The Bingham girls were three strapping young women named Hygeia, Althea and Myra, and Mrs. Bingham was a fat faded flatfaced blonde who wore round steel spectacles. The only one of the family who didn’t wear glasses and have buckteeth was Myra who seemed to take more after her father. She certainly talked a blue streak. She was the youngest, too, and E. R. Bingham, who was striding around in oldfashioned carpetslippers with his shirt open at the neck and a piece of red flannel undershirt showing across his chest, introduced her as the artistic member of the family. She giggled a great deal about how she was going to New York to study painting. She told Dick he looked as if he had the artistic temperament.
They ate in some confusion because Mr. Bingham kept sending back the dishes, and flew into a towering passion because the cabbage was overcooked and the raw carrots weren’t ripe and cursed and swore at the waiters and finally sent for the manager. About all they’d had was potatosoup and boiled onions sprinkled with hazelnuts and peanutbutter spread on wholewheat bread, all washed down with Coca-Cola, when two young men appeared with a microphone from N.B.C. for E. R. Bingham to broadcast his eighto’clock health talk. He was suddenly smiling and hearty again and Mrs. Bingham reappeared from the bedroom to which she’d retreated crying, with her hands over her ears not to hear the old man’s foul language. She came back with her eyes red and a little bottle of smellingsalts in her hand, just in time to be chased out of the room again. E. R. Bingham roared that women distracted his attention from the mike, but he made Dick stay and listen to his broadcast on health and diet and exercise hints and to the announcement of the annual crosscountry hike from Washington to Louisville sponsored by Rugged Health, the Bingham Products houseorgan, which he was going to lead in person for the first three days, just to set the pace for the youngsters, he said.
After the broadcast Mrs. Bingham and the girls came in all rouged and powdered up wearing diamond earrings and pearl necklaces and chinchilla coats. They invited Dick and the radio young men to go to Keith’s with them but Dick explained that he had work to do. Before Mrs. Bingham left she made Dick promise to come to visit them at their home in Eureka. “You come and spend a month, young feller,” boomed E. R. Bingham, interrupting her. “We’ll make a man of you out there. The first week orangejuice and high irrigations, massage, rest… After that we build you up with crackedwheat and plenty of milk and cream, a little boxing or trackwork, plenty of hiking out in the sun without a lot of stifling clothes on, and you’ll come back a man, nature’s richest handiwork, the paragon of animals… you know the lines of the immortal bard… and you’ll have forgotten all about that unhealthy New York life that’s poisoning your system. You come out, young man… Well, good night. By the time I’ve done my deep breathing it’ll be my bedtime. When I’m in Washington I get up at six every morning and break the ice in the Basin… How about coming down for a little dip tomorrow? Pathe Newsreel is going to be there… It would be worth your while in your business.” Dick excused himself hastily, saying, “Another time, Mr. Bingham.”
At the Shoreham he found J.W. finishing dinner with Senator Planet and Colonel Judson, a smooth pink toadfaced man with a caressingly amiable manner. The senator got to his feet and squeezed Dick’s hand warmly. “Why, boy, we expected to see you come back wearin’ a tigerskin… Did the old boy show you his chestexpansion?” J.W. was frowning. “Not this time, senator,” said Dick quietly.
“But, senator,” J.W. said with some impatience, evidently picking up a speech where it had been broken off, “it’s the principle of the thing. Once government interference in business is established as a precedent it means the end of liberty and private initiative in this country.” “It means the beginning of red Russian bolshevistic tyranny,” added Colonel Judson with angry emphasis. Senator Planet laughed. “Aren’t those rather harsh words, Joel?” “What this bill purports to do is to take the right of selfmedication from the American people. A set of lazy government employees and remittancemen will be able to tell you what laxative you may take and what not. Like all such things, it’ll be in the hands of cranks and busybodies. Surely the American people have the right to choose what products they want to buy. It’s an insult to the intelligence of our citizens.”
The senator tipped up an afterdinner coffeecup to get the last dregs of it. Dick noticed that they were drinking brandy out of big balloon-glasses. “Well,” said the senator slowly, “what you say may be true but the bill has a good deal of popular support and you gentlemen mustn’t forget that I am not entirely a free agent in this matter. I have to consult the wishes of my constituents…” “As I look at it,” interrupted Colonel Judson, “all these socalled pure food and drug bills are class legislation in favor of the medical profession. Naturally the doctors want us to consult them before we buy a toothbrush or a package of licorice powder.” J.W. picked up where he left off: “The tendency of the growth of scientificallyprepared proprietary medicine has been to make the layman free and selfsufficient, able to treat many minor ills without consulting a physician.” The senator finished his brandy without answering.
“Bowie,” said Colonel Judson, reaching for the bottle and pouring out some more. “You know as well as I do that the plain people of your state don’t want their freedom of choice curtailed by any Washington snoopers and busybodies… And we’ve got the money and the organization to be of great assistance in your campaign. Mr. Moorehouse is about to launch one of the biggest educational drives the country has ever seen to let the people know the truth about proprietary medicines, both in the metropolitan and the rural districts. He will roll up a great tidal wave of opinion that Congress will have to pay attention to. I’ve seen him do it before.”
“Excellent brandy,” said the senator. “Fine Armagnac has been my favorite for years.” He cleared his throat and took a cigar from a box in the middle of the table and lit it in a leisurely fashion. “I’ve been much criticized of late, by irresponsible people of course, for what they term my reactionary association with big business. You know the demagogic appeal.”
“It is particularly at a time like this that an intelligentlyrun organization can be of most use to a man in public life,” said Colonel Judson earnestly. Senator Planet’s black eyes twinkled and he passed a hand over the patch of spiky black hair that had fallen over his low forehead, leaving a segment of the top of his head bald. “I guess it comes down to how much assistance will be forthcoming,” he said, getting to his feet. “The parallelogram of forces.”
The other men got to their feet too. The senator flicked the ash from his cigar. “The force of public opinion, senator,” said J.W. portentously. “That is what we have to offer.” “Well, Mr. Moorehouse, you must excuse me, I have some speeches to prepare… This has been most delightful… Dick, you must come to dinner while you’re in Washington. We’ve been missing you at our little dinners… Goodnight, Joel, see you tomorrow.” J.W.’s valet was holding the senator’s furlined overcoat for him. “Mr. Bingham,” said J.W., “is a very publicspirited man, senator, he’s willing to spend a very considerable sum of money.” “He’ll have to,” said the senator.