‘Sure. Comrade Putnam is even worse than the kind of globe-trotter that shows you his snapshots — he’s the kind that sneaks off to Vienna and Rio and then gloats at you and won’t even tell you what he’s seen.’

Sara was relentless: ‘Well, Dad won’t travel one bit. Doesn’t want to travel. And he can perfectly well afford to, the rest of his life. Why, time and again I’ve offered to take him to Paris — think of it, I’ve never been there myself! — and he always says, “We’ll see”, and sneaks out of it. Positively, Freddie ENJOYS being an old horse in a treadmill. I believe, no matter how he kicks about it, he’s secretly pleased when we sponge on him. Shows what a noble, stalwart pillar of society he is! We must see to it that he contributes to the Coheeze.’

‘Yes, we must see to that,’ said Gene.

‘Anyway, this whole business of parents,’ began Guy, the poet, philosopher and pal, ‘is a funny — well, it’s a funny business. I think they ought to appreciate their children for taking the trouble to represent them in the new social movements, the socialization of education and the extension of labour unionism, since they’re too old-fashioned to do it themselves. But say, speaking of your dad, how’s to skip down to your house? There’s Putnam making unfriendly noises upstairs again.’

‘Grand! Come along! It’s only ten-forty. Dad will be glad to see us.’

Howard was buoyant, and Annabel followed him in demure obedience. And Sara hinted no opposition after she had looked at Eugene and found him ready, and after she covered all points by explaining:

‘Well . . . All right.’

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Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:57

The Prodigal Parents, by Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 6

Fred had wound his watch, he had listened to the broadcaster’s opinion that tomorrow it would rain in Omaha and parts of West Virginia, and he had proffered to Hazel his nightly observation, ‘How about turning in and getting a little sleep?’ The front door crashed, and in, like a flock of sheep with the voices of crows, tumbled Sara, Howard, Eugene, Guy, Annabel.

But when Fred had been presented to Annabel, he was sweet to her — too sweet, thought Hazel.

Sara purred, ‘Father, Mother, this is Eugene Silga of the Workers’ International Cohesion. I think you’ve heard Howard speak of him.’

‘Oh yes, yes, sure, you bet!’ crowed Fred, shaking hands.

Gene’s thin hands were hard, and his eyes half friendly, half shrewd, altogether cynical. The comedian Fred, who all day long shouted stories, became cautious and dead quiet.

‘Sara has been telling me about your two-story trailer,’ said Eugene to him.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ll remember it, next time I have anything to do with a demonstration in Union Square. Speech from the second story might go over big. I’m not sure you approve, but I’m interested in radical labour unions, Mr. Cornplow.’