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Updated: June 7, 2025
Nothing passed, nothing made an interesting rattling, except one democrat wagon. From over the water another gun-shot murmured of distant hazards. Carl jumped down from the sawbuck and marched deliberately out of the yard, along Oak Street toward The Hill, the smart section of Joralemon, where live in exclusive state five large houses that get painted nearly every year.
His machine-finish smile indicated an enormous lack of interest in young men in Teal bugs. Gopher Prairie has all of five thousand people. Its commercial club asserts that it has at least a thousand more population and an infinitely better band than the ridiculously envious neighboring town of Joralemon.
He was a graduate of the University of Minnesota dental department. He had oily black hair, and smiled with gold-filled teeth before one came to the real point of a joke. He sang in the Congregational church choir, and played tennis in a crimson-and-black blazer the only one in Joralemon. To Carl Dr. Doyle was dismayingly mature and smart. He horribly feared him as a rival.
He felt for something to stand upon, and found a short board, which he wedged against the side of the shack. He looked through the dusty window for a second. He sprang from the board. Alone in the shack was the one person about Joralemon more feared, more fabulous than the Black Dutchman "Bone" Stillman, the man who didn't believe in God.
At ten-thirty, the hour at which he had vehemently resolved to go, they were curled in two big chairs eating chocolate peppermints and talking of themselves apropos of astronomy and the Touricar and Lincoln Beachey's daring and Mason Winslow and patriotism and Joralemon. Ruth's father drifted in from his club at a quarter to eleven. Carl now met him for the first time.
"Maybe if you'll think real hard you'll remember I used to could get you to be so kind and talk to me without having to beg you so hard. Why, I'd been to New York and known the nicest people before you'd ever stirred a foot out of Joralemon!
"H'lo!" "What's your name, little boy?" "Ain't a little boy. I'm Carl Ericson." "Oh, are you? I'm " "I'm gonna have a shotgun when I'm fifteen." He shyly hurled a stone at a telegraph-pole to prove that he was not shy. "My name is Gertie Cowles. I came from Minneapolis. My mamma owns part of the Joralemon Flour Mill.... Are you a nice boy? We just moved here and I don't know anybody.
Gertie: "Now you just let Carl tell us when he gets ready, you big, bad brother! Carl wants to hear all about Home first.... All these years!... You were asking about the changes. There haven't been so very many. You know it's a little slow there. Oh, of course, I almost forgot; why, you haven't been in Joralemon since they built up what used to be Tubbs's pasture."
If you knew these other towns Wakamin and Joralemon and all, you'd find out and realize that G. P. is the liveliest, smartest town in the state. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan, the famous auto manufacturer, came from here and Yes, I think that a St. Patrick's Day party would be awfully cunning and original, and yet not too queer or freaky or anything."
Fifteen minutes in this irreproachable home sent Carl off to Eddie Klemm's billiard-parlor, which was not irreproachable. He rather disliked the bitterness of beer and the acrid specks of cigarette tobacco that stuck to his lips, but the "bunch at Eddie's" were among the few people in Joralemon who were conscious of life.
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