Main Street (Barnes & Noble Classics Ser - Sinclair Lewis [82]
“I think I want most of it from you!”
The Dawsons glanced at each other in appreciation of the jest; and he chirped, “You’re worse than Reverend Benlick! He don’t hardly ever strike me for more than ten dollars—at a time!”
“I’m not joking. I mean it! Your children in the Cities are grown-up and well-to-do. You don’t want to die and leave your name unknown. Why not do a big, original thing? Why not rebuild the whole town? Get a great architect, and have him plan a town that would be suitable to the prairie. Perhaps he’d create some entirely new form of architecture. Then tear down all these shambling buildings—”
Mr. Dawson had decided that she really did mean it. He wailed, “Why, that would cost at least three or four million dollars!”
“But you alone, just one man, have two of those millions!”
“Me? Spend all my hard-earned cash on building houses for a lot of shiftless beggars that never had the sense to save their money? Not that I’ve ever been mean. Mama could always have a hired girl to do the work—when we could find one. But her and I have worked our fingers to the bone and—spend it on a lot of these rascals—?”
“Please! Don’t be angry! I just mean—I mean—Oh, not spend all of it, of course, but if you led off the list, and the others came in, and if they heard you talk about a more attractive town—”
“Why now, child, you’ve got a lot of notions. Besides, what’s the matter with the town? Looks good to me. I’ve had people that have traveled all over the world tell me time and again that Gopher Prairie is the prettiest place in the Middlewest. Good enough for anybody. Certainly good enough for Mama and me. Besides! Mama and me are planning to go out to Pasadena and buy a bungalow and live there.”
VII
She had met Miles Bjornstam on the street. For the second of welcome encounter this workman with the bandit mustache and the muddy overalls seemed nearer than any one else to the credulous youth which she was seeking to fight beside her, and she told him, as a cheerful anecdote, a little of her story.
He grunted, “I never thought I’d be agreeing with Old Man Dawson, the penny-pinching old land-thief—and a fine briber he is, too. But you got the wrong slant. You aren’t one of the people—yet. You want to do something for the town. I don‘t! I want the town to do something for itself. We don’t want old Dawson’s money—not if it’s a gift, with a string. We’ll take it away from him, because it belongs to us. You got to get more iron and cussedness into you. Come join us cheerful bums, and some day—when we educate ourselves and quit being bums—we’ll take things and run ’em straight.”
He had changed from her friend to a cynical man in overalls. She could not relish the autocracy of “cheerful bums.”
She forgot him as she tramped the outskirts of town.
She had replaced the city hall project by an entirely new and highly exhilarating thought of how little was done for these unpicturesque poor.
VIII
The spring of the plains is not a reluctant virgin but brazen and soon away. The mud roads of a few days ago are powdery dust and the puddles beside them have hardened into lozenges of black sleek earth like cracked patent leather.
Carol was panting as she crept to the meeting of the Thanatopsis program committee which was to decide the subject for next fall and winter.
Madam Chairman (Miss Ella Stowbody in an oyster-colored blouse) asked if there was any new business.
Carol rose. She suggested that the Thanatopsis ought to help the poor of the town. She was ever so correct and modern. She did not, she said, want charity for them, but a chance of self-help; an employment bureau, direction in washing babies and making pleasing stews, possibly a municipal fund for home-building. “What do you think of my plans, Mrs. Warren?” she concluded.