The intellectual tension induced by the master film was relieved by a livelier, more lyric and less philosophical drama:  Mack Schnarken and the Bathing Suit Babes in a comedy of manners entitled “Right on the Coco.”  Mr. Schnarken was at various high moments a cook, a life-guard, a burlesque actor, and a sculptor.  There was a hotel hallway up which policemen charged, only to be stunned by plaster busts hurled upon them from the innumerous doors.  If the plot lacked lucidity, the dual motif of legs and pie was clear and sure.  Bathing and modeling were equally sound occasions for legs; the wedding-scene was but an approach to the thunderous climax when Mr. Schnarken slipped a piece of custard pie into the clergyman’s rear pocket.

The audience in the Rosebud Movie Palace squealed and wiped their eyes; they scrambled under the seats for overshoes, mittens, and mufflers, while the screen announced that next week Mr. Schnarken might be seen in a new, riproaring, extra-special superfeature of the Clean Comedy Corporation entitled, “Under Mollie’s Bed.”

“I’m glad,” said Carol to Kennicott as they stooped before the northwest gale which was torturing the barren street, “that this is a moral country.  We don’t allow any of these beastly frank novels.”

“Yump.  Vice Society and Postal Department won’t stand for them.  The American people don’t like filth.”

“Yes.  It’s fine.  I’m glad we have such dainty romances as ’Right on the Coco’ instead.”

“Say what in heck do you think you’re trying to do?  Kid me?”

He was silent.  She awaited his anger.  She meditated upon his gutter patois, the Boeotian dialect characteristic of Gopher Prairie.  He laughed puzzlingly.  When they came into the glow of the house he laughed again.  He condescended: 

“I’ve got to hand it to you.  You’re consistent, all right.  I’d of thought that after getting this look-in at a lot of good decent farmers, you’d get over this high-art stuff, but you hang right on.”

“Well——­” To herself:  “He takes advantage of my trying to be good.”

“Tell you, Carrie:  There’s just three classes of people:  folks that haven’t got any ideas at all; and cranks that kick about everything; and Regular Guys, the fellows with sticktuitiveness, that boost and get the world’s work done.”

“Then I’m probably a crank.”  She smiled negligently.

“No.  I won’t admit it.  You do like to talk, but at a show-down you’d prefer Sam Clark to any damn long-haired artist.”

“Oh—­well——­”

“Oh well!” mockingly.  “My, we’re just going to change everything, aren’t we!  Going to tell fellows that have been making movies for ten years how to direct ’em; and tell architects how to build towns; and make the magazines publish nothing but a lot of highbrow stories about old maids, and about wives that don’t know what they want.  Oh, we’re a terror! . . . Come on now, Carrie; come out of it; wake up!  You’ve got a fine nerve, kicking about a movie because it shows a few legs!  Why, you’re always touting these Greek dancers, or whatever they are, that don’t even wear a shimmy!”