KEEPING UP WITH WILLIAM

In Which the Honorable Socrates Potter Talks of the Relative Merits of Sense Common and Preferred </4>

By Irving Bacheller

Author of Keeping Up With Lizzie. The Light In the Clearing, Etc.

With Cartoons by Gaar Williams

1918

TO THE CHILDREN OF FRANCE AND BELGIUM—MADE FATHERLESS BY WILLIAMISM—WHOSE WRONGS HAVE ENLISTED THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN AGAINST THE MISLED HOSTS OF GERMANY, I DEDICATE THIS BOOK AND THE PROCEEDS OF ITS SALE.

KEEPING UP WITH WILLIAM

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.—WHICH OPENS FIRE ON THE EXACTING INDUSTRY OF SUPERING

CHAPTER II.—WHICH TEACHES THAT ONE SHOULD NEVER HITCH HIS CONSCIENCE TO

CHAPTER III.—WHICH PRESENTS THE STORY OF THE SMOTHERED SON

CHAPTER IV.—WHICH HANDS OUT SOME SOME COMMON TO THE SUPERERS IN AMERICA

CHAPTER V. WHICH DROPS A FEW ROUNDS OF SHRAPNEL ON THE HUNS IN AMERICA

CHAPTER VI.—WHICH IS MOSTLY FOR THE BOYS OF OUR ARMY

CHAPTER I.—WHICH OPENS FIRE ON THE EXACTING INDUSTRY OF SUPERING

The new year of 1918 was not a month old the day I went up to Connecticut to see the Honorable Socrates Potter. I found the famous country lawyer sitting in the very same chair from which, seven years ago, he had told me the story of keeping up with Lizzie. His feet rested peacefully on a table in front of him as he sat reading a law book. Logs were burning in the fireplace. A spaniel dog lay dozing on a rug in front of it. What a delightful flavor of old times and good tobacco was in that inner office of his—with its portraits of Lincoln and his war cabinet, of Silas Wright and Daniel Webster and Rufus Choate and Charles Sumner, with its old rifle and powder horn hanging above the modest mantel and its cases of worn law books! Beyond the closed door were busy clerks and clicking typewriters, for Mr. Potter's business had grown to large proportions, but here was peace and the atmosphere of deliberation. There was never any haste in this small factory of opinions.

"Hello! Have you come for another book?" he asked.

"Always looking for another book," I answered. "It's about time that you got into this big fight between Democracy and—"

"Deviltry," he interrupted with a stern look. "By thunder I've offered to take up the sword but they say I'm too old to fight. I don't believe it. My great grandfather fought at Lexington when he was sixty-four."

"You can do more good with some conversation than you could with a sword or a gun," I urged. "I've come up here to touch the button and now you're expected to say something for the boys at the front and the folks at home. Just turn your search-light on the general situation."

"Well, I have quite a stock of shrapnel and liquid fire for the rear line of the Germans," he began. "My searchlight is a modest kind of a lantern but we'll see what we can do with it.

"This time we'll talk on the subject of keeping up with William.

"The other day, in the rooms of the Connecticut Historical Society, I was reading the diary of one Abigail Foote written in 1775. This, as I remember it, was an average day in her life: Mended mother's hood, set a red dye, hetchelled flax with Hannah, spun four pounds of whole wool, spun thread for harness twine, worked on a cheese basket, read a sermon of Doddridge's, scoured the pewter, milked the cows, carded wool, got supper ready, went to bed at nine.

"I wish you to note that she went to bed at nine. Do you think that a modern girl would knock off at nine? Not at all. She sticks to her task until midnight and even longer. Abigail had only to be an ordinary human being with nothing to do but work. The modern girl must have the beauty of a goddess, the grace of a gazelle, the digestion of an ostrich, the endurance of a horse and the remorse of a human being. It is a large contract. "We are all familiar with the diary of a modern girl. Its average day would be about as follows: Got up. Neck felt like a string on a toy balloon. Had some toast and coffee. Had my hair dressed and nails manicured. Put a new ribbon on my dog and walked him around the block. Went to meeting of the charity committee. Learned that there were many people out of work. Went to see the doctor who warned me about overeating and late hours. Same old chestnut! Lunched with Mabel. Ate half a pound of chocolates and so much cake that the butler had a frightened look. Home again. Dressed. Went with mama to a lecture on the insane. Mama woke me at five. It was all over. Went to Gladys's tea. Danced half an hour. Home again. Dressed. Spent fifteen minutes with papa and my dog. Went with Harry and mama to Gwendolyn's party. Danced until midnight. Home at one. Nearly frozen. Talk about long hours and poor pay and insufficient clothing; this reminds one of the story of Washington's army in the worst winter of the revolution.

"Now, both of these girls toiled.

"The one in productive work with the wool and the flax. It was done mostly for the comfort of others. The modern girl wears herself out supering. Do you know what it means to super? It is to follow the exacting industry of being superior."

"Superior to what?" I asked.

"To productive work," he went on. "Their toil is all in the service of themselves and in pursuit of their own pleasure.

"That's what's the matter with this old earth. For many years more than half its people have been supering—wasting their time in busy idleness—on the high road to deviltry. You don't have to think twice to decide that it is about the most dangerous of all crimes, my friend, because it is the straight way to all crime. It leads direct to deceit, theft, adultery and murder. It kills the sense of brotherhood in the heart of man. It kills the spirit of Democracy. The world is being strafed for it, in my opinion.

"Now the center and headquarters of all supering is Prussia—the home of the superman—and Bill