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Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank

Chapter Seven

MULTIPLE CHOICE
1. What is the famous saying among computer programmers that refers to the fact that computers
cannot tell the difference between good and bad data?
a. Garbage input, garbage output
b. Garbage in, garbage out
c. Garbage output is from garbage inputted
d. Garbage out is from garbage in
e. None of the above

ANS: B

2. The purpose of the __________ is to get the first input value for the validation of a loop.
a. GIGO
b. Read
c. Priming read
d. Write
e. None of the above

ANS: C

3. Designing a program to avoid common errors is called _________________ programming.

a. Defensive
b. Direct
c. Defective
d. Detective
e. None of the above

ANS: A

4. _______________ happens when an input operation attempts to read data, but there is no data
to read.
a. No data
b. Error reading
c. Input error
d. Empty input
e. None of the above

ANS: D

5. Input ______________ is commonly done with a loop that iterates as long as an input variable
contains bad data.
a. Check
b. Validation
c. Examination
d. Priming
e. None of the above

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Seven 2

ANS: B

6. _______________ is sometimes the term used for input validation.

a. Input error
b. Error trap
c. Input trap
d. Data error
e. None of the above

ANS: B

7. In addition to using loops to validate data, _____________ can also be used to validate data.
a. String Function
b. Real Function
c. Integer Function
d. Boolean Function
e. None of the above

ANS: D

8. Which of the following is not a check for data accuracy?

a. Salary within the allowable range
b. Time measurements
c. ZIP codes in correct format and valid
d. All of the above are checks for data accuracy
e. None of the above

ANS: D

9. Which of the following is not an input validation error type?

a. Empty input
b. Incorrect data type
c. Inaccurate data
d. All of the above are input validation error types
e. None of the above

ANS: D

10. What is the first step to use in detecting data type mismatch errors?
a. Read the input as a string
b. Convert to the desired data type
c. Determine whether it can be converted
d. Display error message
e. None of the above

ANS: A

11. The priming read is placed _________ the loop.

a. Inside
b. Before

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Seven 3

c. Below
d. Inside and before
e. Inside and below

ANS: B

12. Which of the following statements is true about this Boolean expression?
score < 0 AND score > 100
a. This expression is true for numbers between 0 and 100.
b. This expression is true for numbers greater than 100.
c. This expression is true for numbers less than 0.
d. This expression would never be true.
e. None of the above

ANS: D

13. What type of function can be used to see if the password entered has the minimum number of
characters?
a. Mathematical
b. Boolean
c. String
d. Trigonometric
e. None of the above

ANS: C

14. If, when asked for a date of birth, the user enters a future date, this error should be caught by a
____________ check.
a. Date
b. Time
c. Day
d. Reasonableness
e. None of the above

ANS: D

15. Accepting February 29 in only a leap year is a check that is done by a ___________ check.
a. Date
b. Day
c. Month
d. Calendar
e. None of the above

ANS: A

16. Which of the following library functions could be used to validate the length of a string?
a. random
b. isString

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Seven 4

c. length
d. toUpper
e. None of the above

ANS: C

17. Which of the following library functions could be used to validate that the correct data type was
input for an amount of money?
a. isInteger
b. isString
c. toLower
d. isReal
e. All of the above

ANS: D

18. Which of the following library functions could be used to simplify the process of string
validation?
a. length
b. toUpper
c. isReal
d. isInteger
e. None of the above

ANS: B

TRUE/FALSE
1. True/False: An input validation loop is sometimes called an error handler.

ANS: T

2. True/False: If the user provides bad data as input to a program, the program will correct the
data and produce output.

ANS: F

3. True/False: Programs should be designed such that all input is inspected before it is processed
and bad data is discarded.

ANS: T

4. True/False: The priming read is needed when a pretest loop is executed.

ANS: T

5. True/False: Often a Boolean function can be used to validate data.

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Seven 5

ANS: T

6. True/False: The empty read is not an obvious input error and is a difficult one to handle.

ANS: F

7. True/False: The practice of anticipating errors that can happen while a program is running and
designing the program to avoid those errors is called defensive programming.

ANS: T

8. True/False: Checking for accuracy of data, even when the user provides the right type of data,
is part of input validation.

ANS: T

9. True/False: Checking for reasonableness of data is programmatically impossible.

ANS: F

10. True/False: When using string input validation it is wise to use the library function to convert the
input to upper case or lowercase so case-sensitive string comparisons can be made.

ANS: T

11. True/False: Input validation is not needed if the program is well designed.

ANS: F

12. True/False: Most programming languages do not provide library functions that can be used for
input validation.

ANS: F

FILL IN THE BLANK

1. An error trap can be performed by a(n) ____________________ validation loop.

ANS: input

2. __________ programming is the practice of anticipating errors that can happen while a program
is running.

ANS: Defensive

3. The acronym ___________ is used by programmers to refer to the fact that computers cannot
tell difference between good and bad data.

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Seven 6

ANS: GIGO

4. The input operation that is performed just before a validation loop is known as the _________.

ANS: priming read

5. The _________________ occurs when the user presses the ENTER key without typing a value
for an input operation.

ANS: empty input

6. Using a ________________ function many times would simplify the long compound Boolean
expression that is used by a validation loop.

ANS: Boolean

7. To validate if the input data is a valid integer, use the __________ library function.

ANS: isInteger

8. An input validation that accepts strings in mixed case would have incorporated a case-
__________ string comparison operation.

ANS: insensitive

9. The string _________ function plays a role in the string’s validity when a minimum number of
characters are required to be entered.

ANS: length

10. A _________ loop could be used to validate input instead of using the priming read.

ANS: posttest

11. When a payroll program verifies that no value greater than 168 is entered for the number of
hours worked in a week, it is performing a ___________________ check.

ANS: time measurement

12. After the string is read it is determined if it can be converted to the desired data type in a
_____________ error.

ANS: type mismatch

13. When a loop rejects any input except the strings “yes” and “no” then it is performing a case-
___________ comparison.

ANS: sensitive

14. Programs that contain a priming read have a _________ loop.

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Seven 7

ANS: pretest

15. The integrity of a program’s output is only as good as the integrity of the program’s ________.

ANS: input

16. When ____________ data is entered by the user, the program should at least ask the user to
confirm that he or she intended to enter it.

ANS: unreasonable

17. When the user enters a U.S. Address, the value entered as the ________ should be checked to
verify that it is both valid and in the correct format.

ANS: ZIP code

18. You should design your programs in such a way that bad ____________ is never accepted.

ANS: input

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Other documents randomly have
different content
underwear, his own and Harvey’s. He always gave himself the
benefit of the hesitation. But it meant nothing: Harvey would ravage
his store at the first necessity.
The work impulse was quite dead. He felt relieved, as though he had
flung a small morsel into the maw of his conscience, but otherwise
there was no twinge of energy. He tied up Bob’s shirts and put the
last unbroken record on the rickety little Victrola, borrowed one
evening from Gin and still unreturned. They needed records: the
Lennards had good records. Blake kept up pretty well; he probably
just walked into a place and bought up everything. Pretty soft for
him.
Well, one could make out by snuggling up to the big houses, riding
in their cars and going to their parties and drinking their liquor. One
smothered the occasional fever of hopeless malice. They couldn’t
help being lazy and easily pleased and careless. If only they wouldn’t
try to be critical about painting. There must be things they couldn’t
have; there must be.
“When I am rich,” he thought, and then, “but if I never am?”
He paused with a clean towel in his hand, and looked around. The
room was still the same, small and bare and cluttered and dirty.
Outside the window was a blue mountain-peak beyond a broad
dwindling stretch of juniper-dotted sand, but around his house there
were other little low houses, mud houses sinking in the mud of the
road. He turned slowly around, looking hopelessly at the yellow walls
and at the tiny fire-place spilling pine ash out on the floor. The
picture was shining wetly and tiny knobs of paint on the canvas shed
tiny shadows. He frowned at it, stepped suddenly closer and
examined it carefully.
The letter-box outside clanged in closing, and he heard the postman
going away. More bills? Perhaps there would be something else: he
decided to see. There was a letter from home, from Minnesota.
The very sight of the postmark sent a heavy lump to his chest. If he
didn’t open it? If he dropped it into the gray ashes by accident, and
waited until Harvey had burned it in the evening? Busy with the
thought, he moved his hand up and down balancing it, weighing it.
To open it would mean the day lost, with all his work ruined. He
would read it and then flee from the close little room, searching
madly all over town for someone—anyone—who knew nothing about
Minnesota or families: someone rich and lazy and lucky and dumb;
some stranger. Burn it; burn the next one and the next and the next.
Burn it.
With a despairing glance at his mountain, a farewell glance, he tore
it open and found a check for ten dollars, blotted a little and
somehow nibbled at the edges. The letter was on blue-lined paper.
From the little square sheets rose an almost visible feeling, like
smoke; the room was steeped in Teddy’s guilt. And yet it was a nice
letter.

“Dear Teddy,” his mother had written, innocently enough, at

the old brown desk in the front room. “I don’t want to scold
you in this letter because I know it is hard to find time to
write when you are getting started, I thought that I would
have to tell you that your father gets worried. I tell him not
to be foolish as I am sure if anything had happened we
would be notified right away. He worries about everything
these days because business is not very good. We are very
well except for a cold that has run through the family, I
hope you are taking care of yourself, I can’t help thinking
that you are too young to be so far away. Tommy’s report
from school is a little better than it has been especially on
spelling. There is not much news, the Dibbles are having a
hard time with Kenneth, I am afraid he is a wild boy.
Tommy saw him Saturday night with that girl at the drug
store and they had been drinking. I am so sorry for Mrs.
Dibble, I am sure if a son of mine acted like that it would
kill your father. He was saying this morning he could
probably speak to Mr. Larsen about your working in the
store here, I tell him it is more likely the country that is the
 attraction out there, the picture you sent is very pretty.
Please write even a postcard, your father worries. I enclose
something to help out, you don’t need to mention it when
you write because your father is worried about the
business.
Lovingly, your
Mother.”

The Madden boy put the letter down on the table and walked around
the room, thinking. The first few minutes were always the hardest.
He reasoned with himself frantically, trying to get rid of that lump in
his chest. He hated himself; more than that he hated his mother. It
was not right to make him feel so guilty. It was not right. People
don’t stay home. His father had not stayed home. He had run away
to Minnesota; if he happened to marry and have children, why
should they stay home?
Oh, forget it, forget it. There was the check, now. A boy in a book
would send it back with interest. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t
just send it back like that and hurt her feelings. The only frank,
honest, brave thing to do was to keep it, in the face of all families,
all feelings, all outworn nests and prisons. This was his city, these his
mountains. Somewhere in America there was a woman who had
borne him, but everywhere there were children being born. What
about it? He asked his mother that. What about it? Oh, damn.
Someone threw a rock against the door. Furiously he tore it open
and looked out.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s you. Come in.”
Blake Lennard, it was, sitting on a norse and wearing a huge
Stetson. He looked light-hearted and absurd, but shy. He started to
climb down.
“You’re up?” he said. “No one else seems to be. I’ve been riding all
over town trying to find my way. What I thought was that maybe
you would like to ride; there is another horse up at the house. I had
it saddled in case I found anyone. I want to see what it’s like around
here. Are you too busy?”
“Fine, no, come on in. I’ll be ready in a second.” The hysteria had
departed. Until the next letter. Meantime there were all the playboys
and the parties.
Blake stepped in, looking around with equal interest in everything,
the bed with colored blankets tossed in the middle and the dusty bits
of art.
“Is it yours?” he asked, looking at the picture. “I like it. Don’t you?
It’s almost finished: weren’t you working on it? Didn’t I really
interrupt?”
“No,” said the Madden boy, crushing a piece of paper and throwing it
into the fire, “I wasn’t going to finish it. Chuck me that boot, will
you?”
 CHAPTER FOUR
Gin dropped her suitcase to the porch with a loud sigh, fished in the
rusty mailbox to no avail, and fumbled with her key at the lock. The
door swung open at her touch. She stared at Flo, who was garbed in
the green kimono that was signal of a rest-day, and who stared back
in gloomy impassivity. Her lips were puffed and her eyes were red.
“Hello!” cried Gin. “Why are you here?”
“Well, guess.” Flo shuffled over to the sofa and a pile of stockings
that needed darning. “I got up early this morning and went down to
the office, all ready and waiting. I’ve been packed for two days, I
was so excited.”
“I know.”
“Well, the cars all lined up and everybody came except three of my
dudes. They were a family. I guess they just decided not to come,
without any notice. It was so late that Mr. God just put the other one
into Rita’s car instead, and they sent her, and told me to go home.
That means the third year running that I’ve missed out on the Hopi
country.”
“Oh, you poor thing!” In all Gin’s rush of indignation she was afraid
to say more. With her mouth open, waiting to pour forth incitement
to rebellion, she looked at Flo’s miserable face and turned instead to
her suit-case. The purple velvet blouse went into the rickety
wardrobe, but after a quick survey of the rest of the contents she
closed the bag and pushed it into the corner, ready for tomorrow.
“Gee, I’m sorry,” she added over her shoulder, draping her suit-coat
on a hanger.
“Oh, well,” said Flo heavily, “I’ll be over all this by tomorrow, I
suppose. I’ve been as sore as this before. I’m just mad because I
turned down a date for tomorrow night and now I’ll be in town after
all, probably.”
“It’s a rotten deal. Call up and say your plans have changed. Where
are the cigarettes?”
“On the table behind you. No, I’m not going to call up now. I’m
ashamed to do it; I talked too much about the Hopi trip. I might as
well give up trying to keep any contacts in this damned town.
They’re always being mixed up. What sort of crowd did you have?”
“Ghastly.” Gin sat down on the couch and propped her feet up,
taking a long comfortable puff. “It was a married couple with a kid
and an old lady who kept saying, ‘Now, young woman, tell me what
I’m going to see!’ Whenever I tried to tell her she’d look over my
head with a patient expression.”
“I can just see her. They come in packages.” Flo picked up another
stocking and spread her fingers out in the heel. “Gin, I’m fed up.
Really.”
“Naturally,” said Gin, as comfortingly as possible.
“No, it isn’t just that. I’ve been thinking over the whole situation.
I’ve been here since the beginning of the Detour: I’ve had three
years of it. Where am I? What have I got out of it?”
“What have you got?” Gin smiled and watched the smoke. “Oh,
you’ve got a swell Navajo belt.”
“Yes, a belt and a half dozen shirts I wouldn’t dream of wearing if
they weren’t part of the uniform, and a lot of silver junk that I’m sick
of looking at. I’d sell it if I didn’t need it for the effect.”
“But of course there’s the experience. Many a girl of your age is
hanging around in New York or Chicago trying to catch a husband so
she can stop playing the typewriter eight hours a day. This is fun.
Honestly it is: think of the city, and the dirt!”
“Experience.” Flo pronounced it carefully, with a burlesque tone of
rapture. “You like that word. It’s the same thing as adventure, isn’t
it?”
“Just about.”
“Yeah. I used to have ideas about adventure, too.”
“Oh, you’re old and weary. Forget it.”
“No, I’m telling you an idea. I think that adventure isn’t worth a
damn unless you can talk about it afterwards. It’s all in the story. I
know.”
“Well, go ahead and tell the story. Who’s stopping you?”
“Who wants to hear it? The couriers don’t want to hear about it;
they have the same thing every day. I can’t talk to the dudes about
it. They just want to hear how many Indians are born every year.”
“Or if the couriers aren’t Mexican, really. Or how many stamps to use
on letters to Chicago. Well, tell your friends. They enjoy it.”
“What friends? I haven’t any.”
Gin was tired of it. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Flo. Snap out of it.”
“But I haven’t. Who on earth would take the trouble to go on being
a friend of any of us when we’re always leaving town? It takes too
much energy. As soon as I make a dinner date the office deadheads
me to Albuquerque to wait for some railroad official who’s taking a
free vacation to the canyon or something. People get tired of that.
No one ever asks me for bridge any more. I never have time to write
letters: I don’t even feel like it. I bet a soldier gets just this way,
living in training camp.... The only people I ever see in any
connected way are the other girls and the drivers and the Indians.
And the nigger in the lavatory on the Chief, when I’m on the trains.”
She broke off the thread and rolled up two stockings. “We’re
pathetic figures. Don’t you realize it? I’ve been realizing it all day.”
“Have it your own way,” said Gin. “In my artless fashion I thought I
was enjoying myself, but have it your own way. Have a drink.”
“I don’t care if I do.”
Gin went into the kitchen, knelt down before a cabinet that was
shrouded in a cretonne curtain, and pulled out a glass keg of corn
liquor. She poured out two small glasses and went back to the living
room.
Flo tasted hers and said again, “I’m fed up.” Gin watched her
curiously and felt a little depressed. Sometimes she too had a feeling
of hopelessness; it was probably the same thing now with Flo. Were
they coming to her more often lately? Would she too become
chronically tired and aggrieved? How long before she began to
indulge in that dangerous game of wondering what it was all about?
She drank the corn thoughtfully, thinking about her first days here. It
had all been fun, but most especially, she remembered the party the
old girls had given for the new, when they had begun to tell their
favorite stories about dudes. There was the girl who gave them the
list of W. C.’s available for every trip, and made them practice how to
ask the gentlemen if they needed them.
“You don’t really need to say anything to them. You just say to the
nearest woman in a loud whisper, ‘Would you like to...?’ and they’ll
watch where you go, if they have any sense.”
Then there had been the last lecture, when Mr. God gave them a
little talk on the aims of the company and ended his address with a
delicate plea for—well, for what? Sobriety and morality, probably.
What he said was, “I need hardly add that we assume that every girl
is a lady, in the best sense of the word....”
They had giggled at that, all the way back to the apartment. It was
fun, the whole idea; tearing over the countryside all day and not
knowing every evening where you would be the next night. Flo was
tired, that was all: it would pass——
“We might cut up tonight,” she said aloud. “There’s a new movie
isn’t there? Or would you like to hire a car and go out of town
somewhere? Come on, let’s do that.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Flo grumbled. “It costs too much. I don’t know if
I’ll last till next pay day as it is. I tell you, though, we might get
dressed up and eat at the hotel instead of fixing something here.”
“Yes, that wouldn’t be bad. Is there any hot water? Oh, wait a
minute.” The phone was ringing: she ran to answer it and called
back, “Flo, it’s Tom and he says it’s going to be moonlight. He and
Wally want us to go up the canyon for a picnic. Should I tell him
we’ll fix the supper?”
Flo frowned, as usual, and protested. “But there’s nothing in the
house....”
“Now, don’t be that way. We can send for something. It’ll do us
good. Come on.”
“Oh, all right. Who’s going?”
“Just us and the cowboys. Tom says he can have the horses here by
seven. Hurry and make up your mind, he’s waiting.”
“It’s all right with me.” She hesitated, struggling with her woe, then
hurried into the kitchen and started to slice bread.
They were well on the way by the time the moon appeared over a
dip in the range of hills to the east. The night air was warm; in the
moonlit darkness their shadows were grotesquely different in size.
Tom’s hat was the largest thing about him; it swept in a beautiful
curve above his sharp face. He rode ahead of the others, glancing
around to talk to Flo, who followed stiff and a little ill at ease in the
saddle, perpetually thinking and talking of her horse. Gin and Wally
rode side by side, but Wally was immense and the horse he rode
was also immense: when Gin said anything to him she had to look
up. She didn’t say much: Wally was in a reminiscent mood and kept
the conversation going without any help.
“I mind at one of the shows at Cheyenne,” he said, “the judges was
just beginning to catch on the wild cow milking trick. I won out
because they caught everybody else.”
“What is the trick? I never heard of it.”
“No, they don’t do it no more. You’ve got to show milk in the bottle
to win: the first one who gets to the stand with milk in the bottle
wins the money. The boys used to carry milk right along with them,
in the bottle, in their pocket, and make a few motions at the cow
with it and then run along to the judges’ stand. It was just a race
really. This time the judges was watching out and they felt the
bottles and the milk was cold so that let them out.”
“And yours wasn’t cold?”
“Oh no,” said Wally. “I’d been carrying the milk in my mouth: it was
right warm. That was the only money I took at that show.”
The creaking of the saddles and the mixed beat of the horses’ hoofs
added to a peaceful rhythm of night noises. Passing a farmyard, a
little black dog darted out with fierce yaps and Gin’s horse jumped
nervously and started to trot. The other three fell into the stride;
gathering speed, they cantered up a rise in the road and swung
around a bend into the canyon itself. A light breeze met them. Gin
closed her eyes, giving herself up to the feeling. She was thinking
about Teddy. It was a good thing she had managed to get out of the
house tonight. She’d been spending too many evenings waiting for
him to call up.
“Probably this is one of the evenings he’ll decide to call,” she
thought, and tried to be glad that she wouldn’t be there to answer
the phone. “When I see him again I’ll tell him I was in town, and
that’ll show him that I don’t always wait for him.” But would it do
any good? Would it have any effect, and if so, what effect did she
want it to have? She couldn’t figure out how she felt about him. He
exasperated her: she always made up her mind to quarrel with him
next time she saw him—perhaps a quarrel would break down his
easy, lazy indifference to everything—and then when she saw him,
she always forgot. It was only when she wasn’t with him that she
was so exasperated. Silly to feel anything about him at all. They
didn’t know each other very well: they hardly ever saw each other.
She wondered whether to speak to Flo about it. But Flo had no use
for the Camino crowd at all: she refused to consider them human.
“Nuts,” she called them, and forgot all about them.
The soft ceaseless flow of words from Wally and the loping horses
pushed Gin into an exaltation, after a little. She was part of the
Western world at last: not the West of the daytime where people
brushed their teeth and went to offices, but the real West that
existed in the fifteen-cent magazines on drugstore racks and the old
films that were shown at the theatre Saturday nights.
Baldy slowed down suddenly to a walk, stopped by the horses ahead
of him. They all hesitated a moment, then followed Tom’s lead and
turned down a path that led to the canyon river.
“I remember a good place along here,” he said, and they splashed
and waded to a flat plot of ground with a few bushes leaning over
from the slope. Here they swung off and tied the horses, gathering a
few small logs and sticks.
“We brought coffee,” Wally said, “so as to have a fire.” They had
brought something else too: a bottle of milky liquor that Tom
claimed was tequila.
Gin disagreed on principle. “You’re crazy. There never is any tequila
in Santa Fé. Every time some bootlegger goes wrong on his gin he
sells the batch to cowboys and calls it tequila.”
“I brought it myself from Juarez,” said Tom. “It ain’t gin. If you don’t
want it, pass it up. I can use it.”
Flo said bravely, “Well, I’ll try it. I need something new to get
cheered up. I don’t care what it is. If I get sick they’ll have to let me
off the trip tomorrow.”
“Oh,” said Gin, “I didn’t say I didn’t want it. Hand it over.”
They munched sandwiches and cake in silence. Gin tasted the drink
and silently admitted that she was wrong. It might not be tequila,
but it was something very strange. It had a chilling effect at first,
and after each swallow settled down in her stomach like a stubborn
little lump of lead before it seemed to melt and spread. The others
finished the food before she noticed: there were only three limp jelly
sandwiches left.
“You made them,” said Flo, unkindly. “Eat ’em. I told you not to.
Have more coffee.”
“She don’t want coffee,” Tom interposed. “Give her the bottle.”
Flo said in a discouraged tone, “It’s having no effect whatever. I
thought I could get happy tonight and forget my troubles, but I’m
just the same, only worse.”
“It always acts like that when you set out for a good one,” said
Wally. “One night last year I started out for a three-day party and I
kept going all night and went to bed in the morning cold sober.”
“It’s a strange life,” Gin suddenly said. She hugged her knees and
rocked backward, staring at the sky. “People trying to make
themselves crazy with bottles of poison, when everything is all right
as it is.”
“What’s that?” Wally looked worried.
“It’s a strange life,” she repeated. “Everything is peculiar. Don’t you
think so? Really, don’t you?”
Flo sighed audibly. “Leave her alone; she’s off again.”
“But it is,” Gin persisted. A messianic zeal possessed her: she must
convey the message in her soul or die unappeased. The moon, the
bushes, the beautiful silent horses, all waited with an understanding
patience while she spoke to these scoffers. “It is,” she said again.
“Here I am sitting by a fire out in the middle of Nature, wearing
pants and drinking tequila. I mean here I am, and ten years ago—
five years ago—I was living in cities and wearing skirts and now here
I am. It’s wonderful.”
“That’s all right,” said Tom. “Of course it’s wonderful.”
“It’s so peculiar. Can’t you see?” Her eyes filled with tears; her soul
filled with a passionate sensibility of life and all its lovely factors; the
moon, the fire, the horses.... She stretched out on the ground and
put her head on her arm, thinking it over.
Tom rose to his feet, leaned over her, and pulled her gently by the
arm. “Come on, Gin. Come on back to town with me and we’ll get
some more funny thoughts.”
She stumbled after him in the dark and let him untie the horse and
help her up to the saddle. They cantered most of the way home; as
they swung through the narrow streets at the edge of town she
peered through the windows, catching quick flashes of lit rooms with
quiet women sewing, or standing at stoves, or washing dishes.
Suddenly she felt desolate and lonely, envious of these people who
had homes and dull quiet duties.
Tom waved her in to the living-room while he led the horses to the
corral. “You wait there and think about life.”
She sat on his camp cot and reflected. It was a big bare room, with
a bearskin and a beaded vest on the wall for decoration. There was
a table with a Victrola and several bottles, and on the window-sill
there were stacks of the little fifteen-cent magazines with pictures
on them of bucking broncos and cheering cowboys in furry chaps.
The last of the West was here, in these dude-wranglers with their
tall stories and their horses. Now she was sad with a tender
melancholy, and somewhat sleepy. What were they all looking for
here in the mountains? Why did they come? She shook her head.
“Now,” said Tom in the doorway. “What’s it all about?” He handed
her a glass. “You ought to feel better with this,” he said. He sat
down next to her on the bed and put his arm around her. “What’s
eating you?” he asked gently. “Tell me about it and you’ll feel better.”
Her face buried in his shoulder, she answered, “Nothing. I feel
sleepy. I’m all right.”
“Sure nothing’s the matter?”
Again she shook her head.
“Well,” he said, “I think there is. You don’t come around as much as
you used to. You’ve been running around with that funny crowd, the
queer ones.”
“Why, Tom!” With exaggerated indignation, she sat erect and stared
at him.
“Sure you are. I saw you at the show the other night with Madden.”
“He’s not queer,” she protested.
“He ain’t? Then I don’t know anything about queer ones. Take your
medicine there.”
An hour or so passed in jerks; quick lovely spaces of time with the
Victrola playing and short horrible periods that dragged on for years,
when she relapsed into stupidity and stared at the beaded vest and
tried not to talk about life. She saw Tom once in a while, as it were,
looking at her and grinning in a monotonous way: she leaned
against his shoulder in an unpleasant spell of dizziness, and it was
there that Flo found her when she came stamping in with Wally. She
heard Flo’s sharp voice.
“Look at that! Did you ever? We’d better get a taxi.” And in the car
that crept through the dark streets she sat up suddenly and said,
“Well, I seem to have done it instead of you.”
“You did,” said Flo. “Lie down.”
“I’m all right.” She sat up and tried to put off her remorse until next
morning. “Where are the boys?”
“I made them stay at the stable. It’s too late for them to come out.”
“What time is it?”
“Three o’clock, I think.”
The house was squat and ominous in the dark; the moon had long
since set. Gin crept to bed by the light of the reading-lamp; she felt
somehow that the bright light would outrage the hour. Her head felt
very light. It wouldn’t next day.
“Flo,” she called across the room, after she had settled down. There
was something to talk over with Flo. What was it? Too much
trouble....
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What is it?”
“I’m perfectly sober,” Gin said. There was no challenge and she
continued, “But just the same, life’s peculiar.”
 CHAPTER FIVE
Mary and the camp-chair sank down together for two inches. Then
the chair squeaked and stopped giving in: it stayed where it was in
space, poised above the throng of Santo Domingo Indians and dusty
crabby tourists like a throne, disregarded on the pueblo roof.
“Well,” she continued, when she was sure the chair had come to
rest, “I do know that I’m at my wits’ ends. I’m desperate.” Casually,
she drew a handkerchief out of her raffia bag and folded it over her
nose, against the dust.
Bob answered, “You wait until you’ve talked to Lucy Parker. Don’t
give up hope at this stage. There’s such good material in the boy;
you mustn’t give up hope.” He felt that he hadn’t said quite enough,
but he was tired. Mary was exactly like a sack when she was in a
crowd, he thought a little furtively: limp and useless. Dragging Mary
and a camp-chair was very fatiguing. His eyes hurt in the sun but he
fought against the impulse to put on the sun-glasses in his vest
pocket. Mary looked so odd in hers.
From the plaza beneath there came a confused roaring: a mixture of
singing and soft-beating drums where the Indians were dancing to
the music of the chorus, heavily overlaid and swamped by a loud
conversation going on between people squatting before the house.
Bob craned his neck to see over the heads of the Indians who
blocked the view. He was trying to find Teddy.
“It’s Blake’s fault,” said Mary, understanding him. “He’s always
running off like that: this time he’s taken Teddy with him. It’s very
rude of him. I must speak to him again.” She readjusted the
handkerchief and settled the glasses on her nose. “This dust. I think
he’s a schizoid personality, don’t you? I spoke to Brill about him. If I
sell that Patterson property perhaps I might have him analyzed. But
he seems so prejudiced against it, and I don’t want to force the
child. What do you think?”
“Brill? Analysis is a wonderful thing. Yes, that might help.” He broke
off and waved violently. “There’s Lucy now. Lucy! Confound these
drums. There, she’s coming over.” He settled back in relief. He was
never at his best with a surrounding audience of less than three or
four. He loved people and more people; the more the better. There
was no limit to his capacity for company; if he should ever have to
live completely alone he would go mad. The frantic boredom that
had possessed him with Mary grew more peaceful; slowly and
completely died as he watched Lucy pushing a way toward the
ladder that leant against their roof. She was followed by her
daughter Phyllis and her daughter Phyllis’ friend Janie Peabody.
Good! Soon there would be activity and noise on the roof around
him, and other people would look up to the chattering crowd and
say to each other, “That’s Bob Stuart.”
The three women climbed the ladder carefully, with upheld skirts
and cautious feeling of the toes.
“Ah-h-h, Lucy,” said Bob lovingly, lending a hand at the last rung.
“Phyllis. Miss Peabody. Lucy darling, we were just talking about you.
You are to tell Mrs. Lennard everything you know about the
California school. She wants to find a school for Blake—you know,
Blake.”
“My school?” Lucy sat down cross-legged on the roof and lit a
cigarette. “Certainly. Tell me if you want it and I’ll write you a letter
tonight. I should think it would be just the thing for you. Phyllis was
such a problem before I sent her there. They always are difficult at a
certain age, don’t you think?” She turned and flicked an ash at
Phyllis, who ignored her by chatting with Janie.
The singing fell to an abrupt end and in the silence shuffling feet
were heard. Over an array of backs, fidgeting sweaty backs, they
saw green branches jogging, being carried out of the plaza. A
fluttering wisp of red shirt moved in the same direction, seen in little
jerks as it passed between two fat ladies in khaki hats.
“Oh,” cried Mary, “it’s over, isn’t it? I haven’t really seen anything of
it.”
“No, no,” Bob said soothingly. “They start again in a minute. What
was all that at your school about psychoanalysis, Lucy? Tell her
about it.”
“Won’t she be bored? I always forget the other people may want to
watch the dance. It seems impossible that anyone here could be
seeing it for the first time. How many times have we seen it, Bob?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say. It’s nothing to what it used to be. I remember a
dance at Jemez that I stumbled on by sheer accident. It was in the
old days when I was collecting. I was taking a trip to San Ysidro to
get a blanket—you could still pick up good things in those days. I
was driving with poor old Gertrude and we suddenly turned into the
village and there it was. Very shocking.”
Lucy leaned forward and ground out her cigarette against a stone.
The sun was paling as if the air had grown suddenly thick. Behind a
high yellow sandy cone back of the town, a black cloud peeped.
“Tell us about it,” said Lucy. Down in the plaza the singing swelled
triumphantly.
“I couldn’t really. They were having something ceremonial and
private—I don’t know just what. There were baskets of fruit and
plates of food; the men made obscene gestures with the bananas.
Fertility and all that, I suppose. Gertrude was as white as a sheet;
she screamed and drove away as fast as she could, but they didn’t
pay any attention to us. I was helpless with laughter. You can
imagine Gertrude.”
“It’s a wonderful story,” said Lucy. “I should have heard it before.
Gertrude never mentioned it to me, but naturally she wouldn’t. Well,
Mrs. Lennard....”
The singing stopped again.
“Now is it over?”
“No, that’s just the end of the first clan’s turn. There’ll be a lot more
before they call it a day.... It’s a small school; only a hundred or so,
and they have a staff psychoanalyst and all the masters really make
a specialty of understanding the students. Very modern, of course—
you must see the art work. It’s coeducational but not in any silly
communist way. I mean it’s individual. Do you understand what I’m
trying to say?”
“I think so. It’s very interesting to me, because Blake is such a
special case....”
Lucy nodded deeply. “It’s a school for special cases; that’s the real
idea that’s behind it all. The woman who founded it is wonderful. I’ll
give you a letter for her. Oh, look, there’s Teddy. Teddy!” She
scrambled up and stood on tiptoe, waving. “Of course he’ll never be
able to hear me with all this noise.” The singers were chanting in a
high falsetto.
“He’s too busy with the courier, mother,” said Phyllis. “He can’t hear
you over all those people. Well, my dear, he was quite angry with
me. Have you ever seen him really angry?”
“Never,” said Janie.
“I was almost frightened,” said Phyllis. “Of course I don’t really care
what he thinks of me, but it was unpleasant for a few minutes. Tell
me what you heard about him in New York.”
“Oh, it wasn’t anything definite. They talk so in New York, I think.
They always say the same thing. I just heard that he gives terribly
amusing parties, my dear, with all of that crowd. And no one is quite
sure about him because he’s seen with people like that all the time:
of course no one thinks anything of it any more, and I do think that
if a person is amusing I don’t think a person’s private life ought to
have anything to do with it, but what I heard was.”
“This atmosphere is simply marvelous for young people,” Lucy was
telling Mary. “The combination of healthy outdoor life and the
peculiar feeling one gets out here of history—the Spaniards, and the
Western pioneers, and all that. And the wonderful Indian culture.
They imbibe something. Everybody here is so unusually appreciative,
haven’t you found it so?”
“The only flaw is that we’re getting to be so famous,” Bob added.
“It’s ruining the place. I wish the authorities would pass a law
prohibiting all these buses and trippers and outsiders. Nothing kills a
place as much as the outsiders.”
“I feel the same way,” said Lucy. “I’m afraid I’m really snobbish
about all those visitors. What can they get out of it?”
Jane was saying, “But I’m just going to hold out with what I have
until I get back East. You can’t tell what people are going to be
wearing this fall until you look around. It doesn’t matter so much
here, but....”
“Do you see Blake anywhere, Bob?” said Mary.
“Don’t worry, he’ll turn up at the car. He doesn’t seem to be with
Madden just now.”
The crowd was growing sparse. Over the hill beyond the houses cars
were leaving in streams, each one silhouetted against the green sky
before it crossed the mound and disappeared. As the day faded the
land grew wider, more desolate. Under the threatening rain-heavy
sky it looked parched and ferocious. Irritated squawks of automobile
horns mingled with the thrumming singing voices in the plaza.
Lucy looked down at the people who were hurrying to the cars.
“There’s Isobel. How very badly she dresses. Have you heard what
they’re saying about her engagement? Gwen was telling me....”
“Mother says I can go in August if I insist,” said Phyllis. “I’m not sure
I want to go at all: it’s a very dull season, I believe.”
“Oh, you lucky.”
Now there were such a few people left that Blake was in sight,
leaning against a ladder at the far corner of the plaza and gazing
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