knew very well that this must be one of the colonists but chose to act as if no common tie could connect them—in this way he imagined that he was freed from the usual sanctions of behavior. Heedless of Joe’s expostulations, he brandished a fist in the air and bellowed, “Get out,” sternly. “No trespassing,” he added, carried away with his thoughts and pointing to an imaginary sign. “This is private property.”
Joe’s face looked pained. “I guess introductions arein order,” he suggested with mild reproof. He was perfectly certain that Taub knew him for a Utopian; Taub’s eyes, seeking to avoid an act of recognition, kept sliding insecurely away from a meeting with Joe’s face, so that his very violence had an element of constraint and even dissimulation which Joe did not find sympathetic. Nevertheless, to save Taub embarrassment, he presented himself formally. Taub stared at him a moment, and then broke away without answering. He had placed Joe suddenly in his mind and remembered that it was Macdermott who had imposed him on the Utopian council. “ Fools! ” he muttered to himself as he strode off to his cottage. “Why did they bring him here? They must have been mad to think of it.” All his benignity had vanished; it seemed to him that the apparition of this clown was a part of a plot to deride and humiliate him in some fashion that was still obscure. His whole being felt outraged by what he had just gone through: practical jokes were anathema to him; they belonged to an order of things which defied his powers of anticipation, like children, birds, cows, water, snakes, lightning, Gentiles, and automobiles. The thought of associating with Joe over a period of months struck him as truly preposterous; he felt deeply offended with Macdermott for having taken it for granted that he could.
His mood was somewhat bettered by an encounter with two of the purist children, who, having witnessed the scene on the peak, leapt out at him from behind some bushes, pointing make-believe guns at him andshouting, “State Police.” This time, at least he was not taken off his guard. Recognizing a young Macdermott, he tried a genial tone. “Well, little man,” he said, appropriating from some long-dead uncle this form of address, “what does your father think of your pointing guns at people?” “My father is a dope,” young Macdermott answered promptly, and Taub laughed aloud with pleasure at this echo of his own thoughts. “Ha, ha,” he said, “that’s good,” and he went off toward his cottage rehearsing the child’s phrase softly, well pleased with himself and the world. His own question and the boy’s answer seemed to him extremely witty: Susan disappointed him, when he stopped to tell her the story, by taking it too matter-of-factly (she had many nieces and nephews). “Poor Macdougal,” he elucidated, with a groan of half-genuine sympathy as he set himself in the ideologue’s shoes. “What a comedown for a pacifist! His own children call him a dope.”
Yet this deathblow, as he felt it, to the pretensions of the Macdermott faction did not quite dispose of the anger evoked by the collision with Joe. He went to bed in a bad humor, having quarreled with his wife about the stove, and was awakened very early by the sound of shots outside. To get back to sleep was impossible. In the city, he would have dressed, gone out tieless onto the street, bought coffee and a paper and felt himself king of the morning, the news, and the sleeping Village. But here he could only toss and wait for the communal breakfast, which was to be served in the central building, at an hour he was powerlessto advance. When he came out at last onto the lawn, wearing new work clothes that scratched him and cumbered the freedom of his gait, he found a small commotion. Off to one side in the clearing, Joe was doing target practice at an improvised rifle-range he had created by fixing some tin cans to locust-trees. The young veteran
Joe’s face looked pained. “I guess introductions arein order,” he suggested with mild reproof. He was perfectly certain that Taub knew him for a Utopian; Taub’s eyes, seeking to avoid an act of recognition, kept sliding insecurely away from a meeting with Joe’s face, so that his very violence had an element of constraint and even dissimulation which Joe did not find sympathetic. Nevertheless, to save Taub embarrassment, he presented himself formally. Taub stared at him a moment, and then broke away without answering. He had placed Joe suddenly in his mind and remembered that it was Macdermott who had imposed him on the Utopian council. “ Fools! ” he muttered to himself as he strode off to his cottage. “Why did they bring him here? They must have been mad to think of it.” All his benignity had vanished; it seemed to him that the apparition of this clown was a part of a plot to deride and humiliate him in some fashion that was still obscure. His whole being felt outraged by what he had just gone through: practical jokes were anathema to him; they belonged to an order of things which defied his powers of anticipation, like children, birds, cows, water, snakes, lightning, Gentiles, and automobiles. The thought of associating with Joe over a period of months struck him as truly preposterous; he felt deeply offended with Macdermott for having taken it for granted that he could.
His mood was somewhat bettered by an encounter with two of the purist children, who, having witnessed the scene on the peak, leapt out at him from behind some bushes, pointing make-believe guns at him andshouting, “State Police.” This time, at least he was not taken off his guard. Recognizing a young Macdermott, he tried a genial tone. “Well, little man,” he said, appropriating from some long-dead uncle this form of address, “what does your father think of your pointing guns at people?” “My father is a dope,” young Macdermott answered promptly, and Taub laughed aloud with pleasure at this echo of his own thoughts. “Ha, ha,” he said, “that’s good,” and he went off toward his cottage rehearsing the child’s phrase softly, well pleased with himself and the world. His own question and the boy’s answer seemed to him extremely witty: Susan disappointed him, when he stopped to tell her the story, by taking it too matter-of-factly (she had many nieces and nephews). “Poor Macdougal,” he elucidated, with a groan of half-genuine sympathy as he set himself in the ideologue’s shoes. “What a comedown for a pacifist! His own children call him a dope.”
Yet this deathblow, as he felt it, to the pretensions of the Macdermott faction did not quite dispose of the anger evoked by the collision with Joe. He went to bed in a bad humor, having quarreled with his wife about the stove, and was awakened very early by the sound of shots outside. To get back to sleep was impossible. In the city, he would have dressed, gone out tieless onto the street, bought coffee and a paper and felt himself king of the morning, the news, and the sleeping Village. But here he could only toss and wait for the communal breakfast, which was to be served in the central building, at an hour he was powerlessto advance. When he came out at last onto the lawn, wearing new work clothes that scratched him and cumbered the freedom of his gait, he found a small commotion. Off to one side in the clearing, Joe was doing target practice at an improvised rifle-range he had created by fixing some tin cans to locust-trees. The young veteran
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