Seventeen | Page 3

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SEVENTEEN A TALE OF YOUTH AND SUMMER TIME AND
THE BAXTER FAMILY ESPECIALLY WILLIAM
by BOOTH TARKINGTON

SEVENTEEN

TO S.K.T.

CONTENTS
I. WILLIAM II. THE UNKNOWN III. THE PAINFUL AGE IV.

GENESIS AND CLEMATIS V. SORROWS WITHIN A BOILER VI.
TRUCULENCE VII. MR. BAXTER'S EVENING CLOTHES VIII.
JANE IX. LITTLE SISTERS HAVE BIG EARS X. MR. PARCHER
AND LOVE XI. BEGINNING A TRUE FRIENDSHIP XII.
PROGRESS OF THE SYMPTOMS XIII. AT HOME TO HIS
FRIENDS XIV. TIME DOES FLY XV. ROMANCE OF STATISTICS
XVI. THE SHOWER XVII. JANE'S THEORY XVIII. THE BIG, FAT
LUMMOX XIX. ``I DUNNO WHY IT IS'' XX. SYDNEY CARTON
XXI. MY LITTLE SWEETHEARTS XXII. FORESHADOWINGS
XXIII. FATHERS FORGET XXIV. CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN
XXV. YOUTH AND MR. PARCHER XXVI. MISS BOKE XXVII.
MAROONED XXVIII. RANNIE KIRSTED XXIX. ``DON'T
FORGET!'' XXX. THE BRIDE-TO-BE

SEVENTEEN
I
WILLIAM
William Sylvanus Baxter paused for a moment of thought in front of
the drug-store at the corner of Washington Street and Central Avenue.
He had an internal question to settle before he entered the store: he
wished to allow the young man at the soda- fountain no excuse for
saying, ``Well, make up your mind what it's goin' to be, can't you?''
Rudeness of this kind, especially in the presence of girls and women,
was hard to bear, and though William Sylvanus Baxter had borne it
upon occasion, he had reached an age when he found it intolerable.
Therefore, to avoid offering opportunity for anything of the kind, he
decided upon chocolate and strawberry, mixed, before approaching the
fountain. Once there, however, and a large glass of these flavors and
diluted ice-cream proving merely provocative, he said, languidly--an
affectation, for he could have disposed of half a dozen with gusto:
``Well, now I'm here, I might as well go one more. Fill 'er up again.
Same.''
Emerging to the street, penniless, he bent a fascinated and dramatic
gaze upon his reflection in the drug-store window, and then, as he
turned his back upon the alluring image, his expression altered to one
of lofty and uncondescending amusement. That was his glance at the
passing public. From the heights, he seemed to bestow upon the world

a mysterious derision--for William Sylvanus Baxter was seventeen long
years of age, and had learned to present the appearance of one who
possesses inside information about life and knows all strangers and
most acquaintances to be of inferior caste, costume, and intelligence.
He lingered upon the corner awhile, not pressed for time. Indeed, he
found many hours of these summer months heavy upon his hands, for
he had no important occupation, unless some intermittent dalliance
with a work on geometry (anticipatory of the distant autumn) might be
thought important, which is doubtful, since he usually went to sleep on
the shady side porch at his home, with the book in his hand. So, having
nothing to call him elsewhere, he lounged before the drug-store in the
early afternoon sunshine, watching the passing to and fro of the lower
orders and bourgeoisie of the middle-sized mid- land city which
claimed him (so to speak) for a native son.
Apparently quite unembarrassed by his presence, they went about their
business, and the only people who looked at him with any attention
were pedestrians of color. It is true that when the gaze of these fell
upon him it was instantly arrested, for no colored person could have
passed him without a little pang of pleasure and of longing. Indeed, the
tropical violence of William Sylvanus Baxter's tie and the strange
brilliancy of his hat might have made it positively unsafe for him