KENNICOTT was not so inhumanly¹ patient that he could continue to forgive Carol’s heresies², to woo her as he had on the venture to California. She tried to be inconspicuous, but she was betrayed by her failure to glow over the boosting. Kennicott believed in it; demanded that she say patriotic³ things about the White Way and the new factory. He snorted, “By golly, I’ve done all I could, and now I expect you to play the game. Here you been complaining for years about us being so poky, and now when Blausser comes along and does stir up excitement and beautify the town like you’ve always wanted somebody to, why, you say he’s a roughneck, and you won’t jump on the band-wagon.”
Once, when Kennicott announced at noon-dinner, “What do you know about this! They say there’s a chance we may get another factory — cream-separator works!” he added, “You might try to look interested, even if you ain’t!” The baby was frightened by the Jovian roar; ran wailing⁴ to hide his face in Carol’s lap; and Kennicott had to make himself humble⁵ and court both mother and child. The dim injustice⁶ of not being understood even by his son left him irritable⁷. He felt injured.
An event which did not directly touch them brought down his wrath⁸.
In the early autumn, news came from Wakamin that the sheriff had forbidden an organizer for the National Nonpartisan League to speak anywhere in the county. The organizer had defied the sheriff, and announced that in a few days he would address a farmers’ political meeting. That night, the news ran, a mob of a hundred business men led by the sheriff — the tame village street and the smug village faces ruddled by the light of bobbing lanterns, the mob flowing between the squatty rows of shops — had taken the organizer from his hotel, ridden him on a fence-rail, put him on a freight train, and warned him not to return.

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