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Sinclair Lewis
Published by Good Press, 2021
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Grand Republic was metropolitan-looking in its black-glass and green-marble shop fronts, its uniformed traffic policemen with Sam Browne belts and pistol holsters, its florists’ windows and La Marquise French Candy Shop, but it was small enough so that he was greeted—usually as “Judge,” often as “Cass,” occasionally as “Jedge”—five times on every block, while the policemen touched their caps in salute. Grand Republic was small enough so that a Mrs. George Hame had at least met a Mrs. Webb Wargate, and ventured to say, in church lobby, “Well, how is your boy Jamie doing in school, Mrs. Wargate?” It was small enough so that the Judge could know how the whole city worked, but it was also small enough so that Harley Bozard, coming out of his shop, already knew that Cass had taken Chris Grau home last evening, and leered, “What’s this I hear you’re going to drive into the matrimonial slew again, Cass?”
It was all friendly; it restored his soul. He was too used to them to note the hideousness of a black old stone hotel with massive portals and torn lace curtains, and the car-parking lots that were like sores on the wholesome limbs of the streets, or to reflect that the only design for planning the city had always been the dollar-sign. What of that, when he could be greeted “H’ are you, old boy!” by Frank Brightwing, the real-estate man, who was melodiously drunk on every Saturday evening and on every Sunday morning, at the Baptist Church, was as unaffectedly pious and hopeful as the cherubs he so much resembled.
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