Babbitt was pleased that the last scar of his rebellion was healed, yet as he drove home he was annoyed by such background thoughts as had never weakened him in his days of belligerent conformity. He discovered that he actually did not consider the Traction group quite honest. “Well, he’d carry out one more deal for them, but as soon as it was practicable, maybe as soon as Old Henry Thomson died, he’d break away from all association with them. He was forty-eight; in twelve years he’d be sixty; he wanted to leave a clean business to his grandchildren. Course there was a lot of money in negotiating for the Traction people, and a fellow had to look at things in a practical way, only –” He wriggled uncomfortably. He wanted to tell the Traction group what he thought of them. “Oh, he couldn’t do it, not now. If he offended them this second time, they would crush him. But – ”

He was conscious that his line of progress seemed confused. He wondered what he would do with his future. He was still young; was he through with adventuring? He felt that he had been trapped into the very net from which he had with such fury escaped and, supremest jest of all, been made to rejoice in the trapping.

“They’ve licked me; licked me to a finish!” he whimpered.