brokerâ âFansmith.â
âWell, he must âaâ got it from one oâ the crowd oâ poor ninnies that was soaked with it. Donât you know who owned it?â
âYes, I do.â
âAinât sayinâ, though? That it? Whatâs the matter?â
âIt belonged to Mr. Vertrees,â said Bibbs, shortly, applying himself to his desk.
âSo!â Sheridan gazed down at his sonâs thin face. âExcuse me,â he said. âYour business.â And he went back to his own room. But presently he looked in again.
âI reckon you wonât mind lunchinâ alone todayââ âhe was shuffling himself into his overcoatâ ââbecause I just thought Iâd go up to the house and get this over with mamma.â He glanced apologetically toward his right hand as it emerged from the sleeve of the overcoat. The bandages had been removed, finally, that morning, revealing but three fingersâ âthe forefinger and the finger next to it had been amputated. âSheâs bound to make an awful fuss, and better to spoil her lunch than her dinner. Iâll be back about two.â
But he calculated the time of his arrival at the New House so accurately that Mrs. Sheridanâs lunch was not disturbed, and she was rising from the lonely table when he came into the dining-room. He had left his overcoat in the hall, but he kept his hands in his trousers pockets.
âWhatâs the matter, papa?â she asked, quickly. âHas anything gone wrong? You ainât sick?â
âMe!â He laughed loudly. âMe sick?â
âYou had lunch?â
âDidnât want any today. You can give me a cup oâ coffee, though.â
She rang, and told George to have coffee made, and when he had withdrawn she said querulously, âI just know thereâs something wrong.â
âNothinâ in the world,â he responded, heartily, taking a seat at the head of the table. âI thought Iâd talk over a notion oâ mine with you, thatâs all. Itâs more women-folksâ business than what it is manâs, anyhow.â
âWhat about?â
âWhy, ole Doc Gurney was up at the office this morning awhileâ ââ
âTo look at your hand? Howâs he say itâs doinâ?â
âFine! Well, he went in and sat around with Bibbs awhileâ ââ
Mrs. Sheridan nodded pessimistically. âI guess itâs time you had him, too. I knew Bibbsâ ââ
âNow, mamma, hold your horses! I wanted him to look Bibbs over before anythingâs the matter. You donât suppose Iâm goinâ to take any chances with Bibbs, do you? Well, afterwards, I shut the door, and I anâ ole Gurney had a talk. Heâs a mighty disagreeable man; he rubbed it in on me what he said about Bibbs havinâ brains if he ever woke up. Then I thought he must want to get something out oâ me, he go so flatteringâ âfor a minute! âBibbs couldnât help havinâ business brains,â he says, âbeinâ your son. Donât be surprised,â he saysâ ââdonât be surprised at his makinâ a success,â he says. âHe couldnât get over his heredity; he couldnât help beinâ a business successâ âonce you got him into it. Itâs in his blood. Yes, sir,â he says, âit doesnât need much brains,â he says, âan only third-rate brains, at that,â he says, âbut it does need a special kind oâ brains,â he says, âto be a millionaire. I mean,â he says, âwhen a manâs given a start. If nobody gives him a start, why, course heâs got to have luck and the right kind oâ brains. The only miracle about Bibbs,â he says, âis where he got the other kind oâ brainsâ âthe brains you made him quit usinâ and throw away.âââ
âBut whatâd he say about his health?â Mrs. Sheridan demanded, impatiently, as George placed a cup of coffee before her husband. Sheridan helped himself to cream and sugar, and began to sip the coffee.
âIâm cominâ to that,â he returned, placidly. âSee how easy I manage this cup with my left hand, mamma?â
âYou been doinâ that all winter. What didâ ââ
âItâs wonderful,â he interrupted, admiringly, âwhat a fellow can do with his left hand. I can sign my name with mine now, wellâs I ever could with my right. It came a little hard at first, but now, honest, I believe I rather sign with my left. Thatâs all I ever have to write, anywayâ âjust the signature. Restâs all dictatinâ.â He blew across the top of the cup unctuously. âGood coffee, mamma! Well, about Bibbs. Ole Gurney says he believes if Bibbs could somehow get back to the state oâ mind he was in about the machine-shopâ âthat is, if he could some way get to feelinâ about business the way he felt about the shopâ ânot the poetry and writinâ part, butâ ââ He paused, supplementing his remarks with a motion of his head toward the old house next door. âHe says
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