Arrowsmith by Sinclair Lewis (learn to read books txt) 📕

have all the hooch they want, on prescriptions, absolutely legal and watertight! The parties they throw at that joint, dames and everything! Believe me, Uncle Clif is sore stricken with tootelus bootelus and is going to the Carr Sanitarium for what ails him! But now look: Suppose we got him or somebody to rig up a new kind of cure⁠—call it phageotherapy⁠—oh, it takes Uncle Clif to invent the names that claw in the bounteous dollars! Patients sit in a steam cabinet and eat tablets made of phage, with just a little strychnin to jazz up their hearts! Bran-new! Million in it! What-cha-think?”

Martin was almost feeble. “No. I’m afraid I’m against it.”

“Why?”

“Well, I⁠—Honestly, Clif, if you don’t understand it, I don’t know how I can explain the scientific attitude to you. You know⁠—that’s what Gottlieb used to call it⁠—scientific attitude. And as I’m a scientist⁠—least I hope I am⁠—I couldn’t⁠—Well, to be associated with a thing like that⁠—”

“But, you poor louse, don’t you suppose I understand the scientific attitude? Gosh, I’ve seen a dissecting-room myself! Why, you poor crab, of course I wouldn’t expect you to have your name associated with it! You’d keep in the background and slip us all the dope, and get a lot of publicity for phage in general so the Dee‑ah People would fall easier, and we’d pull all the strong-arm work.”

“But⁠—I hope you’re joking, Clif. If you weren’t joking, I’d tell you that if anybody tried to pull a thing like that, I’d expose ’em and get ’em sent to jail, no matter who they were!”

“Well, gosh, if you feel that way about it⁠—!”

Clif was peering over the fatty pads beneath his eyes. He sounded doubtful:

“I suppose you have the right to keep other guys from grabbing your own stuff. Well, all right, Mart. Got to be teloddeling. Tell you what you might do, though, if that don’t hurt your tender conscience, too: you might invite old Clif up t’ the house for dinner, to meet the new lil wifey that I read about in the sassiety journals. You might happen to remember, old bean, that there have been times when you were glad enough to let poor fat old Clif slip you a feed and a place to sleep!”

“Oh, I know. You bet there have! Nobody was ever decenter to me; nobody. Look. Where you staying? I’ll find out from my wife what dates we have ahead, and telephone you tomorrow morning.”

“So you let the Old Woman keep the worksheet for you, huh? Well, I never butt into anybody’s business. I’m staying at the Berrington Hotel, room 617⁠—’member that, 617⁠—and you might try and phone me before ten tomorrow. Say, that’s one grand sweet song of a cutie you got on the door here. What cha think? How’s chances on dragging her out to feed and shake a hoof with Uncle Clif?”

As primly as the oldest, most staid scientist in the Institute, Martin protested, “Oh, she belongs to very nice family. I don’t think I should try it. Really, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Clif’s gaze was sharp, for all its fattiness.

With excessive cordiality, with excessive applause when Clif remarked, “You better go back to work and put some salt on a coupla bacteria’s tails,” Martin guided him to the reception-room, safely past the girl clerk, and to the elevator.

For a long time he sat in his office and was thoroughly wretched.

He had for years pictured Clif Clawson as another Terry Wickett. He saw that Clif was as different from Terry as from Rippleton Holabird. Terry was rough, he was surly, he was colloquial, he despised many fine and gracious things, he offended many fine and gracious people, but these acerbities made up the haircloth robe wherewith he defended a devotion to such holy work as no cowled monk ever knew. But Clif⁠—

“I’d do the world a service by killing that man!” Martin fretted. “Phageotherapy at a yegg sanitarium! I stand him only because I’m too much of a coward to risk his going around saying that ‘in the days of my Success, I’ve gone back on my old friends.’ (Success! Puddling at work! Dinners! Talking to idiotic women! Being furious because you weren’t invited to the dinner to the Portuguese minister!) No. I’ll phone Clif we can’t have him at the house.”

Over him came remembrance of Clif’s loyalty in the old barren days, and Clif’s joy to share with him every pathetic gain.

“Why should he understand my feeling about phage? Was his scheme any worse than plenty of reputable drug-firms? How much was I righteously offended, and how much was I sore because he didn’t recognize the high social position of the rich Dr. Arrowsmith?”

He gave up the question, went home, explained almost frankly to Joyce what her probable opinion of Clif would be, and contrived that Clif should be invited to dinner with only the two of them.

“My dear Mart,” said Joyce, “why do you insult me by hinting that I’m such a snob that I’ll be offended by racy slang and by business ethics very much like those of dear Roger’s grandpapa? Do you think I’ve never ventured out of the drawing-room? I thought you’d seen me outside it! I shall probably like your Clawson person very much indeed.”

The day after Martin had invited him to dinner, Clif telephoned to Joyce:

“This Mrs. Arrowsmith? Well, say, this is old Clif.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Clif! Old Clif!”

“I’m frightfully sorry but⁠—Perhaps there’s a bad connection.”

“Why, it’s Mr. Clawson, that’s going to feed with you on⁠—”

“Oh, of course. I am so sorry.”

“Well, look: What I wanted to know is: Is this going to be just a homey grub-grabbing or a real soiree? In other words, honey, shall I dress natural or do I put on the soup-and-fish? Oh, I got ’em⁠—swallowtail and the whole darn outfit!”

“I⁠—Do you mean⁠—Oh. Shall you dress for dinner? I think perhaps I would.”

“Attaboy! I’ll be there, dolled up like a new saloon. I’ll show you folks the cutest lil line of jeweled