This is a modern-English version of Success: A Novel, originally written by Adams, Samuel Hopkins. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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SUCCESS

By Samuel Hopkins Adams

Author of “The Clarion,” “Common Cause,” etc.

1921

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SUCCESS

PART I—ENCHANTMENT

PART II—THE VISION

PART III—FULFILLMENT

SUCCESS

PART I—ENCHANTMENT

CHAPTER I

The lonely station of Manzanita stood out, sharp and unsightly, in the keen February sunlight. A mile away in a dip of the desert, lay the town, a sorry sprawl of frame buildings, patternless save for the one main street, which promptly lost itself at either end in a maze of cholla, prickly pear, and the lovely, golden-glowing roseo. Far as the eye could see, the waste was spangled with vivid hues, for the rare rains had come, and all the cacti were in joyous bloom, from the scarlet stain of the ocatilla to the pale, dream-flower of the yucca. Overhead the sky shone with a hard serenity, a blue, enameled dome through which the imperishable fires seemed magnified as they limned sharp shadows on the earth; but in the southwest clouds massed and lurked darkly for a sign that the storm had but called a truce.

The lonely Manzanita station stood out, sharp and ugly, in the bright February sunlight. A mile away, nestled in a dip of the desert, lay the town, a sad spread of wooden buildings, random except for the one main street, which quickly vanished at both ends into a tangle of cholla, prickly pear, and the beautiful, golden-glowing roseo. As far as the eye could see, the landscape was dotted with bright colors, thanks to the rare rains that had arrived, causing all the cacti to bloom joyfully, from the red of the ocotillo to the soft, dreamlike flower of the yucca. Above, the sky shone with a hard calmness, a blue, glossy dome that magnified the eternal flames as they cast sharp shadows on the ground; but to the southwest, clouds gathered and lingered darkly, waiting for a sign that the storm had only paused.

East to west, along a ridge bounding the lower desert, ran the railroad, a line as harshly uncompromising as the cold mathematics of the engineers who had mapped it. To the north spread unfathomably a forest of scrub pine and piñon, rising, here and there, into loftier growth. It was as if man, with his imperious interventions, had set those thin steel parallels as an irrefragable boundary to the mutual encroachments of forest and desert, tree and cactus. A single, straggling trail squirmed its way into the woodland. One might have surmised that it was winding hopefully if blindly toward the noble mountain peak shimmering in white splendor, mystic and wonderful, sixty miles away, but seeming in that lucent air to be brooding closely over all the varied loveliness below.

East to west, along a ridge that bordered the lower desert, the railroad stretched out, its path as unforgiving as the precise calculations of the engineers who designed it. To the north, an endless expanse of scrub pine and piñon forest spread out, occasionally giving way to taller trees. It was as if humans, with their imposing actions, had laid down those thin steel tracks as an undeniable barrier to the encroachment of the forest and desert, trees and cacti. A single, winding trail meandered into the woods. One could have imagined it winding hopefully, if blindly, toward the majestic mountain peak shimmering in white brilliance, mysterious and awe-inspiring, sixty miles away, yet appearing in that clear air to loom closely over all the diverse beauty below.

Though nine o’clock had struck on the brisk little station-clock, there was still a tang of night chill left. The station-agent came out, carrying a chair which he set down in the sunniest corner of the platform. He looked to be hardly more than a boy, but firm-knit and self-confident. His features were regular, his fairish hair slightly wavy, and in his expression there was a curious and incongruous suggestion of settledness, of acceptance, of satisfaction with life as he met it, which an observer of men would have found difficult to reconcile with his youth and the obvious intelligence of the face. His eyes were masked by deeply browned glasses, for he was bent upon literary pursuits, witness the corpulent, paper-covered volume under his arm. Adjusting his chair to the angle of ease, he tipped back against the wall and made tentative entry into his book.

Though it was already nine o'clock according to the brisk little station clock, there was still a lingering chill from the night air. The station agent stepped outside, carrying a chair that he placed in the sunniest spot on the platform. He looked like he was barely more than a kid, but he was solidly built and self-assured. His features were symmetrical, his light brown hair a bit wavy, and his expression held a strange mix of calmness, acceptance, and contentment with life that someone observing him would find hard to reconcile with his youth and the clear intelligence of his face. His eyes were hidden behind deeply tinted glasses since he was focused on literary pursuits, as evidenced by the thick, paper-covered book tucked under his arm. He adjusted his chair for comfort, leaned back against the wall, and began to cautiously delve into his book.

What a monumental work was that in the treasure-filled recesses of which the young explorer was straightway lost to the outer world! No human need but might find its contentment therein. Spread forth in its alluringly illustrated pages was the whole universe reduced to the purchasable. It was a perfect and detailed microcosm of the world of trade, the cosmogony of commerce in petto. The style was brief, pithy, pregnant; the illustrations—oh, wonder of wonders!—unfailingly apt to the text. He who sat by the Damascus Road of old marveling as the caravans rolled dustily past bearing “emeralds and wheat, honey and oil and balm, fine linen and embroidered goods, iron, cassia and calamus, white wool, ivory and ebony,” beheld or conjectured no such wondrous offerings as were here gathered, collected, and presented for the patronage of this heir of all the ages, between the gay-hued covers of the great Sears-Roebuck Semiannual Mail-Order Catalogue. Its happy possessor need but cross the talisman with the ready magic of a postal money order and the swift genii of transportation would attend, servile to his call, to deliver the commanded treasures at his very door.

What an incredible work it was, in which the young explorer was immediately lost to the outside world! Anyone could find satisfaction within its pages. Its beautifully illustrated pages contained a universe stripped down to what could be bought. It was a perfect and detailed little world of trade, the creation of commerce in petto. The writing was concise and impactful, and the illustrations—oh, the wonders!—perfectly matched the text. The person who once stood by the ancient Damascus Road, amazed as the caravans passed by, carrying “emeralds and wheat, honey and oil, balm, fine linen and embroidered goods, iron, cassia and calamus, white wool, ivory and ebony,” could not have imagined such splendid offerings gathered, collected, and showcased for the enjoyment of this inheritor of all ages, between the colorful covers of the great Sears-Roebuck Semiannual Mail-Order Catalogue. Its fortunate owner only needed to cross the talisman with the simple magic of a postal money order, and the swift delivery services would respond eagerly, bringing the desired treasures right to his door.

But the young reader was not purposefully shopping in this vast market-place of print. Rather he was adventuring idly, indulging the amateur spirit, playing a game of hit-or-miss, seeking oracles in those teeming pages. Therefore he did not turn to the pink insert, embodying the alphabetical catalogue (Abdominal Bands to Zither Strings), but opened at random.

But the young reader wasn't intentionally browsing in this huge marketplace of books. Instead, he was exploring casually, embracing a sense of curiosity, playing a game of chance, looking for insights in those crowded pages. So he didn’t go to the pink insert, which contained the alphabetical catalog (Abdominal Bands to Zither Strings), but instead opened a page at random.

“Supertoned Banjos,” he read, beginning at the heading; and, running his eye down the different varieties, paused at “Pride of the Plantation, a full-sized, well-made, snappy-toned instrument at a very moderate price. 12 T 4031/4.”

“Supertoned Banjos,” he read, starting at the heading; and, scanning the various options, he stopped at “Pride of the Plantation, a full-sized, well-crafted, sharp-toned instrument at a very reasonable price. 12 T 4031/4.”

The explorer shook his head. Abovestairs rested a guitar (the Pearletta, 12 S 206, price $7.95) which he had purchased at the instance of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck’s insinuating representation as set forth in catalogue item 12 S 01942, “Self-mastery of the Guitar in One Book, with All Chords, Also Popular Solos That Can Be Played Almost at Sight.” The nineteen-cent instruction-book had gone into the fire after three days of unequal combat between it and its owner, and the latter had subsequently learned something of the guitar (and more of life) from a Mexican-American girl with lazy eyes and the soul of a capricious and self-indulged kitten, who had come uninvited to Manzanita to visit an aunt, deceased six months previously. With a mild pang of memory for those dreamy, music-filled nights on the desert, the youth decided against further experiments in stringed orchestration.

The explorer shook his head. Upstairs rested a guitar (the Pearletta, 12 S 206, price $7.95) that he had bought after being persuaded by the enticing description from Sears-Roebuck in catalog item 12 S 01942, “Self-Mastery of the Guitar in One Book, with All Chords, Also Popular Solos That Can Be Played Almost at Sight.” The nineteen-cent instruction book had gone into the fire after three days of uneven struggle between it and its owner, who had later learned a bit about the guitar (and even more about life) from a Mexican-American girl with lazy eyes and the spirit of a whimsical and self-indulgent kitten, who had shown up uninvited in Manzanita to visit an aunt who had passed away six months before. With a slight twinge of nostalgia for those dreamy, music-filled nights in the desert, the young man decided against any more attempts at playing stringed instruments.

Telescopes turned up next. He lingered a moment over 20 T 3513, a nickel-plated cap pocket-glass, reflecting that with it he could discern any signal on the distant wooded butte occupied by Miss Camilla Van Arsdale, back on the forest trail, in the event that she might wish a wire sent or any other service performed. Miss Camilla had been very kind and understanding at the time of the parting with Carlotta, albeit with a grimly humorous disapproval of the whole inflammatory affair; as well as at other times; and there was nothing that he would not do for her. He made a neat entry in a pocket ledger (3 T 9901) against the time when he should have spare cash, and essayed another plunge.

Telescopes came next. He paused for a moment over 20 T 3513, a nickel-plated pocket glass, realizing that with it he could see any signal from the distant wooded hill where Miss Camilla Van Arsdale was, back on the forest trail, in case she wanted a message sent or any other help. Miss Camilla had been very kind and understanding when he parted with Carlotta, even showing a grimly humorous disapproval of the whole dramatic situation; she had been supportive at other times too, and there was nothing he wouldn't do for her. He made a neat entry in a pocket ledger (3 T 9901) for when he had some spare cash, and he took another leap of faith.

Arctics and Lumberman’s Overs he passed by with a grin as inappropriate to the climate. Cod Liver Oil failed to interest him, as did the Provident Cast Iron Range and the Clean-Press Cider Mill. But he paused speculatively before Punching Bags, for he had the clean pride of body, typical of lusty Western youth, and loved all forms of exercise. Could he find space, he wondered, to install 6 T 1441 with its Scientific Noiseless Platform & Wall Attachment (6 T 1476) in the portable house (55 S 17) which, purchased a year before, now stood in the clearing behind the station crammed with purchases from the Sears-Roebuck wonderbook. Anyway, he would make another note of it. What would it be like, he wondered, to have a million dollars to spend, and unlimited access to the Sears-Roebuck treasures. Picturing himself as such a Croesus, he innocently thought that his first act would be to take train for Chicago and inspect the warehoused accumulations of those princes of trade with his own eager eyes!

He passed by Arctic gear and Lumberman's Overalls with a grin that didn't quite match the weather. Cod Liver Oil didn't catch his interest, nor did the Provident Cast Iron Range or the Clean-Press Cider Mill. However, he lingered thoughtfully in front of Punching Bags because he had a healthy pride in his body, typical of robust Western youth, and loved all kinds of exercise. He wondered if there was room to fit 6 T 1441 with its Scientific Noiseless Platform & Wall Attachment (6 T 1476) in the portable house (55 S 17) that he had bought a year ago, which now stood in the clearing behind the station filled with items from the Sears-Roebuck catalog. Anyway, he would jot that down as well. What would it be like, he pondered, to have a million dollars to spend and unlimited access to the treasures of Sears-Roebuck? Imagining himself as a wealthy man, he thought that his first move would be to take a train to Chicago and see the stocked treasures of those trade magnates with his own eager eyes!

He mused humorously for a moment over a book on “Ease in Conversation.” (“No trouble about conversation,” he reflected; “the difficulty is to find anybody to converse with,” and he thought first of Carlotta, and then of Miss Camilla Van Arsdale, but chiefly of the latter, for conversation had not been the strong point of the passionate, light-hearted Spanish girl.) Upon a volume kindly offering to teach astronomy to the lay mind without effort or trouble (43 T 790) and manifestly cheap at $1.10, he bestowed a more respectful attention, for the desert nights were long and lonely.

He humorously thought for a moment about a book called “Ease in Conversation.” (“It’s not about having trouble with conversation,” he reflected; “the real challenge is finding someone to talk to.”) He first thought of Carlotta, then of Miss Camilla Van Arsdale, but mostly about the latter, since conversation wasn’t really a strong suit for the passionate, carefree Spanish girl. He paid more respectful attention to a book that promised to teach astronomy to the average person effortlessly (43 T 790) and was clearly a bargain at $1.10, because the desert nights were long and lonely.

Eventually he arrived at the department appropriate to his age and the almost universal ambition of the civilized male, to wit, clothing. Deeply, judiciously, did he meditate and weigh the advantages as between 745 J 460 (“Something new—different—economical—efficient. An all-wool suit embodying all the features that make for clothes satisfaction. This announcement is of tremendous importance”—as one might well have inferred from the student’s rapt expression) and 776 J 017 (“A double-breasted, snappy, yet semi-conservative effect in dark-green worsted, a special social value”), leaning to the latter because of a purely literary response to that subtle and deft appeal of the attributive “social.” The devotee of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck was an innately social person, though as yet his gregarious proclivities lay undeveloped and unsuspected by himself. Also he was of a literary tendency; but of this he was already self-conscious. He passed on to ulsters and raincoats, divagated into the colorful realm of neckwear, debated scarf-pins and cuff-links, visualized patterned shirtings, and emerged to dream of composite sartorial grandeurs which, duly synthesized into a long list of hopeful entries, were duly filed away within the pages of 3 T 9901, the pocket ledger.

Eventually, he arrived at the department suited to his age and the almost universal goal of civilized men: clothing. He thoughtfully considered the advantages of 745 J 460 (“Something new—different—economical—efficient. An all-wool suit featuring all the elements that create clothing satisfaction. This announcement is extremely significant”—as one could tell from the student's captivated expression) and 776 J 017 (“A double-breasted, stylish yet semi-conservative look in dark-green worsted, offering special social value”), leaning toward the latter due to a purely literary attraction to the subtle and skillful use of the word “social.” The fan of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck was naturally a social person, even if his sociable tendencies were still undeveloped and unrecognized by him. He also had a literary inclination; he was already aware of this. He moved on to ulsters and raincoats, wandered into the vibrant world of neckties, contemplated scarf-pins and cufflinks, envisioned patterned shirts, and finally began to dream of a combined elegance in clothing that, appropriately organized into a long list of hopeful items, was neatly filed away in his pocket ledger, 3 T 9901.

Footsteps shuffling along the right of way dispelled his visions. He looked up to see two pedestrians who halted at his movement. They were paired typically of that strange fraternity, the hobo, one being a grizzled, hard-bitten man of waning middle age, the other a vicious and scrawny boy of eighteen or so. The boy spoke first.

Footsteps shuffling along the path broke his thoughts. He looked up to see two pedestrians who stopped when he moved. They fit the usual profile of that odd group, the hobos: one was a grizzled, tough man in his fading middle age, the other a wiry and rough-looking boy around eighteen. The boy spoke first.

“You the main guy here?”

"Are you the main guy?"

The agent nodded.

“Got a sore throat?” demanded the boy surlily. He started toward the door. The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive.

“Got a sore throat?” the boy asked grumpily. He began to walk toward the door. The agent didn’t move, but his eyes were focused.

“That’ll be near enough,” he said quietly.

“That should be close enough,” he said softly.

“Oh, we ain’t on that lay,” put in the grizzled man. He was quite hoarse. “You needn’t to be scared of us.”

“Oh, we’re not on that path,” said the grizzled man. He was pretty hoarse. “You don’t need to be scared of us.”

“I’m not,” agreed the agent. And, indeed, the fact was self-evident.

“What about the pueblo yonder?” asked the man with a jerk of his head toward the town.

“What about that town over there?” asked the man with a nod of his head toward the town.

“The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new.”

“The jail is old and the sheriff is new.”

“I got ya,” said the man, nodding. “We better be on our way.”

“I got you,” said the man, nodding. “We should get going.”

“I would think so.”

"I think so."

“You’re a hell of a guy, you are,” whined the boy. “‘On yer way’ from you an’ not so much as ‘Are you hungry?’ What about a little hand-out?”

“You're quite the guy, you know,” the boy complained. “‘On your way’ from you and not so much as ‘Are you hungry?’ How about a little handout?”

“Nothing doing.”

"Not happening."

“Tightwad! How’d you like—”

“Cheapskate! How’d you like—”

“If you’re hungry, feel in your coat-pocket.”

“If you’re hungry, check your coat pocket.”

“I guess you’re a wise one,” put in the man, grinning appreciatively. “We got grub enough. Panhandlin’s a habit with the kid; don’t come natural to him to pass a likely prospect without makin’ a touch.”

“I guess you’re pretty smart,” the man said with a grin. “We’ve got plenty of food. The kid has a habit of begging; it doesn’t feel natural for him to pass up a good opportunity without trying to get something.”

He leaned against the platform, raising one foot slightly from the ground in the manner of a limping animal. The agent disappeared into the station, locking the door after him. The boy gave expression to a violent obscenity directed upon the vanished man. When that individual emerged again, he handed the grizzled man a box of ointment and tossed a packet of tobacco to the evil-faced boy. Both were quick with their thanks. That which they had most needed and desired had been, as it were, spontaneously provided. But the elder of the wayfarers was puzzled, and looked from the salve-box to its giver.

He leaned against the platform, raising one foot slightly off the ground like a limping animal. The agent walked into the station, locking the door behind him. The boy shouted a violent curse at the man who had just left. When that man came back, he handed the grizzled man a box of ointment and tossed a pack of tobacco to the sinister-looking boy. Both were quick to thank him. What they needed and wanted most had, in a way, been given to them out of the blue. But the older traveler looked confused and shifted his gaze from the box of ointment to the person who had given it.

“How’d you know my feet was blistered?”

“How did you know my feet were blistered?”

“Been padding in the rain, haven’t you?”

“Been walking in the rain, haven’t you?”

“Have you been on the hoof, too?” asked the hobo quickly.

“Have you been on the run, too?” asked the hobo quickly.

The other smiled.

The other person smiled.

“Say!” exclaimed the boy. “I bet he’s Banneker. Are you?” he demanded.

“Hey!” the boy exclaimed. “I bet he’s Banneker. Are you?” he asked.

“That’s my name.”

"That's my name."

“I heard of you three years ago when you was down on the Long Line Sandy,” said the man. He paused and considered. “What’s your lay, Mr. Banneker?” he asked, curiously but respectfully.

“I heard of you three years ago when you were down on the Long Line Sandy,” said the man. He paused and thought. “What’s your angle, Mr. Banneker?” he asked, curiously but respectfully.

“As you see it. Railroading.”

"As you see it. Railroading."

“A gay-cat,” put in the boy with a touch of scorn.

“A gay cat,” the boy added, sounding a bit scornful.

“You hold your fresh lip,” his elder rebuked him. “This gent has treated us like a gent. But why? What’s the idea? That’s what I don’t get.”

“You've got a fresh lip,” his elder scolded him. “This guy has treated us like a gentleman. But why? What’s the deal? That’s what I don’t understand.”

“Oh, some day I might want to run for Governor on the hobo ticket,” returned the unsmiling agent.

“Oh, maybe one day I’ll run for Governor on the hobo ticket,” replied the serious agent.

“You get our votes. Well, so long and much obliged.”

"You have our votes. Well, take care and thank you very much."

The two resumed their journey. Banneker returned to his book. A freight, “running extra,” interrupted him, but not for long. The wire had been practicing a seemly restraint for uneventful weeks, so the agent felt that he could settle down to a sure hour’s bookishness yet, even though the west-bound Transcontinental Special should be on time, which was improbable, as “bad track” had been reported from eastward, owing to the rains. Rather to his surprise, he had hardly got well reimmersed in the enchantments of the mercantile fairyland when the “Open Office” wire warned him to be attentive, and presently from the east came tidings of Number Three running almost true to schedule, as befitted the pride of the line, the finest train that crossed the continent.

The two continued their journey. Banneker went back to his book. A freight train, “running extra,” interrupted him, but not for long. The wire had been unusually quiet for uneventful weeks, so the agent felt he could settle in for a solid hour of reading, even though the west-bound Transcontinental Special was supposed to be on time, which was unlikely since “bad track” had been reported from the east due to the rains. To his surprise, he had barely gotten back into the magic of the business world when the “Open Office” wire alerted him to pay attention, and soon news came from the east that Number Three was running almost on schedule, as was fitting for the pride of the line, the best train that crossed the continent.

Past the gaunt station she roared, only seven minutes late, giving the imaginative young official a glimpse and flash of the uttermost luxury of travel: rich woods, gleaming metal, elegance of finish, and on the rear of the observation-car a group so lily-clad that Sears-Roebuck at its most glorious was not like unto them. Would such a train, the implanted youth wondered, ever bear him away to unknown, undreamed enchantments?

Past the skinny station she zoomed by, just seven minutes late, giving the imaginative young official a quick look at the ultimate luxury of travel: rich woods, shiny metal, elegant finishes, and at the back of the observation car, a group so impeccably dressed that even Sears-Roebuck at its finest couldn’t compare. Would such a train, he wondered, ever take him away to unknown, unimaginable adventures?

Would he even wish to go if he might? Life was full of many things to do and learn at Manzanita. Mahomet need not go to the mountain when, with but a mustard seed of faith in the proven potency of mail-order miracles he could move mountains to come to him. Leaning to his telegraph instrument, he wired to the agent at Stanwood, twenty-six miles down-line, his formal announcement.

Would he even want to go if he could? Life was packed with things to do and learn at Manzanita. Mahomet didn’t have to go to the mountain when, with just a mustard seed of faith in the proven power of mail-order miracles, he could bring the mountains to him. Leaning on his telegraph instrument, he sent a formal announcement to the agent at Stanwood, twenty-six miles down the line.

“O. S.—G. I. No. 3 by at 10.46.”

“O. S.—G. I. No. 3 by at 10:46.”

“O. K.—D. S.,” came the response.

“O. K.—D. S.,” came the reply.

Banneker returned to the sunlight. In seven minutes or perhaps less, as the Transcontinental would be straining to make up lost time, the train would enter Rock Cut three miles and more west, and he would recapture the powerful throbbing of the locomotive as she emerged on the farther side, having conquered the worst of the grade.

Banneker stepped back into the sunlight. In seven minutes or maybe less, since the Transcontinental would be pushing to recover lost time, the train would reach Rock Cut three miles or more to the west, and he would feel the powerful rumble of the locomotive as it came out on the other side, having conquered the steepest part of the climb.

Banneker waited. He drew out his watch. Seven. Seven and a half. Eight. No sound from westward. He frowned. Like most of the road’s employees, he took a special and almost personal interest in having the regal train on time, as if, in dispatching it through, he had given it a friendly push on its swift and mighty mission. Was she steaming badly? There had been no sign of it as she passed. Perhaps something had gone wrong with the brakes. Or could the track have—

Banneker waited. He pulled out his watch. Seven. Seven and a half. Eight. No sound from the west. He frowned. Like most of the people working on the road, he felt a special and almost personal pride in making sure the majestic train was on time, as if by sending it off, he had given it a friendly nudge on its fast and powerful journey. Was it having trouble steaming? There hadn’t been any sign of that when it passed. Maybe something went wrong with the brakes. Or could the track have—

The agent tilted sharply forward, his lithe frame tense. A long drawn, quivering shriek came down-wind to him. It was repeated. Then short and sharp, piercing note on piercing note, sounded the shrill, clamant voice.

The agent leaned forward sharply, his slender body tense. A long, quivering scream drifted toward him on the wind. It repeated. Then a series of short, sharp, piercing notes rang out from the loud, demanding voice.

The great engine of Number Three was yelling for help.

The big engine of Number Three was crying out for help.

CHAPTER II

Banneker came out of his chair with a spring.

Banneker jumped out of his chair with energy.

“Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!” screamed the strident voice.

“Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!” screamed the loud voice.

It was like an animal in pain and panic.

It was like an animal in pain and fear.

For a brief instant the station-agent halted at the door to assure himself that the call was stationary. It was. Also it was slightly muffled. That meant that the train was still in the cut. As he ran to the key and sent in the signal for Stanwood, Banneker reflected what this might mean. Crippled? Likely enough. Ditched? He guessed not. A ditched locomotive is usually voiceless if not driverless as well. Blocked by a slide? Rock Cut had a bad repute for that kind of accident. But the quality of the call predicated more of a catastrophe than a mere blockade. Besides, in that case why could not the train back down—

For a brief moment, the station agent paused at the door to make sure the call was steady. It was. It was also a bit muffled. That meant the train was still in the cut. As he rushed to the key and sent the signal for Stanwood, Banneker wondered what this could mean. Crippled? Probably. Derailed? He didn’t think so. A derailed locomotive is usually silent, if not also without a driver. Blocked by a landslide? Rock Cut had a bad reputation for that kind of accident. But the nature of the call suggested something more serious than just a blockage. Besides, if that were the case, why couldn’t the train back down—

The answering signal from the dispatcher at Stanwood interrupted his conjectures.

The dispatcher at Stanwood's reply interrupted his thoughts.

“Number Three in trouble in the Cut,” ticked Banneker fluently. “Think help probably needed from you. Shall I go out?”

“Number Three is in trouble in the Cut,” Banneker said smoothly. “I think they probably need your help. Should I go out?”

“O. K.,” came the answer. “Take charge. Bad track reported three miles east may delay arrival.”

“O. K.,” came the answer. “You’re in control. There’s a report of bad track three miles east that might delay arrival.”

Banneker dropped and locked the windows, set his signal for “track blocked” and ran to the portable house. Inside he stood, considering. With swift precision he took from one of the home-carpentered shelves a compact emergency kit, 17 S 4230, “hefted” it, and adjusted it, knapsack fashion, to his back; then from a small cabinet drew a flask, which he disposed in his hip-pocket. Another part of the same cabinet provided a first-aid outfit, 3 R 0114. Thus equipped he was just closing the door after him when another thought struck him and he returned to slip a coil of light, strong sash-cord, 36 J 9078, over his shoulders to his waist where he deftly tautened it. He had seen railroad wrecks before. For a moment he considered leaving his coat, for he had upwards of three miles to go in the increasing heat; but, reflecting that the outward and visible signs of authority might save time and questions, he thought better of it. Patting his pocket to make sure that his necessary notebook and pencil were there, he set out at a moderate, even, springless lope. He had no mind to reach a scene which might require his best qualities of mind and body, in a semi-exhausted state. Nevertheless, laden as he was, he made the three miles in less than half an hour. Let no man who has not tried to cover at speed the ribbed treacheries of a railroad track minimize the achievement!

Banneker shut and locked the windows, signaled "track blocked," and ran to the portable house. Inside, he paused to think. With quick precision, he took a compact emergency kit, 17 S 4230, from one of the shelves he had built, hefted it, and adjusted it like a backpack on his back. Then, from a small cabinet, he took a flask and tucked it into his hip pocket. Another part of the same cabinet provided a first-aid kit, 3 R 0114. Just as he was closing the door behind him, another idea struck him, and he went back to throw a coil of light, strong sash cord, 36 J 9078, over his shoulders to his waist, where he tightened it expertly. He had seen train wrecks before. For a moment, he thought about leaving his coat since he had over three miles to go in the rising heat, but he realized that the visible signs of authority might save time and avoid questions, so he decided against it. He patted his pocket to ensure his essential notebook and pencil were there before setting off at a steady, springless jog. He didn’t want to arrive at a scene that might test his best skills while feeling worn out. Nevertheless, despite the weight he was carrying, he completed the three miles in under half an hour. Let no one who hasn't tried to navigate the deceptive unevenness of a railroad track at speed downplay this accomplishment!

A sharp curve leads to the entrance of Rock Cut. Running easily, Banneker had reached the beginning of the turn, when he became aware of a lumbering figure approaching him at a high and wild sort of half-gallop. The man’s face was a welter of blood. One hand was pressed to it. The other swung crazily as he ran. He would have swept past Banneker unregarding had not the agent caught him by the shoulder.

A sharp curve leads to the entrance of Rock Cut. Running effortlessly, Banneker had reached the start of the turn when he noticed a heavyset figure approaching him in a frenzied sort of half-gallop. The man's face was a mess of blood, with one hand pressed against it and the other swinging wildly as he ran. He would have rushed past Banneker without a glance if the agent hadn't grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Where are you hurt?”

"Where are you injured?"

The runner stared wildly at the young man. “I’ll soom,” he mumbled breathlessly, his hand still crumpled against the dreadfully smeared face. “Dammum, I’ll soom.”

The runner looked intensely at the young man. “I’ll soon,” he panted, his hand still pressed against the badly smeared face. “Damn it, I’ll soon.”

He removed his hand from his mouth, and the red drops splattered and were lost upon the glittering, thirsty sand. Banneker wiped the man’s face, and found no injury. But the fingers which he had crammed into his mouth were bleeding profusely.

He pulled his hand away from his mouth, and the red drops splattered and disappeared onto the sparkling, thirsty sand. Banneker wiped the man's face and saw no injuries. However, the fingers he had shoved into his mouth were bleeding heavily.

“They oughta be prosecuted,” moaned the sufferer. “I’ll soom. For ten thousan’ dollars. M’hand is smashed. Looka that! Smashed like a bug.”

“They should be prosecuted,” the victim complained. “I’ll sue. For ten thousand dollars. My hand is crushed. Look at that! Crushed like a bug.”

Banneker caught the hand and expertly bound it, taking the man’s name and address as he worked.

Banneker grabbed the hand and skillfully tied it up, noting the man's name and address as he did so.

“Is it a bad wreck?” he asked.

“Is it a bad accident?” he asked.

“It’s hell. Look at m’hand! But I’ll soom, all right. I’ll show’m ... Oh! ... Cars are afire, too ... Oh-h-h! Where’s a hospital?”

“It’s terrible. Look at my hand! But I’ll be fine, no worries. I’ll prove it to them ... Oh! ... Cars are on fire, too ... Oh-h-h! Where’s the nearest hospital?”

He cursed weakly as Banneker, without answering, re-stowed his packet and ran on.

He weakly cursed as Banneker, without responding, repacked his bag and took off running.

A thin wisp of smoke rising above the nearer wall of rocks made the agent set his teeth. Throughout his course the voice of the engine had, as it were, yapped at his hurrying heels, but now it was silent, and he could hear a murmur of voices and an occasional shouted order. He came into sight of the accident, to face a bewildering scene.

A thin wisp of smoke rising above the nearby rock wall made the agent grit his teeth. Throughout his journey, the sound of the engine had been yapping at his heels, but now it was silent, and he could hear a murmur of voices and the occasional shouted command. He came into view of the accident, facing a confusing scene.

Two hundred yards up the track stood the major portion of the train, intact. Behind it, by itself, lay a Pullman sleeper, on its side and apparently little harmed. Nearest to Banneker, partly on the rails but mainly beside them, was jumbled a ridiculous mess of woodwork, with here and there a gleam of metal, centering on a large and jagged boulder. Smaller rocks were scattered through the mélange. It was exactly like a heap of giant jack-straws into which some mischievous spirit had tossed a large pebble. At one end a flame sputtered and spread cheerfully.

Two hundred yards up the track stood the main part of the train, undamaged. Behind it, all alone, lay a Pullman sleeper, on its side and seemingly not too badly hurt. Closest to Banneker, partly on the tracks but mostly beside them, was a chaotic mess of wood, with occasional glimmers of metal, centered around a large, jagged boulder. Smaller rocks were scattered throughout the mix. It looked just like a pile of giant pick-up sticks that some mischievous spirit had tossed a big stone into. At one end, a flame flickered and spread cheerfully.

A panting and grimy conductor staggered toward it with a pail of water from the engine. Banneker accosted him.

A out-of-breath and dirty conductor staggered over with a bucket of water from the engine. Banneker approached him.

“Any one in—”

“Anyone in—”

“Get outa my way!” gasped the official.

“Get out of my way!” gasped the official.

“I’m agent at Manzanita.”

“I’m an agent at Manzanita.”

The conductor set down his pail. “O God!” he said. “Did you bring any help?”

The conductor put down his bucket. “Oh God!” he said. “Did you bring any help?”

“No, I’m alone. Any one in there?” He pointed to the flaming debris.

“No, I'm alone. Is anyone in there?” He pointed to the flaming debris.

“One that we know of. He’s dead.”

“Sure?” cried Banneker sharply.

“Sure?” Banneker asked sharply.

“Look for yourself. Go the other side.”

“Check it out for yourself. Go to the other side.”

Banneker looked and returned, white and set of face. “How many others?”

Banneker looked back, his face pale and firm. “How many others?”

“Seven, so far.”

“Is that all?” asked the agent with a sense of relief. It seemed as if no occupant could have come forth of that ghastly and absurd rubbish-heap, which had been two luxurious Pullmans, alive.

“Is that it?” the agent asked, feeling relieved. It seemed like no one could have come out of that terrible and ridiculous pile of junk, which used to be two luxurious Pullmans, still in use.

“There’s a dozen that’s hurt bad.”

“There are a dozen that are hurt badly.”

“No use watering that mess,” said Banneker. “It won’t burn much further. Wind’s against it. Anybody left in the other smashed cars?”

“No point in watering that mess,” said Banneker. “It won’t spread much more. The wind is against it. Is anyone still in the other wrecked cars?”

“Don’t think so.”

"Not really."

“Got the names of the dead?”

“Do you have the names of the deceased?”

“Now, how would I have the time!” demanded the conductor resentfully.

“Now, how would I find the time!” the conductor asked resentfully.

Banneker turned to the far side of the track where the seven bodies lay. They were not disposed decorously. The faces were uncovered. The postures were crumpled and grotesque. A forgotten corner of a battle-field might look like that, the young agent thought, bloody and disordered and casual.

Banneker looked over to the far side of the track where the seven bodies lay. They were not arranged neatly. The faces were exposed. The positions were crumpled and awkward. A forgotten part of a battlefield might look like this, the young agent thought, bloody and chaotic and random.

Nearest him was the body of a woman badly crushed, and, crouching beside it, a man who fondled one of its hands, weeping quietly. Close by lay the corpse of a child showing no wound or mark, and next that, something so mangled that it might have been either man or woman—or neither. The other victims were humped or sprawled upon the sand in postures of exaggerated abandon; all but one, a blonde young girl whose upthrust arm seemed to be reaching for something just beyond her grasp.

Nearest him was the body of a woman badly crushed, and crouching beside it was a man who gently held one of her hands, weeping softly. Nearby lay the corpse of a child with no visible wounds or marks, and next to that was something so mangled that it could have been either a man or a woman—or neither. The other victims were hunched or sprawled out on the sand in exaggerated poses of abandon; all but one, a blonde young girl whose raised arm seemed to be reaching for something just out of her reach.

A group of the uninjured from the forward cars surrounded and enclosed a confused sound of moaning and crying. Banneker pushed briskly through the ring. About twenty wounded lay upon the ground or were propped against the rock-wall. Over them two women were expertly working, one tiny and beautiful, with jewels gleaming on her reddened hands; the other brisk, homely, with a suggestion of the professional in her precise motions. A broad, fat, white-bearded man seemed to be informally in charge. At least he was giving directions in a growling voice as he bent over the sufferers. Banneker went to him.

A group of uninjured people from the front cars surrounded the area, enclosing a mix of moaning and crying. Banneker pushed through the crowd. About twenty wounded individuals lay on the ground or were leaning against the rock wall. Two women moved efficiently over them; one was small and beautiful with jewels shining on her reddened hands, while the other was lively and plain, showing hints of professionalism in her precise actions. A broad, heavyset man with a white beard seemed to be informally in charge. At least, he was giving orders in a gruff voice as he leaned over the injured. Banneker approached him.

“Doctor?” he inquired.

"Doctor?" he asked.

The other did not even look up. “Don’t bother me,” he snapped.

The other guy didn’t even glance up. “Don’t bother me,” he shot back.

The station-agent pushed his first-aid packet into the old man’s hands.

The station agent handed his first-aid kit to the old man.

“Good!” grunted the other. “Hold this fellow’s head, will you? Hold it hard.”

“Good!” grunted the other. “Can you hold this guy’s head? Hold it tight.”

Banneker’s wrists were props of steel as he gripped the tossing head. The old man took a turn with a bandage and fastened it.

Banneker’s wrists were like steel as he held onto the swaying head. The old man wrapped a bandage around it and secured it.

“He’ll die, anyway,” he said, and lifted his face.

“He'll die, anyway,” he said, lifting his face.

Banneker cackled like a silly girl at full sight of him. The spreading whisker on the far side of his stern face was gayly pied in blotches of red and green.

Banneker laughed like a silly girl when she saw him. The long whisker on the far side of his serious face was cheerfully marked in patches of red and green.

“Going to have hysterics?” demanded the old man, striking not so far short of the truth.

“Are you about to lose it?” the old man asked, getting pretty close to the mark.

“No,” said the agent, mastering himself. “Hey! you, trainman,” he called to a hobbling, blue-coated fellow. “Bring two buckets of water from the boiler-tap, hot and clean. Clean, mind you!” The man nodded and limped away. “Anything else, Doctor?” asked the agent. “Got towels?”

“No,” said the agent, regaining his composure. “Hey! You, trainman,” he shouted at a limping guy in a blue uniform. “Get two buckets of hot, clean water from the boiler tap. Clean, got it?” The man nodded and hobbled off. “Anything else, Doctor?” the agent asked. “Do you have towels?”

“Yes. And I’m not a doctor—not for forty years. But I’m the nearest thing to it in this shambles. Who are you?”

“Yeah. And I haven’t been a doctor in forty years. But I’m the closest thing to one in this mess. Who are you?”

Banneker explained. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he said and passed into the subdued and tremulous crowd.

Banneker explained, “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he said, moving through the quiet and anxious crowd.

On the outskirts loitered a lank, idle young man clad beyond the glories of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck’s highest-colored imaginings.

On the outskirts hung a tall, lazy young man dressed in a way that went beyond the wildest dreams of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck’s most vibrant designs.

“Hurt?” asked Banneker.

"Hurt?" Banneker asked.

“No,” said the youth.

“No,” the young person said.

“Can you run three miles?”

"Can you run 3 miles?"

“I fancy so.”

"I think so."

“Will you take an urgent message to be wired from Manzanita?”

“Will you take an urgent message to be sent from Manzanita?”

“Certainly,” said the youth with good-will.

“Of course,” said the young man cheerfully.

Tearing a leaf from his pocket-ledger, Banneker scribbled a dispatch which is still preserved in the road’s archives as giving more vital information in fewer words than any other railroad document extant. He instructed the messenger where to find a substitute telegrapher.

Tearing a page from his pocket notebook, Banneker quickly wrote a message that is still kept in the road’s archives as it provides more important information in fewer words than any other existing railroad document. He told the messenger where to find a replacement telegrapher.

“Answer?” asked the youth, unfurling his long legs.

“Answer?” asked the young man, stretching out his long legs.

“No,” returned Banneker, and the courier, tossing his coat off, took the road.

“No,” replied Banneker, and the courier, throwing off his coat, set off down the road.

Banneker turned back to the improvised hospital.

Banneker turned back to the makeshift hospital.

“I’m going to move these people into the cars,” he said to the man in charge. “The berths are being made up now.”

“I’m going to put these people in the cars,” he said to the man in charge. “The berths are being prepared now.”

The other nodded. Banneker gathered helpers and superintended the transfer. One of the passengers, an elderly lady who had shown no sign of grave injury, died smiling courageously as they were lifting her.

The other person nodded. Banneker gathered some helpers and oversaw the transfer. One of the passengers, an elderly woman who seemed to have no serious injuries, died with a brave smile as they were lifting her.

It gave Banneker a momentary shock of helpless responsibility. Why should she have been the one to die? Only five minutes before she had spoken to him in self-possessed, even tones, saying that her traveling-bag contained camphor, ammonia, and iodine if he needed them. She had seemed a reliable, helpful kind of lady, and now she was dead. It struck Banneker as improbable and, in a queer sense, discriminatory. Remembering the slight, ready smile with which she had addressed him, he felt as if he had suffered a personal loss; he would have liked to stay and work over her, trying to discover if there might not be some spark of life remaining, to be cherished back into flame, but the burly old man’s decisive “Gone,” settled that. Besides, there were other things, official things to be looked to.

It gave Banneker a brief shock of overwhelming responsibility. Why did she have to be the one who died? Just five minutes earlier, she had spoken to him calmly and confidently, mentioning that her travel bag had camphor, ammonia, and iodine if he needed any of them. She had seemed like a reliable, helpful woman, and now she was dead. It struck Banneker as unlikely and, in a strange way, unfair. Remembering the slight, ready smile she had given him, he felt as if he had experienced a personal loss. He wished he could stay and try to see if there was any spark of life left to revive, but the burly old man’s decisive “Gone” put an end to that. Plus, there were other things—official matters to attend to.

A full report would be expected of him, as to the cause of the accident. The presence of the boulder in the wreckage explained that grimly. It was now his routine duty to collect the names of the dead and wounded, and such details as he could elicit. He went about it briskly, conscientiously, and with distaste. All this would go to the claim agent of the road eventually and might serve to mitigate the total of damages exacted of the company. Vaguely Banneker resented such probable penalties as unfair; the most unremitting watchfulness could not have detected the subtle undermining of that fatal boulder. But essentially he was not interested in claims and damages. His sensitive mind hovered around the mystery of death; that file of crumpled bodies, the woman of the stilled smile, the man fondling a limp hand, weeping quietly. Officially, he was a smooth-working bit of mechanism. As an individual he probed tragic depths to which he was alien otherwise than by a large and vague sympathy. Facts of the baldest were entered neatly; but in the back of his eager brain Banneker was storing details of a far different kind and of no earthly use to a railroad corporation.

A complete report was expected from him regarding the cause of the accident. The presence of the boulder in the wreckage grimly clarified that. It was now his routine duty to gather the names of the dead and injured, along with any details he could get. He approached this task briskly, responsibly, but with distaste. All of this would eventually go to the claims agent of the railroad and might help reduce the total damages the company had to pay. Banneker felt vaguely resentful of such likely penalties, considering them unfair; not even the most vigilant oversight could have spotted the subtle threat posed by that fatal boulder. But, fundamentally, he wasn't interested in claims or damages. His sensitive mind was focused on the mystery of death; that lineup of crumpled bodies, the woman with the frozen smile, the man clutching a limp hand and crying silently. Officially, he was just a smoothly functioning part of a machine. As an individual, he explored tragic depths that he otherwise approached only through a broad and vague sympathy. He neatly recorded the most basic facts, but in the back of his eager mind, Banneker was storing details of a very different kind that were of no practical use to a railroad company.

He became aware of some one waiting at his elbow. The lank young man had spoken to him twice.

He noticed someone waiting next to him. The slender young man had spoken to him twice.

“Well?” said Banneker sharply. “Oh, it’s you! How did you get back so soon?”

“Well?” Banneker said sharply. “Oh, it’s you! How did you get back so quickly?”

“Under the hour,” replied the other with pride. “Your message has gone. The operator’s a queer duck. Dealing faro. Made me play through a case before he’d quit. I stung him for twenty. Here’s some stuff I thought might be useful.”

“Exactly an hour,” the other replied with pride. “Your message has been sent. The operator's a strange guy. Playing faro. I had to play through a whole case before he would stop. I won twenty from him. Here’s some stuff I thought might be helpful.”

From a cotton bag he discharged a miscellaneous heap of patent preparations; salves, ointments, emollients, liniments, plasters.

From a cotton bag, he poured out a random assortment of patent medications: creams, ointments, moisturizers, liniments, and bandages.

“All I could get,” he explained. “No drug-store in the funny burg.”

“All I could get,” he said. “No pharmacy in this weird little town.”

“Thank you,” said Banneker. “You’re all right. Want another job?”

“Thanks,” said Banneker. “You’re good. Want another job?”

“Certainly,” said the lily of the field with undiminished good-will.

“Sure,” said the lily of the field with unwavering kindness.

“Go and help the white-whiskered old boy in the Pullman yonder.”

“Go and help the old man with white whiskers in the Pullman over there.”

“Oh, he’d chase me,” returned the other calmly. “He’s my uncle. He thinks I’m no use.”

“Oh, he’d chase me,” the other replied calmly. “He’s my uncle. He thinks I’m worthless.”

“Does he? Well, suppose you get names and addresses of the slightly injured for me, then. Here’s your coat.”

“Does he? Well, why don’t you get me the names and addresses of the people who were slightly injured? Here’s your coat.”

“Tha-anks,” drawled the young man. He was turning away to his new duties when a thought struck him. “Making a list?” he asked.

“Thanks,” the young man said lazily. He was about to turn away to start his new tasks when a thought occurred to him. “Making a list?” he asked.

“Yes. For my report.”

"Yes, for my report."

“Got a name with the initials I. O. W.?”

“Do you have a name with the initials I. O. W.?”

Banneker ran through the roster in the pocket-ledger. “Not yet. Some one that’s hurt?”

Banneker flipped through the roster in the pocket ledger. “Not yet. Someone who’s injured?”

“Don’t know what became of her. Peach of a girl. Black hair, big, sleepy, black eyes with a fire in ’em. Dressed right. Traveling alone, and minding her own business, too. Had a stateroom in that Pullman there in the ditch. Noticed her initials on her traveling-bag.”

“Don’t know what happened to her. She was a great girl. Black hair, big, sleepy black eyes with a spark in them. Dressed really well. Traveling alone and keeping to herself, too. She had a stateroom in that Pullman over there in the ditch. I saw her initials on her travel bag.”

“Have you seen her since the smash?”

“Have you seen her since the crash?”

“Don’t know. Got a kind of confused recklection of seeing her wobbling around at the side of the track. Can’t be sure, though. Might have been me.”

"Don't know. I have a sort of hazy memory of seeing her wobbling around at the edge of the track. Can't be sure, though. It might have been me."

“Might have been you? How could—”

“Wobbly, myself. Mixed in my thinks. When I came to I was pretty busy putting my lunch,” explained the other with simple realism. “One of Mr. Pullman’s seats butted me in the stomach. They ain’t upholstered as soft as you’d think to look at ’em. I went reeling around, looking for Miss I. O. W., she being alone, you know, and I thought she might need some looking after. And I had that idea of having seen her with her hand to her head dazed and running—yes; that’s it, she was running. Wow!” said the young man fervently. “She was a pretty thing! You don’t suppose—” He turned hesitantly to the file of bodies, now decently covered with sheets.

“Feeling wobbly, myself. My thoughts are all mixed up. When I came to, I was pretty busy getting my lunch,” the other explained straightforwardly. “One of Mr. Pullman’s seats hit me in the stomach. They’re not as cushy as you’d expect just by looking at them. I started reeling around, searching for Miss I. O. W., since she was alone, you know, and I thought she might need some help. I had the idea that I saw her with her hand to her head, dazed, and running—yeah; that’s it, she was running. Wow!” the young man said passionately. “She was a real beauty! You don’t think—” He hesitated as he looked at the row of bodies, now respectfully covered with sheets.

For a grisly instant Banneker thought of the one mangled monstrosity—that to have been so lately loveliness and charm, with deep fire in its eyes and perhaps deep tenderness and passion in its heart. He dismissed the thought as being against the evidence and entered the initials in his booklet.

For a shocking moment, Banneker thought about the one twisted creature—that had been so recently beautiful and charming, with a deep fire in its eyes and maybe deep tenderness and passion in its heart. He pushed the thought away as it didn't align with the evidence and wrote the initials in his booklet.

“I’ll look out for her,” said he. “Probably she’s forward somewhere.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for her,” he said. “She’s probably hanging out somewhere.”

Without respite he toiled until a long whistle gave notice of the return of the locomotive which had gone forward to meet the delayed special from Stanwood. Human beings were clinging about it in little clusters like bees; physicians, nurses, officials, and hospital attendants. The dispatcher from Stanwood listened to Banneker’s brief report, and sent him back to Manzanita, with a curt word of approval for his work.

Without stopping, he worked until a long whistle announced the return of the train that had gone ahead to meet the delayed special from Stanwood. People were gathered around it in small groups like bees; doctors, nurses, officials, and hospital staff. The dispatcher from Stanwood listened to Banneker’s short report and sent him back to Manzanita with a brief word of approval for his work.

Banneker’s last sight of the wreck, as he paused at the curve, was the helpful young man perched on the rear heap of wreckage which had been the observation car, peering anxiously into its depths (“Looking for I. O. W. probably,” surmised the agent), and two commercial gentlemen from the smoker whiling away a commercially unproductive hiatus by playing pinochle on a suitcase held across their knees. Glancing at the vast, swollen, blue-black billows rolling up the sky, Banneker guessed that their game would be shortly interrupted.

Banneker’s last view of the wreck, as he stopped at the bend, was of the helpful young man sitting on the pile of debris that had been the observation car, anxiously looking into its depths (“Probably looking for I. O. W.,” the agent speculated), and two business guys from the smoker passing the time during an unproductive break by playing pinochle on a suitcase resting on their laps. Glancing at the huge, swollen, blue-black clouds rolling in from the sky, Banneker guessed that their game would soon be over.

He hoped that the dead would not get wet.

He hoped that the dead wouldn't get wet.

CHAPTER III

Back in his office, Banneker sent out the necessary wires, and learned from westward that it might be twelve hours before the break in the track near Stanwood could be fixed up. Then he settled down to his report.

Back in his office, Banneker sent out the necessary messages and found out from the west that it might take twelve hours to fix the track break near Stanwood. Then he got to work on his report.

Like his earlier telegram, the report was a little masterpiece of concise information. Not a word in it that was not dry, exact, meaningful. This was the more to the writer’s credit in that his brain was seething with impressions, luminous with pictures, aflash with odds and ends of minor but significant things heard and seen and felt. It was his first inner view of tragedy and of the reactions of the human creature, brave or stupid or merely absurd, to a crisis. For all of this he had an outlet of expression.

Like his earlier telegram, the report was a small masterpiece of concise information. Every word was dry, precise, and meaningful. This was even more impressive given that his mind was buzzing with impressions, filled with vivid images, and flashing with bits and pieces of minor yet significant things he had heard, seen, and felt. It was his first deep look at tragedy and how humans—whether brave, foolish, or simply ridiculous—react to a crisis. For all of this, he had a way to express himself.

Taking from the wall a file marked “Letters. Private"-it was 5 S 0027, and one of his most used purchases—he extracted some sheets of a special paper and, sitting at his desk, wrote and wrote and wrote, absorbedly, painstakingly, happily. Wind swept the outer world into a vortex of wild rain; the room boomed and trembled with the reverberations of thunder. Twice the telegraph instrument broke in on him; but these matters claimed only the outer shell; the soul of the man was concerned with committing its impressions of other souls to the secrecy of white paper, destined to personal and inviolable archives.

Taking a file marked “Letters. Private” from the wall—it was 5 S 0027, one of his most frequently used purchases—he pulled out some sheets of special paper and, sitting at his desk, wrote and wrote and wrote, fully absorbed, painstakingly, and happily. The wind outside caused a storm of wild rain; the room shook and echoed with the sounds of thunder. Twice, the telegraph interrupted him; but these interruptions only affected his outer self; his true self was focused on capturing impressions of other souls onto the blank pages, destined for personal and confidential archives.

Some one entered the waiting-room. There was a tap on his door. Raising his head impatiently, Banneker saw, through the window already dimming with the gathering dusk, a large roan horse, droopy and disconsolate in the downpour. He jumped up and threw open his retreat. A tall woman, slipping out of a streaming poncho, entered. The simplicity, verging upon coarseness, of her dress detracted nothing from her distinction of bearing.

Somebody entered the waiting room. There was a knock on his door. Annoyed, Banneker looked up and saw, through the window already fading with the growing darkness, a large roan horse, looking sad and dejected in the pouring rain. He jumped up and threw open his door. A tall woman, taking off a drenched poncho, walked in. The simplicity of her dress, almost rough, didn't take away from her elegant presence.

“Is there trouble on the line?” she asked in a voice of peculiar clarity.

“Is there a problem on the line?” she asked with a remarkably clear voice.

“Bad trouble, Miss Camilla,” answered Banneker. He pushed forward a chair, but she shook her head. “A loosened rock smashed into Number Three in the Cut. Eight dead, and a lot more in bad shape. They’ve got doctors and nurses from Stanwood. But the track’s out below. And from what I get on the wire”—he nodded toward the east—“it’ll be out above before long.”

“Seriously bad trouble, Miss Camilla,” replied Banneker. He pulled out a chair, but she declined. “A loose rock crashed into Number Three in the Cut. Eight people dead, and many more in critical condition. They’ve brought in doctors and nurses from Stanwood. But the track’s out below. And from what I'm hearing on the wire”—he gestured towards the east—“it'll be out up top soon too.”

“I’d better go up there,” said she. Her lips grew bloodless as she spoke and there was a look of effort and pain in her face.

"I should go up there," she said. Her lips turned pale as she spoke, and there was a look of struggle and pain on her face.

“No; I don’t think so. But if you’ll go over to the town and see that Torrey gets his place cleaned up a bit, I suppose some of the passengers will be coming in pretty soon.”

“No; I don’t think so. But if you could head over to town and make sure that Torrey tidies up his place a bit, I guess some of the passengers will be arriving pretty soon.”

She made a quick gesture of repulsion. “Women can’t go to Torrey’s,” she said. “It’s too filthy. Besides—I’ll take in the women, if there aren’t too many and I can pick up a buckboard in Manzanita.”

She quickly waved her hand in disgust. “Women can’t go to Torrey’s,” she said. “It’s too dirty. Plus—I’ll take in the women, as long as there aren’t too many and I can grab a buckboard in Manzanita.”

He nodded. “That’ll be better, if any come in. Give me their names, won’t you? I have to keep track of them, you know.”

He nodded. “That would be better if any show up. Can you give me their names? I need to keep track of them, you know.”

The manner of the two was that of familiars, of friends, though there was a touch of deference in Banneker’s bearing, too subtly personal to be attributed to his official status. He went out to adjust the visitor’s poncho, and, swinging her leg across the Mexican saddle of her horse with the mechanical ease of one habituated to this mode of travel, she was off.

The two interacted like close friends, although Banneker showed a hint of respect in his demeanor that felt too personal to just be about his official role. He stepped out to fix the visitor’s poncho, and with effortless grace, she swung her leg over the Mexican saddle of her horse and was on her way.

Again the agent returned to his unofficial task and was instantly submerged in it. Impatiently he interrupted himself to light the lamps and at once resumed his pen. An emphatic knock at his door only caused him to shake his head. The summons was repeated. With a sigh Banneker gathered the written sheets, enclosed them in 5 S 0027, and restored that receptacle to its place. Meantime the knocking continued impatiently, presently pointed by a deep—

Again the agent went back to his unofficial task and was instantly immersed in it. Impatiently, he interrupted himself to light the lamps and quickly picked up his pen again. A loud knock at the door only made him shake his head. The knocking happened again. With a sigh, Banneker gathered the written sheets, put them in 5 S 0027, and returned that container to its spot. Meanwhile, the knocking continued impatiently, eventually punctuated by a deep—

“Any one inside there?”

“Is anyone in there?”

“Yes,” said Banneker, opening to face the bulky old man who had cared for the wounded. “What’s wanted?”

“Yes,” said Banneker, turning to face the heavyset old man who had taken care of the injured. “What do you need?”

Uninvited, and with an assured air, the visitor stepped in.

Uninvited and with confidence, the visitor walked in.

“I am Horace Vanney,” he announced.

“I'm Horace Vanney,” he stated.

Banneker waited.

“Do you know my name?”

"Do you know my name?"

“No.”

In no wise discountenanced by the matter-of-fact negative, Mr. Vanney, still unsolicited, took a chair. “You would if you read the newspapers,” he observed.

In no way discouraged by the straightforward negative, Mr. Vanney, still uninvited, took a seat. “You would if you read the news,” he noted.

“I do.”

"I do."

“The New York papers,” pursued the other, benignly explanatory. “It doesn’t matter. I came in to say that I shall make it my business to report your energy and efficiency to your superiors.”

“The New York papers,” continued the other, kindly explaining. “It doesn’t matter. I came in to say that I will make it my priority to report your hard work and efficiency to your bosses.”

“Thank you,” said Banneker politely.

"Thanks," said Banneker politely.

“And I can assure you that my commendation will carry weight. Weight, sir.”

“And I can assure you that my recommendation will have significance. Significance, sir.”

The agent accepted this with a nod, obviously unimpressed. In fact, Mr. Vanney suspected with annoyance, he was listening not so much to these encouraging statements as to some unidentified noise outside. The agent raised the window and addressed some one who had approached through the steady drive of the rain. A gauntleted hand thrust through the window a slip of paper which he took. As he moved, a ray of light from the lamp, unblocked by his shoulder, fell upon the face of the person in the darkness, illuminating it to the astounded eyes of Mr. Horace Vanney.

The agent nodded but clearly wasn't impressed. In fact, Mr. Vanney suspected with irritation that he was paying more attention to some unknown noise outside than to these encouraging remarks. The agent rolled down the window and spoke to someone who had come up through the pouring rain. A gloved hand reached through the window, handing him a slip of paper that he took. As he did this, a beam of light from the lamp, unobstructed by his shoulder, illuminated the face of the person in the darkness, shocking Mr. Horace Vanney.

“Two of them are going home with me,” said a voice. “Will you send these wires to the addresses?”

“Two of them are coming home with me,” said a voice. “Can you send these wires to the addresses?”

“All right,” replied Banneker, “and thank you. Good-night.”

“All right,” replied Banneker, “and thanks. Good night.”

“Who was that?” barked Mr. Vanney, half rising.

“Who was that?” barked Mr. Vanney, half getting up.

“A friend of mine.”

"A friend of mine."

“I would swear to that face.” He seemed quite excited. “I would swear to it anywhere. It is unforgettable. That was Camilla Van Arsdale. Was she in the wreck?”

“I would swear to that face.” He seemed really excited. “I would swear to it anywhere. It's unforgettable. That was Camilla Van Arsdale. Was she in the crash?”

“No.”

“Don’t tell me that it wasn’t she! Don’t try to tell me, for I won’t believe it.”

“Don’t tell me it wasn’t her! Don’t even try, because I won’t believe it.”

“I’m not trying to tell you anything,” Banneker pointed out.

“True; you’re not. You’re close-mouthed enough. But—Camilla Van Arsdale! Incredible! Does she live here?”

“True; you’re not. You’re tight-lipped enough. But—Camilla Van Arsdale! Unbelievable! Does she live here?”

“Here or hereabouts.”

“Here or nearby.”

“You must give me the address. I must surely go and see her.”

“You have to give me the address. I definitely need to go see her.”

“Are you a friend of Miss Van Arsdale?”

“Are you friends with Miss Van Arsdale?”

“I could hardly say so much. A friend of her family, rather. She would remember me, I am sure. And, in any case, she would know my name. Where did you say she lived?”

“I could barely say that much. More like a family friend. She would definitely remember me, I’m sure. And anyway, she would know my name. Where did you say she lived?”

“I don’t think I said.”

"I don't think I said that."

“Mystery-making!” The big man’s gruffness had a suggestion of amusement in it. “But of course it would be simple enough to find out from town.”

“Mystery-making!” The big man’s gruff voice had a hint of amusement. “But it would be easy enough to find out from the town.”

“See here, Mr. Vanney, Miss Van Arsdale is still something of an invalid—”

“Look, Mr. Vanney, Miss Van Arsdale is still somewhat of an invalid—”

“After all these years,” interposed the other, in the tone of one who ruminates upon a marvel.

“After all these years,” the other added, sounding like someone reflecting on a wonder.

“—and I happen to know that it isn’t well for—that is, she doesn’t care to see strangers, particularly from New York.”

“—and I happen to know that it’s not good for—that is, she doesn’t want to see strangers, especially from New York.”

The old man stared. “Are you a gentleman?” he asked with abrupt surprise.

The old man stared. “Are you a gentleman?” he asked, clearly surprised.

“A gentleman?” repeated Banneker, taken aback.

“A gentleman?” Banneker echoed, surprised.

“I beg your pardon,” said the visitor earnestly. “I meant no offense. You are doubtless quite right. As for any intrusion, I assure you there will be none.”

“I’m sorry,” said the visitor earnestly. “I didn’t mean to offend you. You’re probably right. I assure you there won’t be any intrusion.”

Banneker nodded, and with that nod dismissed the subject quite as effectually as Mr. Horace Vanney himself could have done. “Did you attend all the injured?” he asked.

Banneker nodded, and with that nod, he dismissed the subject just as effectively as Mr. Horace Vanney himself could have. “Did you attend to all the injured?” he asked.

“All the serious ones, I think.”

“All the serious ones, I believe.”

“Was there a young girl among them, dark and good-looking, whose name began—”

“Was there a young girl among them, dark and attractive, whose name started—”

“The one my addle-brained young nephew has been pestering me about? Miss I. O. W.?”

“The one my scatterbrained young nephew has been bothering me about? Miss I. O. W.?”

“Yes. He reported her to me.”

“I handled no such case that I recall. Now, as to your own helpfulness, I wish to make clear that I appreciate it.”

“I don’t remember dealing with any case like that. As for your willingness to help, I want to be clear that I really appreciate it.”

Mr. Vanney launched into a flowery tribute of the after-dinner variety, leaning forward to rest a hand upon Banneker’s desk as he spoke. When the speech was over and the hand withdrawn, something remained among the strewn papers. Banneker regarded it with interest. It showed a blotch of yellow upon green and a capital C. Picking it up, he looked from it to its giver.

Mr. Vanney began a flowery after-dinner tribute, leaning forward to rest a hand on Banneker’s desk as he spoke. When the speech ended and his hand was withdrawn, something was left among the scattered papers. Banneker looked at it with curiosity. It had a yellow blotch on green and a capital C. He picked it up and looked from it to the person who gave it to him.

“A little tribute,” said that gentleman: “a slight recognition of your services.” His manner suggested that hundred-dollar bills were inconsiderable trifles, hardly requiring the acknowledgment of thanks.

“A little tribute,” said that gentleman: “a small recognition of your services.” His manner suggested that hundred-dollar bills were insignificant trifles, hardly worth a thank you.

In this case the bill did not secure such acknowledgment.

In this case, the bill did not receive that kind of recognition.

“You don’t owe me anything,” stated the agent. “I can’t take this!”

“You don’t owe me anything,” said the agent. “I can’t accept this!”

“What! Pride? Tut-tut.”

"What! Pride? No way."

“Why not?” asked Banneker.

“Why not?” said Banneker.

Finding no immediate and appropriate answer to this simple question, Mr. Vanney stared.

Finding no quick and suitable answer to this simple question, Mr. Vanney stared.

“The company pays me. There’s no reason why you should pay me. If anything, I ought to pay you for what you did at the wreck. But I’m not proposing to. Of course I’m putting in my report a statement about your help.”

“The company pays me. There's no reason for you to pay me. If anything, I should pay you for what you did at the wreck. But I'm not suggesting that. Of course, I'll include a note in my report about your help.”

Mr. Vanney’s cheek flushed. Was this composed young hireling making sport of him?

Mr. Vanney's cheek turned red. Was this put-together young employee making fun of him?

“Tut-tut!” he said again, this time with obvious intent to chide in his manner. “If I see fit to signify my appreciation—remember, I am old enough to be your father.”

“Tut-tut!” he said again, this time clearly trying to scold him. “If I want to show my appreciation—just remember, I’m old enough to be your father.”

“Then you ought to have better judgment,” returned Banneker with such candor and good-humor that the visitor was fairly discomfited.

“Then you should have better judgment,” replied Banneker with such honesty and good cheer that the visitor was quite taken aback.

An embarrassing silence—embarrassing, that is, to the older man; the younger seemed not to feel it—was happily interrupted by the advent of the lily-clad messenger.

An awkward silence—awkward for the older man; the younger one didn’t seem to notice—was joyfully broken by the arrival of the messenger dressed in lilies.

Hastily retrieving his yellow-back, which he subjected to some furtive and occult manipulations, Mr. Vanney, after a few words, took his departure.

Hastily grabbing his yellow book, which he handled with some secretive and mysterious adjustments, Mr. Vanney, after a few words, left.

Banneker invited the newcomer to take the chair thus vacated. As he did so he brushed something to the floor and picked it up.

Banneker asked the newcomer to take the now empty chair. As he did this, he accidentally knocked something to the floor and picked it up.

“Hello! What’s this? Looks like a hundred-bucker. Yours?” He held out the bill.

“Hey! What’s this? Looks like a hundred-dollar bill. Is it yours?” He offered the bill.

Banneker shook his head. “Your uncle left it.”

Banneker shook his head. “Your uncle left this.”

“It isn’t a habit of his,” replied the other.

“It’s not something he usually does,” replied the other.

“Give it to him for me, will you?”

“Can you give it to him for me?”

“Certainly. Any message?”

"Sure. Any message?"

“No.”

“Nope.”

The newcomer grinned. “I see,” he said. “He’ll be bored when he gets this back. He isn’t a bad old bird, but he don’t savvy some things. So you turned him down, did you?”

The newcomer smiled. “Got it,” he said. “He’ll be bored when he gets this back. He’s not a bad old guy, but he doesn’t understand some things. So you turned him down, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

“Did he offer you a job and a chance to make your way in the world in one of his banks, beginning at ten-per?”

“Did he offer you a job and a chance to build your career in one of his banks, starting at ten percent?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

“He will to-morrow.”

“He will tomorrow.”

“I doubt it.”

"I don’t think so."

The other gave a thought to the bill. “Perhaps you’re right. He likes em meek and obedient. He’d make a woolly lamb out of you. Most fellows would jump at the chance.”

The other thought about the bill. “Maybe you’re right. He likes them docile and compliant. He’d turn you into a soft lamb. Most guys would jump at the chance.”

“I won’t.”

"I won't."

“My name’s Herbert Cressey.” He handed the agent a card. “Philadelphia is my home, but my New York address is on there, too. Ever get East?”

“My name’s Herbert Cressey.” He handed the agent a card. “Philadelphia is my home, but my New York address is on there, too. Do you ever go to the East?”

“I’ve been to Chicago.”

"I've visited Chicago."

“Chicago?” The other stared. “What’s that got to do with—Oh, I see. You’ll be coming to New York one of these days, though.”

“Chicago?” the other replied, surprised. “What does that have to do with—Oh, I get it. You’ll be coming to New York sometime soon, right?”

“Maybe.”

"Maybe."

“Sure as a gun. A chap that can handle a situation like you handled the wreck isn’t going to stick in a little sand-heap like this.”

“Definitely. A guy who can manage a situation like you did with the wreck isn’t going to stay caught up in a little sandpit like this.”

“It suits me here.”

“This works for me here.”

“No! Does it? I’d think you’d die of it. Well, when you do get East look me up, will you? I mean it; I’d like to see you.”

“No! Does it? I’d think you’d be overwhelmed by it. Well, when you get to the East, look me up, okay? I really mean it; I’d like to see you.”

“All right.”

"Okay."

“And if there’s anything I can do for you any time, drop me a line.”

“And if there’s anything I can do for you at any time, just let me know.”

The sumptuous ripple and gleam of the young man’s faultless coat, registered upon Banneker’s subconscious memory as it had fallen at his feet, recalled itself to him.

The luxurious shimmer and shine of the young man’s flawless coat, which had dropped at Banneker’s feet, registered in his subconscious and came back to him.

“What store do you buy your clothes at?”

“What store do you get your clothes from?”

“Store?” Cressey did not smile. “I don’t buy ’em at a store. I have ’em made by a tailor. Mertoun, 505 Fifth Avenue.”

“Store?” Cressey didn’t smile. “I don’t buy them at a store. I have them made by a tailor. Mertoun, 505 Fifth Avenue.”

“Would he make me a suit?”

“Why, yes. I’ll give you a card to him and you go in there when you’re in New York and pick out what you want.”

“Sure, I’ll give you a card for him, and you can go in there when you’re in New York and choose what you want.”

“Oh! He wouldn’t make them and send them out here to me? Sears-Roebuck do, if you send your measure. They’re in Chicago.”

“Oh! He wouldn’t make them and send them out here to me? Sears-Roebuck does that if you send your measurements. They’re in Chicago.”

“I never had any duds built in Chicago, so I don’t know them. But I shouldn’t think Mertoun would want to fit a man he’d never seen. They like to do things right, at Mertoun’s. Ought to, too; they stick you enough for it.”

“I’ve never had any failures made in Chicago, so I can’t speak to that. But I don’t think Mertoun would want to hire someone he’s never met. They prefer to do things right at Mertoun’s. They should; they charge you enough for it.”

“How much?”

“How much is it?”

“Not much short of a hundred for a sack suit.”

“Almost a hundred for a suit.”

Banneker was amazed. The choicest “made-to-measure” in his Universal Guide, “Snappy, fashionable, and up to the minute,” came to less than half of that.

Banneker was amazed. The best “custom-made” in his Universal Guide, “Trendy, stylish, and current,” cost less than half of that.

His admiring eye fell upon his visitor’s bow-tie, faultless and underanged throughout the vicissitudes of that arduous day, and he yearned to know whether it was “made-up” or self-confected. Sears-Roebuck were severely impartial as between one practice and the other, offering a wide range in each variety. He inquired.

His admiring gaze landed on his visitor's bow tie, perfect and untouched throughout the ups and downs of that tough day, and he was curious to find out if it was “made-up” or handmade. Sears-Roebuck was completely fair regarding both options, providing a wide selection in each category. He asked.

“Oh, tied it myself, of course,” returned Cressey. “Nobody wears the ready-made kind. It’s no trick to do it. I’ll show you, any time.”

“Oh, I tied it myself, of course,” Cressey said. “No one wears the store-bought kind. It’s not hard to do. I’ll show you anytime.”

They fell into friendly talk about the wreck.

They started talking casually about the wreck.

It was ten-thirty when Banneker finished his much-interrupted writing. Going out to the portable house, he lighted an oil-stove and proceeded to make a molasses pie. He was due for a busy day on the morrow and might not find time to take the mile walk to the hotel for dinner, as was his general habit. With the store of canned goods derived from the mail-order catalogue, he could always make shift to live. Besides, he was young enough to relish keenly molasses pie and the manufacture of it. Having concluded his cookery in strict accordance with the rules set forth in the guide to this art, he laid it out on the sill to cool over night.

It was 10:30 when Banneker wrapped up his interrupted writing. He stepped outside to his portable house, lit an oil stove, and started making a molasses pie. He had a busy day ahead and might not have time to walk the mile to the hotel for dinner, which was his usual routine. With the stock of canned goods he ordered from the catalog, he could always manage to eat. Plus, he was young enough to really enjoy both molasses pie and the process of making it. After following the cooking instructions from the guide carefully, he placed the pie on the sill to cool overnight.

Tired though he was, his brain was too busy for immediate sleep. He returned to his den, drew out a book and began to read with absorption. That in which he now sought release and distraction was not the magnum opus of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck, but the work of a less practical and popular writer, being in fact the “Eve of St. Agnes,” by John Keats. Soothed and dreamy, he put out the lights, climbed to his living quarters above the office, and fell asleep. It was then eleven-thirty and his official day had terminated five hours earlier.

Tired as he was, his mind was too active to sleep right away. He went back to his room, pulled out a book, and started reading intently. What he was looking for to escape and unwind wasn’t the magnum opus of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck, but rather the work of a less mainstream writer, specifically “Eve of St. Agnes” by John Keats. Feeling calm and drowsy, he turned off the lights, went up to his living space above the office, and fell asleep. It was then eleven-thirty, and his workday had ended five hours earlier.

At one o’clock he arose and patiently descended the stairs again. Some one was hammering on the door. He opened without inquiry, which was not the part of wisdom in that country and at that hour. His pocket-flash gleamed on a thin young man in a black-rubber coat who, with head and hands retracted as far as possible from the pouring rain, resembled a disconsolate turtle with an insufficient carapace.

At one o'clock, he got up and calmly went down the stairs again. Someone was banging on the door. He opened it without asking who it was, which wasn’t very wise in that country at that hour. His pocket flashlight illuminated a thin young man in a black rubber coat, who, with his head and hands pulled in as far as possible from the pouring rain, looked like a sad turtle with a too-small shell.

“I’m Gardner, of the Angelica City Herald,” explained the untimely visitor.

“I’m Gardner from the Angelica City Herald,” the unexpected visitor explained.

Banneker was surprised. That a reporter should come all the way from the metropolis of the Southwest to his wreck—he had already established proprietary interest in it—was gratifying. Furthermore, for reasons of his own, he was glad to see a journalist. He took him in and lighted up the office.

Banneker was surprised. That a reporter would travel all the way from the major city of the Southwest to his wreck—he had already claimed it as his own—was satisfying. Also, for his own reasons, he was happy to see a journalist. He welcomed him in and turned on the lights in the office.

“Had to get a horse and ride to Manzanita to interview old Vanney and a couple of other big guys from the East. My first story’s on the wire,” explained the newcomer offhand. “I want some local-color stuff for my second day follow-up.”

“Had to get a horse and ride to Manzanita to interview old Vanney and a couple of other big guys from the East. My first story’s on the wire,” the newcomer said casually. “I want some local color for my second-day follow-up.”

“It must be hard to do that,” said Banneker interestedly, “when you haven’t seen any of it yourself.”

“It must be tough to do that,” said Banneker with interest, “when you haven’t experienced any of it yourself.”

“Patchwork and imagination,” returned the other wearily. “That’s what I get special rates for. Now, if I’d had your chance, right there on the spot, with the whole stage-setting around one—Lordy! How a fellow could write that!”

“Patchwork and imagination,” the other replied tiredly. “That’s what I get special rates for. Now, if I had your chance, right there in the moment, with the whole stage set around me—Wow! How a guy could write that!”

“Not so easy,” murmured the agent. “You get confused. It’s a sort of blur, and when you come to put it down, little things that aren’t really important come up to the surface—”

“Not so easy,” murmured the agent. “You get confused. It’s a bit of a blur, and when you try to explain it, minor details that don’t really matter come to the surface—”

“Put it down?” queried the other with a quick look. “Oh, I see. Your report for the company.”

“Put it down?” asked the other with a quick glance. “Oh, I get it. Your report for the company.”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking of that.”

“Well, that wasn't what I had in mind.”

“Do you write other things?” asked the reporter carelessly.

"Do you write anything else?" the reporter asked casually.

“Oh, just foolery.” The tone invited—at least it did not discourage—further inquiry. Mr. Gardner was bored. Amateurs who “occasionally write” were the bane of him who, having a signature of his own in the leading local paper, represented to the aspiring mind the gilded and lofty peaks of the unattainable. However he must play this youth as a source of material.

“Oh, just nonsense.” The tone was welcoming—at least it didn’t push away—further questions. Mr. Gardner was uninterested. People who “sometimes write” were the nightmare for him, as he had a name of his own in the top local paper, representing what the ambitious mind viewed as the shiny and high mountains of what was impossible to reach. Still, he had to treat this young man as a source of ideas.

“Ever try for the papers?”

“Ever tried for the papers?”

“Not yet. I’ve thought maybe I might get a chance sometime as a sort of local correspondent around here,” was the diffident reply.

“Not yet. I was thinking I might get a chance as a local correspondent here,” was the hesitant reply.

Gardner repressed a grin. Manzanita would hardly qualify as a news center. Diplomacy prompted him to state vaguely that there was always a chance for good stuff locally.

Gardner held back a grin. Manzanita would barely be considered a news hub. Diplomacy led him to say vaguely that there was always a chance for some good local news.

“On a big story like this,” he added, “of course there’d be nothing doing except for the special man sent out to cover it.”

“On a big story like this,” he added, “there wouldn’t be anyone else involved except for the special person sent out to cover it.”

“No. Well, I didn’t write my—what I wrote, with any idea of getting it printed.”

The newspaper man sighed wearily, sighed like a child and lied like a man of duty. “I’d like to see it.”

The newspaper guy sighed tiredly, like a kid, and fibbed like he was just doing his job. “I’d like to see it.”

Without a trace of hesitation or self-consciousness Banneker said, “All right,” and, taking his composition from its docket, motioned the other to the light. Mr. Gardner finished and turned the first sheet before making any observation. Then he bent a queer look upon Banneker and grunted:

Without a hint of doubt or embarrassment, Banneker said, “All right,” and, grabbing his composition from its folder, gestured for the other to move closer to the light. Mr. Gardner finished and flipped to the first page before saying anything. Then he gave Banneker a strange look and grunted:

“What do you call this stuff, anyway?”

“Just putting down what I saw.”

“Just writing down what I saw.”

Gardner read on. “What about this, about a Pullman sleeper ‘elegant as a hotel bar and rigid as a church pew’? Where do you get that?”

Gardner kept reading. “What’s up with this, describing a Pullman sleeper ‘as fancy as a hotel bar and as stiff as a church pew’? Where does that come from?”

Banneker looked startled. “I don’t know. It just struck me that is the way a Pullman is.”

Banneker looked surprised. “I don’t know. It just hit me that’s how a Pullman is.”

“Well, it is,” admitted the visitor, and continued to read. “And this guy with the smashed finger that kept threatening to ‘soom’; is that right?”

“Well, it is,” admitted the visitor, and continued to read. “And this guy with the smashed finger who kept threatening to ‘soom’; is that right?”

“Of course it’s right. You don’t think I’d make it up! That reminds me of something.” And he entered a memo to see the litigious-minded complainant again, for these are the cases which often turn up in the courts with claims for fifty-thousand-dollar damages and heartrending details of all-but-mortal internal injuries.

“Of course it’s true. You really think I’d just make that up? That reminds me of something.” And he made a note to meet with the overly litigious complainant again, because these are the types of cases that often end up in court with claims for fifty-thousand-dollar damages and heartbreaking accounts of nearly fatal internal injuries.

Silence held the reader until he had concluded the seventh and last sheet. Not looking at Banneker, he said:

Silence kept the reader engaged until he finished the seventh and final sheet. Not glancing at Banneker, he said:

“So that’s your notion of reporting the wreck of the swellest train that crosses the continent, is it?”

“So that's your idea of covering the crash of the fanciest train that crosses the country, huh?”

“It doesn’t pretend to be a report,” disclaimed the writer. “It’s pretty bad, is it?”

“It doesn’t claim to be a report,” the writer said. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“It’s rotten!” Gardner paused. “From a news-desk point of view. Any copy-reader would chuck it. Unless I happened to sign it,” he added. “Then they’d cuss it out and let it pass, and the dear old pin-head public would eat it up.”

“It’s terrible!” Gardner paused. “From a news desk perspective. Any copy editor would trash it. Unless I happened to write it,” he added. “Then they’d complain about it but let it go, and the good old clueless public would gobble it up.”

“If it’s of any use to you—”

“If it’s any help to you—”

“Not so, my boy, not so! I might pinch your wad if you left it around loose, or even your last cigarette, but not your stuff. Let me take it along, though; it may give me some ideas. I’ll return it. Now, where can I get a bed in the town?”

“Not like that, my boy, not like that! I might swipe your cash if you left it lying around, or even your last cigarette, but not your stuff. Let me take it with me; it might inspire some ideas. I’ll bring it back. Now, where can I find a bed in this town?”

“Nowhere. Everything’s filled. But I can give you a hammock out in my shack.”

“Nowhere. Everything’s full. But I can offer you a hammock in my shack.”

“That’s better. I’ll take it. Thanks.”

"That’s better. I’ll take it. Thanks."

Banneker kept his guest awake beyond the limits of decent hospitality, asking him questions.

Banneker kept his guest awake past the bounds of good hospitality, asking him questions.

The reporter, constantly more interested in this unexpected find of a real personality in an out-of-the-way minor station of the high desert, meditated a character study of “the hero of the wreck,” but could not quite contrive any peg whereon to hang the wreath of heroism. By his own modest account, Banneker had been competent but wholly unpicturesque, though the characters in his sketch, rude and unformed though it was, stood out clearly. As to his own personal history, the agent was unresponsive. At length the guest, apologizing for untimely weariness, it being then 3.15 A.M., yawned his way to the portable shack.

The reporter, increasingly intrigued by this surprising discovery of a genuine personality in a remote minor station of the high desert, contemplated writing a character study of “the hero of the wreck,” but couldn’t find a way to frame the idea of heroism. By his own humble account, Banneker had been capable but entirely unremarkable, though the characters in his rough sketch were clearly defined. When it came to his own backstory, the agent was tight-lipped. Finally, the guest, apologizing for his unintentional fatigue at 3:15 A.M., yawned and made his way to the portable shack.

He slept heavily, except for a brief period when the rain let up. In the morning—which term seasoned newspaper men apply to twelve noon and the hour or two thereafter—he inquired of Banneker, “Any tramps around here?”

He slept soundly, except for a short time when the rain stopped. In the morning—which experienced reporters refer to as noon and the hour or two after that—he asked Banneker, “Any tramps around here?”

“No,” answered the agent, “Not often. There were a pair yesterday morning, but they went on.”

“No,” replied the agent, “not really. There were a couple yesterday morning, but they moved on.”

“Some one was fussing around the place about first light. I was too sleepy to get up. I yipped and they beat it. I don’t think they got inside.”

“Someone was messing around the place at dawn. I was too sleepy to get up. I barked, and they took off. I don’t think they got inside.”

Banneker investigated. Nothing was missing from within the shack. But outside he made a distressing discovery.

Banneker looked around. Everything inside the shack was intact. But outside, he found something alarming.

His molasses pie was gone.

His molasses pie is gone.

CHAPTER IV

“To accomplish a dessert as simple and inexpensive as it is tasty,” prescribes The Complete Manual of Cookery, p. 48, “take one cup of thick molasses—” But why should I infringe a copyright when the culinary reader may acquire the whole range of kitchen lore by expending eighty-nine cents plus postage on 39 T 337? Banneker had faithfully followed the prescribed instructions. The result had certainly been simple and inexpensive; presumably it would have proven tasty. He regretted and resented the rape of the pie. What aroused greater concern, however, was the presence of thieves. In the soft ground near the window he found some rather small footprints which suggested that it was the younger of the two hoboes who had committed the depredation.

“To make a dessert that’s as simple and cheap as it is delicious,” says The Complete Manual of Cookery, p. 48, “take one cup of thick molasses—” But why should I violate copyright when a culinary reader can get all the kitchen knowledge by spending eighty-nine cents plus postage on 39 T 337? Banneker had carefully followed the given instructions. The outcome had definitely been simple and inexpensive; it probably would have been tasty. He felt regret and anger over the theft of the pie. What concerned him more, though, was the presence of thieves. In the soft ground near the window, he found some fairly small footprints that indicated it was the younger of the two hoboes who had committed the crime.

Theorizing, however, was not the order of his day. Routine and extra-routine claimed all his time. There was his supplementary report to make out; the marooned travelers in Manzanita to be looked after and their bitter complaints to be listened to; consultations over the wire as to the condition and probabilities of the roadbed, for the floods had come again; and in and out of it all, the busy, weary, indefatigable Gardner, giving to the agent as much information as he asked from him. When their final lists were compared, Banneker noticed that there was no name with the initials I.O.W. on Gardner’s. He thought of mentioning the clue, but decided that it was of too little definiteness and importance. The news value of mystery, enhanced by youth and beauty, which the veriest cub who had ever smelled printer’s ink would have appreciated, was a sealed book to him.

Theorizing, however, wasn’t on his agenda. Routine and extra tasks took up all his time. He had to prepare a supplementary report; help the stranded travelers in Manzanita and listen to their frustrating complaints; and make calls about the state and future of the roadbed since the floods had returned. And throughout it all, the busy, tired, tireless Gardner was supplying the agent with as much information as he needed. When they compared their final lists, Banneker noticed that there was no name with the initials I.O.W. on Gardner’s. He considered mentioning the clue but decided it wasn’t significant enough. The intrigue of mystery, boosted by youth and beauty, which even the most inexperienced newbie with a whiff of printer’s ink would appreciate, was completely lost on him.

Not until late that afternoon did a rescue train limp cautiously along an improvised track to set the interrupted travelers on their way. Gardner went on it, leaving an address and an invitation to “keep in touch.” Mr. Vanney took his departure with a few benign and well-chosen words of farewell, accompanied by the assurance that he would “make it his special purpose to commend,” and so on. His nephew, Herbert Cressey, the lily-clad messenger, stopped at the station to shake hands and grin rather vacantly, and adjure Banneker, whom he addressed as “old chap,” to be sure and look him up in the East; he’d be glad to see him any time. Banneker believed that he meant it. He promised to do so, though without particular interest. With the others departed Miss Camilla Van Arsdale’s two emergency guests, one of them the rather splendid young woman who had helped with the wounded. They invaded Banneker’s office with supplementary telegrams and talked about their hostess with that freedom which women of the world use before dogs or uniformed officials.

Not until late that afternoon did a rescue train slowly make its way along a makeshift track to send the stranded travelers on their journey. Gardner boarded it, leaving an address and an invitation to “keep in touch.” Mr. Vanney said his goodbyes with a few kind and carefully chosen words, assuring everyone that he would “make it his special purpose to commend,” and so on. His nephew, Herbert Cressey, the neatly-dressed messenger, stopped at the station to shake hands and flash a somewhat vacant grin, urging Banneker, whom he called “old chap,” to make sure to visit him in the East; he’d be happy to see him anytime. Banneker believed he was sincere. He promised to do so, although he wasn't particularly interested. With the others gone, Miss Camilla Van Arsdale’s two emergency guests, one of them the rather impressive young woman who had assisted with the wounded, entered Banneker’s office with additional telegrams and discussed their hostess with the kind of openness that worldly women use around dogs or uniformed officials.

“What a woman!” said the amateur nurse.

“What a woman!” said the aspiring nurse.

“And what a house!” supplemented the other, a faded and lined middle-aged wife who had just sent a reassuring and very long wire to a husband in Pittsburgh.

“And what a house!” added the other, a worn and weathered middle-aged wife who had just sent a comforting and quite lengthy message to her husband in Pittsburgh.

“Very much the châtelaine; grande dame and that sort of thing,” pursued the other. “One might almost think her English.”

“Definitely the lady of the house; a high-class woman and all that,” continued the other. “You could almost think she was English.”

“No.” The other shook her head positively. “Old American. As old and as good as her name. You wouldn’t flatter her by guessing her to be anything else. I dare say she would consider the average British aristocrat a little shoddy and loud.”

“No.” The other woman shook her head firmly. “Old American. As old and as good as her name. You wouldn’t be doing her a favor by suggesting she’s anything else. I bet she’d find the typical British aristocrat a bit shabby and loud.”

“So they are when they come over here. But what on earth is her type doing out here, buried with a one-eyed, half-breed manservant?”

“So they are when they come over here. But what on earth is her type doing out here, buried with a one-eyed, mixed-race servant?”

“And a concert grand piano. Don’t forget that. She tunes it herself, too. Did you notice the tools? A possible romance. You’ve quite a nose for such things, Sue. Couldn’t you get anything out of her?”

“And a concert grand piano. Don’t forget that. She tunes it herself, too. Did you notice the tools? A possible romance. You’ve got quite the talent for this, Sue. Can’t you get anything out of her?”

“It’s much too good a nose to put in the crack of a door,” retorted the pretty woman. “I shouldn’t care to lay myself open to being snubbed by her. It might be painful.”

“It’s way too good of a nose to stick in the crack of a door,” replied the attractive woman. “I wouldn't want to risk getting shut down by her. It could be hurtful.”

“It probably would.” The Pittsburgher turned to Banneker with a change of tone, implying that he could not have taken any possible heed of what went before. “Has Miss Van Arsdale lived here long, do you know?”

“It probably would.” The Pittsburgher turned to Banneker, changing his tone to suggest he hadn’t really paid attention to the previous conversation. “Do you know if Miss Van Arsdale has lived here long?”

The agent looked at her intently for a moment before replying: “Longer than I have.” He transferred his gaze to the pretty woman. “You two were her guests, weren’t you?” he asked.

The agent stared at her for a moment before answering, “Longer than I have.” He shifted his attention to the attractive woman. “You two were her guests, right?” he asked.

The visitors glanced at each other, half amused, half aghast. The tone and implication of the question had been too significant to be misunderstood. “Well, of all extraordinary—” began one of them under her breath; and the other said more loudly, “I really beg—” and then she, too, broke off.

The visitors looked at each other, part amused, part shocked. The tone and meaning of the question were too important to misinterpret. “Well, of all the weird—” one of them started quietly; and the other said more loudly, “I really insist—” and then she, too, trailed off.

They went out. “Châtelaine and knightly defender,” commented the younger one in the refuge of the outer office. “Have we been dumped off a train into the midst of the Middle Ages? Where do you get station-agents like that?”

They went outside. “Lady of the castle and brave knight,” said the younger one in the safety of the outer office. “Did we just get dropped off a train into the Middle Ages? Where do you find station agents like that?”

“The one at our suburban station chews tobacco and says ‘Marm’ through his nose.”

“The guy at our suburban station chews tobacco and says ‘Marm’ through his nose.”

Banneker emerged, seeking the conductor of the special with a message.

Banneker appeared, looking for the conductor of the special to deliver a message.

“He is rather a beautiful young thing, isn’t he?” she added.

“He’s quite a handsome young guy, isn’t he?” she added.

Returning, he helped them on the train with their hand-luggage. When the bustle and confusion of dispatching an extra were over, he sat down to think. But not of Miss Camilla Van Arsdale. That was an old story, though its chapters were few, and none of them as potentially eventful as this intrusion of Vanneys and female chatterers.

Returning, he helped them on the train with their carry-on bags. When the hustle and bustle of sending off an extra train was done, he sat down to think. But not about Miss Camilla Van Arsdale. That was old news, even though its chapters were few, and none of them as potentially exciting as this interruption of Vanneys and female chatter.

It was the molasses pie that stuck in his mind. There was no time to make another. Further, the thought of depredators hanging about disturbed him. That shack of his was full of Aladdin treasures, delivered by the summoned genii of the Great Book. Though it was secured by Little Guardian locks and fortified with the Scarem Buzz alarm, he did not feel sure of it. He decided to sleep there that night with his .45-caliber Sure-shot revolver. Let them come again; he’d give ’em a lesson! On second thought, he rebaited the window-ledge with a can of Special Juicy Apricot Preserve. At ten o’clock he turned in, determined to sleep lightly, and immediately plunged into fathomless depths of unconsciousness, lulled by a singing wind and the drone of the rain.

It was the molasses pie that stuck in his mind. There was no time to make another. Also, the thought of thieves lurking around bothered him. That shack of his was full of treasures, delivered by the magical beings from the Great Book. Even though it was secured with Little Guardian locks and protected by the Scarem Buzz alarm, he didn't feel completely confident. He decided to spend the night there with his .45-caliber Sure-shot revolver. Let them come again; he’d teach them a lesson! On second thought, he rebaited the window ledge with a can of Special Juicy Apricot Preserve. At ten o’clock he went to bed, determined to sleep lightly, but immediately fell into a deep unconsciousness, lulled by the singing wind and the sound of the rain.

A light, flashing across his eyes, awakened him. For a moment he lay, dazed, confused by the gentle and unfamiliar oscillations of his hammock. Another flicker of light and a rumble of thunder brought him to his full senses. The rain had degenerated into a casual drizzle and the wind had withdrawn into the higher areas. He heard some one moving outside.

A light flashing in his eyes woke him up. For a moment, he lay there, dazed and confused by the gentle, unfamiliar swaying of his hammock. Another flash of light and a rumble of thunder brought him back to reality. The rain had turned into a light drizzle, and the wind had calmed down. He heard someone moving outside.

Very quietly he reached out to the stand at his elbow, got his revolver and his flashlight, and slipped to the floor. The malefactor without was approaching the window. Another flash of lightning would have revealed much to Banneker had he not been crouching close under the sill, on the inside, so that the radiance of his light, when he found the button, should not expose him to a straight shot.

Very quietly, he reached for the stand next to him, picked up his revolver and flashlight, and dropped to the floor. The criminal outside was getting closer to the window. Another flash of lightning would have shown Banneker a lot, but he was crouched down low under the sill, on the inside, so that when he found the button for his light, he wouldn’t be in direct view for a clear shot.

A hand fumbled at the open window. Finger on trigger, Banneker held up his flashlight in his left hand and irradiated the spot. He saw the hand, groping, and on one of its fingers something which returned a more brilliant gleam than the electric ray. In his crass amazement, the agent straightened up, a full mark for murder, staring at a diamond-and-ruby ring set upon a short, delicate finger.

A hand fumbled at the open window. Finger on the trigger, Banneker held up his flashlight in his left hand and illuminated the area. He saw the hand, searching, and on one of its fingers was something that sparkled even more brightly than the electric beam. In his utter shock, the agent straightened up, a perfect target for murder, staring at a diamond-and-ruby ring on a short, delicate finger.

No sound came from outside. But the hand became instantly tense. It fell upon the sill and clutched it so hard that the knuckles stood out, white, strained and garish. Banneker’s own strong hand descended upon the wrist. A voice said softly and tremulously:

No sound came from outside. But the hand instantly tensed up. It fell on the sill and gripped it so tightly that the knuckles stood out, white, strained, and intense. Banneker’s own strong hand came down on the wrist. A voice said softly and shakily:

“Please!”

"Please!"

The appeal went straight to Banneker’s heart and quivered there, like a soft flame, like music heard in an unrealizable dream.

The appeal went straight to Banneker’s heart and trembled there, like a gentle flame, like music experienced in an unreachable dream.

“Who are you?” he asked, and the voice said:

“Who are you?” he asked, and the voice replied:

“Don’t hurt me.”

"Please don't hurt me."

“Why should I?” returned Banneker stupidly.

“Why should I?” Banneker replied, confused.

“Some one did,” said the voice.

“Someone did,” said the voice.

“Who?” he demanded fiercely.

“Who?” he asked fiercely.

“Won’t you let me go?” pleaded the voice.

“Won’t you let me go?” the voice pleaded.

In the shock of his discovery he had released the flash-lever so that this colloquy passed in darkness. Now he pressed it. A girlish figure was revealed, one protective arm thrown across the eyes.

In the shock of his discovery, he let go of the flash-lever, so this conversation happened in darkness. Now he pressed it again. A young girl appeared, one arm raised to shield her eyes.

“Don’t strike me,” said the girl again, and again Banneker’s heart was shaken within him by such tremors as the crisis of some deadly fear might cause.

“Don’t hit me,” the girl said again, and once more Banneker felt his heart shake inside him like he was experiencing the crisis of a deep fear.

“You needn’t be afraid,” he stammered.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he stammered.

“I’ve never been afraid before,” she said, hanging her weight away from him. “Won’t you let me go?”

“I’ve never been scared before,” she said, pulling her weight away from him. “Will you please let me go?”

His grip relaxed slightly, then tightened again. “Where to?”

His grip loosened a bit, then tightened again. “Where to?”

“I don’t know,” said the appealing voice mournfully.

“I don’t know,” said the charming voice sadly.

An inspiration came to Banneker. “Are you afraid of me?” he asked quietly.

An inspiration came to Banneker. “Are you scared of me?” he asked softly.

“Of every thing. Of the night.”

"About everything. About the night."

He pressed the flash into her hand, turning the light upon himself. “Look,” he said.

He pressed the flashlight into her hand, shining the light on himself. “Look,” he said.

It seemed to him that she could not fail to read in his face the profound and ardent wish to help her; to comfort and assure an uneasy and frightened spirit wandering in the night.

It seemed to him that she couldn't miss seeing the deep and passionate desire on his face to help her; to comfort and reassure a troubled and scared soul wandering in the night.

He heard a little, soft sigh. “I don’t know you,” said the voice. “Do I?”

He heard a soft little sigh. “I don’t know you,” said the voice. “Do I?”

“No,” he answered soothingly as if to a child. “I’m the station-agent here. You must come in out of the wet.”

“No,” he replied gently, as if talking to a child. “I’m the station agent here. You need to come inside out of the rain.”

“Very well.”

"Sure."

He tossed an overcoat on over his pajamas, ran to the door and swung it open. The tiny ray of light advanced, hesitated, advanced again. She walked into the shack, and immediately the rain burst again upon the outer world. Banneker’s fleeting impression was of a vivid but dimmed beauty. He pushed forward a chair, found a blanket for her feet, lighted the “Quick-heater” oil-stove on which he did his cooking. She followed him with her eyes, deeply glowing but vague and troubled.

He threw on an overcoat over his pajamas, rushed to the door and swung it open. The small beam of light moved forward, paused, then moved forward again. She stepped into the shack, and right away, the rain started pouring down again outside. Banneker's quick impression was of a vibrant but muted beauty. He pulled out a chair for her, grabbed a blanket for her feet, and lit the “Quick-heater” oil stove that he used for cooking. She followed him with her eyes, intensely glowing yet unclear and troubled.

“This is not a station,” she said.

“This isn’t a station,” she said.

“No. It’s my shack. Are you cold?”

“No. It’s my place. Are you cold?”

“Not very.” She shivered a little.

“Not really.” She shivered a bit.

“You say that some one hurt you?”

"You say someone hurt you?"

“Yes. They struck me. It made my head feel queer.”

“Yes. They hit me. It made my head feel weird.”

A murderous fury surged into his brain. His hand twitched toward his revolver.

A violent rage surged into his mind. His hand twitched toward his gun.

“The hoboes,” he whispered under his breath. “But they didn’t rob you,” he said aloud, looking at the jeweled hand.

“The hoboes,” he whispered quietly. “But they didn’t steal from you,” he said out loud, glancing at the jeweled hand.

“No. I don’t think so. I ran away.”

“No. I don't think so. I just ran away.”

“Where was it?”

"Where is it?"

“On the train.”

"On the train."

Enlightenment burst upon him. “You’re sure—” he began. Then, “Tell me all you can about it.”

Enlightenment struck him. “You’re sure—” he started. Then, “Tell me everything you know about it.”

“I don’t remember anything. I was in my stateroom in the car. The door was open. Some one must have come in and struck me. Here.” She put her left hand tenderly to her head.

“I don’t remember anything. I was in my cabin in the car. The door was open. Someone must have come in and hit me. Here.” She gently placed her left hand on her head.

Banneker, leaning over her, only half suppressed a cry. Back of the temple rose a great, puffed, leaden-blue wale.

Banneker, leaning over her, could barely hold back a gasp. Behind the temple, a massive, swollen, leaden-blue whale emerged.

“Sit still,” he said. “I’ll fix it.”

“Stay put,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

While he busied himself heating water, getting out clean bandages and gauze, she leaned back with half-closed eyes in which there was neither fear nor wonder nor curiosity: only a still content. Banneker washed the wound very carefully.

While he occupied himself with heating water and retrieving clean bandages and gauze, she reclined with her eyes half-closed, revealing no fear, wonder, or curiosity—only quiet satisfaction. Banneker gently washed the wound.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“My head feels queer. Inside.”

"My head feels weird. Inside."

“I think the hair ought to be cut away around the place. Right here. It’s quite raw.”

"I think we should cut the hair around this area. Right here. It’s really sensitive."

It was glorious hair. Not black, as Cressey had described it in his hasty sketch of the unknown I.O.W.; too alive with gleams and glints of luster for that. Nor were her eyes black, but rather of a deep-hued, clouded hazel, showing troubled shadows between their dark-lashed, heavy lids. Yet Banneker made no doubt but that this was the missing girl of Cressey’s inquiry.

It was stunning hair. Not black, like Cressey had mentioned in his quick sketch of the unknown I.O.W.; it was too vibrant with shines and glints for that. Her eyes weren't black either, but rather a rich, cloudy hazel, revealing troubled shadows beneath their dark-lashed, heavy lids. Still, Banneker had no doubt that this was the missing girl that Cressey was asking about.

“May I?” he said.

“Can I?” he said.

“Cut my hair?” she asked. “Oh, no!”

“Just a little, in one place. I think I can do it so that it won’t show. There’s so much of it.”

“Just a little, in one spot. I think I can make it so it won’t show. There’s so much of it.”

“Please,” she answered, yielding.

“Okay,” she answered, yielding.

He was deft. She sat quiet and soothed under his ministerings. Completed, the bandage looked not too unworkmanlike, and was cool and comforting to the hot throb of the wound.

He was skilled. She sat quietly and relaxed under his care. When he was done, the bandage looked pretty good and felt cool and soothing against the hot pulse of the wound.

“Our doctor went back on the train, worse luck!” he said.

“Our doctor took the train back, bad luck!” he said.

“I don’t want any other doctor,” she murmured. “I’d rather have you.”

“I don’t want any other doctor,” she whispered. “I’d rather have you.”

“But I’m not a doctor.”

"But I'm not a doc."

“No,” she acquiesced. “Who are you? Did you tell me? You are one of the passengers, aren’t you?”

“No,” she agreed. “Who are you? Did you tell me? You’re one of the passengers, right?”

“I’m the station-agent at Manzanita.”

“I’m the station agent at Manzanita.”

For a moment she looked at him wonderingly. “Are you? I don’t seem to understand. My head is very queer.”

For a moment, she looked at him in confusion. “Are you? I don’t quite get it. My head feels really strange.”

“Don’t try to. Here’s some tea and crackers.”

“Don’t bother. Here’s some tea and crackers.”

“I’m starved,” she said.

"I'm starving," she said.

With subtle stirrings of delight, he watched her eat the bit that he had prepared for her while heating the water. But he was wise enough to know that she must not have much while the extent of her injury was still undetermined.

With a quiet sense of pleasure, he watched her eat the portion he had prepared for her while warming the water. But he was smart enough to realize that she shouldn't have too much until the full extent of her injury was clear.

“Are you wet?” he inquired.

"Are you soaked?" he asked.

She nodded. “I haven’t been dry since the flood.”

She nodded. “I haven't been dry since the flood.”

“I have a room with a real stove in it over the station. I’ll build a fire, and you must take off your wet things and go to bed and sleep. If you need anything you can hammer on the floor.”

“I have a room with an actual stove above the station. I’ll start a fire, and you need to take off your wet clothes and go to bed to sleep. If you need anything, you can bang on the floor.”

“But you—”

“I’ll be in my office, below. I’m on night duty to-night,” said he, tactfully fabricating.

“I’ll be in my office below. I’m on night duty tonight,” he said, skillfully making it up.

“Very well. You’re awfully kind.”

“Sure. You’re really sweet.”

He adjusted the oil-stove, threw a warmed blanket over her feet, and hurried to his room to build the promised fire. When he came back she smiled.

He tweaked the oil stove, tossed a warm blanket over her feet, and rushed to his room to start the promised fire. When he returned, she smiled.

“You are good to me! It’s stupid of me—my head is so queer—did you say you were—”

“You're really nice to me! I can't believe how ridiculous I am—my mind is so all over the place—did you say you were—”

“The station-agent. My name is Banneker. I’m responsible to the company for your safety and comfort. You’re not to worry about it, nor think about it, nor ask any questions.”

“The station agent. My name is Banneker. I’m in charge of your safety and comfort for the company. You don’t need to worry about it, think about it, or ask any questions.”

“No,” she agreed, and rose.

“No,” she said, standing up.

He threw the blanket around her shoulders. At the protective touch she slipped her hand through his arm. So they went out into the night.

He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. At his protective gesture, she slipped her hand through his arm. So they stepped out into the night.

Mounting the stairs, she stumbled, and for a moment he felt the firm, warm pressure of her body against him. It shook him strangely.

Mounting the stairs, she stumbled, and for a moment he felt the firm, warm pressure of her body against him. It shook him in a weird way.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. And, a moment later, “Good-night, and thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. Then, a moment later, “Goodnight, and thank you.”

Taking the hand which she held out, he returned her good-night. The door closed. He turned away and was halfway down the flight when a sudden thought recalled him. He tapped on the door.

Taking her outstretched hand, he wished her goodnight. The door closed. He turned away and was halfway down the stairs when a sudden thought made him stop. He knocked on the door.

“What is it?” asked the serene music of the voice.

“What is it?” asked the calm music of the voice.

“I don’t want to bother you, but there’s just one thing I forgot. Please give me your name.”

“I don’t want to disturb you, but there’s just one thing I forgot. Could you please tell me your name?”

“What for?” returned the voice doubtfully.

“What for?” the voice replied, sounding unsure.

“I must report it to the company.”

“I need to report it to the company.”

“Must you?” The voice seemed to be vaguely troubled. “To-night?”

“Do you have to?” The voice sounded a bit uneasy. “Tonight?”

“Don’t give a thought to it,” he said. “To-morrow will do just as well. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Tomorrow will work just as well. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Good-night,” she said again.

"Goodnight," she said again.

“Can’t remember her own name!” thought Banneker, moved and pitiful.

“Can’t remember her own name!” thought Banneker, feeling both moved and sorry for her.

Darkness and quiet were grateful to him as he entered the office. By sense of direction he found his chair, and sank into it. Overhead he could hear the soft sound of her feet moving about the room, his room. Quiet succeeded. Banneker, leagues removed from sleep, or the hope of it, despite his bodily weariness, followed the spirit of wonder through starlit and sunlit realms of dream.

Darkness and silence welcomed him as he walked into the office. Using his instincts, he located his chair and settled into it. Above him, he could hear the gentle sound of her footsteps moving around the room—his room. Silence followed. Banneker, far from sleep or even the idea of it, despite feeling physically tired, let his imagination wander through the dreamlike realms of both starlight and sunlight.

The telegraph-receiver clicked. Not his call. But it brought him back to actualities. He lighted his lamp and brought down the letter-file from which had been extracted the description of the wreck for Gardner of the Angelica City Herald.

The telegraph receiver clicked. Not his call. But it brought him back to reality. He lit his lamp and took down the letter file from which had been pulled the description of the wreck for Gardner of the Angelica City Herald.

Drawing out the special paper, he looked at the heading and smiled. “Letters to Nobody.” He took a fresh sheet and began to write. Through the night he wrote and dreamed and dozed and wrote again. When a sound of song, faint and sweet and imminent, roused him to lift his sleep-bowed head from the desk upon which it had sunk, the gray, soiled light of a stormy morning was in his eyes. The last words he had written were:

Drawing out the special paper, he looked at the heading and smiled. “Letters to Nobody.” He took a fresh sheet and began to write. Throughout the night, he wrote, dreamed, dozed off, and wrote again. When a faint and sweet song, that felt like it was about to happen, woke him from the desk where his sleep-dropped head had landed, the dim, dirty light of a stormy morning greeted his eyes. The last words he had written were:

“The breast of the world rises and falls with your breathing.”

“The world’s heartbeat rises and falls with your breath.”

Banneker was twenty-four years old, and had the untainted soul of a boy of sixteen.

Banneker was twenty-four years old, and had the pure spirit of a sixteen-year-old boy.

CHAPTER V

Overhead she was singing. The voice was clear and sweet and happy. He did not know the melody; some minor refrain of broken rhythm which seemed always to die away short of fulfillment. A haunting thing of mystery and glamour, such mystery and glamour as had irradiated his long and wonderful night. He heard the door open and then her light footsteps on the stair outside. Hot-eyed and disheveled, he rose, staggering a little at first as he hurried to greet her.

Overhead, she was singing. Her voice was clear, sweet, and joyful. He didn’t recognize the melody; it was some minor tune with a broken rhythm that always felt incomplete. It had an enchanting quality of mystery and charm, the same kind that had filled his long and amazing night. He heard the door open and then her light footsteps on the stairs outside. With bloodshot eyes and a messy appearance, he got up, swaying slightly at first as he rushed to greet her.

She stood poised on the lower step.

She stood ready on the lower step.

“Good-morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” he said.

She made no return to his accost other than a slow smile. “I thought you were a dream,” she murmured.

She didn't respond to his greeting except for a slow smile. "I thought you were a dream," she said softly.

“No. I’m real enough. Are you better? Your head?”

“No. I’m real enough. Are you feeling better? How’s your head?”

She put a hand to the bandage. “It’s sore. Otherwise I’m quite fit. I’ve slept like the dead.”

She touched the bandage. “It’s sore. Other than that, I’m doing pretty well. I’ve slept like a rock.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replied mechanically. He was drinking her in, all the grace and loveliness and wonder of her, himself quite unconscious of the intensity of his gaze.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he replied automatically. He was taking her in, all her grace, beauty, and wonder, completely unaware of how intensely he was staring.

She accepted the mute tribute untroubled; but there was a suggestion of puzzlement in the frown which began to pucker her forehead.

She accepted the silent tribute without concern; however, there was a hint of confusion in the frown that started to crease her forehead.

“You’re really the station-agent?” she asked with a slight emphasis upon the adverb.

“You're really the station agent?” she asked, placing a bit of emphasis on the adverb.

“Yes. Why not?”

"Sure. Why not?"

“Nothing. No reason. Won’t you tell me what happened?”

“Nothing. No reason. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Come inside.” He held open the door against the wind.

“Come in.” He held the door open against the wind.

“No. It’s musty.” She wrinkled a dainty nose. “Can’t we talk here? I love the feel of the air and the wet. And the world! I’m glad I wasn’t killed.”

“No. It smells moldy.” She scrunched up her cute nose. “Can’t we chat here? I love the feel of the air and the moisture. And the world! I’m glad I didn’t die.”

“So am I,” he said soberly.

“So am I,” he said seriously.

“When my brain wouldn’t work quite right yesterday, I thought that some one had hit me. That isn’t so, is it?”

“When my brain wasn’t working properly yesterday, I thought someone had hit me. That’s not true, is it?”

“No. Your train was wrecked. You were injured. In the confusion you must have run away.”

“No. Your train crashed. You were hurt. In all the chaos, you must have escaped.”

“Yes. I remember being frightened. Terribly frightened. I’d never been that way before. Outside of that one idea of fear, everything was mixed up. I ran until I couldn’t run any more and dropped down.”

“Yes. I remember being scared. Really scared. I’d never felt that way before. Besides that one feeling of fear, everything was a blur. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore and just collapsed.”

“And then?”

"So what now?"

“I got up and ran again. Have you ever been afraid?”

“I got up and ran again. Have you ever been scared?”

“Plenty of times.”

“Many times.”

“I hadn’t realized before that there was anything in the world to be afraid of. But the thought of that blow, coming so suddenly from nowhere, and the fear that I might be struck again—it drove me.” She flung out her hands in a little desperate gesture that twitched at Banneker’s breath.

“I hadn’t realized before that there was anything in the world to be afraid of. But the thought of that hit, coming so suddenly from nowhere, and the fear that I might be hit again—it pushed me.” She threw out her hands in a small desperate gesture that caught Banneker’s breath.

“You must have been out all night in the rain.”’

“You must have been out all night in the rain.”

“No. I found a sort of cabin in the woods. It was deserted.”

“No. I discovered a kind of cabin in the woods. It was empty.”

“Dutch Cal’s place. It’s only a few rods back in.”

“Dutch Cal’s place. It’s just a short distance back there.”

“I saw a light from there and that suggested to my muddled brain that I might get something to eat.”

“I saw a light from there, and it hinted to my confused mind that I could find something to eat.”

“So you came over here.”

"So you came here."

“Yes. But the fear came on me again and I didn’t dare knock. I suppose I prowled.”

“Yes. But the fear hit me again and I didn’t have the courage to knock. I guess I just lingered around.”

“Gardner thought he heard ghosts. But ghosts don’t steal molasses pie.”

She looked at him solemnly. “Must one steal to get anything to eat here?”

She looked at him seriously. “Do you have to steal to get something to eat here?”

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’ll get you breakfast right away. What will you have? There isn’t much.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll get you breakfast right away. What do you want? There isn’t much.”

“Anything there is. But if I’m to board with you, you must let me pay my way.”

"Anything is fine. But if I'm going to stay with you, you have to let me pay my share."

“The company is responsible for that.”

Her brooding eyes were still fixed upon him. “You actually are the agent,” she mused. “That’s quaint.”

Her intense eyes were still locked onto him. “You really are the agent,” she thought. “That’s interesting.”

“I don’t see anything quaint about it. Now, if you’ll make yourself comfortable I’ll go over to the shack and rustle something for breakfast.”

“I don’t find anything charming about it. So, if you’ll get comfortable, I’ll head over to the shack and whip up something for breakfast.”

“No; I’d rather go with you. Perhaps I can help.”

"No; I'd rather go with you. Maybe I can help."

Such help as the guest afforded was negligible. When, from sundry of the Sears-Roebuck cans and bottles, a condensed and preserved sort of meal had been derived, she set to it with a good grace.

Such help as the guest provided was minimal. When, from various Sears-Roebuck cans and bottles, a condensed and preserved type of meal was prepared, she approached it with a good attitude.

“There’s more of a kick in tea than in a cocktail, I believe, when you really need it,” she remarked gratefully. “You spoke of a Mr. Gardner. Who is he?”

“There's more of a kick in tea than in a cocktail, I think, when you really need it,” she said with appreciation. “You mentioned a Mr. Gardner. Who is he?”

“A reporter who spent night before last here.”

“A reporter who spent the night before last here.”

She dropped her cracker, oleomargarine-side down. “A reporter?”

She dropped her cracker, margarine-side down. “A reporter?”

“He came down to write up the wreck. It’s a bad one. Nine dead, so far.”

“He came down to report on the wreck. It’s a serious one. Nine dead, so far.”

“Is he still here?”

“Is he still around?”

“No. Gone back to Angelica City.”

“No. Headed back to Angelica City.”

Retrieving her cracker, the guest finished her meal, heartily but thoughtfully. She insisted on lending a hand to the washing-up process, and complimented Banneker on his neatness.

Retrieving her cracker, the guest finished her meal, eagerly but thoughtfully. She insisted on helping with the washing up and praised Banneker for his tidiness.

“You haven’t told me your name yet,” he reminded her when the last shining tin was hung up.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he reminded her when the last shiny tin was hung up.

“No; I haven’t. What will you do with it when you get it?”

“No; I haven’t. What will you do with it when you have it?”

“Report it to the company for their lists.”

“Report it to the company for their records.”

“Suppose I don’t want it reported to the company?’

“Suppose I don’t want the company to know?”

“Why on earth shouldn’t you?”

“Why shouldn't you?”

“I may have my reasons. Would it be put in the papers?”

“I might have my reasons. Will it be reported in the newspapers?”

“Very likely.”

"Most likely."

“I don’t want it in the papers,” said the girl with decision.

“I don’t want it in the news,” said the girl with determination.

“Don’t you want it known that you’re all right? Your people—”

“Don’t you want people to know you’re okay? Your folks—”

“I’ll wire my people. Or you can wire them for me. Can’t you?”

“I’ll send a message to my team. Or you can send it for me. Can’t you?”

“Of course. But the company has a right to know what has happened to its passengers.”

“Of course. But the company has the right to know what happened to its passengers.”

“Not to me! What has the company done for me but wreck me and give me an awful bang on the head and lose my baggage and—Oh, I nearly forgot. I took my traveling-bag when I ran. It’s in the hut. I wonder if you would get it for me?”

“Not for me! What has the company done for me except mess me up, give me a terrible hit to the head, and lose my luggage, and—Oh, I almost forgot. I grabbed my travel bag when I ran. It’s in the hut. I wonder if you could grab it for me?”

“Of course. I’ll go now.”

"Sure. I’ll go now."

“That’s good of you. And for your own self, but not your old company, I’ll tell you my name. I’m—”

“That’s nice of you. And for yourself, but not your old company, I’ll tell you my name. I’m—”

“Wait a moment. Whatever you tell me I’ll have to report.”

"Hold on a second. Whatever you say, I’ll need to report it."

“You can’t,” she returned imperiously. “It’s in confidence.”

“You can’t,” she replied authoritatively. “It’s confidential.”

“I won’t accept it so.”

“I won’t accept it like that.”

“You’re a most extraordinary sta—a most extraordinary sort of man. Then I’ll give you this much for yourself, and if your company collects pet names, you can pass it on. My friends call me Io.”

“You’re a really extraordinary guy. So, I’ll give you this much for yourself, and if your company collects pet names, you can share it. My friends call me Io.”

“Yes. I know. You’re I.O.W.”

“How do you know that? And how much more do you know?”

“How do you know that? And what else do you know?”

“No more. A man on the train reported your initials from your baggage.”

“No more. A guy on the train saw your initials on your luggage.”

“I’ll feel ever so much better when I have that bag. Is there a hotel near here?”

“I'll feel so much better once I have that bag. Is there a hotel around here?”

“A sort of one at Manzanita. It isn’t very clean. But there’ll be a train through to-night and I’ll get you space on that. I’d better get a doctor for you first, hadn’t I?”

“A kind of one at Manzanita. It’s not very clean. But there will be a train passing through tonight, and I’ll get you a spot on that. I should probably get a doctor for you first, right?”

“No, indeed! All I need is some fresh things.”

“No, really! All I need is some fresh stuff.”

Banneker set off at a brisk pace. He found the extravagant little traveling-case safely closed and locked, and delivered it outside his own door which was also closed and, he suspected, locked.

Banneker set off at a quick pace. He found the fancy little travel case safely closed and locked, and left it outside his own door, which was also closed and, he suspected, locked.

“I’m thinking,” said the soft voice of the girl within. “Don’t let me interrupt your work.”

“I’m thinking,” said the gentle voice of the girl inside. “Don’t let me interrupt your work.”

Beneath, at his routine, Banneker also set himself to think; confused, bewildered, impossibly conjectural thoughts not unmingled with semi-official anxiety. Harboring a woman on company property, even though she were, in some sense, a charge of the company, might be open to misconceptions. He wished that the mysterious Io would declare herself.

Beneath it all, during his usual routine, Banneker took some time to think; his thoughts were confused, bewildered, and filled with impossible conjectures, mixed with a bit of semi-official anxiety. Having a woman on company property, even if she was, in a way, under the company’s responsibility, could lead to misunderstandings. He wished that the mysterious Io would reveal her true self.

At noon she did. She declared herself ready for luncheon. There was about her a matter-of-fact acceptance of the situation as natural, even inevitable, which entranced Banneker when it did not appall him. After the meal was over, the girl seated herself on a low bench which Banneker had built with his own hands and the Right-and-Ready Tool Kit (9 T 603), her knee between her clasped hands and an elfish expression on her face.

At noon she did. She announced that she was ready for lunch. There was a straightforward acceptance of the situation as normal, even unavoidable, which fascinated Banneker when it didn't shock him. After the meal, the girl sat on a low bench that Banneker had made with his own hands and the Right-and-Ready Tool Kit (9 T 603), her knee resting between her clasped hands and a mischievous look on her face.

“Don’t you think,” she suggested, “that we’d get on quicker if you washed the dishes and I sat here and talked to you?”

“Don’t you think,” she suggested, “that we’d get done faster if you washed the dishes and I just sat here and chatted with you?”

“Very likely.”

"Highly likely."

“It isn’t so easy to begin, you know,” she remarked, nursing her knee thoughtfully. “Am I—Do you find me very much in the way?’”

“It’s not so easy to start, you know,” she said, nursing her knee thoughtfully. “Am I—Do you think I’m getting in the way?”

“No.”

“Don’t suppress your wild enthusiasm on my account,” she besought him. “I haven’t interfered with your duties so far, have I?”

“Don’t hold back your excitement because of me,” she implored him. “I haven’t gotten in the way of your responsibilities so far, have I?”

“No,” answered Banneker wondering what was coming next.

“No,” Banneker replied, curious about what was coming next.

“You see”—her tone became ruminative and confidential—“if I give you my name and you report it, there’ll be all kinds of a mix-up. They’ll come after me and take me away.”

“You see”—her tone turned thoughtful and intimate—“if I give you my name and you report it, there’ll be all sorts of confusion. They’ll come for me and take me away.”

Banneker dropped a tin on the floor and stood, staring.

Banneker dropped a tin on the floor and stood there, staring.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

"Isn’t that what you need?"

“It’s evident enough that it’s what you want,” she returned, aggrieved.

“It’s pretty clear that it’s what you want,” she replied, upset.

“No. Not at all,” he disclaimed. “Only—well, out here—alone—I don’t understand.”

“No. Not at all,” he said. “It's just—well, out here—alone—I don’t get it.”

“Can’t you understand that if one had happened to drop out of the world by chance, it might be desirable to stay out for a while?”

“Can’t you see that if someone accidentally fell out of the world, it might be nice to stay out for a bit?”

“For you? No; I can’t understand that.”

“For you? No; I can’t get that.”

“What about yourself?” she challenged with a swift, amused gleam. “You are certainly staying out of the world here.”

“What about you?” she challenged with a quick, amused glint. “You’re definitely hiding away from the world here.”

“This is my world.”

"This is my world."

Her eyes and voice dropped. “Truly?” she murmured. Then, as he made no reply, “It isn’t much of a world for a man.”

Her eyes and voice faded. “Really?” she whispered. Then, when he didn’t respond, she added, “It’s not much of a world for a man.”

To this his response touched the heights of the unexpected. He stretched out his arm toward the near window through which could be seen the white splendor of Mount Carstairs, dim in the wreathing murk.

To this, his response was completely unexpected. He reached out his arm toward the nearby window, where the white beauty of Mount Carstairs could be seen, faint in the surrounding fog.

“Lo! For there, amidst the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes, Only winds and rivers, Life and death,” he quoted.

“Look! Because there, among the flowers and grass, Only the stronger movements are heard and flow, Only winds and rivers, Life and death,” he quoted.

Her eyes glowed with sheer, incredulous astonishment. “How came you by that Stevenson?” she demanded. “Are you poet as well as recluse?”

Her eyes sparkled with pure, shocked disbelief. “How did you get that Stevenson?” she asked. “Are you a poet as well as a recluse?”

“I met him once.”

“Tell me about it.”

"Don't get me started."

“Some other time. We’ve other things to talk of now.”

“Another time. We have other things to discuss now.”

“Some other time? Then I’m to stay!”

“Some other time? Then I’m supposed to stay!”

“In Manzanita?”

"In Manzanita?"

“Manzanita? No. Here.”

"Manzanita? No. Over here."

“In this station? Alone? But why—”

“In this station? By myself? But why—”

“Because I’m Io Welland and I want to, and I always get what I want,” she retorted calmly and superbly.

“Because I’m Io Welland and I want to, and I always get what I want,” she replied coolly and confidently.

“Welland,” he repeated. “Miss I.O. Welland. And the address is New York, isn’t it?”

“Welland,” he repeated. “Miss I.O. Welland. And the address is New York, right?”

Her hands grew tense across her knee, and deep in her shadowed eyes there was a flash. But her voice suggested not only appeal, but almost a hint of caress as she said:

Her hands tightened on her knee, and deep in her darkened eyes, there was a spark. But her voice conveyed not just a request, but almost a touch of tenderness as she said:

“Are you going to betray a guest? I’ve always heard that Western hospitality—”

“Are you really going to betray a guest? I’ve always heard that Western hospitality—”

“You’re not my guest. You’re the company’s.”

“You're not my guest. You're the company's.”

“And you won’t take me for yours?”

“And you won’t claim me as yours?”

“Be reasonable, Miss Welland.”

“Be reasonable, Ms. Welland.”

“I suppose it’s a question of the conventionalities,” she mocked.

“I guess it’s about the norms,” she said mockingly.

“I don’t know or care anything about the conventionalities—”

“I don’t know or care about any of the norms—”

“Nor I,” she interrupted. “Out here.”

“Me neither,” she cut in. “Out here.”

“—but my guess would be that they apply only to people who live in the same world. We don’t, you and I.”

“—but I think they only apply to people who live in the same world. We don’t, you and I.”

“That’s rather shrewd of you,” she observed.

"That’s pretty clever of you," she noted.

“It isn’t an easy matter to talk about to a young girl, you know.”

“It’s not easy to talk about to a young girl, you know.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” she returned with composure. “Just take it for granted that I know about all there is to be known and am not afraid of it. I’m not afraid of anything, I think, except of—of having to go back just now.” She rose and went to him, looking down into his eyes. “A woman knows whom she can trust in—in certain things. That’s her gift, a gift no man has or quite understands. Dazed as I was last night, I knew I could trust you. I still know it. So we may dismiss that.”

"Oh, yes, it is," she replied calmly. "Just assume that I know pretty much everything there is to know and I’m not scared of it. I’m not scared of anything, I think, except—of having to go back right now." She stood up and walked over to him, looking down into his eyes. "A woman knows who she can trust in—in certain matters. That’s her gift, a gift that no man has or fully understands. Even though I was dazed last night, I knew I could trust you. I still know it. So let’s put that aside."

“That is true,” said Banneker, “so far as it goes.”

"That's true," Banneker said, "as far as it goes."

“What farther is there? If it’s a matter of the inconvenience—”

“What else is there? If it’s about the inconvenience—”

“No. You know it isn’t that.”

“No. You know that’s not it.”

“Then let me stay in this funny little shack just for a few days,” she pleaded. “If you don’t, I’ll get on to-night’s train and go on and—and do something I’ll be sorry for all the rest of my life. And it’ll be your fault! I was going to do it when the accident prevented. Do you believe in Providence?”

“Then let me stay in this quirky little shack for just a few days,” she begged. “If you don’t, I’ll hop on tonight’s train and go on and—and do something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. And it’ll be your fault! I was going to do it before the accident stopped me. Do you believe in fate?”

“Not as a butt-in,” he answered promptly. “I don’t believe that Providence would pitch a rock into a train and kill a lot of people, just to prevent a girl from making a foo—a bad break.”

“Not as a butt-in,” he replied quickly. “I don’t think that fate would throw a rock at a train and kill a bunch of people, just to stop a girl from making a mistake.”

“Nor I,” she smiled. “I suppose there’s some kind of a General Manager over this queer world; but I believe He plays the game fair and square and doesn’t break the rules He has made Himself. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t want to play at all!... Oh, my telegram! I must wire my aunt in New York. I’ll tell her that I’ve stopped off to visit friends, if you don’t object to that description as being too compromising,” she added mischievously. She accepted a pad which he handed her and sat at the table, pondering. “Mr. Banneker,” she said after a moment.

“Neither do I,” she smiled. “I guess there’s some sort of General Manager in this strange world; but I think He plays the game straight and doesn’t break the rules He set Himself. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t want to play at all!... Oh, my telegram! I need to wire my aunt in New York. I’ll tell her I stopped to visit friends, if you don’t mind that description being a bit misleading,” she added playfully. She took the pad he offered her and sat at the table, thinking. “Mr. Banneker,” she said after a moment.

“Well?”

"What's up?"

“If the telegram goes from here, will it be headed by the name of the station?”

“If the telegram is sent from here, will it be addressed with the name of the station?”

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

“So that inquiry might be made here for me?”

“So, can I get someone to look into that for me here?”

“It might, certainly.”

"Definitely, it might."

“But I don’t want it to be. Couldn’t you leave off the station?”

“But I don’t want it to be. Can’t you skip the station?”

“Not very well.”

“Not so great.”

“Just for me?” she wheedled. “For your guest that you’ve been so insistent on keeping,” she added slyly.

“Just for me?” she pleaded. “For your guest that you’ve been so determined to keep,” she added cleverly.

“The message wouldn’t be accepted.”

“The message won't be accepted.”

“Oh, dear! Then I won’t send it.”

“Oh, no! Then I won’t send it.”

“If you don’t notify your family, I must report you to the company.”

“If you don’t tell your family, I have to report you to the company.”

“What an irritating sense of duty you have! It must be dreadful to be afflicted that way. Can’t you suggest something?” she flashed. “Won’t you do a thing to help me stay? I believe you don’t want me, after all.”

“What an annoying sense of duty you have! It must be awful to be burdened like that. Can’t you come up with something?” she snapped. “Won’t you do a thing to help me stay? I really think you don’t want me, after all.”

“If the up-train gets through this evening, I’ll give your wire to the engineer and he’ll transmit it from any office you say.”

“If the train coming from the north makes it through this evening, I’ll deliver your message to the engineer, and he’ll send it from any office you choose.”

Childlike with pleasure she clapped her hands. “Of course! Give him this, will you?” From a bag at her wrist she extracted a five-dollar bill. “By the way, if I’m to be a guest I must be a paying guest, of course.”

Childlike with joy, she clapped her hands. “Of course! Can you give him this?” From a bag on her wrist, she pulled out a five-dollar bill. “By the way, if I’m going to be a guest, I need to be a paying guest, obviously.”

“You can pay for a cot that I’ll get in town,” he agreed, “and your share of the food.”

“You can pay for a cot that I’ll pick up in town,” he said, “and your part of the food.”

“But the use of the house, and—and all the trouble I’m making you,” she said doubtfully. “I ought to pay for that.”

“But the use of the house, and—and all the trouble I’m making for you,” she said uncertainly. “I should pay for that.”

“Do you think so?” He looked at her with a peculiar expression which, however, was not beyond the power of her intuition to interpret.

“Do you really think that?” He gave her a strange look that she was able to read with her intuition.

“No; I don’t,” she declared.

“No; I don’t,” she said.

Banneker answered her smile with his own, as he resumed his dish-wiping. Io wrote out her telegram with care. Her next observation startled the agent.

Banneker responded to her smile with one of his own as he went back to wiping the dishes. Io carefully wrote out her telegram. Her next comment surprised the agent.

“Are you, by any chance, married?”

“Are you married by any chance?”

“No; I’m not. What makes you ask that?”

“No; I’m not. Why do you ask that?”

“There’s been a woman in here before.”

Confusedly his thoughts flew back to Carlotta. But the Mexican girl had never been in the shack. He was quite absurdly and inexplicably glad now that she had not.

Confused, his thoughts drifted back to Carlotta. But the Mexican girl had never been in the shack. He felt strangely and inexplicably relieved that she hadn’t.

“A woman?” he said. “Why do you think so?”

“A woman?” he asked. “Why do you think that?”

“Something in the arrangement of the place. That hanging, yonder. And that little vase—it’s good, by the way. The way that Navajo is placed on the door. One feels it.”

“Something about the setup of this place. That hanging piece over there. And that little vase—it’s nice, by the way. The way that Navajo is set up on the door. You can really feel it.”

“It’s true. A friend of mine came here one day and turned everything topsy-turvy.”

“It’s true. A friend of mine came over one day and completely turned everything upside down.”

“I’m not asking questions just for curiosity. But is that the reason you didn’t want me to stay?”

“I’m not asking questions just out of curiosity. But is that why you didn’t want me to stay?”

He laughed, thinking of Miss Van Arsdale. “Heavens, no! Wait till you meet her. She’s a very wonderful person; but—”

He laughed, thinking about Miss Van Arsdale. “Oh my goodness, no! Just wait until you meet her. She’s an amazing person; but—”

“Meet her? Does she live near here, then?”

“Meet her? Does she live around here, then?”

“A few miles away.”

“A couple of miles away.”

“Suppose she should come and find me here?”

“Imagine if she showed up and found me here?”

“It’s what I’ve been wishing.”

“It’s what I've been wanting.”

“Is it! Well, it isn’t what I wish at all.”

“Is it! Well, that’s not what I want at all.”

“In fact,” continued the imperturbable Banneker, “I rather planned to ride over to her place this afternoon.”

“In fact,” continued the unflappable Banneker, “I actually planned to ride over to her place this afternoon.”

“Why, if you please?”

"Why, if you don't mind?"

“To tell her about you and ask her advice.”

"To talk to her about you and get her advice."

Io’s face darkened rebelliously. “Do you think it necessary to tattle to a woman who is a total stranger to me?”

Io's expression turned dark with defiance. “Do you really think it's necessary to tell a woman who is a complete stranger to me?”

“I think it would be wise to get her view,” he replied, unmoved.

“I think it would be smart to get her perspective,” he replied, unmoved.

“Well, I think it would be horrid. I think if you do any such thing, you are—Mr. Banneker! You’re not listening to me.”

“Well, I think that would be terrible. I believe if you do anything like that, you are—Mr. Banneker! You’re not paying attention to me.”

“Some one is coming through the woods trail,” said he.

"Someone is coming down the trail through the woods," he said.

“Perhaps it’s your local friend.”

“Maybe it’s your local friend.”

“That’s my guess.”

"That's what I think."

“Please understand this, Mr. Banneker,” she said with an obstinate outthrust of her little chin. “I don’t know who your friend is and I don’t care. If you make it necessary, I can go to the hotel in town; but while I stay here I won’t have my affairs or even my presence discussed with any one else.”

“Please understand this, Mr. Banneker,” she said, sticking out her little chin defiantly. “I don’t know who your friend is, and I don’t care. If it comes to that, I can go to the hotel in town; but as long as I’m here, I won’t have my business or even my presence discussed with anyone else.”

“You’re too late,” said Banneker.

"You're too late," Banneker said.

Out from a hardly discernible opening in the brush shouldered a big roan. Tossing up his head, he stretched out in the long, easy lope of the desert-bred, his rider sitting him loosely and with slack bridle.

Out from a barely noticeable gap in the bushes emerged a large roan horse. Tossing his head, he set off in the long, smooth lope typical of desert-bred horses, his rider relaxed and holding the reins loosely.

“That’s Miss Van Arsdale,” said Banneker.

"That's Miss Van Arsdale," Banneker said.

CHAPTER VI

Seated in her saddle the newcomer hailed Banneker.

Seated in her saddle, the newcomer called out to Banneker.

“What news, Ban? Is the wreck cleared up?”

“What’s the news, Ban? Is the wreck cleared away?”

“Yes. But the track is out twenty miles east. Every arroyo and barranca is bank-high and over.”

“Yes. But the road is twenty miles east. Every creek and ravine is at bank level and overflowing.”

He had crossed the platform to her. Now she raised her deep-set, quiet eyes and rested them on the girl. That the station should harbor a visitor at that hour was not surprising. But the beauty of the stranger caught Miss Van Arsdale’s regard, and her bearing held it.

He had walked over to her. Now she lifted her deep-set, calm eyes and focused them on the girl. It wasn’t surprising that the station had a visitor at this time. But the beauty of the stranger captured Miss Van Arsdale’s attention, and her demeanor kept it.

“A passenger, Ban?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“Yes, Miss Camilla.”

“Yep, Miss Camilla.”

“Left over from the wreck?”

"Leftover from the wreck?"

He nodded. “You came in the nick of time. I don’t quite know what to do with her.”

He nodded. “You arrived just in time. I’m not really sure what to do with her.”

“Why didn’t she go on the relief train?”

“Why didn’t she get on the relief train?”

“She didn’t show up until last night.”

“She didn't show up until last night.”

“Where did she stay the night?”

“Where did she spend the night?”

“Here.”

"Here."

“In your office?”

“In my room. I worked in the office.”

“You should have brought her to me.”

“She was hurt. Queer in the head. I’m not sure that she isn’t so yet.”

“She was hurt. Strange in the head. I'm not sure she isn't still like that.”

Miss Van Arsdale swung her tall form easily out of the saddle. The girl came forward at once, not waiting for Banneker’s introduction, with a formal gravity.

Miss Van Arsdale effortlessly swung her tall frame out of the saddle. The girl immediately stepped forward, not waiting for Banneker to introduce her, with a serious demeanor.

“How do you do? I am Irene Welland.”

“Hi, I’m Irene Welland.”

The older woman took the extended hand. There was courtesy rather than kindliness in her voice as she asked, “Are you much hurt?”

The older woman reached for the offered hand. There was politeness more than warmth in her voice as she asked, “Are you seriously hurt?”

“I’m quite over it, thank you. All but the bandage. Mr. Banneker was just speaking of you when you rode up, Miss Van Arsdale.”

“I’m totally over it, thanks. Except for the bandage. Mr. Banneker was just talking about you when you arrived, Miss Van Arsdale.”

The other smiled wanly. “It is a little startling to hear one’s name like that, in a voice from another world. When do you go on?”

The other smiled weakly. “It’s a bit shocking to hear your name like that, in a voice from a different world. When do you leave?”

“Ah, that’s a point under discussion. Mr. Banneker would, I believe, summon a special train if he could, in his anxiety to get rid of me.”

“Ah, that’s a topic for debate. Mr. Banneker would, I think, call for a special train if he could, just to rush me out of here.”

“Not at all,” disclaimed the agent.

“Not at all,” the agent said.

But Miss Van Arsdale interrupted, addressing the girl:

But Miss Van Arsdale cut in, speaking to the girl:

“You must be anxious, yourself, to get back to civilization.”

“You must be eager to return to civilization yourself.”

“Why?” returned the girl lightly. “This seems a beautiful locality.”

“Why?” the girl replied casually. “This area looks really nice.”

“Were you traveling alone?”

“Were you solo traveling?”

The girl flushed a little, but her eyes met the question without wavering. “Quite alone.”

The girl blushed slightly, but her eyes faced the question steadily. “Completely on my own.”

“To the coast?”

“Heading to the beach?”

“To join friends there.”

“To meet friends there.”

“If they can patch up the washed-out track,” put in Banneker, “Number Seven ought to get through to-night.”

“If they can fix the washed-out track,” Banneker interjected, “Number Seven should be able to get through tonight.”

“And Mr. Banneker in his official capacity was almost ready to put me aboard by force, when I succeeded in gaining a reprieve. Now he calls you to his rescue.”

“And Mr. Banneker, in his official role, was almost ready to force me onto the ship when I managed to secure a stay. Now he’s calling you to help.”

“What do you want to do?” inquired Miss Van Arsdale with lifted brows.

“What do you want to do?” asked Miss Van Arsdale, raising her eyebrows.

“Stay here for a few days, in that funny little house.” She indicated the portable shack.

“Stay here for a few days, in that quirky little house.” She pointed to the portable shack.

“That is Mr. Banneker’s own place.”

"That's Mr. Banneker's place."

“I understand perfectly.”

"I totally get it."

“I don’t think it would do, Miss Welland. It is Miss Welland, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think that would work, Miss Welland. It’s Miss Welland, right?”

“Yes, indeed. Why wouldn’t it do, Miss Van Arsdale?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it work, Miss Van Arsdale?”

“Ask yourself.”

"Ask yourself this."

“I am quite capable of taking care of myself,” returned the girl calmly. “As for Mr. Banneker, I assume that he is equally competent. And,” she added with a smiling effrontery, “he’s quite as much compromised already as he could possibly be by my staying.”

“I can definitely take care of myself,” the girl replied calmly. “As for Mr. Banneker, I believe he is just as capable. And,” she added with a cheeky smile, “he’s already as compromised as he could be by my staying.”

Banneker flushed angrily. “There’s no question of my being compromised,” he began shortly.

Banneker flushed with anger. “There’s no doubt that I’m not compromised,” he said firmly.

“You’re wrong, Ban; there is,” Miss Van Arsdale’s quiet voice cut him short again. “And still more of Miss Welland’s. What sort of escapade this may be,” she added, turning to the girl, “I have no idea. But you cannot stay here alone.”

“You’re mistaken, Ban; there is,” Miss Van Arsdale’s quiet voice interrupted him again. “And even more concerning Miss Welland’s. I have no clue what kind of adventure this might be,” she said, turning to the girl, “but you can’t stay here by yourself.”

“Can’t I?” retorted the other mutinously. “I think that rests with Mr. Banneker to say. Will you turn me out, Mr. Banneker? After our agreement?”

“Can’t I?” the other replied defiantly. “I think that’s up to Mr. Banneker to decide. Are you going to kick me out, Mr. Banneker? After our agreement?”

“No,” said Banneker.

“No,” Banneker replied.

“You can hardly kidnap me, even with all the conventionalities on your side,” Miss Welland pointed out to Miss Van Arsdale.

“You can hardly kidnap me, even with all the usual protocols on your side,” Miss Welland pointed out to Miss Van Arsdale.

That lady made no answer to the taunt. She was looking at the station-agent with a humorously expectant regard. He did not disappoint her.

That woman didn't respond to the insult. She was watching the station agent with a humorously eager look. He didn't let her down.

“If I get an extra cot for the shack, Miss Van Arsdale,” he asked, “could you get your things and come over here to stay?”

“If I get an extra bed for the cabin, Miss Van Arsdale,” he asked, “could you grab your stuff and come stay here?”

“Certainly.”

"Definitely."

“I won’t be treated like a child!” cried the derelict in exactly the tone of one, and a very naughty one. “I won’t! I won’t!” She stamped.

“I won’t be treated like a child!” yelled the derelict in exactly the same tone as a very spoiled kid. “I won’t! I won’t!” She stomped her feet.

Banneker laughed.

Banneker chuckled.

“You’re a coward,” said Io.

“You're a coward,” Io said.

Miss Van Arsdale laughed.

Miss Van Arsdale chuckled.

“I’ll go to the hotel in the town and stay there.”

“I'll head to the hotel in town and stay there.”

“Think twice before you do that,” advised the woman.

“Think carefully before you do that,” the woman advised.

“Why?” asked Io, struck by the tone.

“Why?” asked Io, taken aback by the tone.

“Crawly things,” replied Miss Van Arsdale sententiously.

“Crawly things,” replied Miss Van Arsdale with an air of importance.

“Big, hungry ones,” added Banneker.

“Large, hungry ones,” added Banneker.

He could almost feel the little rippling shudders passing across the girl’s delicate skin. “Oh, I think you’re loathly!” she cried. “Both of you.”

He could almost feel the little rippling shudders passing across the girl’s delicate skin. “Oh, I think you’re gross!” she cried. “Both of you.”

Tears of vexation made lucent the shadowed depths of her eyes. “I’ve never been treated so in my life!” she declared, overcome by the self-pity of a struggling soul trammeled by the world’s injustice.

Tears of frustration made the dark depths of her eyes shine. “I’ve never been treated like this in my life!” she declared, overwhelmed by the self-pity of a struggling person weighed down by the world’s unfairness.

“Why not be sensible and stay with me to-night while you think it all over?” suggested Miss Van Arsdale.

“Why not be sensible and stay with me tonight while you think it all over?” suggested Miss Van Arsdale.

“Thank you,” returned the other with an unexpected and baffling change to the amenable and formal “You are very kind. I’d be delighted to.”

“Thanks,” replied the other, with an unexpected and confusing shift to the agreeable and formal “That’s very kind of you. I’d be happy to.”

“Pack up your things, then, and I’ll bring an extra horse from the town. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Pack your stuff, and I’ll grab an extra horse from town. I’ll be back in an hour.”

The girl went up to Banneker’s room, and got her few belongings together. Descending she found the agent busy among his papers. He put them aside and came out to her.

The girl walked up to Banneker’s room and gathered her few belongings. When she came down, she found the agent busy with his papers. He set them aside and came out to her.

“Your telegram ought to get off from Williams sometime to-morrow,” he said.

“Your telegram should be sent from Williams sometime tomorrow,” he said.

“That will be time enough,” she answered.

“That will be plenty of time,” she answered.

“Will there be any answer?”

“Will there be any response?”

“How can there be? I haven’t given any address.”

“How can there be? I haven’t provided any address.”

“I could wire Williams later.”

"I could DM Williams later."

“No. I don’t want to be bothered. I want to be let alone. I’m tired.”

“No. I don’t want to be disturbed. I just want to be left alone. I’m worn out.”

He cast a glance about the lowering horizon. “More rain coming,” he said. “I wish you could have seen the desert in the sunshine.”

He looked around at the darkening horizon. “More rain is on the way,” he said. “I wish you could have seen the desert in the sunshine.”

“I’ll wait.”

"I'll hold on."

“Will you?” he cried eagerly. “It may be quite a while.”

“Will you?” he asked eagerly. “It might take a while.”

“Perhaps Miss Van Arsdale will keep me, as you wouldn’t.”

“Maybe Miss Van Arsdale will take me in, since you won’t.”

He shook his head. “You know that it isn’t because I don’t want you to stay. But she is right. It just wouldn’t do.... Here she comes now.”

He shook his head. “You know it’s not because I don’t want you to stay. But she’s right. It just wouldn’t work.... Here she comes now.”

Io took a step nearer to him. “I’ve been looking at your books.”

Io stepped closer to him. “I’ve been checking out your books.”

He returned her gaze unembarrassed. “Odds and ends,” he said. “You wouldn’t find much to interest you.”

He met her gaze confidently. “Just some random stuff,” he said. “You probably won’t find much that interests you.”

“On the contrary. Everything interested me. You’re a mystery—and I hate mysteries.”

“Actually, everything fascinated me. You’re a mystery—and I can’t stand mysteries.”

“That’s rather hard.”

"That's pretty tough."

“Until they’re solved. Perhaps I shall stay until I solve you.”

“Until they’re fixed. Maybe I’ll stick around until I figure you out.”

“Stay longer. It wouldn’t take any time at all. There’s no mystery to solve.” He spoke with an air of such perfect candor as compelled her belief in his sincerity.

“Stay longer. It wouldn’t take any time at all. There’s no mystery to solve.” He spoke with such complete honesty that it made her believe he was being sincere.

“Perhaps you’ll solve it for me. Here’s Miss Van Arsdale. Good-bye, and thank you. You’ll come and see me? Or shall I come and see you?”

“Maybe you can figure it out for me. Here’s Miss Van Arsdale. Goodbye, and thanks. Will you come visit me? Or should I come to see you?”

“Both,” smiled Banneker. “That’s fairest.”

“Both,” smiled Banneker. “That’s the fairest.”

The pair rode away leaving the station feeling empty and unsustained. At least Banneker credited it with that feeling. He tried to get back to work, but found his routine dispiriting. He walked out into the desert, musing and aimless.

The duo rode off, leaving the station feeling hollow and unfulfilled. At least Banneker saw it that way. He tried to return to work, but found his routine discouraging. He walked out into the desert, lost in thought and aimless.

Silence fell between the two women as they rode. Once Miss Welland stopped to adjust her traveling-bag which had shifted a little in the straps.

Silence settled between the two women as they rode. At one point, Miss Welland paused to fix her traveling bag, which had shifted slightly in the straps.

“Is riding cross-saddle uncomfortable for you?” asked Miss Van Arsdale.

“Not in the least. I often do it at home.”

“Not at all. I often do it at home.”

Suddenly her mount, a thick-set, soft-going pony shied, almost unseating her. A gun had banged close by. Immediately there was a second report. Miss Van Arsdale dismounted, replacing a short-barreled shot-gun in its saddle-holster, stepped from the trail, and presently returned carrying a brace of plump, slate-gray birds.

Suddenly, her horse, a sturdy, smooth-riding pony, startled, nearly throwing her off. A gunshot had fired nearby. Immediately, there was a second shot. Miss Van Arsdale got off her horse, putting a short-barreled shotgun back in its saddle holster, stepped off the path, and soon came back holding a pair of plump, slate-gray birds.

“Wild dove,” she said, stroking them. “You’ll find them a welcome addition to a meager bill of fare.”

“Wild dove,” she said, petting them. “You’ll find they’ll be a nice addition to a simple meal.”

“I should be quite content with whatever you usually have.”

“I should be completely fine with whatever you typically have.”

“Doubted,” replied the other. “I live rather a frugal life. It saves trouble.”

“Doubted,” the other replied. “I live a pretty simple life. It avoids complications.”

“And I’m afraid I’m going to make you trouble. But you brought it upon yourself.”

“And I’m worried I’m going to cause you some trouble. But you brought this on yourself.”

“By interfering. Exactly. How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

"20."

“Good Heavens! You have the aplomb of fifty.”

“Wow! You have the confidence of fifty people.”

“Experience,” smiled the girl, flattered.

“Experience,” the girl smiled, flattered.

“And the recklessness of fifteen.”

“And the recklessness of 15.”

“I abide by the rules of the game. And when I find myself—well, out of bounds, I make my own rules.”

“I follow the rules of the game. And when I find myself—well, out of bounds, I create my own rules.”

Miss Van Arsdale shook her firmly poised head. “It won’t do. The rules are the same everywhere, for honorable people.”

Miss Van Arsdale shook her firmly set head. “That won’t work. The rules are the same everywhere for decent people.”

“Honorable!” There was a flash of resentful pride as the girl turned in the saddle to face her companion.

“Honorable!” The girl turned in the saddle to face her companion, a flash of resentful pride in her expression.

“I have no intention of preaching at you or of questioning you,” continued the calm, assured voice. “If you are looking for sanctuary”—the fine lips smiled slightly—“though I’m sure I can’t see why you should need it, this is the place. But there are rules of sanctuary, also.”

“I’m not here to preach to you or interrogate you,” continued the calm, confident voice. “If you’re looking for a safe space”—the fine lips smiled slightly—“though I really don’t see why you’d need one, this is the place. But there are rules for this safe space, too.”

“I suppose,” surmised the girl, “you want to know why I don’t go back into the world at once.”

“I guess,” the girl thought, “you want to know why I don’t go back into the world right away.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll tell you.”

“Then I’ll let you know.”

“As you wish.”

"Sure thing."

“I came West to be married.”

“I came out West to get married.”

“To Delavan Eyre?”

"To Delavan Eyre?"

Again the dun pony jumped, this time because a sudden involuntary contraction of his rider’s muscles had startled him. “What do you know of Delavan Eyre, Miss Van Arsdale?”

Again the gray pony jumped, this time because a sudden involuntary twitch of his rider’s muscles had startled him. “What do you know about Delavan Eyre, Miss Van Arsdale?”

“I occasionally see a New York newspaper.”

"I sometimes read a New York newspaper."

“Then you know who I am, too?”

“Then you know who I am as well?”

“Yes. You are the pet of the society column paragraphers; the famous Io’ Welland.” She spoke with a curious intonation.

“Yes. You’re the darling of the society column writers; the famous ‘Io’ Welland.” She spoke with a curious tone.

“Ah, you read the society news?”

“Ah, did you catch the society news?”

“With a qualmish stomach. I see the names of those whom I used to know advertising themselves in the papers as if they had a shaving-soap or a chewing-gum to sell.”

“With a queasy stomach, I see the names of people I used to know promoting themselves in the papers as if they had shaving soap or chewing gum to sell.”

“Part of the game,” returned the girl airily. “The newcomers, the climbers, would give their souls to get the place in print that we get without an effort.”

“Part of the game,” the girl replied casually. “The newcomers, the climbers, would do anything to get the recognition we get effortlessly.”

“Doesn’t it seem to you a bit vulgar?” asked the other.

“Don’t you think it’s a little rude?” asked the other.

“Perhaps. But it’s the way the game is played nowadays.”

“Maybe. But that's how things are done in the game these days.”

“With counters which you have let the parvenues establish for you. In my day we tried to keep out of the papers.”

“With counters that you’ve allowed the newcomers to set up for you. In my time, we tried to stay out of the papers.”

“Clever of you,” approved the girl. “The more you try to keep out, the more eager the papers are to print your picture. They’re crazy over exclusiveness,” she laughed.

“Smart move,” the girl said. “The more you try to stay away, the more the papers want to print your picture. They’re obsessed with exclusivity,” she laughed.

“Speculation, pro and con, as to who is going to marry whom, and who is about to divorce whom, and whether Miss Welland’s engagement to Mr. Eyre is authentic, ‘as announced exclusively in this column’—more exclusiveness—; or whether—”

“Debate, both for and against, about who is going to marry whom, who is about to divorce whom, and whether Miss Welland’s engagement to Mr. Eyre is real, ‘as announced exclusively in this column’—more exclusivity—; or whether—”

“It wasn’t Del Eyre that I came out here to marry.”

“No?”

“Nope?”

“No. It’s Carter Holmesley. Of course you know about him.”

“No. It’s Carter Holmesley. You definitely know about him.”

“By advertisement, also; the society-column kind.”

“Through ads too; the kind you find in society columns.”

“Really, you know, he couldn’t keep out of the papers. He hates it with all his British soul. But being what he is, a prospective duke, an international poloist, and all that sort of thing, the reporters naturally swarm to him. Columns and columns; more pictures than a popular danseuse. And all without his lifting his hand.”

“Honestly, he just couldn’t stay out of the news. He loathes it with every fiber of his British being. But since he’s a future duke, an international polo player, and all that, reporters naturally flock to him. Pages and pages; more photos than a famous dancer. And all without him doing a thing.”

“Une mariage de reclame,” observed Miss Van Arsdale. “Is it that that constitutes his charm for you?”

“A marriage of advertisement,” observed Miss Van Arsdale. “Is that what makes him charming to you?”

Miss Van Arsdale’s smile was still instinct with mockery, but there had crept into it a quality of indulgence.

Miss Van Arsdale's smile still had a hint of mockery, but now it carried a touch of indulgence.

“No,” answered the girl. Her face became thoughtful and serious. “It’s something else. He—he carried me off my feet from the moment I met him. He was drunk, too, that first time. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him cold sober. But it’s a joyous kind of intoxication; vine-leaves and Bacchus and that sort of thing ‘weave a circle ‘round him thrice’—you know. It is honey-dew and the milk of Paradise to him.” She laughed nervously. “And charm! It’s in the very air about him. He can make me follow his lead like a little curly poodle when I’m with him.”

“No,” the girl replied. Her expression turned pensive and serious. “It’s something different. He—he swept me off my feet the moment I met him. He was drunk that first time, too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him completely sober. But it’s a joyful kind of intoxication; like vines and Bacchus and all that—it ‘weaves a circle ’round him thrice’—you know. It is like honey and the milk of Paradise to him.” She laughed nervously. “And charm! It’s in the very atmosphere around him. He can make me follow his lead like a little curly poodle when I’m with him.”

“Were you engaged to Delavan Eyre when you met him?”

“Were you dating Delavan Eyre when you met him?”

“Oh, engaged!” returned the girl fretfully. “There was never more than a sort of understanding. A mariage de convenance on both sides, if it ever came off. I am fond of Del, too. But he was South, and the other came like a whirlwind, and I’m—I’m queer about some things,” she went on half shamefacedly. “I suppose I’m awfully susceptible to physical impressions. Are all girls that way? Or is that gross and—and underbred?”

“Oh, engaged!” the girl replied irritably. “It was never more than a kind of understanding. A mariage de convenance on both sides, if it ever happened. I do like Del, though. But he was from the South, and the other guy came at me like a whirlwind, and I’m—I’m kind of peculiar about certain things,” she continued, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I guess I’m really sensitive to physical impressions. Are all girls like that? Or is that just low-class and—and uncultured?”

“It’s part of us, I expect; but we’re not all so honest with ourselves. So you decided to throw over Mr. Eyre and marry your Briton.”

“It’s part of us, I guess; but we’re not all that honest with ourselves. So you decided to ditch Mr. Eyre and marry your British guy.”

“Well—yes. The new British Ambassador, who arrives from Japan next week, is Carty’s uncle, and we were going to make him stage-manage the wedding, you see. A sort of officially certified elopement.”

“Well—yes. The new British Ambassador, who is coming from Japan next week, is Carty’s uncle, and we were planning to have him organize the wedding, you see. A sort of officially approved elopement.”

“More advertisement!” said Miss Van Arsdale coldly. “Really, Miss Welland, if marriage seems to you nothing more than an opportunity to create a newspaper sensation I cannot congratulate you on your prospects.”

“More advertisement!” said Miss Van Arsdale coldly. “Honestly, Miss Welland, if marriage feels to you like just a chance to make headlines, I can’t congratulate you on your future.”

This time her tone stung. Io Welland’s eyes became sullen. But her voice was almost caressingly amiable as she said:

This time her tone hurt. Io Welland’s eyes grew gloomy. But her voice was almost soothingly friendly as she said:

“Tastes differ. It is, I believe, possible to create a sensation in New York society without any newspaper publicity, and without at all meaning or wishing to. At least, it was, fifteen years ago; so I’m told.”

“Tastes differ. I believe it's possible to create a buzz in New York society without any media coverage, and without necessarily intending to. At least, it was possible fifteen years ago; that’s what I’ve heard.”

Camilla Van Arsdale’s face was white and lifeless and still, as she turned it toward the girl.

Camilla Van Arsdale's face was pale, expressionless, and motionless as she turned it toward the girl.

“You must have been a very precocious five-year-old,” she said steadily.

“You must have been a very advanced five-year-old,” she said steadily.

“All the Olneys are precocious. My mother was an Olney, a first cousin of Mrs. Willis Enderby, you know.”

“All the Olneys are really ahead of their time. My mom was an Olney, a first cousin of Mrs. Willis Enderby, you know.”

“Yes; I remember now.”

“Yeah; I remember now.”

The malicious smile on the girl’s delicate lips faded. “I wish I, hadn’t said that,” she cried impulsively. “I hate Cousin Mabel. I always have hated her. She’s a cat. And I think the way she, acted in—in the—the—well, about Judge Enderby and—“.

The malicious smile on the girl's delicate lips faded. “I wish I hadn't said that,” she cried impulsively. “I hate Cousin Mabel. I always have hated her. She's a cat. And I think the way she acted in—in the—the—well, about Judge Enderby and—."

“Please!” Miss Van Arsdale’s tone was peremptory. “Here is my place.” She indicated a clearing with a little nest of a camp in it.

“Please!” Miss Van Arsdale’s tone was commanding. “This is my spot.” She pointed to a clearing with a small camp set up in it.

“Shall I go back?” asked Io remorsefully.

“Should I go back?” Io asked regretfully.

“No.”

Miss Van Arsdale dismounted and, after a moment’s hesitancy, the other followed her example. The hostess threw open the door and a beautiful, white-ruffed collie rushed to her with barks of joy. She held out a hand to her new guest.

Miss Van Arsdale got off her horse and, after a brief moment of hesitation, the other person did the same. The hostess opened the door wide, and a beautiful collie with a white ruff ran up to her, barking happily. She extended her hand to greet her new guest.

“Be welcome,” she said with a certain stately gravity, “for as long as you will stay.”

“Welcome,” she said with a formal seriousness, “as long as you want to stay.”

“It might be some time,” answered Io shyly. “You’re tempting me.”

“It might take a while,” Io replied shyly. “You’re tempting me.”

“When is your wedding?”

"When's your wedding?"

“Wedding! Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m not going to marry Carter Holmesley either.”

“Wedding! Oh, didn’t I mention? I’m not marrying Carter Holmesley either.”

“You are not going—”

“You're not going—”

“No. The bump on my head must have settled my brain. As soon as I came to I saw how crazy it would be. That is why I don’t want to go on West.”

“No. The bump on my head must have scrambled my brain. As soon as I came to, I realized how crazy that would be. That’s why I don’t want to go on West.”

“I see. For fear of his overbearing you.”

“I understand. To avoid him being too controlling.”

“Yes. Though I don’t think he could now. I think I’m over it. Poor old Del! He’s had a narrow escape from losing me. I hope he never hears of it. Placid though he is, that might stir him up.”

“Yes. Although I don't think he could now. I feel like I've moved on. Poor old Del! He narrowly escaped losing me. I hope he never finds out. As calm as he is, that might upset him.”

“Then you’ll go back to him?”

“Then you’re going to go back to him?”

The girl sighed. “I suppose so. How can I tell? I’m only twenty, and it seems to me that somebody has been trying to marry me ever since I stopped petting my dolls. I’m tired of men, men, men! That’s why I want to live alone and quiet for a while in the station-agent’s shack.”

The girl sighed. “I guess so. How can I know? I’m only twenty, and it feels like someone has been trying to marry me ever since I stopped playing with my dolls. I’m so tired of men, men, men! That’s why I want to live alone and peacefully for a while in the station-agent’s shack.”

“Then you don’t consider Mr. Banneker as belonging to the tribe of men?”

“Then you don’t see Mr. Banneker as part of the human race?”

“He’s an official. I could always see his uniform, at need.” She fell into thought. “It’s a curious thing,” she mused.

“He's an official. I could always see his uniform when necessary.” She fell into thought. “It's an interesting thing,” she mused.

Miss Van Arsdale said nothing.

“This queer young cub of a station-agent of yours is strangely like Carter Holmesley, not as much in looks as in—well—atmosphere. Only, he’s ever so much better-looking.”

“This odd young guy who works as your station agent is surprisingly similar to Carter Holmesley, not so much in appearance as in—well—vibe. However, he’s way better-looking.”

“Won’t you have some tea? You must be tired,” said Miss Van Arsdale politely.

“Would you like some tea? You must be tired,” said Miss Van Arsdale politely.

CHAPTER VII

Somewhere within the soul of civilized woman burns a craving for that higher power of sensation which we dub sensationalism. Girls of Io Welland’s upbringing live in an atmosphere which fosters it. To outshine their rivals in the startling things which they do, always within accepted limits, is an important and exciting phase of existence. Io had run away to marry the future Duke of Carfax, partly through the charm which a reckless, headlong, and romantic personality imposed upon her, but largely for the excitement of a reckless, headlong, and romantic escapade. The tragic interposition of the wreck seemed to her present consciousness, cooled and sobered by the spacious peace of the desert, to have been providential.

Somewhere deep down in the soul of a refined woman lies a desire for that more intense experience we call sensationalism. Girls like Io Welland, raised in this environment, grow up surrounded by it. Outshining their competition with attention-grabbing actions, always within socially acceptable boundaries, is a crucial and thrilling part of their lives. Io had run away to marry the future Duke of Carfax, partly because of the allure of a daring, impulsive, and romantic spirit that captivated her, but mostly for the thrill of a bold and adventurous escapade. The tragic event of the wreck seemed, in her now calm and grounded mind, shaped by the vast tranquility of the desert, like it had been meant to happen.

Despite her disclaimer made to Banneker she felt, deep within the placid acceptances of subconsciousness, that the destruction of a train was not too much for a considerate Providence to undertake on behalf of her petted and important self. She clearly realized that she had had a narrow escape from Holmesley; that his attraction for her was transient and unsubstantial, a surface magnetism without real value or promise.

Despite her disclaimer to Banneker, she felt deep down in her calm subconscious that the destruction of a train wasn’t too much for a caring Providence to handle for the sake of her cherished and significant self. She fully understood that she had narrowly escaped from Holmesley; that his appeal to her was fleeting and insubstantial, a superficial charm without genuine worth or potential.

In her revulsion of feeling she thought affectionately of Delavan Eyre. There lay the safe basis of habitude, common interests, settled liking. True, he bored her at times with his unimpeachable good-nature, his easy self-assurance that everything was and always would be “all right,” and nothing “worth bothering over.”

In her disgust, she thought fondly of Delavan Eyre. There was a solid foundation of familiarity, shared interests, and established fondness. True, he sometimes bored her with his unwavering good nature, his casual confidence that everything was and always would be “fine,” and nothing “worth worrying about.”

If he knew of her escapade, that would at least shake him out of his soft and well-lined rut. Indeed, Io was frank enough with herself to admit that a perverse desire to explode a bomb under her imperturbable and too-assured suitor had been an element in her projected elopement. Never would that bomb explode. It would not even fizzle enough to alarm Eyre or her family. For not a soul knew of the frustrated scheme, except Holmesley and the reliable friend in Paradiso whom she was to visit; not her father, Sims Welland, traveling in Europe on business, nor her aunt, Mrs. Thatcher Forbes, in whose charge she had been left. Ostensibly she had been going to visit the Westerleys, that was all: Mrs. Forbes’s misgivings as to a twenty-year-old girl crossing the continent alone had been unavailing against Io’s calm willfulness.

If he knew about her adventure, it would at least pull him out of his comfortable and predictable routine. In fact, Io was honest enough with herself to recognize that a twisted urge to throw a bomb under her unshakeable and overly confident suitor had been part of her plan to run away. That bomb would never go off. It wouldn’t even fizzle enough to worry Eyre or her family. Because no one knew about the failed plan, except for Holmesley and the trustworthy friend in Paradiso she was supposed to visit; not her father, Sims Welland, who was traveling in Europe for work, nor her aunt, Mrs. Thatcher Forbes, who was responsible for her care. On the surface, she had only been going to visit the Westerleys: Mrs. Forbes’s concerns about a twenty-year-old girl traveling across the continent alone hadn’t stood a chance against Io’s calm defiance.

Well, she would go back and marry Del Eyre, and be comfortable ever after. After all, liking and comprehension were a sounder foundation for matrimony than the perishable glamour of an attraction like Holmesley’s. Any sensible person would know that. She wished that she had some older and more experienced woman to talk it out with. Miss Van Arsdale, if only she knew her a little better....

Well, she would go back and marry Del Eyre and be comfortable forever. After all, liking and understanding are a better foundation for marriage than the fleeting allure of an attraction like Holmesley’s. Any sensible person would realize that. She wished she had an older, more experienced woman to discuss it with. Miss Van Arsdale, if only she knew her a little better...

Camilla Van Arsdale, even on so casual an acquaintance, would have told Io, reckoning with the slumbering fire in her eyes, and the sensitive and passionate turn of the lips, but still more with the subtle and significant emanation of a femininity as yet unawakened to itself, that for her to marry on the pallid expectancies of mere liking would be to invite disaster and challenge ruin.

Camilla Van Arsdale, even with such a casual relationship, would have told Io, considering the smoldering fire in her eyes and the sensitive, passionate curve of her lips, but even more so the subtle and significant presence of a femininity that had yet to fully awaken to itself, that marrying based on the lackluster hopes of mere liking would be like inviting disaster and tempting ruin.

Meantime Io wanted to rest and think.

Meantime, Io wanted to take a break and reflect.

Time enough for that was to be hers, it appeared. Her first night as a guest had been spent in a semi-enclosed porch, to which every breeze wafted the spicy and restful balm of the wet pines. Io’s hot brain cooled itself in that peace. Quite with a feeling of welcome she accepted the windy downpour which came with the morning to keep her indoors, as if it were a friendly and opportune jailer. Reaction from the mental strain and the physical shock had set in. She wanted only, as she expressed it to her hostess, to “laze” for a while.

Time enough for that was to be hers, it seemed. Her first night as a guest had been spent in a semi-enclosed porch, where every breeze brought the spicy and calming scent of the wet pines. Io's racing mind found relief in that tranquility. With a sense of comfort, she welcomed the rainstorm that arrived in the morning, keeping her indoors, as if it were a friendly and timely jailer. The reaction to the mental strain and physical shock had begun. She wanted only, as she told her hostess, to “take it easy” for a while.

“Then this is the ideal spot for you,” Miss Van Arsdale answered her. “I’m going to ride over to town.”

“Then this is the perfect place for you,” Miss Van Arsdale replied. “I’m going to ride into town.”

“In this gale?” asked the surprised girl.

“In this storm?” asked the surprised girl.

“Oh, I’m weather-proof. Tell Pedro not to wait luncheon for me. And keep an eye on him if you want anything fit to eat. He’s the worst cook west of the plains. You’ll find books, and the piano to amuse you when you get up.”

“Oh, I can handle the weather. Tell Pedro not to hold lunch for me. And keep an eye on him if you want something decent to eat. He’s the worst cook west of the plains. You’ll find books and the piano to entertain you when you get up.”

She rode away, straight and supple in the saddle, and Io went back to sleep again. Halfway to her destination, Miss Van Arsdale’s woods-trained ear caught the sound of another horse’s hooves, taking a short cut across a bend in the trail. To her halloo, Banneker’s clear voice responded. She waited and presently he rode up to her.

She rode away, upright and flexible in the saddle, and Io went back to sleep again. Halfway to her destination, Miss Van Arsdale’s trained ears picked up the sound of another horse’s hooves, taking a shortcut across a bend in the trail. When she called out, Banneker’s clear voice answered. She waited, and soon he rode up to her.

“Come back with me,” she invited after acknowledging his greeting.

“Come back with me,” she said after recognizing his greeting.

“I was going over to see Miss Welland.”

“I was heading over to see Miss Welland.”

“Wait until to-morrow. She is resting.”

“Wait until tomorrow. She is resting.”

A shade of disappointment crossed his face. “All right,” he agreed. “I wanted to tell her that her messages got off all right.”

A hint of disappointment flashed across his face. “Okay,” he said. “I wanted to let her know that her messages were sent successfully.”

“I’ll tell her when I go back.”

“I’ll tell her when I get back.”

“That’ll be just as well,” he answered reluctantly. “How is she feeling?”

“That’ll be just fine,” he replied hesitantly. “How is she doing?”

“Exhausted. She’s been under severe strain.”

“Exhausted. She’s been under a lot of pressure.”

“Oughtn’t she to have a doctor? I could ride—”

“She won’t listen to it. And I think her head is all right now. But she ought to have complete rest for several days.”

“She won’t listen to it. And I think her mind is clear now. But she should have complete rest for several days.”

“Well, I’m likely to be busy enough,” he said simply. “The schedule is all shot to pieces, and, unless this rain lets up, we’ll have more track out. What do you think of it?”

“Well, I’ll probably be busy enough,” he said. “The schedule is totally messed up, and unless this rain stops, we’ll lose more track time. What do you think about it?”

Miss Van Arsdale looked up through the thrashing pines to the rush of the gray-black clouds. “I think we’re in for a siege of it,” was her pronouncement.

Miss Van Arsdale looked up through the swaying pines at the rushing gray-black clouds. “I think we’re in for a storm,” she announced.

They rode along single file in the narrow trail until they emerged into the open. Then Banneker’s horse moved forward, neck and neck with the other. Miss Van Arsdale reined down her uneasy roan.

They rode in a single line along the narrow path until they came out into the open. Then Banneker’s horse moved ahead, side by side with the other. Miss Van Arsdale slowed her restless roan.

“Ban.”

"Prohibit."

“Yes?”

"Hello?"

“Have you ever seen anything like her before?”

“Have you ever seen anyone like her before?”

“Only on the stage.”

“Only on stage.”

She smiled. “What do you think of her?”

“I hardly know how to express it,” he answered frankly, though hesitantly. “She makes me think of all the poetry I’ve ever read.”

“I can barely find the words,” he replied honestly, though with some hesitation. “She reminds me of all the poetry I’ve ever read.”

“That’s dangerous. Ban, have you any idea what kind of a girl she is?”

"That's dangerous. Ban, do you have any idea what kind of person she is?"

“What kind?” he repeated. He looked startled.

“What kind?” he repeated. He looked surprised.

“Of course you haven’t. How should you? I’m going to tell you.”

“Of course you haven’t. Why would you? I’m going to tell you.”

“Do you know her, Miss Camilla?”

“As well as if she were my own sister. That is, I know her type. It’s common enough.”

“As if she were my own sister. I know her type. It’s pretty common.”

“It can’t be,” he protested eagerly.

“It can’t be,” he argued eagerly.

“Oh, yes! The type is. She is an exquisite specimen of it; that’s all. Listen, Ban. Io Welland is the petted and clever and willful daughter of a rich man; a very rich man he would be reckoned out here. She lives in a world as remote from this as the moon.”

“Oh, absolutely! She's a perfect example of that; that's all there is to it. Listen, Ban. Io Welland is the favored, smart, and strong-willed daughter of a wealthy man; a very wealthy man by local standards. She lives in a world that's as far removed from this one as the moon.”

“Of course. I realize that.”

“Of course. I get that.”

“It’s well that you do. And she’s as casual a visitant here as if she had floated down on one moonbeam and would float back on the next.”

“It’s good that you do. And she’s as relaxed a visitor here as if she had floated down on a moonbeam and would float back on the next one.”

“She’ll have to, to get out of here if this rain keeps up,” observed the station-agent grimly.

“She’ll have to, to get out of here if this rain keeps up,” the station agent remarked grimly.

“I wish she would,” returned Miss Van Arsdale.

“I wish she would,” replied Miss Van Arsdale.

“Is she in your way?”

"Is she blocking you?"

“I shouldn’t mind that if I could keep her out of yours,” she answered bluntly.

“I wouldn't care about that if I could keep her away from you,” she replied straightforwardly.

Banneker turned a placid and smiling face to her. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you, Miss Camilla?”

Banneker turned a calm and smiling face to her. “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you, Miss Camilla?”

“I think that Io Welland, without ill-intent at all, but with a period of idleness on her hands, is a dangerous creature to have around. She’s too lovely and, I think, too restless a spirit.”

“I think that Io Welland, without any bad intentions, but with too much time on her hands, is a dangerous person to have around. She’s too beautiful and, in my opinion, too restless.”

“She’s lovely, all right,” assented Banneker.

"She’s super beautiful," agreed Banneker.

“Well; I’ve warned you, Ban,” returned his friend in slightly dispirited tones.

“Well, I’ve warned you, Ban,” his friend replied in a somewhat downcast tone.

“What do you want me to do? Keep away from your place? I’ll do whatever you say. But it’s all nonsense.”

“What do you want me to do? Stay away from your place? I’ll do whatever you say. But it’s all ridiculous.”

“I dare say it is,” sighed Miss Van Arsdale. “Forget that I’ve said it, Ban. Meddling is a thankless business.”

“I guess it is,” sighed Miss Van Arsdale. “Forget I mentioned it, Ban. But meddling is a thankless job.”

“You could never meddle as far as I’m concerned,” said Banneker warmly. “I’m a little worried,” he added thoughtfully, “about not reporting her as found to the company. What do you think?”

“You could never interfere as far as I'm concerned,” Banneker said warmly. “I'm a little worried,” he added thoughtfully, “about not notifying the company that she was found. What do you think?”

“Too official a question for me. You’ll have to settle that for yourself.”

“That's too formal of a question for me. You'll have to figure that out on your own.”

“How long does she intend to stay?”

“How long does she plan to stay?”

“I don’t know. But a girl of her breeding and habits would hardly settle herself on a stranger for very long unless a point were made of urging her.”

“I don’t know. But a girl with her background and habits wouldn't stay with a stranger for very long unless there was a strong reason to encourage her.”

“And you won’t do that?”

"And you won't do that?"

“I certainly shall not!”

“I definitely will not!”

“No; I suppose not. You’ve been awfully good to her.”

“No; I guess not. You’ve been really kind to her.”

“Hospitality to the shipwrecked,” smiled Miss Van Arsdale as she crossed the track toward the village.

Late afternoon, darkening into wilder winds and harsher rain, brought the hostess back to her lodge dripping and weary. On a bearskin before the smouldering fire lay the girl, her fingers intertwined behind her head, her eyes half closed and dreamy. Without directly responding to the other’s salutation she said:

Late afternoon, shifting into stronger winds and heavier rain, brought the hostess back to her lodge, soaked and tired. On a bearskin in front of the smoldering fire lay the girl, her fingers intertwined behind her head, her eyes half-closed and dreamy. Without directly answering the other’s greeting, she said:

“Miss Van Arsdale, will you be very good to me?”

“Miss Van Arsdale, could you please be really nice to me?”

“What is it?”

"What's that?"

“I’m tired,” said Io. “So tired!”

“Stay, of course,” responded the hostess, answering the implication heartily, “as long as you will.”

“Stay, of course,” the hostess replied warmly, acknowledging the suggestion, “as long as you’d like.”

“Only two or three days, until I recover the will to do something. You’re awfully kind.” Io looked very young and childlike, with her languid, mobile face irradiated by the half-light of the fire. “Perhaps you’ll play for me sometime.”

“Just two or three days, until I get the motivation to do something. You’re really sweet.” Io looked very young and innocent, with her relaxed, expressive face lit up by the soft glow of the fire. “Maybe you’ll play for me sometime.”

“Of course. Now, if you like. As soon as the chill gets out of my hands.”

“Sure. Whenever you’re ready. Just as soon as the cold leaves my hands.”

“Thank you. And sing?” suggested the girl diffidently.

“Thank you. And should we sing?” suggested the girl shyly.

A fierce contraction of pain marred the serenity of the older woman’s face. “No,” she said harshly. “I sing for no one.”

A sharp wave of pain crossed the calm expression of the older woman’s face. “No,” she said sharply. “I don’t sing for anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured the girl.

“Sorry,” murmured the girl.

“What have you been doing all day?” asked Miss Van Arsdale, holding out her hands toward the fire.

“What have you been up to all day?” asked Miss Van Arsdale, holding her hands out toward the fire.

“Resting. Thinking. Scaring myself with bogy-thoughts of what I’ve escaped.” Io smiled and sighed. “I hadn’t known how worn out I was until I woke up this morning. I don’t think I ever before realized the meaning of refuge.”

“Resting. Thinking. Scaring myself with scary thoughts about what I’ve escaped.” Io smiled and sighed. “I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until I woke up this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever really understood the meaning of safety.”

“You’ll recover from the need of it soon enough,” promised the other. She crossed to the piano. “What kind of music do you want? No; don’t tell me. I should be able to guess.” Half turning on the bench she gazed speculatively at the lax figure on the rug. “Chopin, I think. I’ve guessed right? Well, I don’t think I shall play you Chopin to-day. You don’t need that kind of—of—well, excitation.”

“You’ll get over needing it pretty soon,” promised the other. She walked over to the piano. “What kind of music do you want? No, don’t tell me. I should be able to figure it out.” Half turning on the bench, she looked thoughtfully at the relaxed figure on the rug. “Chopin, I think. Did I guess right? Well, I don’t think I’ll play Chopin for you today. You don’t need that kind of—well, excitement.”

Musing for a moment over a soft mingling of chords she began with a little ripple of melody, MacDowell’s lovely, hurrying, buoyant “Improvisation,” with its aeolian vibrancies, its light, bright surges of sound, sinking at the last into cradled restfulness. Without pause or transition she passed on to Grieg; the wistful, remote appeal of the strangely misnamed “Erotique,” plaintive, solemn, and in the fulfillment almost hymnal: the brusque pursuing minors of the wedding music, and the diamond-shower of notes of the sun-path song, bleak, piercing, Northern sunlight imprisoned in melody. Then, the majestic swing of Åse’s death-chant, glorious and mystical.

Thinking for a moment over a gentle mix of chords, she began with a subtle melody, MacDowell’s beautiful, quick, uplifting “Improvisation,” with its airy vibrations and bright surges of sound, ultimately settling into a soothing calm. Without pause or transition, she moved on to Grieg; the longing, distant charm of the oddly named “Erotique,” sorrowful, serious, and in its resolution almost hymnal: the sharp, chasing minors of the wedding music, and the sparkling notes of the sun-path song, bleak, piercing, Northern sunlight captured in melody. Then, the grand rhythm of Åse’s death-chant, magnificent and mystical.

“Are you asleep?” asked the player, speaking through the chords.

“No,” answered Io’s tremulous voice. “I’m being very unhappy. I love it!”

“No,” answered Io’s shaky voice. “I’m really unhappy. I love it!”

Bang! It was a musical detonation, followed by a volley of chords and then a wild, swirling waltz; and Miss Van Arsdale jumped up and stood over her guest. “There!” she said. “That’s better than letting you pamper yourself with the indulgence of unhappiness.”

Bang! It was a musical explosion, followed by a burst of chords and then a wild, swirling waltz; and Miss Van Arsdale jumped up and stood over her guest. “There!” she said. “That’s better than letting you wallow in unhappiness.”

“But I want to be unhappy,” pouted Io. “I want to be pampered.”

“But I want to be unhappy,” Io sulked. “I want to be spoiled.”

“Naturally. You always will be, I expect, as long as there are men in the world to do your bidding. However, I must see to supper.”

“Of course. I expect you always will be, as long as there are men in the world to do what you want. But I need to go get dinner ready.”

So for two days Io Welland lolled and lazed and listened to Miss Van Arsdale’s music, or read, or took little walks between showers. No further mention was made by her hostess of the circumstances of the visit. She was a reticent woman; almost saturnine, Io decided, though her perfect and effortless courtesy preserved her from being antipathetic to any one beneath her own roof. How much her silence as to the unusual situation was inspired by consideration for her guest, how much due to natural reserve, Io could not estimate.

So for two days, Io Welland relaxed and enjoyed listening to Miss Van Arsdale's music, or read, or took little walks between showers. Her hostess didn't bring up the circumstances of the visit again. She was a quiet woman; Io thought she seemed almost gloomy, though her perfect and effortless politeness kept her from being unwelcoming to anyone under her roof. Io couldn't tell how much her silence about the unusual situation was out of consideration for her guest and how much was just her natural reserve.

A little less reticence would have been grateful to her as the hours spun out and she felt her own spirit expand slowly in the calm. It was she who introduced the subject of Banneker.

A little less hesitation would have been appreciated by her as the hours went by and she felt her own spirit gradually grow in the calm. She was the one who brought up the topic of Banneker.

“Our quaint young station-agent seems to have abandoned his responsibilities so far as I’m concerned,” she observed.

“Our charming young station agent seems to have given up on his responsibilities as far as I’m concerned,” she noted.

“Because he hasn’t come to see you?”

“Yes. He said he would.”

"Yes. He said he would."

“I told him not to.”

“I warned him against it.”

“I see,” said Io, after thinking it over. “Is he a little—just a wee, little bit queer in his head?”

“I see,” said Io, after thinking it over. “Is he a little—just a tiny bit off in his head?”

“He’s one of the sanest persons I’ve ever known. And I want him to stay so.”

“He’s one of the most level-headed people I’ve ever met. And I want him to stay that way.”

“I see again,” stated the girl.

“I see it again,” said the girl.

“So you thought him a bit unbalanced? That is amusing.” That the hostess meant the adjective in good faith was proved by her quiet laughter.

“So you thought he was a bit off? That is funny.” That the hostess meant the word in good faith was clear from her soft laughter.

Io regarded her speculatively and with suspicion. “He asked the same about me, I suppose.” Such was her interpretation of the laugh.

Io looked at her thoughtfully and with some doubt. “He probably asked the same about me.” That was how she interpreted the laugh.

“But he gave you credit for being only temporarily deranged.”

“But he acknowledged that you were just temporarily out of your mind.”

“Either he or I ought to be up for examination by a medical board,” stated the girl poutingly. “One of us must be crazy. The night that I stole his molasses pie—it was pretty awful pie, but I was starved—I stumbled over something in the darkness and fell into it with an awful clatter. What do you suppose it was?”

“Either he or I should get checked out by a medical board,” the girl said with a pout. “One of us must be crazy. The night I took his molasses pie—it wasn’t that great, but I was starving—I tripped over something in the dark and fell into it with a loud crash. What do you think it was?”

“I think I could guess,” smiled the other.

“I think I can guess,” the other person smiled.

“Not unless you knew. Personally I couldn’t believe it. It felt like a boat, and it rocked like a boat, and there were the seats and the oars. I could feel them. A steel boat! Miss Van Arsdale, it isn’t reasonable.”

“Not unless you knew. Personally, I couldn’t believe it. It felt like a boat, it rocked like a boat, and there were the seats and the oars. I could feel them. A steel boat! Miss Van Arsdale, that just doesn’t make sense.”

“Why isn’t it reasonable?’

“Why isn’t that reasonable?”

“I looked on the map in his room and there isn’t so much as a mud-puddle within miles and miles and miles. Is there?”

“I looked at the map in his room, and there isn’t even a mud puddle for miles and miles. Is there?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then what does he want of a steel boat?”

“Then what does he want with a steel boat?”

“Ask him.”

"Just ask him."

“It might stir him up. They get violent if you question their pet lunacies, don’t they?”

“It might get him worked up. They become aggressive if you challenge their favorite crazy ideas, right?”

“It’s quite simple. Ban is just an incurable romanticist. He loves the water. And his repository of romance is the catalogue of Sears, Roebuck and Co. When the new issue came, with an entrancing illustration of a fully equipped steel boat, he simply couldn’t stand it. He had to have one, to remind him that some day he would be going back to the coast lagoons.... Does that sound to you like a fool?”

“It’s pretty straightforward. Ban is just a hopeless romantic. He loves the water. His source of romance is the Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalog. When the new issue arrived, featuring a stunning image of a fully equipped steel boat, he just couldn’t resist. He had to have one, to remind him that someday he would be returning to the coastal lagoons.... Does that sound like a fool to you?”

“No; it sounds delicious,” declared the girl with a ripple of mirth. “What a wonderful person! I’m going over to see him to-morrow. May I?”

“No; it sounds amazing,” said the girl with a burst of laughter. “What a fantastic person! I'm going to go see him tomorrow. Can I?”

“My dear; I have no control over your actions.”

"My dear, I can't control what you do."

“Have you made any other plans for me to-morrow morning?” inquired Miss Welland in a prim and social tone, belied by the dancing light in her eyes.

“Have you made any other plans for me tomorrow morning?” Miss Welland asked in a formal and friendly tone, which was contradicted by the playful light in her eyes.

“I’ve told you that he was romantic,” warned the other.

“I’ve told you he was a romantic,” warned the other.

“What higher recommendation could there be? I shall sit in the boat with him and talk nautical language. Has he a yachting cap? Oh, do tell me that he has a yachting cap!”

“What better recommendation could there be? I’ll sit in the boat with him and speak sailor talk. Does he have a yachting cap? Oh, please tell me he has a yachting cap!”

Miss Van Arsdale, smiling, shook her head, but her eyes were troubled. There was compunction in Io’s next remark.

Miss Van Arsdale, smiling, shook her head, but her eyes were troubled. There was regret in Io’s next remark.

“I’m really going over to see about accommodations. Sooner or later I must face the music—meaning Carty. I’m fit enough now, thanks to you.”

“I’m really going to check on accommodations. Sooner or later I have to deal with the situation—meaning Carty. I’m feeling good enough now, thanks to you.”

“Wouldn’t an Eastern trip be safer?” suggested her hostess.

“Wouldn’t a trip to the East be safer?” suggested her hostess.

“An Eastern trip would be easier. But I’ve made my break, and it’s in the rules, as I understand them, that I’ve got to see it through. If he can get me now”—she gave a little shrug—“but he can’t. I’ve come to my senses.”

“An Eastern trip would be easier. But I’ve made my decision, and according to the rules as I understand them, I have to see it through. If he can reach me now”—she shrugged slightly—“but he can’t. I’ve come to my senses.”

Sunlight pale, dubious, filtering through the shaken cloud veils, ushered in the morning. Meager of promise though it was, Io’s spirits brightened. Declining the offer of a horse in favor of a pocket compass, she set out afoot, not taking the trail, but forging straight through the heavy forest for the line of desert. Around her, brisk and busy flocks of piñon jays darted and twittered confidentially. The warm spice of the pines was sweet in her nostrils. Little stirrings and rustlings just beyond the reach of vision delightfully and provocatively suggested the interest which she was inspiring by her invasion among the lesser denizens of the place. The sweetness and intimacy of an unknown life surrounded her. She sang happily as she strode, lithe and strong and throbbing with unfulfilled energies and potencies, through the springtide of the woods.

Sunlight, pale and uncertain, filtered through the shifting clouds to welcome the morning. Even though it didn't promise much, Io's mood lifted. She turned down a horse in favor of a pocket compass and set off on foot, bypassing the trail to head straight through the dense forest toward the desert. All around her, lively flocks of piñon jays flew and chirped happily. The warm scent of the pines filled her nostrils. Little movements and sounds just out of sight teasingly hinted at the curiosity she sparked among the smaller creatures in the area. The sweetness and closeness of an unfamiliar life enveloped her. She sang joyfully as she walked, agile and strong, filled with unfulfilled energy, moving through the vibrant woods of spring.

But when she emerged upon the desert, she fell silent. A spaciousness as of endless vistas enthralled and, a little, awed her. On all sides were ranged the disordered ranks of the cacti, stricken into immobility in the very act of reconstituting their columns, so that they gave the effect of a discord checked on the verge of its resolution into form and harmony, yet with a weird and distorted beauty of its own. From a little distance, there came a murmur of love-words. Io moved softly forward, peering curiously, and from the arc of a wide curving ocatilla two wild doves sprang, leaving the branch all aquiver. Bolder than his companions of the air, a cactus owl, perched upon the highest column of a great green candelabrum, viewed her with a steady detachment, “sleepless, with cold, commemorative eyes.” The girl gave back look for look, into the big, hard, unwavering circles.

But when she stepped into the desert, she fell silent. The vastness of endless horizons captivated and slightly stunned her. All around, the disordered rows of cacti stood frozen, as if caught in the act of rearranging themselves, creating an impression of chaos on the verge of transforming into order and harmony, yet possessing a strange and distorted beauty of its own. From a short distance away, she heard whispers of sweet nothings. Io moved quietly forward, peering curiously, and from the arc of a wide curving ocotillo, two wild doves took flight, leaving the branch trembling. Bolder than the other birds, a cactus owl, perched atop the tallest arm of a large green candelabrum, watched her with a calm detachment, “sleepless, with cold, commemorative eyes.” The girl matched his gaze, looking back into the big, hard, unwavering circles.

“You’re a funny little bird,” said she. “Say something!”

“You're a funny little bird,” she said. “Say something!”

Like his congener of the hortatory poem, the owl held his peace.

Like his counterpart in the motivational poem, the owl stayed silent.

“Perhaps you’re a stuffed little bird,” said Io, “and this not a real desert at all, but a National Park or something, full of educational specimens.”

“Maybe you’re just a stuffed little bird,” Io said, “and this isn’t a real desert at all, but a National Park or something, filled with educational exhibits.”

She walked past the occupant of the cactus, and his head, turning, followed her with the slow, methodical movement of a toy mechanism.

She walked by the person sitting next to the cactus, and his head, turning, followed her with the slow, deliberate motion of a toy mechanism.

“You give me a crick in my neck,” protested the intruder plaintively. “Now, I’ll step over behind you and you’ll have to move or stop watching me.”

“You're giving me a crick in my neck,” the intruder complained. “Now, I’ll step behind you and you’ll have to move or stop watching me.”

She walked behind the watcher. The eyes continued to hold her in direct range.

She walked behind the observer. The eyes kept her firmly in their sight.

“Now,” said Io, “I know where the idea for that horrid advertisement that always follows you with its finger came from. However, I’ll fix you.”

“Now,” said Io, “I know where that awful advertisement that always follows you around came from. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

She fetched a deliberate circle. The bird’s eyes followed her without cessation. Yet his feet and body remained motionless. Only the head had turned. That had made a complete revolution.

She made a careful circle. The bird’s eyes kept following her without stopping. But its feet and body stayed still. Only its head had turned. That had made a full turn.

“This is a very queer desert,” gasped Io. “It’s bewitched. Or am I? Now, I’m going to walk once more around you, little owl, or mighty magician, whichever you are. And after I’ve completely turned your head, you’ll fall at my feet. Or else...”

“This is a really strange desert,” gasped Io. “It’s enchanted. Or am I? Now, I’m going to walk around you again, little owl, or powerful magician, whichever you are. And after I’ve completely turned your head, you’ll fall at my feet. Or else...”

Again she walked around the feathered center of the circle. The head followed her, turning with a steady and uninterrupted motion, on its pivot. Io took a silver dime from her purse.

Again, she walked around the feathered center of the circle. The head followed her, turning smoothly and continuously on its pivot. Io took a silver dime from her purse.

“Heaven save us from the powers of evil!” she said appreciatively. “Aroint thee, witch!”

“Thank goodness we’re protected from evil!” she said with a smile. “Get away from me, witch!”

She threw the coin at the cactus.

She tossed the coin at the cactus.

“Chrr-rr-rrum!” burbled the owl, and flew away.

“Chrr-rr-rrum!” hooted the owl, and flew off.

“I’m dizzy,” said Io. “I wonder if the owl is an omen and whether the other inhabitants of this desert are like him; however much you turn their heads, they won’t fall for you. Charms and counter-charms!... Be a good child, Io,” she admonished herself. “Haven’t you got yourself into enough trouble with your deviltries? I can’t help it,” she defended herself. “When I see a new and interesting specimen, I’ve just got to investigate its nature and habits. It’s an inherited scientific spirit, I suppose. And he is new, and awfully interesting—even if he is only a station-agent.” Wherefrom it will be perceived that her thoughts had veered from the cactus owl, to another perplexing local phenomenon.

“I’m feeling lightheaded,” said Io. “I wonder if the owl is a sign and if the other creatures in this desert are like him; no matter how much you try to charm them, they won’t fall for it. Spells and counter-spells!... Be good, Io,” she warned herself. “Haven’t you gotten yourself into enough trouble with your antics? I can’t help it,” she justified. “When I see something new and interesting, I just have to explore its nature and habits. It’s just in my blood, I guess. And he’s new and really intriguing—even if he is just a station agent.” From this, it’s clear that her thoughts had shifted from the cactus owl to another puzzling local mystery.

The glaring line of the railroad right-of-way rose before her feet, a discordant note of rigidity and order in the confused prodigality of desert growth. Io turned away from it, but followed its line until she reached the station. No sign of life greeted her. The door was locked, and the portable house unresponsive to her knocking. Presently, however, she heard the steady click of the telegraph instrument and, looking through the half-open office window, saw Banneker absorbed in his work.

The stark line of the railroad right-of-way appeared before her, a jarring symbol of rigidity and order against the wild abundance of desert plants. Io turned away from it but followed its path until she reached the station. There was no sign of life to welcome her. The door was locked, and the portable house didn’t respond to her knocking. However, she soon heard the steady click of the telegraph and, peering through the half-open office window, saw Banneker deeply focused on his work.

“Good-morning,” she called.

“Good morning,” she called.

Without looking up he gave back her greeting in an absent echo.

Without looking up, he responded to her greeting with a distant reply.

“As you didn’t come to see me, I’ve come to see you,” was her next attempt.

Did he nod? Or had he made no motion at all?

Did he nod? Or had he not moved at all?

“I’ve come to ask important questions about trains,” she pursued, a little aggrieved by his indifference to her presence.

“I’ve come to ask some important questions about trains,” she continued, slightly annoyed by his lack of interest in her presence.

No reply from the intent worker.

No response from the dedicated worker.

“And ‘tell sad stories of the death of kings,’” she quoted with a fairy chuckle. She thought that she saw a small contortion pass over his features, only to be banished at once. He had retired within the walls of that impassive and inscrutable reserve which minor railroad officials can at will erect between themselves and the lay public. Only the broken rhythms of the telegraph ticker relieved the silence and furnished the justification.

“And ‘tell sad stories of the death of kings,’” she quoted with a fairy-like laugh. She thought she noticed a slight change in his expression, but it disappeared instantly. He had retreated behind the walls of that calm and unreadable barrier that minor railroad officials can easily put up between themselves and the general public. Only the irregular sounds of the telegraph ticker broke the silence and provided some justification.

A little piqued but more amused, for she was far too confident of herself to feel snubbed, the girl waited smilingly. Presently she said in silken tones:

A bit annoyed but mostly amused, since she was too self-assured to feel offended, the girl waited with a smile. After a moment, she spoke in a smooth voice:

“When you’re quite through and can devote a little attention to insignificant me, I shall perhaps be sitting on the sunny corner of the platform, or perhaps I shall be gone forever.”

“When you’re finally done and can spare a moment for unimportant me, I might be sitting in the sunny corner of the platform, or I might be gone for good.”

But she was not gone when, ten minutes later, Banneker came out. He looked tired.

But she wasn't gone when, ten minutes later, Banneker came out. He looked tired.

“You know, you weren’t very polite to me,” she remarked, glancing at him slantwise as he stood before her.

“You know, you weren't very polite to me,” she said, glancing at him sideways as he stood in front of her.

If she expected apologies, she was disappointed, and perhaps thought none the less of him for his dereliction.

If she was expecting apologies, she was let down, and maybe she thought a little less of him for his failure.

“There’s trouble all up and down the line,” he said. “Nothing like a schedule left west of Allbright. Two passenger trains have come through, though. Would you like to see a paper? It’s in my office.”

“There’s trouble all along the line,” he said. “Nothing like a schedule left west of Allbright. Two passenger trains have come through, though. Would you like to see a newspaper? It’s in my office.”

“Goodness, no! Why should I want a newspaper here? I haven’t time for it. I want to see the world”—she swept a little, indicating hand about her; “all that I can take in in a day.”

“Goodness, no! Why would I want a newspaper here? I don’t have time for that. I want to see the world”—she gestured around her; “everything I can take in in a day.”

“A day?” he echoed.

"One day?" he echoed.

“Yes. I’m going to-morrow.”

“Yes. I'm going tomorrow.”

“That’s as may be. Ten to one there’s no space to be had.”

"That might be true. Chances are there's no room available."

“Surely you can get something for me. A section will do if you can’t get a stateroom.”

“Surely you can get something for me. A section will work if you can’t get a stateroom.”

He smiled. “The president of the road might get a stateroom. I doubt if anybody else could even land an upper. Of course I’ll do my best. But it’s a question when there’ll be another train through.”

He smiled. “The head of the road might get a private room. I doubt anyone else could even get a top bunk. Of course, I’ll do my best. But it’s uncertain when another train will come through.”

“What ails your road?” she demanded indignantly. “Is it just stuck together with glue?”

“What's wrong with your road?” she asked angrily. “Is it just glued together?”

“You’ve never seen this desert country when it springs a leak. It can develop a few hundred Niagaras at the shortest notice of any place I know.”

"You’ve never seen this desert country when it suddenly gets a leak. It can create a few hundred Niagaras at a moment's notice better than anywhere I know."

“But it isn’t leaking now,” she objected.

“But it's not leaking now,” she responded.

He turned his face to the softly diffused sunlight. “To be continued. The storm isn’t over yet, according to the way I feel about it. Weather reports say so, too.”

He turned his face to the softly diffused sunlight. “To be continued. The storm isn’t over yet, based on how I feel about it. Weather reports say so, too.”

“Then take me for a walk!” she cried. “I’m tired of rain and I want to go over and lean against that lovely white mountain.”

“Then take me for a walk!” she exclaimed. “I’m tired of the rain, and I want to go over and lean against that beautiful white mountain.”

“Well, it’s only sixty miles away,” he answered. “Perhaps you’d better take some grub along or you might get hungry.”

"Well, it's only sixty miles away," he replied. "Maybe you should bring some food with you or you might get hungry."

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

"Are you coming with me?"

“This is my busy morning. If it were afternoon, now—”

“This is my hectic morning. If it were afternoon now—”

“Very well. Since you are so urgent, I will stay to luncheon. I’ll even get it up myself if you’ll let me into the shack.”

“Sure. Since you’re so insistent, I will stay for lunch. I’ll even make it myself if you let me into the shack.”

“That’s a go!” said Banneker heartily. “What about your horse?”

“Sounds good!” said Banneker enthusiastically. “What about your horse?”

“I walked over.”

“No; did you?” He turned thoughtful, and his next observation had a slightly troubled ring. “Have you got a gun?”

“No; did you?” He became thoughtful, and his next comment had a slightly worried tone. “Do you have a gun?”

“A gun? Oh, you mean a pistol. No; I haven’t. Why should I?”

“A gun? Oh, you mean a handgun. No, I haven’t. Why would I?”

He shook his head. “This is no time to be out in the open without a gun. They had a dance at the Sick Coyote in Manzanita last night, and there’ll be some tough specimens drifting along homeward all day.”

He shook his head. “This is not the time to be out in the open without a gun. They had a dance at the Sick Coyote in Manzanita last night, and there will be some rough characters heading home all day.”

“Do you carry a gun?”

“Do you have a gun?”

“I would if I were going about with you.”

“I would if I were hanging out with you.”

“Then you can loan me yours to go home with this afternoon,” she said lightly.

“Then you can lend me yours to take home this afternoon,” she said casually.

“Oh, I’ll take you back. Just now I’ve got some odds and ends that will take a couple of hours to clear up. You’ll find plenty to read in the shack, such as it is.”

“Oh, I’ll take you back. I just have some odds and ends to wrap up that will take a couple of hours. You’ll find plenty to read in the shack, whatever it’s like.”

Thus casually dismissed, Io murmured a “Thank you” which was not as meek as it sounded, and withdrew to rummage among the canned edibles drawn from the inexhaustible stock of Sears-Roebuck. Having laid out a selection, housewifely, and looked to the oil stove derived from the same source, she turned with some curiosity to the mental pabulum with which this strange young hermit had provided himself. Would this, too, bear the mail-order imprint and testify to mail-order standards? At first glance the answer appeared to be affirmative. The top shelf of the home-made case sagged with the ineffable slusheries of that most popular and pious of novelists, Harvey Wheelwright. Near by, “How to Behave on All Occasions” held forth its unimpeachable precepts, while a little beyond, “Botany Made Easy” and “The Perfect Letter Writer” proffered further aid to the aspiring mind. Improvement, stark, blatant Improvement, advertised itself from that culturous and reeking compartment. But just below—Io was tempted to rub her eyes—stood Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy”; a Browning, complete; that inimitably jocund fictional prank, Frederic’s “March Hares,” together with the same author’s fine and profoundly just “Damnation of Theron Ware”; Taylor’s translation of Faust; “The [broken-backed] Egoist”; “Lavengro” (Io touched its magic pages with tender fingers), and a fat, faded, reddish volume so worn and obscured that she at once took it down and made explorative entry. She was still deep in it when the owner arrived.

Dismissed in such a casual way, Io mumbled a “Thank you” that wasn't as submissive as it sounded, and moved off to sort through the canned goods from the endless supply of Sears-Roebuck. After laying out a selection in a homemaker's fashion and checking the oil stove from the same source, she turned with some curiosity to the mental snacks that this strange young hermit had collected. Would these also have the mail-order label and live up to mail-order standards? At first glance, the answer seemed to be yes. The top shelf of the homemade case sagged with the over-the-top works of that most popular and pious novelist, Harvey Wheelwright. Nearby, “How to Behave on All Occasions” offered its unquestionable advice, while a little further down, “Botany Made Easy” and “The Perfect Letter Writer” provided additional help for the aspiring mind. Improvement, clear and blatant Improvement, announced itself from that cultured and cluttered section. But just below—Io felt tempted to rub her eyes—was Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy”; a complete Browning; that uniquely amusing fictional caper, Frederic’s “March Hares,” along with the same author’s excellent and deeply insightful “Damnation of Theron Ware”; Taylor’s translation of Faust; “The [broken-backed] Egoist”; “Lavengro” (Io gently touched its magical pages), and a fat, faded, reddish volume so worn and covered that she immediately took it down for a closer look. She was still engrossed in it when the owner showed up.

“Have you found enough to keep you amused?”

“Have you found enough to keep you entertained?”

She looked up from the pages and seemed to take him all in anew before answering. “Hardly the word. Bewildered would be nearer the feeling.”

She looked up from the pages and seemed to take him in again before answering. “Hardly the right word. Bewildered would describe how I feel better.”

“It’s a queerish library, I suppose,” he said apologetically.

“It’s a bit of a strange library, I guess,” he said apologetically.

“If I believed in dual personality—” she began; but broke off to hold up the bulky veteran. “Where did you get ‘The Undying Voices’?”

“If I believed in dual personality—” she started; but then she paused to lift the heavy veteran. “Where did you get ‘The Undying Voices’?”

“Oh, that’s a windfall. What a bully title for a collection of the great poetries, isn’t it!”

“Oh, that’s lucky. What a bold title for a collection of great poems, right?”

She nodded, one caressing hand on the open book, the other propping her chin as she kept the clear wonder of her eyes upon him.

She nodded, one hand gently resting on the open book, the other supporting her chin as she looked at him with wide, curious eyes.

“It makes you think of singers making harmony together in a great open space. I’d like to know the man who made the selections,” he concluded.

“It makes you think of singers harmonizing together in a big open space. I’d love to meet the person who made the selections,” he concluded.

“What kind of a windfall?” she asked.

“What kind of good fortune?” she asked.

“A real one. Pullman travelers sometimes prop their windows open with books. You can see the window-mark on the cover of this one. I found it two miles out, beside the right-of-way. There was no name in it, so I kept it. It’s the book I read most except one.”

“A real one. Pullman travelers sometimes keep their windows open with books. You can see the mark on the cover from the window. I found it two miles out, next to the tracks. There was no name in it, so I kept it. It’s the book I read the most, except for one.”

“What’s the one?”

"Which one?"

He laughed, holding up the still more corpulent Sears-Roebuck catalogue.

He laughed, holding up the even thicker Sears-Roebuck catalog.

“Ah,” said she gravely. “That accounts, I suppose, for the top shelf.”

“Ah,” she said seriously. “I guess that explains the top shelf.”

“Yes, mostly.”

"Yeah, mostly."

“Do you like them? The Conscientious Improvers, I mean?”

“Do you like them? I mean the Conscientious Improvers?”

“I think they’re bunk.”

“I think they’re nonsense.”

“Then why did you get them?”

“Oh, I suppose I was looking for something,” he returned; and though his tone was careless, she noticed for the first time a tinge of self-consciousness.

“Oh, I guess I was looking for something,” he replied; and even though his tone was casual, she noticed for the first time a hint of self-awareness.

“Did you find it there?”

“Did you find it here?”

“No. It isn’t there.”

"Nope. It’s not there."

“Here?” She laid both hands on the “windfall.”

“Here?” She placed both hands on the “windfall.”

His face lighted subtly.

His face lit up subtly.

“It is there, isn’t it! If one has the sense to get it out.”

“It is there, right? If someone has the sense to bring it out.”

“I wonder,” mused the girl. And again, “I wonder.” She rose, and taking out “March Hares” held it up. “I could hardly believe this when I saw it. Did it also drop out of a car window?”

“I wonder,” the girl thought. And again, “I wonder.” She got up and took out “March Hares,” holding it up. “I could barely believe this when I saw it. Did it also fall out of a car window?”

“No. I never heard of that until I wrote for it. I wrote to a Boston bookstore that I’d heard about and told ’em I wanted two books to cheer up a fool with the blues, and another to take him into a strange world—and keep the change out of five dollars. They sent me ‘The Bab Ballads’ and this, and ‘Lavengro.’”

“No. I never knew about that until I wrote for it. I contacted a bookstore in Boston that I’d heard of and told them I wanted two books to lift the spirits of someone feeling down, and another to introduce him to a new world—and to keep the change from five dollars. They sent me ‘The Bab Ballads,’ this one, and ‘Lavengro.’”

“Oh, how I’d like to see that letter! If the bookstore has an ounce of real bookitude about it, they’ve got it preserved in lavender! And what do you think of ‘March Hares’?”

“Oh, how I’d love to see that letter! If the bookstore has a hint of real bookish charm, they’ve got it preserved in lavender! And what do you think about ‘March Hares’?”

“Did you ever read any of the works of Harvey Wheelwright?” he questioned in turn.

“Have you ever read any of Harvey Wheelwright’s works?” he asked in response.

“Now,” thought Io, “he is going to compare Frederic to Wheelwright, and I shall abandon him to his fate forever. So here’s his chance ... I have,” she replied aloud.

“Now,” thought Io, “he’s going to compare Frederic to Wheelwright, and I’ll leave him to his fate forever. So here’s his chance ... I have,” she said out loud.

“It’s funny,” ruminated Banneker. “Mr. Wheelwright writes about the kind of things that might happen any day, and probably do happen, and yet you don’t believe a word of it. ‘March Hares’—well, it just couldn’t happen; but what do you care while you’re in it! It seems realer than any of the dull things outside it. That’s the literary part of it, I suppose, isn’t it?”

“It’s funny,” Banneker reflected. “Mr. Wheelwright writes about the sort of things that could happen any day, and probably do happen, yet you don’t believe a single word of it. ‘March Hares’—well, that just couldn’t happen; but what does it matter while you’re in it! It feels more real than any of the boring stuff outside of it. That’s the literary aspect of it, I guess, right?”

“That’s the magic of it,” returned Io, with a little, half-suppressed crow of delight. “Are you magic, too, Mr. Banneker?”

"That’s the magic of it," Io replied, with a small, barely contained laugh of joy. "Are you magic, too, Mr. Banneker?"

“Me? I’m hungry,” said he.

“Me? I’m hungry,” he said.

“Forgive the cook!” she cried. “But just one thing more. Will you lend me the poetry book?”

“Forgive the cook!” she exclaimed. “But just one more thing. Will you lend me the poetry book?”

“It’s all marked up,” he objected, flushing.

“It’s all marked up,” he protested, blushing.

“Are you afraid that I’ll surprise your inmost secrets?” she taunted. “They’d be safe. I can be close-mouthed, even though I’ve been chattering like a sparrow.”

“Are you worried that I’ll uncover your deepest secrets?” she teased. “They’d be safe. I can keep quiet, even though I’ve been talking like a sparrow.”

“Take it, of course,” he said. “I suppose I’ve marked all the wrong things.”

“Go ahead, of course,” he said. “I guess I've pointed out all the wrong things.”

“So far,” she laughed, “you’re batting one hundred per cent as a literary critic.” She poured coffee into a tin cup and handed it to him. “What do you think of my coffee?”

“So far,” she laughed, “you’re doing an amazing job as a literary critic.” She poured coffee into a tin cup and handed it to him. “What do you think of my coffee?”

He tasted it consideringly; then gave a serious verdict. “Pretty bad.”

He considered the taste for a moment, then delivered a serious verdict. “Pretty bad.”

“Really! I suppose it isn’t according to the mail-order book recipe.”

“Really! I guess it doesn’t match the recipe from the mail-order book.”

“It’s muddy and it’s weak.”

“It’s muddy and weak.”

“Are you always so frank in your expression of views?”

“Are you always this straightforward when expressing your opinions?”

“Well, you asked me.”

"Well, you asked."

“Would you answer as plainly whatever I asked you?”

“Will you answer me honestly no matter what I ask?”

“Certainly. I’d have too much respect for you not to.”

“Of course. I have too much respect for you not to.”

She opened wide eyes at this. Then provocatively: “What do you think of me, Mr. Banneker?”

She widened her eyes at this. Then, with a challenging tone, she asked, “What do you think of me, Mr. Banneker?”

“I can’t answer that.”

"I can't answer that."

“Why not?” she teased.

“Why not?” she joked.

“I don’t know you well enough to give an opinion.”

“I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion.”

“You know me as well as you ever will.”

“Very likely.”

"Most likely."

“Well, a snap judgment, for what it’s worth.... What are you doing there?”

“Well, a quick opinion, for what it’s worth.... What are you doing there?”

“Making more coffee.”

“Brewing more coffee.”

Io stamped her foot. “You’re the most enraging man I ever met.”

Io stamped her foot. “You’re the most frustrating guy I’ve ever met.”

“It’s quite unintentional,” he replied patiently, but with no hint of compunction. “You may drink yours and I’ll drink mine.”

“It’s totally unintentional,” he replied calmly, but without any hint of regret. “You can drink yours and I’ll drink mine.”

“You’re only making it worse!”

"You're just making it worse!"

“Very well; then I’ll drink yours if you like.”

"Sure, I'll drink yours if you want."

“And say it’s good.”

“Say it’s good.”

“But what’s the use?”

“But what’s the point?”

“And say it’s good,” insisted Io.

“And say it’s good,” Io insisted.

“It’s marvelous,” agreed her unsmiling host.

“It’s amazing,” agreed her serious host.

Far from being satisfied with words and tone, which were correctness itself, Io was insensately exasperated.

Far from being satisfied with the words and tone, which were perfectly correct, Io was completely frustrated.

“You’re treating me like a child,” she charged.

“You're treating me like a kid,” she accused.

“How do you want me to treat you?”

“As a woman,” she flashed, and was suddenly appalled to feel the blood flush incredibly to her cheeks.

“As a woman,” she said, and was instantly shocked to feel her cheeks turn bright red.

If he noted the phenomenon, he gave no sign, simply assenting with his customary equanimity. During the luncheon she chattered vaguely. She was in two minds about calling off the projected walk. As he set aside his half-emptied cup of coffee—not even tactful enough to finish it out of compliment to her brew—Banneker said:

If he noticed the situation, he showed no response, just agreeing with his usual calmness. During lunch, she talked aimlessly. She was unsure about canceling the planned walk. As he put down his half-finished cup of coffee—not even polite enough to finish it to praise her coffee—Banneker said:

“Up beyond the turn yonder the right-of-way crosses an arroyo. I want to take a look at it. We can cut through the woods to get there. Are you good for three miles?”

“Up beyond that turn, the right-of-way crosses a stream. I want to check it out. We can go through the woods to get there. Are you okay with three miles?”

“For a hundred!” cried Io.

“For a hundred bucks!” cried Io.

The wine of life was potent in her veins.

The wine of life flowed strongly in her veins.

CHAPTER VIII

Before the walk was over, Io knew Banneker as she had never before, in her surrounded and restricted life, known any man; the character and evolution and essence of him. Yet with all his frankness, the rare, simple, and generous outgiving of a naturally rather silent nature yielding itself to an unrecognized but overmastering influence, he retained the charm of inner mystery. Her sudden understanding of him still did not enable her to place him in any category of life as she knew it to be arranged.

Before the walk was over, Io knew Banneker like she had never known any man in her constrained life; she understood his character, growth, and essence. Yet, despite his openness and the unique, straightforward, and generous way he revealed his naturally quiet nature to an unknown but overwhelming influence, he still held an allure of inner mystery. Even with her newfound understanding of him, she still couldn’t figure out where he fit into the categories of life as she knew them.

The revelation had come about through her description of her encounter with the queer and attentive bird of the desert.

The revelation had come about through her description of her encounter with the strange and observant bird of the desert.

“Oh,” said Banneker. “You’ve been interviewing a cactus owl.”

“Did he unwind his neck carefully and privately after I had gone?”

“Did he carefully and privately loosen his neck after I left?”

“No,” returned Banneker gravely. “He just jumped in the air and his body spun around until it got back to its original relation.”

“No,” Banneker replied seriously. “He just jumped into the air and his body spun around until it returned to its original position.”

“How truly fascinating! Have you seen him do it?”

“How fascinating! Have you seen him do it?”

“Not actually seen. But often in the evenings I’ve heard them buzzing as they unspin the day’s wind-up. During the day, you see, they make as many as ten or fifteen revolutions until their eyes bung out. Reversing makes them very dizzy, and if you are around when they’re doing it, you can often pick them up off the sand.”

“Not really seen. But often in the evenings, I’ve heard them buzzing as they unwind from the day. During the day, you see, they make around ten to fifteen spins until their eyes pop out. Reversing makes them really dizzy, and if you’re nearby when they’re doing it, you can often pick them up off the sand.”

“And doesn’t it ever make you dizzy? All this local lore, I mean, that you carry around in your head?”

“And doesn’t it ever make you dizzy? All this local knowledge, I mean, that you keep in your head?”

“It isn’t much of a strain to a practiced intellect,” he deprecated. “If you’re interested in natural history, there’s the Side-hill Wampus—”

“It’s not really that hard for someone experienced,” he said modestly. “If you’re into natural history, there’s the Side-hill Wampus—”

“Yes; I know. I’ve been West before, thank you! Pardon my curiosity, but are all you creatures of the desert queer and inexplicable?”

“Yes; I know. I’ve been to the West before, thank you! Sorry for my curiosity, but are all you desert creatures strange and mysterious?”

“Not me,” he returned promptly if ungrammatically, “if you’re looking in my direction.”

“Not me,” he replied quickly, though it wasn’t quite grammatical, “if you’re looking my way.”

“I’ll admit that I find you as interesting as the owl—almost. And quite as hard to understand.”

“I’ll admit that I find you as interesting as an owl—almost. And just as hard to figure out.”

“Nobody ever called me queer; not to my face.”

“Nobody ever called me weird; not to my face.”

“But you are, you know. You oughtn’t to be here at all.”

“But you are, you know. You shouldn’t be here at all.”

“Where ought I to be?”

“Where should I be?”

“How can I answer that riddle without knowing where you have been? Are you Ulysses—”

“How can I solve that riddle if I don't know where you've been? Are you Ulysses—”

“‘Knowing cities and the hearts of men,’” he answered, quick to catch the reference. “No; not the cities, certainly, and very little of the men.”

“‘Understanding cities and the hearts of people,’” he replied, quick to recognize the reference. “No; definitely not the cities, and hardly anything about the people.”

“There, you see!” she exclaimed plaintively. “You’re up on a classical reference like a college man. No; not like the college men I know, either. They are too immersed in their football and rowing and too afraid to be thought high-brow, to confess to knowing anything about Ulysses. What was your college?”

“There, you see!” she exclaimed sadly. “You’re up on a classic reference like a college guy. No; not like the college guys I know, either. They’re too focused on their football and rowing and too worried about being seen as snobby to admit they know anything about Ulysses. What was your college?”

“This,” he said, sweeping a hand around the curve of the horizon.

“This,” he said, gesturing broadly across the curve of the horizon.

“And in any one else,” she retorted, “that would be priggish as well as disingenuous.”

“And in anyone else,” she shot back, “that would be smug as well as fake.”

“I suppose I know what you mean. Out here, when a man doesn’t explain himself, they think it’s for some good reason of his own, or bad reason, more likely. In either case, they don’t ask questions.”

“I guess I get what you’re saying. Out here, when a guy doesn’t explain himself, people assume it’s for some good reason on his part, or a bad one, more likely. Either way, they don't ask questions.”

“I really beg your pardon, Mr. Banneker!”

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Banneker!”

“No; that isn’t what I meant at all. If you’re interested, I’d like to have you know about me. It isn’t much, though.”

“No; that’s not what I meant at all. If you’re interested, I’d like you to know about me. It’s not much, though.”

“You’ll think me prying,” she objected.

"You might think I'm being nosy," she said.

“I think you a sort of friend of a day, who is going away very soon leaving pleasant memories,” he answered, smiling. “A butterfly visit. I’m not much given to talking, but if you’d like it—”

“I think you’re like a friend for a day, who’s going away very soon, leaving behind nice memories,” he replied with a smile. “A butterfly visit. I don’t usually talk much, but if you want—”

“Of course I should like it.”

“Of course I would like it.”

So he sketched for her his history. His mother he barely remembered; “dark, and quite beautiful, I believe, though that might be only a child’s vision; my father rarely spoke of her, but I think all the emotional side of his life was buried with her.” The father, an American of Danish ancestry, had been ousted from the chair of Sociology in old, conservative Havenden College, as the logical result of his writings which, because they shrewdly and clearly pointed out certain ulcerous spots in the economic and social system, were denounced as “radical” by a Board of Trustees honestly devoted to Business Ideals. Having a small income of his own, the ex-Professor decided upon a life of investigatory vagrancy, with special reference to studies, at first hand, of the voluntarily unemployed. Not knowing what else to do with the only child of his marriage, he took the boy along. Contemptuous of, rather than embittered against, an academic system which had dispensed with his services because it was afraid of the light—“When you cast a light, they see only the resultant shadows,” was one of his sayings which had remained with Banneker—he had resolved to educate the child himself.

So he shared his story with her. He barely remembered his mother; "She was dark and quite beautiful, I believe, though that might just be a child's perception. My father rarely talked about her, but I think all the emotional part of his life was buried with her." His father, an American of Danish descent, had lost his position as a Sociology professor at the old, conservative Havenden College because of his writings, which pointed out certain problematic areas in the economic and social system and were labeled as "radical" by a Board of Trustees that honestly prioritized Business Ideals. With only a small income, the ex-Professor chose a life of investigative wandering, specifically studying the voluntarily unemployed up close. Not knowing what else to do with the only child of his marriage, he took the boy along. Instead of feeling bitter towards the academic system that had dismissed him for fear of the truth—"When you cast a light, they see only the shadows it creates," was one of his sayings that stayed with Banneker—he decided to educate the child himself.

Their life was spent frugally in cities where they haunted libraries, or, sumptuously, upon the open road where a modest supply of ready cash goes a long way. Young Banneker’s education, after the routine foundation, was curiously heterodox, but he came through it with his intellectual digestion unimpaired and his mental appetite avid. By example he had the competent self-respect and unmistakable bearing of a gentleman, and by careful precept the speech of a liberally educated man. When he was seventeen, his father died of a twenty-four hours’ pneumonia, leaving the son not so much stricken as bewildered, for their relations had been comradely rather than affectionate. For a time it was a question whether the youngster, drifting from casual job to casual job, would not degenerate into a veritable hobo, for he had drunk deep of the charm of the untrammeled and limitless road. Want touched him, but lightly; for he was naturally frugal and hardy. He got a railroad job by good luck, and it was not until he had worked himself into a permanency that his father’s lawyers found and notified him of the possession of a small income, one hundred dollars per annum of which, they informed him, was to be expended by them upon such books as they thought suitable to his circumstances, upon information provided by the deceased, the remainder to be at his disposal.

Their life was spent saving money in cities where they frequented libraries, or, living luxuriously on the open road where a modest amount of cash stretches a long way. Young Banneker's education, after the basic foundation, was unconventional, but he emerged with his intellectual curiosity intact and a strong desire for knowledge. By example, he displayed the self-respect and unmistakable demeanor of a gentleman, and through careful teaching, he spoke like someone who was well-educated. When he turned seventeen, his father died of pneumonia in just twenty-four hours, leaving him more bewildered than devastated, as their relationship had been more like friends than affectionate. For a while, it was uncertain whether the young man, drifting from one temporary job to another, would end up like a true drifter, as he had deeply appreciated the allure of the free and boundless road. While he faced some hardship, it only lightly touched him because he was naturally frugal and resilient. He landed a railroad job by chance, and it wasn’t until he had established himself permanently that his father’s lawyers found him and informed him about a small income he was entitled to, letting him know that one hundred dollars a year would be spent on books they deemed appropriate for his situation, based on information provided by the deceased, with the rest being available for his personal use.

Though quite unauthorized to proffer advice, as they honorably stated, they opined that the heir’s wisest course would be to prepare himself at once for college, the income being sufficient to take him through, with care—and they were, his Very Truly, Cobb & Morse.

Though they weren't really in a position to give advice, as they honestly stated, they suggested that the heir should start preparing for college right away, since the income would be enough to cover his expenses if he was careful—and they were, truly yours, Cobb & Morse.

Banneker had not the smallest idea of cooping up his mind in a college. As to future occupation, his father had said nothing that was definite. His thesis was that observation and thought concerning men and their activities, pointed and directed by intimate touch with what others had observed and set down—that is, through books—was the gist of life. Any job which gave opportunity or leisure for this was good enough. Livelihood was but a garment, at most; life was the body beneath. Furthermore, young Banneker would find, so his senior had assured him, that he possessed an open sesame to the minds of the really intelligent wheresoever he might encounter them, in the form of a jewel which he must keep sedulously untarnished and bright. What was that? asked the boy. His speech and bearing of a cultivated man.

Banneker had no intention of trapping his mind in a college. As for his future career, his father hadn't provided any clear direction. His belief was that observing and thinking about people and their actions, guided by a close connection with what others had noticed and recorded—meaning through books—was the essence of life. Any job that allowed him the time or opportunity for this was satisfactory. Making a living was just a covering, at best; life was what lay underneath. Moreover, young Banneker would discover, as his older friend had assured him, that he had access to the minds of truly intelligent people wherever he met them, in the form of a quality he needed to keep shining and polished. What was that? the boy asked. His eloquence and demeanor as a refined person.

Young Banneker found that it was almost miraculously true. Wherever he went, he established contacts with people who interested him and whom he interested: here a brilliant, doubting, perturbed clergyman, slowly dying of tuberculosis in the desert; there a famous geologist from Washington who, after a night of amazing talk with the young prodigy while awaiting a train, took him along on a mountain exploration; again an artist and his wife who were painting the arid and colorful glories of the waste places. From these and others he got much; but not friendship or permanent associations. He did not want them. He was essentially, though unconsciously, a lone spirit; so his listener gathered. Advancement could have been his in the line of work which had by chance adopted him; but he preferred small, out-of-the-way stations, where he could be with his books and have room to breathe. So here he was at Manzanita. That was all there was to it. Nothing very mysterious or remarkable about it, was there?

Young Banneker found it almost miraculously true. Wherever he went, he established connections with people who intrigued him and vice versa: here was a brilliant, troubled clergyman slowly succumbing to tuberculosis in the desert; there was a renowned geologist from Washington who, after an incredible night of conversation with the young prodigy while waiting for a train, invited him to join a mountain expedition; again, there was an artist and his wife, painting the dry and vibrant beauty of the desolate areas. He gained a lot from these encounters but not friendship or lasting bonds. He didn’t want them. He was essentially, though unconsciously, a solitary soul; that’s what his listener sensed. He could have advanced in the field that had inadvertently taken him in, but he preferred small, off-the-beaten-path spots where he could be with his books and have space to breathe. So here he was at Manzanita. That was all there was to it. Nothing particularly mysterious or remarkable about it, was there?

Io smiled in return. “What is your name?” she asked.

Io smiled back. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Errol. But every one calls me Ban.”

“Errol. But everyone calls me Ban.”

“Haven’t you ever told this to any one before?”

“Haven’t you ever told anyone this before?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“Why should I?”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know really,” hesitated the girl, “except that it seems almost inhuman to keep one’s self so shut off.”

“I’m not really sure,” the girl hesitated, “except that it feels almost inhuman to keep yourself so shut off.”

“It’s nobody else’s business.”

“It's no one else's business.”

“Yet you’ve told it to me. That’s very charming of you.”

“Yet you've shared it with me. That's really sweet of you.”

“You said you’d be interested.”

"You said you'd be into it."

“So I am. It’s an extraordinary life, though you don’t seem to think so.”

“So I am. It’s an amazing life, even if you don’t seem to think so.”

“But I don’t want to be extraordinary.”

“But I don’t want to be anything special.”

“Of course you do,” she refuted promptly. “To be ordinary is—is—well, it’s like being a dust-colored beetle.” She looked at him queerly. “Doesn’t Miss Van Arsdale know all this?”

“Of course you do,” she shot back quickly. “Being ordinary is—well, it’s like being a dull-colored beetle.” She looked at him strangely. “Doesn’t Miss Van Arsdale know all this?”

“I don’t see how she could. I’ve never told her.”

“And she’s never asked you anything?”

“Not a word. I don’t quite see Miss Camilla asking any one questions about themselves. Did she ask you?”

“Not a word. I don’t really see Miss Camilla asking anyone questions about themselves. Did she ask you?”

The girl’s color deepened almost imperceptibly. “You’re right,” she said. “There’s a standard of breeding that we up-to-date people don’t attain. But I’m at least intelligent enough to recognize it. You reckon her as a friend, don’t you?”

The girl's face flushed slightly. “You’re right,” she said. “There’s a standard of upbringing that we modern people don’t reach. But I’m smart enough to see it. You consider her a friend, don’t you?”

“Why, yes; I suppose so.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Do you suppose you’d ever come to reckon me as one?” she asked, half bantering, half wistful.

“Do you think you’d ever see me as one?” she asked, half joking, half longing.

“There won’t be time. You’re running away.”

“There won’t be time. You’re just fleeing.”

“Perhaps I might write you. I think I’d like to.”

“Maybe I should write to you. I think I’d like that.”

“Would you?” he murmured. “Why?”

“Would you?” he whispered. “Why?”

“You ought to be greatly flattered,” she reproved him. “Instead you shoot a ‘why’ at me. Well; because you’ve got something I haven’t got. And when I find anything new like that, I always try to get some of it for myself.”

“You should feel really flattered,” she said to him. “Instead, you respond with a ‘why’ at me. Well, it’s because you have something I don’t. And whenever I discover something new like that, I always try to get some for myself.”

“I don’t know what it could be, but—”

“I don’t know what it might be, but—”

“Call it your philosophy of life. Your contentment. Or is it only detachment? That can’t last, you know.”

“Call it your philosophy of life. Your happiness. Or is it just apathy? That won’t last, you know.”

He turned to her, vaguely disturbed as by a threat. “Why not?”

He turned to her, slightly uneasy as if something was off. “Why not?”

“You’re too—well, distinctive. You’re too rare and beautiful a specimen. You’ll be grabbed.” She laughed softly.

“You're just too unique. You're such a rare and gorgeous person. Someone will definitely notice you.” She laughed softly.

“Who’ll grab me?”

"Who's going to get me?"

“How should I know? Life, probably. Grab you and dry you up and put you in a case like the rest of us.”

“How should I know? Life, probably. It grabs you, dries you up, and puts you in a case like the rest of us.”

“Perhaps that’s why I like to stay out here. At least I can be myself.”

“Maybe that’s why I enjoy staying out here. At least I can be true to myself.”

“Is that your fondest ambition?”

“Is that your biggest goal?”

However much he may have been startled by the swift stab, he gave no sign of hurt in his reply.

However shocked he might have been by the quick jab, he showed no sign of pain in his response.

“Call it the line of least resistance. In any case, I shouldn’t like to be grabbed and dried up.”

“Call it the path of least resistance. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to be caught and drained.”

“Most of us are grabbed and catalogued from our birth, and eventually dried up and set in our proper places.”

“Most of us are marked and categorized from the moment we’re born, and eventually we’re left to wither away and placed in our designated roles.”

“Not you, certainly.”

"Not you, for sure."

“Because you haven’t seen me in my shell. That’s where I mostly live. I’ve broken out for a time.”

“Because you haven’t seen me in my shell. That’s where I mostly live. I’ve broken out for a while.”

“Don’t you like it outside, Butterfly?” he queried with a hint of playful caress in his voice.

“Don’t you like being outside, Butterfly?” he asked with a playful tone in his voice.

“I like that name for myself,” she returned quickly. “Though a butterfly couldn’t return to its chrysalis, no matter how much it wanted to, could it? But you may call me that, since we’re to be friends.”

“I like that name for myself,” she replied quickly. “But a butterfly can’t go back to its chrysalis, no matter how much it wishes it could, right? Yet, you can call me that, since we’re going to be friends.”

“Then you do like it outside your shell.”

“Then you do enjoy being outside your shell.”

“It’s exhilarating. But I suppose I should find it too rough for my highly sensitized skin in the long run.... Are you going to write to me if I write to you?”

“It’s exciting. But I guess I should find it too harsh for my sensitive skin in the long run.... Are you going to write back if I write to you?”

“What about? That Number Six came in making bad steam, and that a west-bound freight, running extra, was held up on the siding at Marchand for half a day?”

“What about it? Number Six came in making a lot of noise, and a west-bound freight, running extra, was stuck on the siding at Marchand for half a day?”

“Is that all you have to write about?”

“Is that everything you have to say?”

Banneker bethought himself of the very private dossier in his office. “No; it isn’t.”

Banneker remembered the very private file in his office. “No; it isn’t.”

“You could write in a way all your own. Have you ever written anything for publication?”

“You could write in a style that's uniquely yours. Have you ever written anything for publication?”

“No. That is—well—I don’t really know.” He told her about Gardner and the description of the wreck.

“No. That is—well—I don’t really know.” He told her about Gardner and the details of the wreck.

“How did you happen to do that?” she asked curiously.

“How did you end up doing that?” she asked, curious.

“Oh, I write a lot of things and put them away and forget them.”

“Oh, I write a bunch of stuff and then put it away and forget about it.”

“Show me,” she wheedled. “I’d love to see them.”

“Show me,” she coaxed. “I’d really like to see them.”

He shook his head. “They wouldn’t interest you.” The words were those of an excuse. But in the tone was finality.

He shook his head. “They wouldn’t interest you.” The words were an excuse. But there was a sense of finality in his tone.

“I don’t think you’re very responsive,” she complained. “I’m awfully interested in you and your affairs, and you won’t play back the least bit.”

“I don’t think you’re very responsive,” she complained. “I’m really interested in you and what’s going on in your life, but you won’t engage at all.”

They walked on in silence for a space. He had, she reflected, a most disconcerting trick of silence, of ignoring quite without embarrassment leads, which in her code imperatively called for return. Annoyance stirred within her, and the eternal feline which is a component part of the eternal feminine asserted itself.

They walked on in silence for a while. She realized he had a really unsettling way of being quiet, of completely ignoring cues that she felt always needed a response. She felt a bit annoyed, and the eternal catlike nature that’s part of the eternal feminine came out.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “you are afraid of me.”

“Maybe,” she suggested, “you’re afraid of me.”

“No; I’m not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“By that you mean ‘Why should I be’?”

“By that, you mean ‘Why should I be’?”

“Something of the sort.”

“Something like that.”

“Didn’t Miss Van Arsdale warn you against me?”

“Didn’t Miss Van Arsdale tell you to stay away from me?”

“How did you know that?” he asked, staring.

“A solemn warning not to fall in love with me?” pursued the girl calmly.

“A serious warning not to fall in love with me?” the girl asked calmly.

He stopped short. “She told you that she had said something to me?”

He paused. “She told you she said something to me?”

“Don’t be idiotic! Of course she didn’t.”

“Don’t be stupid! Of course she didn’t.”

“Then how did you know?” he persisted.

“Then how did you know?” he pressed.

“How does one snake know what another snake will do?” she retorted. “Being of the same—”

“How does one snake know what another snake will do?” she shot back. “Being of the same—”

“Wait a moment. I don’t like that word ‘snake’ in connection with Miss Van Arsdale.”

“Hold on a second. I don’t like the word ‘snake’ being used in relation to Miss Van Arsdale.”

“Though you’re willing to accept it as applying to me. I believe you are trying to quarrel with me,” accused Io. “I only meant that, being a woman, I can make a guess at what another woman would do in any given conditions. And she did it!” she concluded in triumph.

“Even though you’re okay with it being directed at me, I think you’re trying to pick a fight,” Io accused. “I just meant that, as a woman, I can understand what another woman might do in a certain situation. And she did it!” she finished with pride.

“No; she didn’t. Not in so many words. But you’re very clever.”

“No, she didn’t. Not exactly. But you’re really clever.”

“Say, rather, that you are very stupid,” was the disdainful retort. “So you’re not going to fall in love with me?”

“Say, instead, that you are really stupid,” was the contemptuous reply. “So you’re not going to fall in love with me?”

“Of course not,” answered Banneker in the most cheerfully commonplace of tones.

“Of course not,” Banneker replied in the most casually cheerful tone.

Once embarked upon this primrose path, which is always an imperceptible but easy down-slope, Io went farther than she had intended. “Why not?” she challenged.

Once she started down this easy, almost unnoticeable path, Io went further than she meant to. “Why not?” she asked defiantly.

“Brass buttons,” said Banneker concisely.

"Brass buttons," Banneker said briefly.

She flushed angrily. “You can be rather a beast, can’t you!”

She blushed with anger. “You can be quite the jerk, can’t you!”

“A beast? Just for reminding you that the Atkinson and St. Philip station-agent at Manzanita does not include in his official duties that of presuming to fall in love with chance passengers who happen to be more or less in his care.”

“A beast? Just a reminder that the Atkinson and St. Philip station-agent at Manzanita doesn’t officially include the duty of falling in love with random passengers who happen to be under his care.”

“Very proper and official! Now,” added the girl in a different manner, “let’s stop talking nonsense, and do you tell me one thing honestly. Do you feel that it would be presumption?”

“Very proper and official! Now,” the girl continued in a different tone, “let’s stop talking nonsense, and you tell me one thing honestly. Do you think it would be presumptuous?”

“To fall in love with you?”

“Leave that part of it out; I put my question stupidly. I’m really curious to know whether you feel any—any difference between your station and mine.”

“Forget that part; I asked my question in a silly way. I’m really curious to know if you feel any difference between your position and mine.”

“Do you?”

“Yes; I do,” she answered honestly, “when I think of it. But you make it very hard for me to remember it when I’m with you.”

“Yes; I do,” she replied truthfully, “when I think about it. But you make it really difficult for me to remember it when I’m with you.”

“Well, I don’t,” he said. “I suppose I’m a socialist in all matters of that kind. Not that I’ve ever given much thought to them. You don’t have to out here.”

“Well, I don’t,” he said. “I guess I’m a socialist when it comes to those kinds of things. Not that I’ve ever really thought about them. You don’t need to out here.”

“No; you wouldn’t. I don’t know that you would have to anywhere.... Are we almost home?”

“No; you wouldn’t. I don’t think you would have to go anywhere.... Are we almost home?”

“Three minutes’ more walking. Tired?”

"Three more minutes of walking. Tired?"

“Not a bit. You know,” she added, “I really would like it if you’d write me once in a while. There’s something here I’d like to keep a hold on. It’s tonic. I’ll make you write me.” She flashed a smile at him.

“Not at all. You know,” she added, “I really would like it if you’d write to me once in a while. There’s something here I want to hold onto. It’s uplifting. I’ll make you write to me.” She flashed him a smile.

“How?”

"How?"

“By sending you books. You’ll have to acknowledge them.”

“By sending you books. You’ll need to acknowledge them.”

“No. I couldn’t take them. I’d have to send them back.”

“No. I can’t take them. I’d have to send them back.”

“You wouldn’t let me send you a book or two just as a friendly memento?” she cried, incredulous.

“You wouldn’t let me send you a couple of books as a friendly keepsake?” she exclaimed, surprised.

“I don’t take anything from anybody,” he retorted doggedly.

“I don’t take anything from anyone,” he shot back stubbornly.

“Ah; that’s small-minded,” she accused. “That’s ungenerous. I wouldn’t think that of you.”

“Ah, that’s narrow-minded,” she accused. “That’s stingy. I wouldn’t have thought that of you.”

He strode along in moody thought for a few paces. Presently he turned to her a rigid face. “If you had ever had to accept food to keep you alive, you’d understand.”

He walked along, deep in thought for a few steps. Then he turned to her with a tense expression. “If you had ever had to rely on food just to survive, you’d get it.”

For a moment she was shocked and sorry. Then her tact asserted itself. “But I have,” she said readily, “all my life. Most of us do.”

For a moment, she felt shocked and regretful. Then her sense of diplomacy kicked in. “But I have,” she said quickly, “my whole life. Most of us do.”

The hard muscles around his mouth relaxed. “You remind me,” he said, “that I’m not as real a socialist as I thought. Nevertheless, that rankles in my memory. When I got my first job, I swore I’d never accept anything from anybody again. One of the passengers on your train tried to tip me a hundred dollars.”

The tense muscles around his mouth eased up. “You remind me,” he said, “that I’m not as much of a socialist as I believed. Still, that sticks with me. When I got my first job, I promised I’d never accept anything from anyone again. One of the passengers on your train offered me a hundred dollars as a tip.”

“He must have been a fool,” said Io scornfully.

"He must have been an idiot," said Io with contempt.

Banneker held open the station-door for her. “I’ve got to send a wire or two,” said he. “Take a look at this. It may give some news about general railroad conditions.” He handed her the newspaper which had arrived that morning.

Banneker held the station door open for her. “I need to send a couple of telegrams,” he said. “Check this out. It might have some updates on general railroad conditions.” He handed her the newspaper that had come in that morning.

When he came out again, the station was empty.

When he stepped outside again, the station was deserted.

Io was gone. So was the newspaper.

CHAPTER IX

Deep in work at her desk, Camilla Van Arsdale noted, with the outer tentacles of her mind, slow footsteps outside and a stir of air that told of the door being opened. Without lifting her head she called:

Deep in work at her desk, Camilla Van Arsdale noticed, with the edges of her awareness, slow footsteps outside and a draft that indicated the door was being opened. Without looking up, she called:

“You’ll find towels and a bathrobe in the passageway.”

“You’ll find towels and a bathrobe in the hallway.”

There was no reply. Miss Van Arsdale twisted in her chair, gave one look, rose and strode to the threshold where Io Welland stood rigid and still.

There was no response. Miss Van Arsdale turned in her chair, took a glance, stood up, and walked to the doorway where Io Welland stood tense and motionless.

“What is it?” she demanded sharply.

“What is it?” she asked sharply.

The girl’s hands gripped a folded newspaper. She lifted it as if for Miss Van Arsdale’s acceptance, then let it fall to the floor. Her throat worked, struggling for utterance, as it might be against the pressure of invisible fingers.

The girl’s hands held a crumpled newspaper. She raised it as if offering it to Miss Van Arsdale, then let it drop to the floor. Her throat moved, trying to find words, as if battling against the pressure of unseen fingers.

“The beast! Oh, the beast!” she whispered.

The older woman threw an arm over her shoulders and led her to the big chair before the fireplace. Io let herself be thrust into it, stiff and unyielding as a manikin. Any other woman but Camilla Van Arsdale would have asked questions. She went more directly to the point. Picking up the newspaper she opened it. Halfway across an inside page ran the explanation of Io’s collapse.

The older woman draped an arm over her shoulders and guided her to the big chair in front of the fireplace. Io allowed herself to be pushed into it, as stiff and unyielding as a mannequin. Any other woman but Camilla Van Arsdale would have asked questions. She got straight to the point. Picking up the newspaper, she opened it. Halfway across an inside page was the explanation for Io’s collapse.

BRITON’S BEAUTIFUL FIANCÉE LOST

BRITON'S BEAUTIFUL FIANCÉE MISSING

read the caption, in the glaring vulgarity of extra-heavy type, and below;

read the caption, in the glaring boldness of extra-heavy type, and below;

Ducal Heir Offers Private Reward to Dinner Party of Friends

Duke's Heir Offers Private Reward to Dinner Party of Friends

After an estimating look at the girl, who sat quite still with hot, blurred eyes, Miss Van Arsdale carefully read the article through.

After a quick look at the girl, who sat completely still with glassy, warm eyes, Miss Van Arsdale carefully read the article all the way through.

“Here is advertising enough to satisfy the greediest appetite for print,” she remarked grimly.

“There's enough advertising here to satisfy even the greediest desire for print,” she said with a hint of seriousness.

“He’s on one of his brutal drunks.” The words seemed to grit in the girl’s throat. “I wish he were dead! Oh, I wish he were dead!”

“He's on another one of his brutal benders.” The words felt like sandpaper in the girl's throat. “I wish he were dead! Oh, I wish he were dead!”

Miss Van Arsdale laid hold on her shoulders and shook her hard. “Listen to me, Irene Welland. You’re on the way to hysterics or some such foolishness. I won’t have it! Do you understand? Are you listening to me?”

Miss Van Arsdale grabbed her shoulders and shook her firmly. “Listen to me, Irene Welland. You're heading toward a meltdown or some nonsense. I won't allow it! Do you get it? Are you paying attention to me?”

“I’m listening. But it won’t make any difference what you say.”

“I’m listening. But what you say won’t change anything.”

“Look at me. Don’t stare into nothingness that way. Have you read this?”

“Look at me. Don’t just stare off into space like that. Have you read this?”

“Enough of it. It ends everything.”

“That's enough. It wraps everything up.”

“I should hope so, indeed. My dear!” The woman’s voice changed and softened. “You haven’t found that you cared for him, after all, more than you thought? It isn’t that?”

“I certainly hope so! My dear!” The woman’s voice changed and softened. “You haven’t realized that you care for him more than you thought, have you? Is that it?”

“No; it isn’t that. It’s the beastliness of the whole thing. It’s the disgrace.”

“No; it’s not that. It’s the awful nature of the whole situation. It’s the shame.”

Miss Van Arsdale turned to the paper again.

Miss Van Arsdale turned to the newspaper again.

“Your name isn’t given.”

"Your name isn't provided."

“It might as well be. As soon as it gets back to New York, every one will know.”

"It might as well be. As soon as it gets back to New York, everyone will know."

“If I read correctly between the lines of this scurrilous thing, Mr. Holmesley gave what was to have been his bachelor dinner, took too much to drink, and suggested that every man there go on a separate search for the lost bride offering two thousand dollars reward for the one who found her. Apparently it was to have been quite private, but it leaked out. There’s a hint that he had been drinking heavily for some days.”

“If I read between the lines of this scandalous piece correctly, Mr. Holmesley had what was supposed to be his bachelor dinner, drank too much, and proposed that every man present go on a separate search for the missing bride, offering a reward of two thousand dollars for the one who found her. It seems it was meant to be quite private, but it got out. There's a suggestion that he had been drinking heavily for several days.”

“My fault,” declared Io feverishly. “He told me once that if ever I played anything but fair with him, he’d go to the devil the quickest way he could.”

“My fault,” Io said anxiously. “He once told me that if I ever cheated him, he’d go to hell as fast as he could.”

“Then he’s a coward,” pronounced Miss Van Arsdale vigorously.

"Then he's a coward," said Miss Van Arsdale emphatically.

“What am I? I didn’t play fair with him. I practically jilted him without even letting him know why.”

“What am I? I didn’t treat him right. I basically dumped him without even giving him a reason.”

Miss Van Arsdale frowned. “Didn’t you send him word?”

Miss Van Arsdale frowned. "Didn't you let him know?"

“Yes. I telegraphed him. I told him I’d write and explain. I haven’t written. How could I explain? What was there to say? But I ought to have said something. Oh, Miss Van Arsdale, why didn’t I write!”

“Yes. I sent him a telegram. I told him I’d write and explain. I haven’t written. How could I explain? What was there to say? But I should have said something. Oh, Miss Van Arsdale, why didn’t I write!”

“But you did intend to go on and face him and have it out. You told me that.”

"But you really meant to confront him and sort things out. You told me that."

A faint tinge of color relieved the white rigidity of Io’s face. “Yes,” she agreed. “I did mean it. Now it’s too late and I’m disgraced.”

A slight hint of color softened the pale stiffness of Io's face. “Yes,” she said. “I really meant it. Now it’s too late, and I’m ashamed.”

“Don’t be melodramatic. And don’t waste yourself in self-pity. To-morrow you’ll see things clearer, after you’ve slept.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. And don’t drown in self-pity. Tomorrow you'll see things more clearly after you've had some sleep.”

“Sleep? I couldn’t.” She pressed both hands to her temples, lifting tragic and lustrous eyes to her companion. “I think my head is going to burst from trying not to think.”

“Sleep? I couldn’t.” She pressed both hands to her temples, raising her expressive and shiny eyes to her companion. “I feel like my head is going to explode from trying not to think.”

After some hesitancy Miss Van Arsdale went to a wall-cabinet, took out a phial, shook into her hand two little pellets, and returned the phial, carefully locking the cabinet upon it.

After a bit of hesitation, Miss Van Arsdale went to a wall cabinet, took out a vial, shook two small pellets into her hand, and put the vial back, carefully locking the cabinet afterward.

“Take a hot bath,” she directed. “Then I’m going to give you just a little to eat. And then these.” She held out the drug.

“Take a hot bath,” she instructed. “After that, I’ll give you a little to eat. And then these.” She held out the medication.

Io acquiesced dully.

I nodded dully.

Early in the morning, before the first forelight of dawn had started the birds to prophetic chirpings, the recluse heard light movements in the outer room. Throwing on a robe she went in to investigate. On the bearskin before the flickering fire sat Io, an apparition of soft curves.

Early in the morning, before the first light of dawn had made the birds begin their prophetic chirping, the recluse heard soft movements in the outer room. Throwing on a robe, she went in to check it out. On the bearskin in front of the flickering fire sat Io, a vision of soft curves.

“D—d—don’t make a light,” she whimpered. “I’ve been crying.”

“D—d—don’t turn on a light,” she whimpered. “I’ve been crying.”

“That’s good. The best thing you could do.”

"That’s great. It's the best thing you could do."

“I want to go home,” wailed Io.

“I want to go home,” Io cried.

“That’s good, too. Though perhaps you’d better wait a little. Why, in particular do you want to go home?”

"That's good, too. But maybe you should wait a bit. Why exactly do you want to go home?"

“I w-w-w-want to m-m-marry Delavan Eyre.”

“I want to marry Delavan Eyre.”

A quiver of humor trembled about the corners of Camilla Van Arsdale’s mouth. “Echoes of remorse,” she commented.

A hint of humor flickered at the corners of Camilla Van Arsdale’s mouth. “Echoes of regret,” she remarked.

“No. It isn’t remorse. I want to feel safe, secure. I’m afraid of things. I want to go to-morrow. Tell Mr. Banneker he must arrange it for me.”

“No. It's not remorse. I want to feel safe and secure. I'm scared of things. I want to leave tomorrow. Tell Mr. Banneker he needs to arrange it for me.”

“We’ll see. Now you go back to bed and sleep.”

“We'll see. Now go back to bed and get some sleep.”

“I’d rather sleep here,” said Io. “The fire is so friendly.” She curled herself into a little soft ball.

“I’d rather sleep here,” said Io. “The fire feels so cozy.” She curled up into a soft little ball.

Her hostess threw a coverlet over her and returned to her own room.

Her host put a blanket over her and went back to her own room.

When light broke, there was no question of Io’s going that day, even had accommodations been available. A clogging lassitude had descended upon her, the reaction of cumulative nervous stress, anesthetizing her will, her desires, her very limbs. She was purposeless, ambitionless, except to lie and rest and seek for some resolution of peace out of the tangled web wherein her own willfulness had involved her.

When morning came, there was no way Io was leaving that day, even if there had been places to stay. A heavy tiredness had settled over her, a result of all the accumulated stress, numbing her will, her desires, and even her body. She felt aimless and lacking ambition, wanting only to lie down, rest, and find some peace from the complicated mess that her own stubbornness had gotten her into.

“The best possible thing,” said Camilla Van Arsdale. “I’ll write your people that you are staying on for a visit.”

“The best thing ever,” said Camilla Van Arsdale. “I’ll let your family know that you’re staying for a visit.”

“Yes; they won’t mind. They’re used to my vagaries. It’s awfully good of you.”

“Yes; they won’t mind. They’re used to my quirks. It’s really nice of you.”

At noon came Banneker to see Miss Welland. Instead he found a curiously reticent Miss Van Arsdale. Miss Welland was not feeling well and could not be seen.

At noon, Banneker arrived to see Miss Welland. Instead, he found a strangely quiet Miss Van Arsdale. Miss Welland wasn't feeling well and couldn't be seen.

“Not her head again, is it?” asked Banneker, alarmed.

“Not her head again, right?” asked Banneker, worried.

“More nerves, though the head injury probably contributed.”

“More nerves, but the head injury likely played a part.”

“Oughtn’t I to get a doctor?”

“No. All that she needs is rest.”

“No. All she needs is rest.”

“She left the station yesterday without a word.”

“She left the station yesterday without saying anything.”

“Yes,” replied the non-committal Miss Van Arsdale.

“Yes,” replied the indifferent Miss Van Arsdale.

“I came over to tell her that there isn’t a thing to be had going west. Not even an upper. There was an east-bound in this morning. But the schedule isn’t even a skeleton yet.”

“I came by to tell her that there’s nothing to be found going west. Not even a ticket. There was an eastbound train this morning. But the schedule isn’t even set yet.”

“Probably she won’t be going for several days yet,” said Miss Van Arsdale, and was by no means reassured by the unconscious brightness which illumined Banneker’s face. “When she goes it will be east. She’s changed her plans.”

“She's probably not leaving for several days,” said Miss Van Arsdale, feeling anything but reassured by the unintentional glow on Banneker’s face. “When she does leave, it will be to the east. She’s altered her plans.”

“Give me as much notice as you can and I’ll do my best for her.”

“Let me know as soon as you can, and I’ll do my best for her.”

The other nodded. “Did you get any newspapers by the train?” she inquired.

The other person nodded. “Did you pick up any newspapers by the train?” she asked.

“Yes; there was a mail in. I had a letter, too,” he added after a little hesitation, due to the fact that he had intended telling Miss Welland about that letter first. Thus do confidences, once begun, inspire even the self-contained to further confidences.

“Yes; there was mail. I got a letter, too,” he added after a bit of hesitation, since he had planned to tell Miss Welland about that letter first. This is how confidences, once started, encourage even the most reserved to share more.

“You know there was a reporter up from Angelica City writing up the wreck.”

“You know there was a reporter from Angelica City covering the accident.”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Gardner, his name is. A nice sort of fellow. I showed him some nonsense that I wrote about the wreck.”

“His name is Gardner. He’s a nice guy. I showed him some stuff I wrote about the wreck.”

“You? What kind of nonsense?”

"You? What kind of crazy?"

“Oh, just how it struck me, and the queer things people said and did. He took it with him. Said it might give him some ideas.”

“Oh, just how it hit me, and the strange things people said and did. He took it with him. Said it might inspire him.”

“One might suppose it would. Did it?”

"One might think it would. Did it?"

“Why, he didn’t use it. Not that way. He sent it to the New York Sphere for what he calls a ‘Sunday special,’ and what do you think! They accepted it. He had a wire.”

“Why, he didn’t use it. Not like that. He sent it to the New York Sphere for what he calls a ‘Sunday special,’ and guess what! They accepted it. He got a wire.”

“As Gardner’s?”

"Like Gardner's?"

“Oh, no. As the impressions of an eye-witness. What’s more, they’ll pay for it and he’s to send me the check.”

“Oh, no. From the perspective of an eyewitness. What’s more, they’ll pay for it and he’s supposed to send me the check.”

“Then, in spite of a casual way of handling other people’s ideas, Mr. Gardner apparently means to be honest.”

“Then, despite his laid-back approach to other people’s ideas, Mr. Gardner seems to genuinely intend to be honest.”

“It’s more than square of him. I gave him the stuff to use as he wanted to. He could just as well have collected for it. Probably he touched it up, anyway.”

“It’s more than unfair to him. I gave him the stuff to use as he wanted. He could have easily collected it. He probably edited it anyway.”

“The Goths and Vandals usually did ‘touch up’ whatever they acquired, I believe. Hasn’t he sent you a copy?”

“The Goths and Vandals usually did ‘improve’ whatever they got their hands on, I think. Hasn’t he sent you a copy?”

“He’s going to send it. Or bring it.”

“He's going to send it. Or bring it.”

“Bring it? What should attract him to Manzanita again?”

“Bring it? What would draw him back to Manzanita?”

“Something mysterious. He says that there’s a big sensational story following on the wreck that he’s got a clue to; a tip, he calls it.”

“Something mysterious. He says there’s a big sensational story coming out about the wreck that he’s got a lead on; he calls it a tip.”

“That’s strange. Where did this tip come from? Did he say?”

"That's odd. Where did this tip come from? Did he mention?"

Miss Van Arsdale frowned.

“New York, I think. He spoke of its being a special job for The Sphere.”

“New York, I think. He mentioned it being a unique job for The Sphere.”

“Are you going to help him?”

“If I can. He’s been white to me.”

“If I can. He’s always treated me well.”

“But this isn’t white, if it’s what I suspect. It’s yellow. One of their yellow sensations. The Sphere goes in for that sort of thing.”

“But this isn't white, if it's what I think. It's yellow. One of their yellow sensations. The Sphere goes for that sort of thing.”

Miss Van Arsdale became silent and thoughtful.

Miss Van Arsdale fell silent and became lost in thought.

“Of course, if it’s something to do with the railroad I’d have to be careful. I can’t give away the company’s affairs.”

“Of course, if it’s related to the railroad, I need to be cautious. I can’t disclose the company’s business.”

“I don’t think it is.” Miss Van Arsdale’s troubled eyes strayed toward the inner room.

“I don’t think it is.” Miss Van Arsdale’s troubled eyes wandered toward the inner room.

Following them, Banneker’s lighted up with a flash of astonished comprehension.

Following them, Banneker's face lit up with a flash of surprised understanding.

“You don’t think—” he began.

“You don’t think—” he said.

His friend nodded assent.

His friend nodded in agreement.

“Why should the newspapers be after her?”

“Why are the newspapers targeting her?”

“She is associated with a set that is always in the lime-light,” explained Miss Van Arsdale, lowering her voice to a cautious pitch. “It makes its own lime-light. Anything that they do is material for the papers.”

“She is part of a group that is always in the spotlight,” explained Miss Van Arsdale, lowering her voice to a careful tone. “They create their own spotlight. Whatever they do makes headlines.”

“Yes; but what has she done?”

“Yes, but what has she done?”

“Disappeared.”

“Gone.”

“Not at all. She sent back messages. So there can’t be any mystery about it.”

“Not at all. She replied to the messages. So there’s no mystery about it.”

“But there might be what the howling headlines call ‘romance.’ In fact, there is, if they happen to have found out about it. And this looks very much as if they had. Ban, are you going to tell your reporter friend about Miss Welland?”

“But there might be what the loud headlines call ‘romance.’ Actually, there is, if they somehow found out about it. And this definitely seems like they have. Ban, are you going to tell your reporter friend about Miss Welland?”

Banneker smiled gently, indulgently. “Do you think it likely?”

Banneker smiled softly, kindly. “Do you think that’s likely?”

“No; I don’t. But I want you to understand the importance of not betraying her in any way. Reporters are shrewd. And it might be quite serious for her to know that she was being followed and hounded now. She has had a shock.”

“No; I don’t. But I want you to understand how important it is not to betray her in any way. Reporters are clever. And it could be really serious for her to find out that she’s being followed and hounded right now. She’s been through a lot.”

“The bump on the head, you mean?”

"The bump on the head, right?"

“Worse than that. I think I’d better tell you since we are all in this thing together.”

“Worse than that. I think I should tell you since we’re all in this together.”

Briefly she outlined the abortive adventure that had brought Io west, and its ugly outcome.

Briefly, she summarized the failed adventure that had brought Io west and its unpleasant result.

“Publicity is the one thing we must protect her from,” declared Miss Van Arsdale.

“Publicity is the one thing we need to protect her from,” declared Miss Van Arsdale.

“Yes; that’s clear enough.”

"Yes; that's clear."

“What shall you tell this Gardner man?”

“What are you going to say to this Gardner guy?”

“Nothing that he wants to know.”

“Nothing he wants to learn.”

“You’ll try to fool him?”

"Are you going to trick him?"

“I’m an awfully poor liar, Miss Camilla,” replied the agent with his disarming smile. “I don’t like the game and I’m no good at it. But I can everlastingly hold my tongue.”

“I’m really not a good liar, Miss Camilla,” the agent said with his charming smile. “I don’t like the game and I’m not good at it. But I can always keep my mouth shut.”

“Then he’ll suspect something and go nosing about the village making inquiries.”

“Then he’ll start to suspect something and will snoop around the village asking questions.”

“Let him. Who can tell him anything? Who’s even seen her except you and me?”

“Let him. Who can tell him anything? Who’s even seen her besides you and me?”

“True enough. Nobody is going to see her for some days yet if I can help it. Not even you, Ban.”

“That's true. No one is going to see her for a few days if I can help it. Not even you, Ban.”

“Is she as bad as that?” he asked anxiously.

“Is she really that bad?” he asked nervously.

“She won’t be any the better for seeing people,” replied Miss Van Arsdale firmly, and with that the caller was forced to be content as he went back to his own place.

“She won’t be any better off for seeing people,” replied Miss Van Arsdale firmly, and with that, the caller had to be satisfied as he returned to his own place.

The morning train of the nineteenth, which should have been the noon train of the eighteenth, deposited upon the platform Gardner of the Angelica City Herald, and a suitcase. The thin and bespectacled reporter shook hands with Banneker.

The morning train of the nineteenth, which should have been the noon train of the eighteenth, arrived at the platform with Gardner from the Angelica City Herald and a suitcase. The slim, bespectacled reporter shook hands with Banneker.

“Well, Mr. Man,” he observed. “You’ve made a hit with that story of yours even before it’s got into print.”

“Well, Mr. Man,” he noted. “You’ve already made a splash with that story of yours even before it’s been published.”

“Did you bring me a copy of the paper?”

Gardner grinned. “You seem to think Sunday specials are set up and printed overnight. Wait a couple of weeks.”

Gardner smiled. “You act like Sunday specials are created and printed overnight. Just wait a couple of weeks.”

“But they’re going to publish it?”

“But they’re really going to publish it?”

“Surest thing you know. They’ve wired me to know who you are and what and why.”

“Of course, they set me up to know who you are and what you're all about.”

“Why what?”

"Why what?"

“Oh, I dunno. Why a fellow who can do that sort of thing hasn’t done it before or doesn’t do it some more, I suppose. If you should ever want a job in the newspaper game, that story would be pretty much enough to get it for you.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m wondering why a guy who can pull off something like that hasn’t done it before or doesn’t do it more often. If you ever want a job in journalism, that story would probably be more than enough to land it for you.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting a little local correspondence to do,” announced Banneker modestly.

“I wouldn’t mind doing some local correspondence,” Banneker said modestly.

“So you intimated before. Well, I can give you some practice right now. I’m on a blind trail that goes up in the air somewhere around here. Do you remember, we compared lists on the wreck?”

“So you hinted at that earlier. Well, I can give you some practice right now. I’m on a blind trail that goes up in the air somewhere around here. Do you remember, we compared lists on the wreck?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Have you got any addition to your list since?”

“Have you added anything to your list since then?”

“No,” replied Banneker. “Have you?” he added.

“No,” Banneker replied. “Have you?” he added.

“Not by name. But the tip is that there was a prominent New York society girl, one of the Four Hundred lot, on the train, and that she’s vanished.”

“Not by name. But the hint is that there was a well-known New York society girl, one of the Four Hundred crowd, on the train, and that she’s gone missing.”

“All the bodies were accounted for,” said the agent.

“They don’t think she’s dead. They think she’s run away.”

“They don’t believe she’s dead. They think she’s just run away.”

“Run away?” repeated Banneker with an impassive face.

“Run away?” Banneker repeated, his expression unchanged.

“Whether the man was with her on the train or whether she was to join him on the coast isn’t known. That’s the worst of these society tips,” pursued the reporter discontentedly. “They’re always vague, and usually wrong. This one isn’t even certain about who the girl is. But they think it’s Stella Wrightington,” he concluded in the manner of one who has imparted portentous tidings.

“Whether the guy was with her on the train or if she was supposed to meet him at the coast isn't known. That’s the worst part about these society tips,” the reporter continued unhappily. “They’re always unclear and often wrong. This one isn’t even sure who the girl is. But they think it’s Stella Wrightington,” he finished, sounding like he had shared some important news.

“Who’s she?” said Banneker.

“Who is she?” said Banneker.

“Good Lord! Don’t you ever read the news?” cried the disgusted journalist. “Why, she’s had her picture published more times than a movie queen. She’s the youngest daughter of Cyrus Wrightington, the multi-millionaire philanthropist. Now did you see anything of that kind on the train?”

“Good Lord! Don’t you ever read the news?” exclaimed the disgusted journalist. “Honestly, she’s had her picture published more times than a movie queen. She’s the youngest daughter of Cyrus Wrightington, the billionaire philanthropist. So, did you see anything like that on the train?”

“What does she look like?” asked the cautious Banneker.

“What does she look like?” asked the careful Banneker.

“She looks like a million dollars!” declared the other with enthusiasm. “She’s a killer! She’s tall and blonde and a great athlete: baby-blue eyes and general rosebud effect.”

“She looks amazing!” declared the other with enthusiasm. “She’s incredible! She’s tall and blonde and a great athlete: baby-blue eyes and a perfect look.”

“Nothing of that sort on the train, so far as I saw,” said the agent.

“Nothing like that on the train, as far as I can tell,” said the agent.

“Did you see any couple that looked lovey-dovey?”

“Did you see any couple that seemed really into each other?”

“No.”

“Then, there’s another tip that connects her up with Carter Holmesley. Know about him?”

“Then, there’s another tip that links her to Carter Holmesley. Do you know him?”

“I’ve seen his name.”

"I've heard his name."

“He’s been on a hell of a high-class drunk, all up and down the coast, for the last week or so. Spilled some funny talk at a dinner, that got into print. But he put up such a heavy bluff of libel, afterward, that the papers shied off. Just the same, I believe they had it right, and that there was to have been a wedding-party on. Find the girl: that’s the stunt now.”

“He’s been on a serious high-class bender, all up and down the coast, for the past week or so. He said some strange things at a dinner that got printed. But he made such a strong threat of libel afterward that the papers backed off. Still, I think they were onto something, and there was supposed to be a wedding party. The goal now is to find the girl.”

“I don’t think you’re likely to find her around here.”

“I don’t think you’re going to find her around here.”

“Maybe not. But there’s something. Holmesley has beaten it for the Far East. Sailed yesterday. But the story is still in this country, if the lady can be rounded up.... Well, I’m going to the village to make inquiries. Want to put me up again for the night if there’s no train back?”

“Maybe not. But there’s something. Holmesley has headed out for the Far East. Left yesterday. But the story is still here in this country, if we can track down the lady.... Well, I’m going to the village to ask some questions. Can I stay with you again tonight if there’s no train back?”

“Sure thing! There isn’t likely to be, either.”

“Of course! It's probably not going to happen, either.”

Banneker felt greatly relieved at the easy turn given to the inquiry by the distorted tip. True, Gardner might, on his return, enter upon some more embarrassing line of inquiry; in which case the agent decided to take refuge in silence. But the reporter, when he came back late in the evening disheartened and disgusted with the fallibility of long-distance tips, declared himself sick of the whole business.

Banneker felt a huge sense of relief at how easily the inquiry was sidestepped by the misleading tip. Sure, Gardner could come back and ask some more uncomfortable questions, in which case the agent planned to just stay quiet. But when the reporter returned late that evening, frustrated and disappointed by the unreliability of long-distance tips, he stated that he was fed up with the entire situation.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he said, having lighted his pipe. “What else have you written besides the wreck stuff?”

“Let’s discuss something different,” he said, lighting his pipe. “What else have you written besides the wreck material?”

“Nothing,” said Banneker.

“Nothing,” Banneker said.

“Come off! That thing was never a first attempt.”

“Come on! That thing was never a first try.”

“Well, nothing except random things for my own amusement.”

“Well, nothing except random stuff for my own entertainment.”

“Pass ’em over.”

“Pass them over.”

Banneker shook his head. “No; I’ve never shown them to anybody.”

Banneker shook his head. “No; I’ve never shown them to anyone.”

“Oh, all right. If you’re shy about it,” responded the reporter good-humoredly. “But you must have thought of writing as a profession.”

“Oh, fine. If you’re nervous about it,” replied the reporter with a smile. “But you must have considered writing as a career.”

“Vaguely, some day.”

"Soon, maybe."

“You don’t talk much like a country station-agent. And you don’t act like one. And, judging from this room”—he looked about at the well-filled book-shelves—“you don’t look like one. Quite a library. Harvey Wheelwright! Lord! I might have known. Great stuff, isn’t it?”

“You don’t really sound like a country station agent. And you don’t behave like one either. And, judging by this room”—he glanced around at the packed bookshelves—“you don’t look like one. Quite an impressive library. Harvey Wheelwright! Wow! I should have guessed. Amazing stuff, isn’t it?”

“Do you think so?”

"Do you really think that?"

“Do I think so! I think it’s the damndest spew that ever got into print. But it sells; millions. It’s the piety touch does it. The worst of it is that Wheelwright is a thoroughly decent chap and not onto himself a bit. Thinks he’s a grand little booster for righteousness, sweetness and light, and all that. I had to interview him once. Oh, if I could just have written about him and his stuff as it really is!”

“Do I think so! I think it’s the biggest load of nonsense that ever got published. But it sells; millions of copies. It’s the appeal to piety that makes it work. The worst part is that Wheelwright is a genuinely good guy and not self-serving at all. He believes he’s a great advocate for righteousness, kindness, and all that. I had to interview him once. Oh, if only I could have written about him and his work as it really is!”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Why didn't you do that?”

“Why, he’s a popular literary hero out our way, and the biggest advertised author in the game. I’d look fine to the business office, knocking their fat graft, wouldn’t I!”

“Why, he’s a popular literary hero around here, and the most advertised author in the business. I’d look great to the business office, calling out their fat profits, wouldn’t I!”

“I don’t believe I understand.”

“I don’t think I get it.”

“No; you wouldn’t. Never mind. You will if you ever get into the game. Hello! This is something different again. ‘The Undying Voices.’ Do you go in for poetry?”

“No; you wouldn’t. Forget it. You will if you ever get into the game. Hey! This is something new. ‘The Undying Voices.’ Are you into poetry?”

“I like to read it once in a while.”

“I like to read it from time to time.”

“Good man!” Gardner took down the book, which opened in his hand. He glanced into it, then turned an inquiring and faintly quizzical look upon Banneker. “So Rossetti is one of the voices that sings to you. He sang to me when I was younger and more romantic. Heavens! he can sing, can’t he! And you’ve picked one of his finest for your floral decoration.” He intoned slowly and effectively:

“Good man!” Gardner picked up the book, which opened in his hand. He glanced at it, then looked at Banneker with a curious and slightly amused expression. “So Rossetti is one of the voices that speaks to you. He spoke to me when I was younger and more romantic. Wow! he can sing, can’t he! And you’ve chosen one of his best for your floral arrangement.” He recited slowly and effectively:

“Ah, who shall dare to search in what sad maze Thenceforth their incommunicable ways Follow the desultory feet of Death?”

“Ah, who will have the courage to explore the sad maze where their unshareable paths lead the wandering steps of Death?”

Banneker took the book from him. Upon the sonnet a crushed bloom of the sage had left its spiced and fragrant stain. How came it there? Through but one possible agency of which Banneker could think. Io Welland!

Banneker took the book from him. On the sonnet, a crushed bloom of sage had left its spiced and fragrant stain. How did it get there? Through only one possible way that Banneker could think of. Io Welland!

After the reporter had left him, Banneker bore the volume to his room and read the sonnet again and again, devout and absorbed, a seeker for the oracle.

After the reporter left him, Banneker took the book to his room and read the sonnet over and over, dedicated and focused, like someone searching for answers.

CHAPTER X

“Wouldn’t you like to know when I’m going home?”

“Wouldn’t you want to know when I’m going home?”

Io Welland looked up from beneath her dark lashes at her hostess with a mixture of mischief and deprecation.

Io Welland looked up from under her dark lashes at her hostess with a blend of playfulness and humility.

“No,” said Miss Van Arsdale quietly.

“No,” Miss Van Arsdale said softly.

“Ah? Well, I would. Here it is two full weeks since I settled down on you. Why don’t you evict me?”

“Ah? Well, I would. It’s been two whole weeks since I settled in with you. Why don’t you kick me out?”

Miss Van Arsdale smiled. The girl continued:

“Why don’t I evict myself? I’m quite well and sane again—at least I think so—thanks to you. Very well, then, Io; why don’t you go home?”

“Why don’t I kick myself out? I’m feeling pretty good and sane again—at least I think so—thanks to you. Alright, then, Io; why don’t you head home?”

“Instinct of self-preservation,” suggested the other. “You’re better off here until your strength is quite restored, aren’t you?”

“Instinct for self-preservation,” said the other. “You’re better off here until you’re completely healed, right?”

The girl propped her chin in her hand and turned upon her companion a speculative regard. “Camilla Van Arsdale, you don’t really like me,” she asserted.

The girl rested her chin on her hand and looked at her friend with curiosity. “Camilla Van Arsdale, you don't actually like me,” she said confidently.

“Liking is such an undefined attitude,” replied the other, unembarrassed.

“Liking is such a vague feeling,” replied the other, unbothered.

“You find me diverting,” defined Io. “But you resent me, don’t you?”

“You think I’m entertaining,” Io said. “But you actually dislike me, don’t you?”

“That’s rather acute in you. I don’t like your standards nor those of your set.”

"That's quite sharp of you. I don't agree with your standards or those of your group."

“I’ve abandoned them.”

"I've left them behind."

“You’ll resume them as soon as you get back.”

"You'll pick them up again as soon as you return."

“Shall I ever get back?” The girl moved to the door. Her figure swayed forward yieldingly as if she would give herself into the keeping of the sun-drenched, pine-soaked air. “Enchantment!” she murmured.

“Will I ever get back?” The girl moved to the door. Her figure swayed forward, almost as if she was ready to surrender herself to the warm, pine-scented air. “It's magical!” she murmured.

“It is a healing place,” said the habitant of it, low, as if to herself.

“It’s a healing place,” said the resident quietly, almost to herself.

A sudden and beautiful pity softened and sobered Io’s face. “Miss Van Arsdale,” said she with quiet sincerity; “if there should ever come a time when I can do you a service in word or deed, I would come from the other side of the world to do it.”

A sudden and beautiful compassion softened and sobered Io’s face. “Miss Van Arsdale,” she said with genuine sincerity, “if there ever comes a time when I can help you in word or action, I would travel from the other side of the world to do it.”

“That is a kindly, but rather exaggerated gratitude.”

"That's a nice, but somewhat over-the-top thank you."

“It isn’t gratitude. It’s loyalty. Whatever you have done, I believe you were right. And, right or wrong, I—I am on your side. But I wonder why you have been so good to me. Was it a sort of class feeling?”

“It isn’t gratitude. It’s loyalty. No matter what you’ve done, I believe you were right. And, whether you’re right or wrong, I—I’m on your side. But I can't help but wonder why you’ve been so good to me. Was it some kind of class feeling?”

“Sex feeling would be nearer it,” replied the other. “There is something instinctive which makes women who are alone stand by each other.”

“Being in touch with your feelings would be closer to the point,” replied the other. “There’s something instinctive that makes women who are alone support each other.”

Io nodded. “I suppose so. Though I’ve never felt it, or the need of it before this. Well, I had to speak before I left, and I suppose I must go on soon.”

Io nodded. “I guess so. But I've never actually felt it or needed it until now. Anyway, I had to talk before I left, and I guess I should be going soon.”

“I shall miss you,” said the hostess, and added, smiling, “as one misses a stimulant. Stay through the rest of the month, anyway.”

“I’m going to miss you,” said the hostess, and added with a smile, “like you miss a pick-me-up. Stay for the rest of the month, at least.”

“I’d like to,” answered Io gratefully. “I’ve written Delavan that I’m coming back—and now I’m quite dreading it. Do you suppose there ever yet was a woman with understanding of herself?”

“I’d like to,” Io replied gratefully. “I told Delavan that I’m coming back—and now I’m really dreading it. Do you think there’s ever been a woman who truly understands herself?”

“Not unless she was a very dull and stupid woman with little to understand,” smiled Miss Van Arsdale. “What are you doing to-day?”

“Not unless she was a really dull and clueless woman who didn’t get much,” smiled Miss Van Arsdale. “What are you up to today?”

“Riding down to lunch with your paragon of a station-agent.”

“Riding down to lunch with your perfect station agent.”

Miss Van Arsdale shook her head dubiously. “I’m afraid he’ll miss his daily stimulant after you’ve gone. It has been daily, hasn’t it?”

Miss Van Arsdale shook her head skeptically. “I’m afraid he’ll miss his daily dose after you’ve left. It’s been daily, hasn’t it?”

“I suppose it has, just about,” admitted the girl. “The stimulus hasn’t been all on one side, I assure you. What a mind to be buried here in the desert! And what an annoying spirit of contentment! It’s that that puzzles me. Sometimes it enrages me.”

“I guess it has, pretty much,” the girl admitted. “The motivation hasn’t all come from one side, I promise you. What a mind to be stuck here in the desert! And what an infuriating attitude of acceptance! That’s what confuses me. Sometimes it makes me angry.”

“Are you going to spoil what you cannot replace?” The retort was swift, almost fierce.

“Are you really going to ruin something that you can’t get back?” The response came quickly, almost angrily.

“Surely, you won’t blame me if he looks beyond this horizon,” protested Io. “Life is sure to reach out in one form or another and seize on him. I told him so.”

“Surely, you won’t blame me if he looks beyond this horizon,” protested Io. “Life is bound to reach out in one way or another and grab him. I told him that.”

“Yes,” breathed the other. “You would.”

“Yes,” the other person replied. “You would.”

“What were you intending to do with him?”

“What did you plan to do with him?”

There was a hint of challenge in the slight emphasis given to the query.

There was a touch of challenge in the slight emphasis placed on the question.

“I? Nothing. He is under no obligation to me.”

“I? Nothing. He doesn’t owe me anything.”

“There you and he differ. He regards you as an infallible mentor.” A twinkle of malice crept into the slumbrous eyes. “Why do you let him wear made-up bow ties?” demanded Io.

“There you and he differ. He sees you as an infallible mentor.” A glimmer of mischief appeared in the sleepy eyes. “Why do you let him wear those fake bow ties?” asked Io.

“What does it matter?”

"Does it even matter?"

“Out here, nothing. But elsewhere—well, it does define a man, doesn’t it?”

“Out here, there's nothing. But elsewhere—well, it does shape a person, doesn’t it?”

“Undoubtedly. I’ve never gone into it with him.”

“Definitely. I’ve never discussed it with him.”

“I wonder if I could guess why.”

“I wonder if I could figure out why.”

“Very likely. You seem preternaturally acute in these matters.”

“Very likely. You seem unusually perceptive about these things.”

“Is it because the Sears-Roebuck mail-order double-bow knot in polka-dot pattern stands as a sign of pristine innocence?”

“Is it because the Sears-Roebuck mail-order polka-dot double-bow knot represents pure innocence?”

In spite of herself Miss Van Arsdale laughed. “Something of that sort.”

In spite of herself, Miss Van Arsdale laughed. “Something like that.”

Io’s soft lips straightened. “It’s rotten bad form. Why shouldn’t he be right? It’s so easy. Just a hint—”

Io’s soft lips pressed together. “It’s really bad manners. Why shouldn’t he be correct? It’s so simple. Just a hint—”

“From you?”

"From you?"

“From either of us. Yes; from me, if you like.”

“From either of us. Sure; from me, if that works for you.”

“It’s quite an intimate interest, isn’t it?”

“It’s a pretty personal interest, isn’t it?”

“‘But never can battle of men compare With merciless feminine fray’”— quoted Io pensively.

“‘But a battle between men can never compare to a ruthless fight among women’”— quoted Io thoughtfully.

“Kipling is a sophomore about women,” retorted Miss Van Arsdale. “We’re not going to quarrel over Errol Banneker. The odds are too unfair.”

“Kipling is a second-year student when it comes to women,” replied Miss Van Arsdale. “We’re not going to argue about Errol Banneker. The odds are just too unfair.”

“Unfair?” queried Io, with a delicate lift of brow.

“Unfair?” Io asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t misunderstand me. I know that whatever you do will be within the rules of the game. That’s the touchstone of honor of your kind.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I know that whatever you do will be within the rules of the game. That’s the standard of honor for your kind.”

“Isn’t it good enough? It ought to be, for it’s about the only one most of us have.” Io laughed. “We’re becoming very serious. May I take the pony?”

“Isn’t this good enough? It should be, because it’s pretty much the only one we’ve got.” Io laughed. “We’re getting way too serious. Can I take the pony?”

“Yes. Will you be back for supper?”

“Yes. Will you be back for dinner?”

“Of course. Shall I bring the paragon?”

“Sure. Should I bring the model?”

“If you wish.”

"Suit yourself."

Outside the gaunt box of the station, Io, from the saddle sent forth her resonant, young call:

Outside the thin, bleak structure of the station, Io, from the saddle, let out her strong, youthful call:

“Oh, Ban!”

“‘Tis the voice of the Butterfly; hear her declare, ‘I’ve come down to the earth; I am tired of the air’”

“It's the voice of the Butterfly; hear her say, ‘I've come down to the earth; I'm tired of the air’”

chanted Banneker’s voice in cheerful paraphrase. “Light and preen your wings, Butterfly.”

chanted Banneker’s voice in cheerful paraphrase. “Get shiny and fluff your wings, Butterfly.”

Their tone was that of comrades without a shade of anything deeper.

Their tone was that of friends without any hint of something deeper.

“Busy?” asked Io.

"Busy?" Io asked.

“Just now. Give me another five minutes.”

“Just a moment. Give me five more minutes.”

“I’ll go to the hammock.”

“I’m going to the hammock.”

One lone alamo tree, an earnest of spring water amongst the dry-sand growth of the cactus, flaunted its bright verdency a few rods back of the station, and in its shade Banneker had swung a hammock for Io. Hitching her pony and unfastening her hat, the girl stretched herself luxuriously in the folds. A slow wind, spice-laden with the faint, crisp fragrancies of the desert, swung her to a sweet rhythm. She closed her eyes happily ... and when she opened them, Banneker was standing over her, smiling.

One lone alamo tree, a sign of spring water among the dry sand and cactus, displayed its vibrant green a short distance behind the station, and in its shade, Banneker had hung a hammock for Io. After tying up her pony and taking off her hat, the girl relaxed luxuriously in the folds of the hammock. A gentle breeze, infused with the subtle, fresh scents of the desert, swayed her in a soothing rhythm. She closed her eyes happily... and when she opened them, Banneker was standing over her, smiling.

“Don’t speak to me,” she murmured; “I want to believe that this will last forever.”

“Don’t talk to me,” she murmured; “I want to believe that this will last forever.”

Silent and acquiescent, he seated himself in a camp-chair close by. She stretched a hand to him, closing her eyes again.

Silent and compliant, he sat down in a camp chair nearby. She reached out to him, closing her eyes again.

“Swing me,” she ordered.

“Swing me,” she commanded.

He aided the wind to give a wider sweep to the hammock. Io stirred restlessly.

He helped the wind make the hammock sway more. Io moved around uneasily.

“You’ve broken the spell,” she accused softly. “Weave me another one.”

“You’ve broken the spell,” she softly accused. “Cast me another one.”

“What shall it be?” He bent over the armful of books which he had brought out.

“What will it be?” He leaned over the pile of books he had brought out.

“You choose this time.”

"You're choosing this time."

“I wonder,” he mused, regarding her consideringly.

“I wonder,” he thought, looking at her thoughtfully.

“Ah, you may well wonder! I’m in a very special mood to-day.”

“Ah, you might be curious! I’m in a really special mood today.”

“When aren’t you, Butterfly?” he laughed.

“When are you not, Butterfly?” he laughed.

“Beware that you don’t spoil it. Choose well, or forever after hold your peace.”

“Be careful not to ruin it. Choose wisely, or you’ll have to stay silent about it forever.”

He lifted the well-worn and well-loved volume of poetry. It parted in his hand to the Rossetti sonnet. He began to read at the lines:

He picked up the well-worn and beloved book of poetry. It naturally opened in his hand to the Rossetti sonnet. He started reading at the lines:

“When Work and Will awake too late, to gaze After their life sailed by, and hold their breath.”

“When Work and Will wake up too late to look back at their life passing by and hold their breath.”

Io opened her eyes again.

Io reopened her eyes.

“Why did you select that thing?”

“Why did you choose that thing?”

“Why did you mark it?”

“Why did you highlight it?”

“Did I mark it?”

“Did I highlight it?”

“Certainly, I’m not responsible for the sage-blossom between the pages.”

“Of course, I’m not in charge of the sage-blossom between the pages.”

“Ah, the sage! That’s for wisdom,” she paraphrased lightly.

“Ah, the wise one! That’s about wisdom,” she said playfully.

“Do you think Rossetti so wise a preceptor?”

“Do you think Rossetti is such a wise teacher?”

“It isn’t often that he preaches. When he does, as in that sonnet—well, the inspiration may be a little heavy, but he does have something to say.”

“It’s not often that he gives a sermon. When he does, like in that sonnet—sure, the inspiration might be a bit intense, but he definitely has something to say.”

“Then it’s the more evident that you marked it for some special reason.”

“Then it’s more clear that you marked it for a specific reason.”

“What supernatural insight,” she mocked. “Can you read your name between the lines?”

“What is it that you want me to do?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You mean to ask what it is that Mr. Rossetti wants you to do. I didn’t write the sonnet, you know.”

"You’re asking what Mr. Rossetti wants you to do. I didn’t write the sonnet, just so you know."

“You didn’t fashion the arrow, but you aimed it.”

“You didn’t make the arrow, but you aimed it.”

“Am I a good marksman?”

“Am I a good shooter?”

“I suppose you mean that I’m wasting my time here.”

“I guess you think I’m wasting my time here.”

“Surely not!” she gibed. “Forming a link of transcontinental traffic. Helping to put a girdle ‘round the earth in eighty days—or is it forty now?—enlightening the traveling public about the three-twenty-four train; dispensing time-tables and other precious mediums of education—”

“Surely not!” she said sarcastically. “Creating a connection for cross-country travel. Helping to wrap the earth in eighty days—or is it forty now?—informing travelers about the three-twenty-four train; providing schedules and other valuable resources for learning—”

“I’m happy here,” he said doggedly.

“I’m happy here,” he said firmly.

“Are you going to be, always?”

His face darkened with doubt. “Why shouldn’t I be?” he argued. “I’ve got everything I need. Some day I thought I might write.”

His face shifted to a frown of uncertainty. “Why shouldn't I be?” he argued. “I've got everything I need. I thought I might write someday.”

“What about?” The question came sharp and quick.

“What’s up?” The question came fast and direct.

He looked vaguely around the horizon.

He looked around the horizon.

“Oh, no, Ban!” she said. “Not this. You’ve got to know something besides cactuses and owls to write, these days. You’ve got to know men. And women,” she added, in a curious tone, with a suspicion of effort, even of jealousy in it.

“Oh, no, Ban!” she said. “Not this. You have to know more than just cactuses and owls to write nowadays. You need to understand men. And women,” she added, sounding a bit curious, with a hint of effort and maybe even jealousy in her voice.

“I’ve never cared much for people,” he said.

“I’ve never really cared much for people,” he said.

“It’s an acquired taste, I suppose for some of us. There’s something else.” She came slowly to a sitting posture and fixed her questioning, baffling eyes on his. “Ban, don’t you want to make a success in life?”

“It’s something you get used to, I guess, for some people. There’s something more.” She gradually sat up and focused her curious, perplexing eyes on him. “Ban, don’t you want to succeed in life?”

For a moment he did not answer. When he spoke, it was with apparent irrelevance to what she had said. “Once I went to a revival. A reformed tough was running it. About every three minutes he’d thrust out his hands and grab at the air and say, ‘Oh, brothers; don’t you yearn for Jesus?’”

For a moment he didn’t respond. When he finally did, his answer seemed completely off-topic from what she had just said. “Once, I went to a revival. A former tough guy was leading it. Every few minutes, he’d stretch out his hands, grab at the air, and shout, ‘Oh, brothers, don’t you long for Jesus?’”

“What has that to do with it?” questioned Io, surprised and impatient.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Io asked, surprised and impatient.

“Only that, somehow, the way you said ‘success in life’ made me think of him and his ‘yearn for Jesus.’”

“Only that, somehow, the way you said ‘success in life’ made me think of him and his ‘desire for Jesus.’”

“Errol Banneker,” said Io, amused in spite of her annoyance, “you are possessed of a familiar devil who betrays other people’s inner thoughts to you. Success is a species of religion to me, I suppose.”

“Errol Banneker,” Io said, a little amused despite her annoyance, “you have this strange ability to reveal other people's innermost thoughts. I guess to me, success is kind of a religion.”

“And you are making converts, like all true enthusiasts. Tell, tell me. What kind of success?”

“And you're winning people over, like all real enthusiasts. Come on, tell me. What kind of success?”

“Oh, power. Money. Position. Being somebody.”

“Oh, power. Money. Status. Being someone.”

“I’m somebody here all right. I’m the station-agent of the Atkinson and St. Philip Railroad Company.”

“I’m definitely someone here. I’m the station agent for the Atkinson and St. Philip Railroad Company.”

“Now you’re trying to provoke me.”

“Now you're trying to get a reaction out of me.”

“No. But to get success you’ve got to want it, haven’t you?” he asked more earnestly. “To want it with all your strength.”

“No. But to achieve success, you really have to want it, don’t you?” he asked more seriously. “You need to want it with all your strength.”

“Of course. Every man ought to.”

"Absolutely. Every man should."

“I’m not so sure,” he objected. “There’s a kind of virtue in staying put, isn’t there?”

“I’m not so sure,” he said. “There’s some value in staying put, don’t you think?”

She made a little gesture of impatience.

She made a small gesture of irritation.

“I’ll give you a return for your sonnet,” he pursued, and repeated from memory:

“I’ll give you a response to your sonnet,” he continued, and recited from memory:

“What else is Wisdom? What of man’s endeavor Or God’s high grace, so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait; To hold a hand uplifted over Hate. And shall not Loveliness be loved forever?”

“What else is Wisdom? What about man's efforts or God's high grace, so beautiful and so great? To stand free from fear, to breathe and be patient; To have a hand raised against Hate. And will not Beauty be loved forever?”

“I don’t know it. It’s beautiful. What is it?”

“I don’t know what it is. It’s beautiful. What is it?”

“Gilbert Murray’s translation of ‘The Bacchae.’ My legal mentors had a lapse of dry-as-dustness and sent it to me.”

“Gilbert Murray’s translation of ‘The Bacchae.’ My legal mentors had a moment of dullness and sent it to me.”

“‘To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait,’” murmured the girl. “That is what I’ve been doing here. How good it is! But not for you,” she added, her tone changing from dreamy to practical. “Ban, I suspect there’s too much poetry in your cosmos.”

“‘To be free from fear, to breathe and wait,’” the girl murmured. “That’s what I’ve been doing here. It feels great! But not for you,” she added, her tone shifting from dreamy to practical. “Ban, I think there’s too much poetry in your world.”

“Very probably. Poetry isn’t success, is it?”

“Most likely. Poetry isn’t about success, is it?”

Her face grew eager. “It might be. The very highest. But you’ve got to make yourself known and felt among people.”

Her face lit up with excitement. “It could be. The absolute best. But you need to make yourself known and felt among others.”

“Do you think I could? And how does one get that kind of desire?” he asked lazily.

“Do you think I could? And how does someone get that kind of desire?” he asked lazily.

“How? I’ve known men to do it for love; and I’ve known them to do it for hate; and I’ve known them to do it for money. Yes; and there’s another cause.”

“How? I’ve known guys to do it for love; and I’ve known them to do it for hate; and I’ve known them to do it for money. Yes; and there’s another reason.”

“What is it?”

"What's going on?"

“Restlessness.”

“Anxiety.”

“That’s ambition with its nerves gone bad, isn’t it?”

"That's ambition gone wrong, huh?"

Again she smiled. “You’ll know what it is some day.”

Again, she smiled. “You’ll understand what it is someday.”

“Is it contagious?” he asked solicitously.

“Is it contagious?” he asked with genuine concern.

“Don’t be alarmed. I haven’t it. Not now. I’d love to stay on and on and just ‘breathe and wait,’ if the gods were good.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t have it. Not right now. I’d love to just hang around and ‘breathe and wait,’ if the universe was kind.”

"Dream that the gods are good,’” he echoed. “The last thing they ever think of being according to my reading.”

“Dream that the gods are good,” he repeated. “The last thing they ever seem to consider, based on what I’ve seen.”

She capped his line;

She ended his call;

“We twain, once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do—‘”

“We two, once far apart, what will the crazy gods do—“

she began; then broke off, jumping to her feet. “I’m talking sheer nonsense!” she cried. “Take me for a walk in the woods. The desert glares to-day.”

she started; then stopped, jumping to her feet. “I’m saying complete nonsense!” she exclaimed. “Take me for a walk in the woods. The sun is too harsh today.”

“I’ll have to be back by twelve,” he said. “Excuse me just a moment.”

“I need to be back by twelve,” he said. “Excuse me for just a moment.”

He disappeared into the portable house. When he rejoined her, she asked:

He went into the portable house. When he came back to her, she asked:

“What did you go in there for? To get your revolver?”

“What did you go in there for? To grab your gun?”

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

“I’ve carried one since the day you told me to. Not that I’ve met a soul that looked dangerous, nor that I’d know how to shoot or when, if I did.”

“I’ve had one since the day you told me to. Not that I’ve met anyone who seemed dangerous, nor would I know how to shoot or when, even if I did.”

“The sight of it would be taken as evidence that you knew how to use it,” he assured her.

“The sight of it would prove that you knew how to use it,” he assured her.

For a time, as they walked, she had many questions to put about the tree and bird life surrounding them. In the midst of it he asked her:

For a while, as they walked, she had a lot of questions about the trees and birds around them. In the middle of that, he asked her:

“Do you ever get restless?”

“Do you ever feel restless?”

“I haven’t, here. I’m getting rested.”

“I haven’t, here. I’m getting some rest.”

“And at home I suppose you’re too busy.”

“And at home, I guess you’re too busy.”

“Being busy is no preventive. Somebody has said that St. Vitus is the patron saint of New York society.”

“Being busy doesn’t prevent anything. Someone has said that St. Vitus is the patron saint of New York society.”

“It must take almost all the time those people have to keep up with the theaters and with the best in poetry and what’s being done and thought, and the new books and all that,” he surmised.

“It probably takes almost all their time to stay updated on the theaters, the best poetry, what's being done and thought, the new books, and everything else,” he guessed.

“I beg your pardon; what was that about poetry and books?”

“I'm sorry, what was that about poetry and books?”

“Girls like you—society girls, I mean—read everything there is, don’t they?”

“Girls like you—socialite girls, I mean—read everything there is, right?”

“Where do you get that extraordinary idea?”

“Where did you come up with that amazing idea?”

“Why, from knowing you.”

“Because I know you.”

“My poor, innocent Ban! If you were to try and talk books and poetry, Shakespeare and the musical glasses,’ to the average society girl, as you call her, what do you suppose would happen?”

“My poor, innocent Ban! If you tried to talk about books and poetry, ‘Shakespeare and the musical glasses,’ to the average society girl, as you call her, what do you think would happen?”

“Why, I suppose I’d give myself away as an ignoramus.”

“Why, I guess I’d just expose myself as a clueless person.”

“Heaven save you for a woolly lambkin! The girl would flee, shrieking, and issue a warning against you as a high-brow, a prig, and a hopeless bore. They don’t read books, except a few chocolate-cream novels. They haven’t the time.”

“Heaven help you for a fluffy little lamb! The girl would run away, screaming, and warn everyone about you as a snob, a pretentious person, and a total bore. They don’t read books, except for a few cheesy romance novels. They don’t have the time.”

“But you—”

“Oh, I’m a freak! I get away with it because I’m passably good-looking and know how to dress, and do what I please by the divine right of—well, of just doing it. But, even so, a lot of the men are rather afraid of me in their hearts. They suspect the bluestocking. Let ’em suspect! The market is plenty good enough,” declared Io flippantly.

“Oh, I’m a weirdo! I get away with it because I’m pretty good-looking and know how to dress, and I do what I want because—well, just because I can. But still, a lot of the guys are a bit scared of me deep down. They worry about the intellectual type. Let them worry! There are plenty of options out there,” declared Io casually.

“Then you just took up books as a sort of freak; a side issue?” The disappointment in his face was almost ludicrous.

“Then you just picked up books as a kind of weird hobby; a side thing?” The disappointment on his face was almost funny.

“No.” A quiet gravity altered her expression. “I’ll tell you about me, if you want to hear. My mother was the daughter of a famous classical scholar, who was opposed to her marriage because Father has always been a man of affairs. From the first, Mother brought me up to love books and music and pictures. She died when I was twelve, and poor Father, who worshiped her, wanted to carry out her plans for me, though he had no special sympathy with them. To make things worse for him, nobody but Mother ever had any control over me; I was spoiled and self-willed and precocious, and I thought the world owed me a good time. Dad’s business judgment of human nature saved the situation, he thoroughly understood one thing about me, that I’d keep a bargain if I made it. So we fixed up our little contract; I was to go through college and do my best, and after I graduated, I was to have a free hand and an income of my own, a nice one. I did the college trick. I did it well. I was third in my class, and there wasn’t a thing in literature or languages that they could stop me from getting. At eighteen they turned me loose on the world, and here I am, tired of it, but still loving it. That’s all of me. Aren’t I a good little autobiographer. Every lady her own Boswell! What are you listening to?”

“No.” A serious look changed her expression. “I’ll tell you about myself if you want to hear. My mom was the daughter of a famous classical scholar, who opposed her marrying my dad because he’s always been a businessman. From the start, Mom raised me to love books, music, and art. She passed away when I was twelve, and my poor dad, who adored her, wanted to follow her plans for me, even though he didn’t really connect with them. To make it harder for him, no one but Mom ever had any control over me; I was spoiled, headstrong, and ahead of my age, convinced that the world owed me enjoyment. Dad’s insight into human nature saved the situation; he understood one thing about me: I’d keep a promise if I made one. So we set up our little agreement; I was to go through college and do my best, and after I graduated, I would have freedom and my own nice income. I did the college thing. I did it well. I ranked third in my class, and there wasn’t a subject in literature or languages that I couldn’t conquer. At eighteen, they set me free in the world, and here I am, tired of it, but still loving it. That’s all there is to me. Aren’t I a good little autobiographer? Every woman her own Boswell! What are you listening to?”

“There’s a horse coming along the old trail,” said Banneker.

“There's a horse coming down the old trail,” Banneker said.

“Who is it?” she asked. “Some one following us?”

“Who is it?” she asked. “Is someone following us?”

He shook his head. A moment later the figure of a mounted man loomed through the brush. He was young, strong-built, and not ill-looking. “Howdy, Ban,” he said.

He shook his head. A moment later, the silhouette of a rider appeared through the bushes. He was young, muscular, and not hard on the eyes. “Hey, Ban,” he said.

Banneker returned the greeting.

Banneker responded to the greeting.

“Whee-ew!” shrilled the other, wiping his brow. “This sure does fetch the licker outen a man’s hide. Hell of a wet night at the Sick Coyote last night. Why wasn’t you over?”

“Whew!” shouted the other, wiping his forehead. “This really brings the sweat out of a guy. It was a wild night at the Sick Coyote last night. Why weren’t you there?”

“Busy,” replied Banneker.

"Busy," replied Banneker.

Something in his tone made the other raise himself from his weary droop. He sighted Io.

Something in his tone made the other lift himself from his tired slump. He spotted Io.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “Didn’t see there was ladies present.”

“Hey there, ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t realize there were ladies here.”

“Good-morning,” said Io.

"Good morning," said Io.

“Visitin’ hereabouts?” inquired the man, eyeing her curiously.

“Visiting around here?” asked the man, looking at her with interest.

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Where, if I might be bold to ask?”

“Excuse me, but may I ask where?”

“If you’ve got any questions to ask, ask them of me, Fred,” directed Banneker.

“If you have any questions, feel free to ask me, Fred,” directed Banneker.

While there was nothing truculent in his manner, it left no doubt as to his readiness and determination.

While there was nothing aggressive in his manner, it made it clear that he was ready and determined.

Fred looked both sullen and crestfallen.

Fred looked both sad and disappointed.

“It ain’t nothin’,” he said. “Only, inquiries was bein’ made by a gent from a Angelica City noospaper last week.”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Only, inquiries were being made by a guy from an Angelica City newspaper last week.”

“Somebody else meant,” asserted Banneker. “You keep that in mind, will you? And it isn’t necessary that you should mention this lady at all. Savvy, Fred?”

“Someone else intended,” Banneker stated. “Remember that, okay? And you don't need to bring up this lady at all. Got it, Fred?”

The other grunted, touched his sombrero to Io and rode on.

The other guy grunted, tipped his hat to Io, and kept riding.

“Has a reporter been here inquiring after me?” asked Io.

“Has a reporter been here asking about me?” Io inquired.

“Not after you. It was some one else.”

“Not after you. It was someone else.”

“If the newspapers tracked me here, I’d have to leave at once.”

“If the newspapers found out I was here, I’d have to leave immediately.”

“They won’t. At least, it isn’t likely.”

“They won’t. At least, it’s not very likely.”

“You’d get me out some way, wouldn’t you, Ban?” she said trustfully.

“You’d find a way to get me out, right, Ban?” she said with trust.

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Ban; that Fred person seemed afraid of you.”

“Ban; that Fred guy looked scared of you.”

“He’s got nothing to be afraid of unless he talks too much.”

“He's got nothing to worry about unless he talks too much.”

“But you had him ‘bluffed.’ I’m sure you had. Ban, did you ever kill a man?”

“But you totally had him ‘bluffed.’ I’m sure you did. Ban, have you ever killed a man?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

“Or shoot one?”

“Or take a shot?”

“Not even that.”

"Not even that."

“Yet, I believe, from the way he looked at you, that you’ve got a reputation as a ‘bad man’?”

“Yet, I believe, based on the way he looked at you, that you have a reputation as a ‘bad man’?”

“So I have. But it’s no fault of mine.”

“So I have. But it’s not my fault.”

“How did you get it?”

"How did you get that?"

“You’ll laugh if I tell you. They say I’ve got a ‘killer’s’ eye.”

The girl examined his face with grave consideration. “You’ve got nice eyes,” was her verdict. “That deep brown is almost wasted on a man; some girl ought to have it. I used to hear a—a person, who made a deep impression on me at the time, insist that there was always a flaw in the character of a person with large, soft brown eyes.”

The girl looked at his face seriously. “You have nice eyes,” she said. “That deep brown is almost wasted on a guy; some girl should have it. I once heard someone, who left a big impression on me, say that there’s always a flaw in the character of a person with big, soft brown eyes.”

“Isn’t there a flaw in every character?”

“Human nature being imperfect, there must be. What is yours; suppressed murderousness?”

“Since human nature is flawed, there has to be. What about you; hidden violence?”

“Not at all. My reputation is unearned, though useful. Just before I came here, a young chap showed up from nowhere and loafed around Manzanita. He was a pretty kind of lad, and one night in the Sick Coyote some of the old-timers tried to put something over on him. When the smoke cleared away, there was one dead and six others shot up, and Little Brownie was out on the desert, riding for the next place, awfully sore over a hole in his new sombrero. He was a two-gun man from down near the border. Well, when I arrived in town, I couldn’t understand why every one looked so queerly at my eyes, until Mindle, the mail-driver, told me they were exactly like the hair-trigger boy’s. Cheap and easy way to get a reputation, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. My reputation isn’t really earned, though it’s handy. Just before I got here, a young guy showed up out of nowhere and hung around Manzanita. He was a decent-looking kid, and one night at the Sick Coyote, some of the old-timers tried to pull a fast one on him. When the dust settled, there was one guy dead and six others injured, and Little Brownie was out in the desert, riding off to the next place, really annoyed about a hole in his new sombrero. He was a two-gun guy from down near the border. Well, when I got to town, I couldn’t figure out why everyone was looking at my eyes so strangely until Mindle, the mail driver, told me they were just like the hair-trigger kid’s. It’s a cheap and easy way to get a reputation, isn’t it?”

“But you must have something back of it,” insisted the girl. “Are you a good shot?”

“But you must have something behind it,” the girl insisted. “Are you a good shot?”

“Nothing fancy; there are twenty better in town.”

“Nothing special; there are twenty better places in town.”

“Yet you pin some faith to your ‘gun,’” she pointed out.

“Yet you put some trust in your ‘gun,’” she pointed out.

He glanced over his shoulder to right and left. Io jumped forward with a startled cry. So swift and secret had been his motion that she hardly saw the weapon before—PLACK—PLACK—PLACK—the three shots had sounded. The smoke drifted around him in a little circle, for the first two shots had been over his shoulder and the third as he whirled. Walking back, he carefully examined the trunks of three trees.

He looked over his shoulder to the right and left. Io jumped forward with a startled scream. His movement had been so quick and stealthy that she barely noticed the weapon before—BANG—BANG—BANG—the three shots went off. Smoke swirled around him in a small circle, as the first two shots had gone over his shoulder and the third was fired as he turned. As he walked back, he took a close look at the trunks of three trees.

“I’d have only barked that fellow, if he’d been a man,” he observed, shaking his head at the second mark.

“I would have just barked at that guy if he had been a man,” he said, shaking his head at the second mark.

“You frightened me,” complained Io.

"You scared me," complained Io.

“I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to see a little gun-play. Out here it isn’t how straight you can shoot at a bull’s-eye, but how quick you can plant your bullets, and usually in a mark that isn’t obliging enough to be dead in line. So I practice occasionally, just in case.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to see some shooting. Out here, it’s not about how accurately you can hit a target, but how fast you can fire your shots, usually at a target that isn’t nice enough to be directly in front of you. So I practice from time to time, just in case.”

“Very interesting. But I’ve got luncheon to cook,” said Io.

“Very interesting. But I have lunch to make,” said Io.

They returned through the desert. As he opened the door of the shack for her, Banneker, reverting to her autobiographical sketch, remarked thoughtfully and without preliminary:

They came back through the desert. As he opened the door of the shack for her, Banneker, reflecting on her life story, said thoughtfully and without any introduction:

“I might have known there couldn’t be any one else like you.”

“I should have known there couldn’t be anyone else like you.”

CHAPTER XI

Although the vehicle of his professional activities had for some years been a small and stertorous automobile locally known as “Puffy Pete,” Mr. James Mindle always referred to his process of postal transfer from the station to the town as “teamin’ over the mail.” He was a frail, grinny man from the prairie country, much given to romantic imaginings and an inordinate admiration for Banneker.

Although the vehicle for his work had been a small, noisy car locally called "Puffy Pete" for a few years, Mr. James Mindle always called his process of transporting mail from the station to the town "hauling the mail." He was a thin, smiley man from the prairie, prone to romantic fantasies and had an excessive admiration for Banneker.

Having watched from the seat of his chariot the brief but ceremonial entry of Number Three, which, on regular schedule, roared through Manzanita at top speed, he descended, captured the mail-bag and, as the transcontinental pulled out, accosted the station-agent.

Having watched from the seat of his chariot the brief but ceremonial entry of Number Three, which, on regular schedule, roared through Manzanita at top speed, he got down, grabbed the mail-bag, and as the transcontinental train pulled out, approached the station agent.

“What’d she stop for, Ban?”

“Why did she stop, Ban?”

“Special orders.”

“Custom orders.”

“Didn’t say nothin’ about havin’ a ravin’ may-ni-ac aboard, did theh?”

“Didn’t say anything about having a crazy man on board, did they?”

“No.”

“Ban, was you ever in the State of Ohio?”

“Ban, have you ever been to the State of Ohio?”

“A long time ago.”

“Once upon a time.”

“Are Ohio folks liable to be loony?”

“Are people from Ohio likely to be crazy?”

“Not more than others, I reckon, Jimmy.”

“Probably not more than anyone else, I guess, Jimmy.”

“Pretty enthoosiastic about themselves, though, ain’t theh?”

“Pretty enthusiastic about themselves, though, aren’t they?”

“Why, I don’t know. It’s a nice country there, Jimmy.”

“Honestly, I don’t know. It’s a nice country over there, Jimmy.”

“There was one on Number Three sure thought so. Hadn’t scarcely come to a stop when off he jumps and waves his fins and gives three cheers for it.”

“There was one on Number Three who definitely thought so. It had barely come to a stop when he jumped off, waved his fins, and cheered for it three times.”

“For what?”

"Why?"

“Ohio. I’m tellin’ you. He ramps across the track yippin’ ‘Ohio! Ohio! Ohio!’ whoopity-yoop. He come right at me and I says, ‘Watch yehself, Buddy. You’ll git left.’”

“Ohio. I’m telling you. He zooms across the track yelling, ‘Ohio! Ohio! Ohio!’ all excited. He comes right at me and I say, ‘Watch yourself, Buddy. You’ll get left.’”

“What did he say to that?” asked Banneker indulgently.

“What did he say to that?” asked Banneker, amused.

“Never looked at me no more than a doodle-bug. Just yelled ‘Ohio!’ again. So I come back at him with ‘Missourah.’ He grabs me by the shoulder and points to your shack. ‘Who owns that little shed?’ says he, very excited. ‘My friend, Mr. Banneker,’ says I, polite as always to strangers. ‘But I own that shoulder you’re leanin’ on, and I’m about to take it away with me when I go,’ I says. He leaned off and says, ‘Where did that young lady come from that was standin’ in the doorway a minute ago?’ ‘Young lady,’ Ban. Do you get that? So I says, ‘You’re lucky, Bud. When I get ’em, it’s usually snakes and bugs and such-like rep-tyles. Besides,’ I says, ‘your train is about to forgit that you got off it,’ I says. With that he gives another screech that don’t even mean as much as Ohio and tails onto the back platform just in time.”

“Never looked at me any more than a doodlebug. Just yelled ‘Ohio!’ again. So, I came back at him with ‘Missourah.’ He grabbed me by the shoulder and pointed to your shack. ‘Who owns that little shed?’ he asked, very excited. ‘My friend, Mr. Banneker,’ I replied, being polite as always to strangers. ‘But I own that shoulder you’re leaning on, and I’m about to take it away with me when I leave,’ I said. He leaned back and said, ‘Where did that young lady come from who was standing in the doorway a minute ago?’ ‘Young lady,’ Ban. Can you believe that? So, I said, ‘You’re lucky, Bud. When I get them, it’s usually snakes and bugs and other creepy crawlies. Besides,’ I said, ‘your train is about to forget that you got off it,’ I said. With that, he gave another screech that didn’t even mean as much as Ohio and jumped onto the back platform just in time.”

Said Ban, after frowning consideration:

Said Ban, after a frown:

“You didn’t see any lady around the shack, did you, Jimmy?”

“You didn’t see any woman around the shack, did you, Jimmy?”

“Not on your life,” replied the little man indignantly. “I ain’t had anything like that since I took the mail-teamin’ contract.”

“Not a chance,” replied the little man, upset. “I haven’t had anything like that since I took the mail team contract.”

“How good time do you think Puffy Pete could make across-desert in case I should want it?” inquired the agent after a pause.

“How fast do you think Puffy Pete could go across the desert if I needed him to?” the agent asked after a moment.

The mail-man contemplated his “team,” bubbling and panting a vaporous breath over the platform. “Pete ain’t none too fond of sand,” he confessed. “But if you want to git anywhere, him and me’ll git you there. You know that, Ban.”

The mailman thought about his “team,” breathing heavily and letting out a puff of mist over the platform. “Pete isn’t too keen on sand,” he admitted. “But if you want to get anywhere, he and I will get you there. You know that, Ban.”

Banneker nodded comradely and the post chugged away.

Banneker nodded in agreement, and the train rolled off.

Inside the shack Io had set out the luncheon-things. To Banneker’s eyes she appeared quite unruffled, despite the encounter which he had surmised from Jimmy’s sketch.

Inside the shack, Io had laid out the lunch items. To Banneker, she seemed completely calm, even after the confrontation he had guessed from Jimmy’s description.

“Get me some flowers for the table, Ban,” she directed. “I want it to look festive.”

“Get me some flowers for the table, Ban,” she said. “I want it to look festive.”

“Why, in particular?”

"Why specifically?"

“Because I’m afraid we won’t have many more luncheons together.”

“Because I’m worried we won’t have many more lunches together.”

He made no comment, but went out and returned with the flowers. Meantime Io had made up her mind.

He didn't say anything but went out and came back with the flowers. In the meantime, Io had made her decision.

“I’ve had an unpleasant surprise, Ban.”

“I’ve had a really unpleasant surprise, Ban.”

“I was afraid so.”

"I figured as much."

She glanced up quickly. “Did you see him?”

She looked up quickly. “Did you see him?”

“No. Mindle, the mail transfer man, did.”

“No. Mindle, the mail transfer guy, did.”

“Oh! Well, that was Aleck Babson. ‘Babbling Babson,’ he’s called at the clubs. He’s the most inveterate gossip in New York.”

“Oh! Well, that was Aleck Babson. ‘Babbling Babson,’ as they call him at the clubs. He’s the biggest gossip in New York.”

“It’s a long way from New York,” pointed out Banneker.

“It’s a long way from New York,” Banneker pointed out.

“Yes; but he has a long tongue. Besides, he’ll see the Westerleys and my other friends in Paradiso, and babble to them.”

“Yes; but he talks a lot. Plus, he’ll see the Westerleys and my other friends in Paradiso, and spill everything.”

“Suppose he does?”

"What if he does?"

“I won’t have people chasing here after me or pestering me with letters,” she said passionately. “Yet I don’t want to go away. I want to get more rested, Ban, and forget a lot of things.”

“I won't have people chasing after me or bothering me with letters,” she said passionately. “But I don’t want to leave. I want to relax more, Ban, and forget a lot of things.”

He nodded. Comfort and comprehension were in his silence.

He nodded. His silence conveyed comfort and understanding.

“You can be as companionable as a dog,” said Io softly. “Where did you get your tact, I wonder? Well, I shan’t go till I must.... Lemonade, Ban! I brought over the lemons myself.”

“You can be as friendly as a dog,” said Io softly. “Where did you get your tact, I wonder? Well, I won’t leave until I have to.... Lemonade, Ban! I brought the lemons myself.”

They lunched a little soberly and thoughtfully.

They had lunch a bit seriously and thoughtfully.

“And I wanted it to be festive to-day,” said Io wistfully, speaking out her thoughts as usual. “Ban, does Miss Camilla smoke?”

“And I wanted it to be festive today,” said Io with a touch of longing, expressing her thoughts as she always did. “Ban, does Miss Camilla smoke?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I don’t know. Why not?”

“Because if she does, you’ll think it all right. And I want a cigarette now.”

“Because if she does, you’ll think it’s fine. And I want a cigarette now.”

“If you do, I’ll know it’s all right, Butterfly,” returned her companion fetching a box from a shelf.

“If you do, I’ll know it’s all good, Butterfly,” her companion replied, grabbing a box from a shelf.

“Hold the thought!” cried Io gayly. “There’s a creed for you! ‘Whatever is, is right,’ provided that it’s Io who does it. Always judge me by that standard, Ban, won’t you?... Where in the name of Sir Walter Raleigh’s ghost did you get these cigarettes? ‘Mellorosa’ ... Ban, is this a Sears-Roebuck stock?”

“Wait a second!” Io said cheerfully. “There’s a philosophy for you! ‘Whatever is, is right,’ as long as it’s Io who does it. Always judge me by that standard, Ban, okay? ... Where on earth did you get these cigarettes? ‘Mellorosa’ ... Ban, is this a Sears-Roebuck item?”

“No. It came from town. Don’t you like it?”

“It’s quite curious and interesting. Never mind, my dear; I won’t tease you.”

“It’s really curious and interesting. Don’t worry, my dear; I won’t poke fun at you.”

For all that Io’s “my dear” was the most casual utterance imaginable, it brought a quick flush to Banneker’s face. Chattering carelessly, she washed up the few dishes, put them away in the brackets, and then, smoking another of the despised Mellorosas, wandered to the book-shelves.

For all that Io’s “my dear” was the most casual thing she could say, it made Banneker’s face turn red. Talking without a care, she washed a few dishes, put them away on the shelves, and then, smoking another of the hated Mellorosas, wandered over to the bookshelves.

“Read me something out of your favorite book, Ban.... No; this one.”

“Read me something from your favorite book, Ban.... No; this one.”

She handed him the thick mail-order catalogue. With a gravity equal to her own he took it.

She handed him the thick mail-order catalog. With the same seriousness as her own, he took it.

“What will you have?”

"What do you want?"

“Let the spirit of Sears-Roebuck decide. Open at random and expound.”

“Let the spirit of Sears-Roebuck guide us. Open it up at random and explore.”

He thrust a finger between the leaves and began:

He pushed a finger between the leaves and started:

“Our Special, Fortified Black Fiber Trunk for Hard Travel. Made of Three-Ply Ven—”

“Our special, reinforced black fiber trunk for tough travel. Made of three-ply ven—”

“Oh, to have my trunks again!” sighed the girl. “Turn to something else. I don’t like that. It reminds me of travel.”

“Oh, to have my suitcases back!” sighed the girl. “Switch to something else. I don’t like that. It reminds me of traveling.”

Obedient, Banneker made another essay:

Obedient, Banneker wrote another essay:

“Clay County Clay Target Traps. Easily Adjusted to the Elevation—”

“Clay County Clay Target Traps. Easily Adjustable for Elevation—”

“Oh, dear!” she broke in again. “That reminds me that Dad wrote me to look up his pet shot-gun before his return. I don’t like that either. Try again.”

“Oh, dear!” she interrupted again. “That reminds me that Dad asked me to find his favorite shotgun before he gets back. I don’t like that either. Try again.”

This time the explorer plunged deep into the volume.

This time, the explorer dove deep into the book.

“How to Make Home Home-like. An Invaluable Counselor for the Woman of the Household—”

“How to Make Home Feel Like Home. An Essential Guide for the Woman of the Household—”

Io snatched the book from the reader’s hand and tossed it into a corner. “Sears-Roebuck are very tactless,” she declared. “Everything they have to offer reminds one of home. What do you think of home, Ban? Home, as an abstract proposition. Home as the what-d’you-call-’em of the nation; the palladium—no, the bulwark? Home as viewed by the homing pigeon? Home, Sweet Home, as sung by—Would you answer, Ban, if I stopped gibbering and gave you the chance?”

Io grabbed the book from the reader's hand and threw it into a corner. “Sears-Roebuck is so clueless,” she stated. “Everything they sell reminds us of home. What do you think about home, Ban? Home, as an abstract idea. Home as the what’s-it-called of the nation; the refuge—no, the stronghold? Home as seen by the homing pigeon? Home, Sweet Home, as sung by—Would you respond, Ban, if I stopped rambling and gave you a chance?”

“I’ve never had much opportunity to judge about home, you know.”

“I’ve never really had much chance to judge about home, you know.”

She darted out a quick little hand and touched his sleeve. The raillery had faded from her face. “So you haven’t. Not very tactful of me, was it! Will you throw me into the corner with Mr. Sears and Mr. Roebuck, Ban? I’m sorry.”

She quickly reached out and touched his sleeve. The playful expression had vanished from her face. “So you haven’t. That wasn’t very tactful of me, was it! Will you throw me into the corner with Mr. Sears and Mr. Roebuck, Ban? I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be. One gets used to being an air-plant without roots.”

"You don't have to be. You get used to being a plant in the air without roots."

“Yet you wouldn’t have fitted out this shack,” she pointed out shrewdly, “unless you had the instincts of home.”

“Yet you wouldn’t have fixed up this shack,” she pointed out wisely, “unless you had a sense of home.”

“That’s true enough. Fortunately it’s the kind of home I can take along when they transfer me.”

"That’s true. Luckily, it’s the kind of home I can take with me when they move me."

Io went to the door and looked afar on the radiant splendor of the desert, and, nearer, into the cool peace of the forest.

Io went to the door and gazed out at the bright beauty of the desert, and, closer in, at the calm tranquility of the forest.

“But you can’t take all this,” she reminded him.

“But you can’t take all of this,” she reminded him.

“No. I can’t take this.”

"No. I can't handle this."

“Shall you miss it?”

"Will you miss it?"

A shadow fell upon his face. “I’d miss something—I don’t know what it is—that no other place has ever given me. Why do you talk as if I were going away from it? I’m not.”

A shadow fell over his face. “I’d miss something—I’m not sure what—that no other place has ever provided me. Why are you acting like I’m leaving it? I’m not.”

“Oh, yes; you are,” she laughed softly. “It is so written. I’m a seeress.” She turned from the door and threw herself into a chair.

“Oh, yes; you are,” she chuckled lightly. “It’s all written down. I’m a seer.” She turned away from the door and plopped down into a chair.

“What will take me?”

"What will it take?"

“Something inside you. Something unawakened. ‘Something lost beyond the ranges.’ You’ll know, and you’ll obey it.”

“There's something within you. Something that hasn't been stirred. ‘Something lost beyond the horizons.’ You’ll recognize it, and you’ll follow it.”

“Shall I ever come back, O seeress?”

“Will I ever come back, O seeress?”

At the question her eyes grew dreamy and distant. Her voice when she spoke sank to a low-pitched monotone.

At the question, her eyes became dreamy and distant. When she spoke, her voice dropped to a low, monotone.

“Yes, you’ll come back. Sometime.... So shall I ... not for years ... but—” She jumped to her feet. “What kind of rubbish am I talking?” she cried with forced merriment. “Is your tobacco drugged with hasheesh, Ban?”

“Yes, you’ll be back. Eventually.... So will I ... not for years ... but—” She stood up abruptly. “What kind of nonsense am I saying?” she exclaimed with a forced laugh. “Is your tobacco laced with something, Ban?”

He shook his head. “It’s the pull of the desert,” he murmured. “It’s caught you sooner than most. You’re more responsive, I suppose; more sens—Why, Butterfly! You’re shaking.”

He shook his head. “It’s the lure of the desert,” he murmured. “It’s affected you quicker than it does for others. You’re more sensitive, I guess; more sens—Why, Butterfly! You’re trembling.”

“A Scotchman would say that I was ‘fey.’ Ban, do you think it means that I’m coming back here to die?” She laughed again. “If I were fated to die here, I expect that I missed my good chance in the smash-up. Fortunately I’m not superstitious.”

“A Scotsman would say that I was ‘fey.’ Come on, do you think it means that I’m coming back here to die?” She laughed again. “If I were meant to die here, I guess I missed my good chance in the crash. Luckily, I’m not superstitious.”

“There might be worse places,” said he slowly. “It is the place that would call me back if ever I got down and out.” He pointed through the window to the distant, glowing purity of the mountain peak. “One could tell one’s troubles to that tranquil old god.”

“There could be worse places,” he said slowly. “It’s the place that would welcome me back if I ever hit rock bottom.” He pointed out the window at the distant, glowing purity of the mountain peak. “You could share your troubles with that calm old god.”

“Would he listen to mine, I wonder?”

“Would he listen to me, I wonder?”

“Try him before you go. You can leave them all here and I’ll watch over them for you to see that they don’t get loose and bother you.”

“Try him before you leave. You can leave them all here and I’ll keep an eye on them for you to make sure they don’t get loose and hassle you.”

“Absolution! If it were only as easy as that! This is a haunted place.... Why should I be here at all? Why didn’t I go when I should? Why a thousand things?”

“Absolution! If only it were that simple! This is a haunted place.... Why am I here at all? Why didn’t I leave when I should have? Why a thousand things?”

“Chance.”

"Opportunity."

“Is there any such thing? Why can’t I sleep at night yet, as I ought? Why do I still feel hunted? What’s happening to me, Ban? What’s getting ready to happen?”

“Is there really such a thing? Why can’t I sleep at night like I’m supposed to? Why do I still feel like I’m being hunted? What’s going on with me, Ban? What’s about to happen?”

“Nothing. That’s nerves.”

"Nothing. Just nerves."

“Yes; I’ll try not to think of it. But at night—Ban, suppose I should come over in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep, and call outside your window?”

“Yes; I’ll try not to think about it. But at night—Ban, what if I came over in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep and called outside your window?”

“I’d come down, of course. But you’d have to be careful about rattlers,” answered the practical Ban.

“I’d definitely come down, but you need to watch out for rattlesnakes,” replied the practical Ban.

“Your friend, Camilla, would intercept me, anyway. I don’t think she sleeps too well, herself. Do you know what she’s doing out here?”

“Your friend, Camilla, would catch me anyway. I don’t think she sleeps very well either. Do you know what she’s doing out here?”

“She came for her health.”

"She came for her wellness."

“That isn’t what I asked you, my dear. Do you know what she’s doing?”

“That’s not what I asked you, my dear. Do you know what she’s up to?”

“No. She never told me.”

“No. She never mentioned it.”

“Shall I tell you?”

"Should I tell you?"

“No.”

“It’s interesting. Aren’t you curious?”

“If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me.”

“If she wanted me to know, she would tell me.”

“Indubitably correct, and quite praiseworthy,” mocked the girl. “Never mind; you know how to be staunch to your friends.”

“Definitely right, and really admirable,” the girl scoffed. “But hey, you know how to stand by your friends.”

“In this country a man who doesn’t is reckoned a yellow dog.”

“In this country, a man who doesn’t is seen as a coward.”

“He is in any decent country. So take that with you when you go.”

“He’s in a good country. So keep that in mind when you leave.”

“I’m not going,” he asserted with an obstinate set to his jaw.

“I’m not going,” he insisted, his jaw set stubbornly.

“Wait and see,” she taunted. “So you won’t let me send you books?” she questioned after a pause.

“Just wait and see,” she teased. “So you’re not going to let me send you books?” she asked after a moment.

“No.”

“Nope.”

“No, I thank you,” she prompted.

“No, thanks,” she said.

“No, I thank you,” he amended. “I’m an uncouth sort of person, but I meant the ‘thank you.’”

“No, I appreciate it,” he corrected. “I’m a rough kind of person, but I meant the ‘thank you.’”

“Of course you did. And uncouthness is the last thing in the world you could be accused of. That’s the wonder of it.... No; I don’t suppose it really is. It’s birth.”

“Of course you did. And rudeness is the last thing anyone could accuse you of. That’s the amazing part of it.... No; I don’t really think that’s it. It’s all about your background.”

“If it’s anything, it’s training. My father was a stickler for forms, in spite of being a sort of hobo.”

“If anything, it’s training. My dad was really strict about the rules, even though he was kind of a drifter.”

“Well, forms make the game, very largely. You won’t find them essentially different when you go out into the—I forgot again. That kind of prophecy annoys you, doesn’t it? There is one book I’m going to send you, though, which you can’t refuse. Nobody can refuse it. It isn’t done.”

“Well, forms shape the game a lot. You won’t find them essentially different when you go out into the—I forgot again. That kind of prediction irritates you, doesn’t it? There’s one book I’m going to send you, though, which you can’t refuse. No one can refuse it. It isn’t done.”

“What is that?”

"What is that?"

Her answer surprised him. “The Bible.”

“Are you religious? Of course, a butterfly should be, shouldn’t she? should believe in the release of the soul from its chrysalis—the butterfly’s immortality. Yet I wouldn’t have suspected you of a leaning in that direction.”

“Are you religious? Of course, a butterfly should be, right? She should believe in the soul being set free from its chrysalis—the butterfly’s immortality. Still, I wouldn’t have thought you leaned that way.”

“Oh, religion!” Her tone set aside the subject as insusceptible of sufficient or satisfactory answer. “I go through the forms,” she added, a little disdainfully. “As to what I believe and do—which is what one’s own religion is—why, I assume that if the game is worth playing at all, there must be a Judge and Maker of the Rules. As far as I understand them, I follow them.”

“Oh, religion!” Her tone dismissed the topic as incapable of a clear or satisfying answer. “I go through the motions,” she added, a bit disdainfully. “As for what I believe and do—which is what your own religion really is—well, I figure that if the game is worth playing, there has to be a Judge and Maker of the Rules. As far as I get them, I try to follow them.”

“You have a sort of religious feeling for success, though, haven’t you?” he reminded her slyly.

“You have a kind of spiritual connection to success, don’t you?” he pointed out playfully.

“Not at all. Just human, common sense.”

“Not at all. Just basic human common sense.”

“But your creed as you’ve just given it, the rules of the game and that; that’s precisely the Bible formula, I believe.”

“But your belief, as you just stated, the rules of the game and all that, that’s exactly the formula from the Bible, I think.”

“How do you know?” she caught him up. “You haven’t a Bible in the place, so far as I’ve noticed.”

“How do you know?” she interrupted him. “You don’t have a Bible anywhere around here, as far as I can see.”

“No; I haven’t.”

“Nope; I haven’t.”

“You should have.”

"You should have."

“Probably. But I can’t, somehow, adjust myself to that advice as coming from you.”

“Probably. But I just can’t seem to accept that advice coming from you.”

“Because you don’t understand what I’m getting at. It isn’t religious advice.”

“Because you don’t get what I’m saying. It’s not religious advice.”

“Then what is it?”

"Then what's it?"

“Literary, purely. You’re going to write, some day. Oh, don’t look doubtful! That’s foreordained. It doesn’t take a seeress to prophesy that. And the Bible is the one book that a writer ought to read every day. Isaiah, Psalms, Proverbs. Pretty much all the Old Testament, and a lot of the New. It has grown into our intellectual life until its phrases and catchwords are full of overtones and sub-meanings. You’ve got to have it in your business; your coming business, I mean. I know what I’m talking about, Mr. Errol Banneker—moi qui parle. They offered me an instructorship in Literature when I graduated. I even threatened to take it, just for a joke on Dad. Now, will you be good and accept my fully explained and diagrammed Bible without fearing that I have designs on your soul?”

“Literary, absolutely. You’re going to write someday. Oh, don’t look unsure! That’s inevitable. You don’t need a fortune teller to see that. And the Bible is the one book that every writer should read daily. Isaiah, Psalms, Proverbs. Basically all of the Old Testament, and a lot of the New. It has woven itself into our intellectual lives until its phrases and keywords are packed with layers of meaning. You’ve got to have it for your work; your future work, I mean. I know what I’m talking about, Mr. Errol Banneker—moi qui parle. They offered me a teaching position in Literature when I graduated. I even jokingly threatened to accept it, just to mess with Dad. Now, will you be nice and accept my well-explained and illustrated Bible without worrying that I have ulterior motives for your soul?”

“Yes.”

“Yup.”

“And will you please go back to your work at once, and by and by take me home and stay to supper? Miss Van Arsdale told me to ask you.”

“And could you please get back to your work right away and then later take me home and stay for dinner? Miss Van Arsdale asked me to ask you.”

“All right. I’ll be glad to. What will you do between now and four o’clock?”

“All right. I’ll be happy to. What are you going to do between now and four o’clock?”

“Prowl in your library and unearth more of your secrets.”

“Search through your library and discover more of your secrets.”

“You’re welcome if you can find any. I don’t deal in ’em.”

“You’re welcome to look if you can find any. I don’t handle them.”

When Banneker, released from his duties until evening train time, rejoined her, and they were riding along the forest trail, he said:

When Banneker, free from his responsibilities until the evening train, met up with her again, and they were riding down the forest path, he said:

“You’ve started me to theorizing about myself.”

"You've got me thinking about myself."

“Do it aloud,” she invited.

"Say it out loud," she invited.

“Well; all my boyhood I led a wandering life, as you know. We were never anywhere as much as a month at a time. In a way, I liked the change and adventure. In another way, I got dead sick of it. Don’t you suppose that my readiness to settle down and vegetate is the reaction from that?”

“Well, all through my childhood, I lived a wandering life, as you know. We never stayed in one place for more than a month at a time. On one hand, I enjoyed the change and adventure. On the other hand, I got really tired of it. Don’t you think my desire to settle down and just chill out is because of that?”

“It sounds reasonable enough. You might put it more simply by saying that you were tired. But by now you ought to be rested.”

“It sounds pretty reasonable. You could just say that you were tired. But by now, you should be rested.”

“Therefore I ought to be stirring myself so as to get tired again?”

“So I should be getting up and moving around just to feel tired again?”

“If you don’t stir, you’ll rust.”

“If you don’t move, you’ll get stuck.”

“Rust is a painless death for useless mechanism.”

“Rust is an easy way for a useless machine to die.”

She shot an impatient side-glance at him. “Either you’re a hundred years old,” she said, “or that’s sheer pose.”

She gave him an annoyed side-eye. “Either you’re a hundred years old,” she said, “or that’s just pure pretentiousness.”

“Perhaps it is a sort of pose. If so, it’s a self-protective one.”

“Maybe it’s just a kind of act. If that’s the case, it’s one meant to protect oneself.”

“Suppose I asked you to come to New York?”

“Let’s say I asked you to come to New York?”

Intrepid though she was, her soul quaked a little at her own words, foreseeing those mail-order-cut clothes and the resolute butterflyness of the tie greeting her on Fifth Avenue.

Intrepid as she was, her soul trembled slightly at her own words, anticipating those mail-order clothes and the determined butterfly pattern of the tie awaiting her on Fifth Avenue.

“What to do?”

“What should I do?”

“Sell tickets at the Grand Central Station, of course!” she shot back at him. “Ban, you are aggravating! ‘What to do?’ Father would find you some sort of place while you were fitting in.”

“Sell tickets at Grand Central Station, obviously!” she fired back at him. “Ban, you are so annoying! ‘What to do?’ Dad would find you a place while you were getting settled.”

No. I wouldn’t take a job from you any more than I’d take anything else.”

'No. I wouldn't accept a job from you any more than I'd accept anything else.'

“You carry principles to the length of absurdity. Come and get your own job, then. You’re not timid, are you?”

“You take your principles to the extreme. Go get your own job, then. You're not shy, are you?”

“Not particularly. I’m just contented.”

“Not really. I’m just happy.”

At that provocation her femininity flared. “Ban,” she cried with exasperation and appeal enchantingly mingled, “aren’t you going to miss me at all when I go?”

At that challenge, her feminine side came alive. “Ban,” she exclaimed, a mix of frustration and charm in her voice, “aren’t you going to miss me at all when I leave?”

“I’ve been trying not to think of that,” he said slowly.

“I’ve been trying not to think about that,” he said slowly.

“Well, think of it,” she breathed. “No!” she contradicted herself passionately. “Don’t think of it. I shouldn’t have said that.... I don’t know what is the matter with me to-day, Ban. Perhaps I am fey.” She smiled to him slantwise.

“Well, think about it,” she said. “No!” she quickly changed her mind. “Forget I said that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today, Ban. Maybe I *am* a little off.” She smiled at him sideways.

“It’s the air,” he answered judicially. “There’s another storm brewing somewhere or I’m no guesser. More trouble for the schedule.”

“It’s the air,” he replied thoughtfully. “There’s another storm coming in from somewhere, or I’m not a good guesser. More problems for the schedule.”

“That’s right!” she cried eagerly. “Be the Atkinson and St. Philip station-agent again. Let’s talk about trains. It’s—it’s so reliable.”

“That’s right!” she said excitedly. “Be the Atkinson and St. Philip station-agent again. Let’s talk about trains. They’re so dependable.”

“Far from it on this line,” he answered, adopting her light tone. “Particularly if we have more rain. You may become a permanent resident yet.”

“Not at all on this line,” he replied, matching her light tone. “Especially if we get more rain. You might just become a permanent resident after all.”

Some rods short of the Van Arsdale cabin the trail took a sharp turn amidst the brush. Halfway on the curve Io caught at Banneker’s near rein.

Some rods short of the Van Arsdale cabin, the trail took a sharp turn amidst the brush. Halfway around the curve, Io grabbed Banneker’s near rein.

“Hark!” she exclaimed.

"Listen!" she exclaimed.

The notes of a piano sounded faintly clear in the stillness. As the harmonies dissolved and merged, a voice rose above them, resonant and glorious, rose and sank and pleaded and laughed and loved, while the two young listeners leaned unconsciously toward each other in their saddles. Silence fell again. The very forest life itself seemed hushed in a listening trance.

The notes of a piano played softly in the quiet. As the melodies faded and blended, a voice emerged, rich and beautiful, soaring and sinking, pleading and laughing and expressing love, while the two young listeners leaned instinctively toward each other in their saddles. Silence returned. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath in an attentive trance.

“Heavens!” whispered Banneker. “Who is it?”

“Camilla Van Arsdale, of course. Didn’t you know?”

“Camilla Van Arsdale, obviously. Didn't you know?”

“I knew she was musical. I didn’t know she had a voice like that.”

“I knew she was musical. I didn’t realize she had a voice like that.”

“Ten years ago New York was wild over it.”

“Ten years ago, New York was crazy about it.”

“But why—”

“Hush! She’s beginning again.”

“Shh! She’s starting again.”

Once more the sweep of the chords was followed by the superb voice while the two wayfarers and all the world around them waited, breathless and enchained. At the end, Banneker said dreamily:

Once again, the flow of the chords was accompanied by the stunning voice as the two travelers and everyone around them waited, breathless and captivated. At the end, Banneker said dreamily:

“I’ve never heard anything like that before. It says everything that can’t be said in words alone, doesn’t it? It makes me think of something—What is it?” He groped for a moment, then repeated:

“I’ve never heard anything like that before. It expresses everything that can’t be put into words, doesn’t it? It makes me think of something—What is it?” He paused for a moment, then repeated:

“‘A passionate ballad, gallant and gay, Singing afar in the springtime of life, Singing of youth and of love And of honor that cannot die.’”

“‘A heartfelt ballad, brave and cheerful, Singing from a distance in the springtime of life, Singing about youth and love And about honor that never fades.’”

Io drew a deep, tremulous breath. “Yes; it’s like that. What a voice! And what an art to be buried out here! It’s one of her own songs, I think. Probably an unpublished one.”

Io took a deep, shaky breath. “Yeah; it’s just like that. What a voice! And what an art to be laid to rest out here! I think it’s one of her own songs. Probably one that hasn’t been published.”

“Her own? Does she write music?”

“Her own? Does she compose music?”

“She is Royce Melvin, the composer. Does that mean anything to you?”

He shook his head.

He nodded in disagreement.

“Some day it will. They say that he—every one thinks it’s a he—will take Massenet’s place as a lyrical composer. I found her out by accidentally coming on the manuscript of a Melvin song that I knew. That’s her secret that I spoke of. Do you mind my having told you?”

“Someday it will. They say that he—everyone thinks it’s a he—will take Massenet’s place as a lyrical composer. I discovered her by accidentally coming across the manuscript of a Melvin song that I knew. That’s her secret that I mentioned. Do you mind that I told you?”

“Why, no. It’ll never go any further. I wonder why she never told me. And why she keeps so shut off from the world here.”

“Why, no. It’ll never go any further. I wonder why she never told me. And why she stays so shut off from the world here.”

“Ah; that’s another secret, and one that I shan’t tell you,” returned Io gravely. “There’s the piano again.”

“Ah, that’s another secret, and one I won’t share with you,” Io replied seriously. “There’s the piano again.”

A few indeterminate chords came to their ears. There followed a jangling disharmony. They waited, but there was nothing more. They rode on.

A few unclear chords reached their ears. Then there was a jarring disharmony. They waited, but nothing else came. They continued on their way.

At the lodge Banneker took the horses around while Io went in. Immediately her voice, with a note of alarm in it, summoned him. He found her bending over Miss Van Arsdale, who lay across the divan in the living-room with eyes closed, breathing jerkily. Her lips were blue and her hands looked shockingly lifeless.

At the lodge, Banneker took the horses around while Io went inside. Right away, her voice, tinged with worry, called for him. He discovered her leaning over Miss Van Arsdale, who was sprawled out on the couch in the living room, eyes closed and breathing unevenly. Her lips were blue, and her hands appeared alarmingly lifeless.

“Carry her into her room,” directed Io.

“Take her to her room,” Io instructed.

Banneker picked up the tall, strong-built form without effort and deposited it on the bed in the inner room.

Banneker effortlessly lifted the tall, strong figure and placed it on the bed in the inner room.

“Open all the windows,” commanded the girl. “See if you can find me some ammonia or camphor. Quick! She looks as if she were dying.”

“Open all the windows,” the girl ordered. “See if you can find me some ammonia or camphor. Hurry! She looks like she’s dying.”

One after another Banneker tried the bottles on the dresser. “Here it is. Ammonia,” he said.

One by one, Banneker checked the bottles on the dresser. “Got it. Ammonia,” he said.

In his eagerness he knocked a silver-mounted photograph to the floor. He thrust the drug into the girl’s hand and watched her helplessly as she worked over the limp figure on the bed. Mechanically he picked up the fallen picture to replace it. There looked out at him the face of a man of early middle age, a face of manifest intellectual power, high-boned, long-lined, and of the austere, almost ascetic beauty which the Florentine coins have preserved for us in clear fidelity. Across the bottom was written in a peculiarly rhythmic script, the legend:

In his eagerness, he knocked a silver-framed photo to the floor. He shoved the drug into the girl's hand and watched helplessly as she worked on the limp figure on the bed. Mechanically, he picked up the fallen picture to put it back. Looking back at him was the face of a man in his early middle age, a face that clearly showed intellectual strength, with high cheekbones, long lines, and the austere, almost ascetic beauty that Florentine coins have preserved for us with striking clarity. At the bottom was written in a distinctly rhythmic script, the caption:

“Toujours à toi. W.”

"Always yours. W."

“She’s coming back,” said Io’s voice. “No. Don’t come nearer. You’ll shut off the air. Find me a fan.”

“She’s coming back,” Io said. “No. Don’t come any closer. You’ll cut off the air. Get me a fan.”

He ran to the outer room and came back with a palm-leaf.

He ran to the outer room and returned with a palm leaf.

“She wants something,” said Io in an agonized half-voice. “She wants it so badly. What is it? Help me, Ban! She can’t speak. Look at her eyes—so imploring. Is it medicine?... No! Ban, can’t you help?”

“She wants something,” Io said in a pained whisper. “She wants it so badly. What is it? Please, Ban! She can’t speak. Look at her eyes—they’re so pleading. Is it medicine?... No! Ban, can’t you do something?”

Banneker took the silver-framed portrait and placed it in the flaccid hand. The fingers closed over it. The filmiest wraith of a smile played about the blue lips.

Banneker took the silver-framed portrait and placed it in the limp hand. The fingers closed around it. A faint trace of a smile flickered on the blue lips.

An hour later, Io came out to Banneker waiting fearfully in the big room.

An hour later, Io came out to find Banneker anxiously waiting in the large room.

“She won’t have a doctor. I’ve given her the strychnia and she insists she’ll be all right.”

“She won’t see a doctor. I’ve given her the strychnine, and she insists she’ll be fine.”

“Don’t you think I ought to go for the doctor, anyway?”

“Don’t you think I should go get the doctor, anyway?”

“She wouldn’t see him. She’s very strong-willed.... That’s a wonderful woman, Ban.” Io’s voice shook a little.

“She wouldn’t see him. She’s really strong-willed.... That’s a remarkable woman, Ban.” Io’s voice trembled a bit.

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

“How did you know about the picture?”

“How did you find out about the picture?”

“I saw it on the dresser. And when I saw her eyes, I guessed.”

“I saw it on the dresser. And when I looked into her eyes, I figured it out.”

“Yes; there’s only one thing a woman wants like that, when she’s dying. You’re rather a wonderful person, yourself, to have known. That’s her other secret, Ban. The one I said I couldn’t tell you.”

“Yes; there’s only one thing a woman wants like that, when she’s dying. You’re quite a remarkable person, yourself, to have known. That’s her other secret, Ban. The one I said I couldn’t tell you.”

“I’ve forgotten it,” replied Banneker gravely.

“I’ve forgotten it,” Banneker replied seriously.

CHAPTER XII

Attendance upon the sick-room occupied Io’s time for several days thereafter. Morning and afternoon Banneker rode over from the station to make anxious inquiry. The self-appointed nurse reported progress as rapid as could be expected, but was constantly kept on the alert because of the patient’s rebellion against enforced idleness. Seizures of the same sort she had suffered before, it appeared, but none hitherto so severe. Nothing could be done, she told Io, beyond the administration of the medicine, for which she had full directions. One day an attack would finish it all; meantime, in spite of her power of self-repression, she chafed at the monotony of her imprisonment.

Taking care of the sick room consumed Io’s time for several days after that. Morning and afternoon, Banneker rode over from the station to check in with concern. The self-appointed nurse reported that progress was as good as it could be expected, but she was always on her toes because the patient resisted being idle. It seemed she was having seizures like she had before, but none had been as severe as this one. The nurse told Io that there was nothing to be done beyond giving the medicine, for which she had detailed instructions. One day, an attack would take care of everything; in the meantime, despite her ability to hold it together, she was frustrated by the dullness of her confinement.

In the late afternoon of the day after the collapse, while Io was heating water at the fireplace, she heard a drawer open in the sick-room and hurried back to find Miss Van Arsdale hanging to the dresser, her face gray-splotched and her fingers convulsively crushing a letter which she had taken from under lock. Alarmed and angry, the amateur nurse got her back to bed only half conscious, but still cherishing her trove. When, an hour later, she dared leave her charge, she heard the rustle of smoothed-out paper and remained outside long enough to allow for the reading. On her return there was no sign of the letter. Miss Van Arsdale, a faint and hopeful color in her cheeks, was asleep.

In the late afternoon of the day after the collapse, while Io was heating water at the fireplace, she heard a drawer open in the sick-room and rushed back to find Miss Van Arsdale clutching the dresser, her face marked with gray spots and her fingers tightly gripping a letter she had taken from a locked drawer. Alarmed and frustrated, the amateur nurse managed to get her back to bed, barely conscious but still holding onto her treasure. When, an hour later, she felt she could leave her patient, she heard the sound of paper being smoothed out and stayed outside long enough to let her read. By the time she returned, there was no sign of the letter. Miss Van Arsdale, now with a faint blush of hope in her cheeks, was asleep.

For Banneker these were days of trial and tribulation. Added to the anxiety that he felt for his best friend was the uncertainty as to what he ought to do about the developments affecting her guest. For he had heard once more from Gardner.

For Banneker, these were days of struggle and hardship. On top of the worry he felt for his best friend, there was the uncertainty about what he should do regarding the situation involving her guest. He had heard from Gardner again.

“It’s on the cards,” wrote the reporter, “that I may be up to see you again. I’m still working, on and off, on the tip that took me on that wild-goose chase. If I come again I won’t quit without some of the wild goose’s tail feathers, at least. There’s a new tip locally; it leaked out from Paradise. [“The Babbling Babson,” interjected the reader mentally.] It looks as though the bird were still out your way. Though how she could be, and you not know it, gets me. It’s even a bigger game than Stella Wrightington, if my information is O.K. Have you heard or seen anything lately of a Beautiful Stranger or anything like that around Manzanita?... I enclose clipping of your story. What do you think of yourself in print?”

“It’s likely,” the reporter wrote, “that I might come to see you again. I’m still working, on and off, on the lead that sent me on that wild-goose chase. If I come back, I won’t leave without getting some of the wild goose’s tail feathers, at least. There’s a new lead locally; it leaked out from Paradise. [“The Babbling Babson,” the reader thought to themselves.] It seems like the bird is still around your area. Though I can’t figure out how she could be there without you knowing it. This is even a bigger deal than Stella Wrightington, if my info is correct. Have you heard or seen anything recently about a Beautiful Stranger or anything like that around Manzanita?... I’m including a clipping of your story. What do you think of seeing yourself in print?”

Banneker thought quite highly of himself in print as he read the article, which he immediately did. The other matter could wait; not that it was less important; quite the contrary; but he proposed to mull it over carefully and with a quiet mind, if he could ever get his mind back to its peaceful current again: meantime it was good for him to think of something quite dissociated from the main problem.

Banneker held a strong opinion of himself as he read the article, which he did right away. The other issue could wait; not that it was any less important—quite the opposite—but he intended to think it over carefully and with a calm mind, if he could ever get his thoughts back to a peaceful place again. In the meantime, it was beneficial for him to focus on something completely unrelated to the main problem.

What writer has not felt the conscious red tingle in his cheeks at first sight of himself in the magnified personification of type? Here is something, once himself, now expanded far beyond individual limits, into the proportions of publicity, for all the world to measure and estimate and criticize. Ought it to have been done in just that way? Is there not too much “I” in the presentation? Would not the effect have been greater had the method been less personal? It seemed to Banneker that he himself stood forth in a stark nakedness of soul and thought, through those blatantly assertive words, shameless, challenging to public opinion, yet delightful to his own appreciation. On the whole it was good; better than he would have thought he could do.

What writer hasn’t felt that conscious flush of embarrassment the first time seeing themselves in their own printed words? Here’s something that was once just them, now blown up far beyond personal limits, turned into something everyone can judge, measure, and critique. Should it have been done that way? Is there too much “I” in how it’s presented? Would the impact have been stronger if the approach had been less personal? Banneker felt like he stood exposed in a raw honesty of soul and thought through those loudly assertive words—shameless, daring public judgment, yet satisfying to his own sense of pride. Overall, it was good; better than he ever imagined he could achieve.

What he had felt, in the writing of it, to be jerks and bumps were magically smoothed out in the finished product. At one point where the copy-reader’s blue pencil had elided an adjective which the writer had deemed specially telling, he felt a sharp pang of disappointed resentment. Without that characterization the sentence seemed lifeless. Again, in another passage he wished that he had edited himself with more heed to the just word. Why had he designated the train as “rumbling” along the cut? Trains do not rumble between rock walls, he remembered; they move with a sustained and composite roar. And the finger-wringing malcontent who had vowed to “soom”; the editorial pencil had altered that to “sue ’em,” thereby robbing it of its special flavor. Perhaps this was in accordance with some occult rule of the trade. But it spoiled the paragraph for Banneker. Nevertheless he was thrilled and elate.... He wanted to show the article to Io. What would she think of it? She had read him accurately: it was in him to write. And she could help him, if only by—well, if only by being at hand.... But Gardner’s letter! That meant that the pursuit was on again, more formidably this time. Gardner, the gadfly, stinging this modern Io out of her refuge of peace and safety!

What he had felt, while writing it, were bumps and jerks that got magically smoothed out in the final version. At one point, where the copy editor's blue pencil had removed an adjective that the writer thought was especially important, he felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Without that description, the sentence felt lifeless. In another section, he wished he had paid more attention when editing for the right word. Why did he describe the train as “rumbling” along the cut? He remembered that trains don’t rumble between rock walls; they move with a sustained, full roar. And the complainer who had vowed to “soom” was changed to “sue ’em” by the editorial pencil, losing its unique flair. Maybe this followed some secret rule of the trade, but it ruined the paragraph for Banneker. Still, he felt thrilled and uplifted... He wanted to show the article to Io. What would she think of it? She had seen that he had it in him to write. And she could help him, even just by being there... But Gardner’s letter! That meant the chase was on again, and this time it was more serious. Gardner, the annoying fly, provoking this modern Io out of her safe haven!

He wrote and dispatched a message to the reporter in care of the Angelica City Herald:

He wrote and sent a message to the reporter at the Angelica City Herald:

Glad to see you, but you are wasting your time. No such person could be here without my knowing it. Thanks for article.

Glad to see you, but you're wasting your time. No one could be here without me knowing it. Thanks for the article.

That was as near an untruth as Banneker cared to go. In his own mind he defended it on the ground that the projected visit would, in fact, be time wasted for the journalist since he, Banneker, intended fully that Gardner should not see Io. Deep would have been his disgust and self-derision could he have observed the effect of the message upon the cynical and informed journalist who, however, did not receive it until the second day after its transmission, as he had been away on another assignment.

That was as close to a lie as Banneker was willing to go. In his own mind, he justified it by thinking that the planned visit would actually be a waste of time for the journalist since he, Banneker, fully intended for Gardner not to see Io. He would have been deeply disgusted and embarrassed with himself if he could have seen the reaction of the cynical and knowledgeable journalist, who, however, didn’t receive the message until the second day after it was sent because he had been away on another assignment.

“The poor fish!” was Gardner’s comment. “He doesn’t even say that she isn’t there. He’s got to lie better than that if he goes into the newspaper game.”

“The poor fish!” Gardner remarked. “He doesn’t even state that she isn’t there. He needs to be better at lying than that if he wants to get into the newspaper business.”

Further, the reporter had received a note from the cowman whom Ban and Io had encountered in the woods, modestly requesting five dollars in return for the warranted fact that a “swell young lady” had been seen in Banneker’s company. Other journalistic matters were pressing, however; he concluded that the “Manzanita Mystery,” as he built it up headline-wise in his ready mind, could wait a day or two longer.

Further, the reporter had gotten a note from the cowboy whom Ban and Io had met in the woods, humbly asking for five dollars in exchange for the confirmed fact that a “fancy young lady” had been seen with Banneker. However, other journalistic matters were urgent; he decided that the “Manzanita Mystery,” as he imagined it in his mind for a headline, could wait a day or two longer.

Banneker, through the mechanical course of his office, debated the situation. Should he tell Io of the message? To do so would only add to her anxieties, probably to no good purpose, for he did not believe that she would desert Miss Van Arsdale, ill and helpless, on any selfish consideration. Fidelity was one of the virtues with which he had unconsciously garlanded Io. Then, too, Gardner might not come anyway. If he did Banneker was innocently confident of his own ability to outwit the trained reporter and prevent his finding the object of his quest. A prospective and possible ally was forecast in the weather. Warning of another rainfall impending had come over the wire. As yet there was no sign visible from his far-horizoned home, except a filmy and changeful wreath of palest cloud with which Mount Carstairs was bedecked. Banneker decided for silence.

Banneker, going through the routine of his job, thought about the situation. Should he tell Io about the message? Doing so would only add to her worries, likely for no good reason, since he didn't believe she would abandon Miss Van Arsdale, who was sick and helpless, for any selfish reason. Loyalty was one of the qualities he had unconsciously associated with Io. Plus, Gardner might not even show up. If he did, Banneker was naively confident in his own ability to outsmart the experienced reporter and keep him from discovering what he was looking for. The weather hinted at a potential ally. A warning of more rain was coming through the wire. So far, there were no signs visible from his distant home, except for a delicate and ever-changing wreath of pale clouds adorning Mount Carstairs. Banneker chose to remain silent.

Miss Van Arsdale was much better when he rode over in the morning, but Io looked piteously worn and tired.

Miss Van Arsdale seemed much better when he came over in the morning, but Io looked sadly worn out and exhausted.

“You’ve had no rest,” he accused her, away from the sick woman’s hearing.

“You haven’t had any rest,” he accused her, out of the sick woman’s hearing.

“Rest enough of its kind, but not much sleep,” said Io.

“Get enough of its kind, but not much sleep,” said Io.

“But you’ve got to have sleep,” he insisted. “Let me stay and look after her to-night.”

“But you need to get some sleep,” he insisted. “Let me stay and take care of her tonight.”

“It wouldn’t be of any use.”

"It wouldn't be helpful."

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“I shouldn’t sleep anyway. This house is haunted by spirits of unrest,” said the girl fretfully. “I think I’ll take a blanket and go out on the desert.”

“I shouldn't sleep anyway. This house is haunted by restless spirits,” the girl said anxiously. “I think I’ll grab a blanket and head out to the desert.”

“And wake up to find a sidewinder crawling over you, and a tarantula nestling in your ear. Don’t think of it.”

“And wake up to find a sidewinder slithering over you, and a tarantula curled up in your ear. Don’t think about it.”

“Ban,” called the voice of Camilla Van Arsdale from the inner room, clear and firm as he had ever heard it.

“Ban,” called the voice of Camilla Van Arsdale from the inner room, clear and firm as he'd ever heard it.

He went in. She stretched out a hand to him. “It’s good to see you, Ban. Have I worried you? I shall be up and about again to-morrow.”

He walked in. She reached out her hand to him. “It’s great to see you, Ban. Did I make you worry? I’ll be back on my feet again tomorrow.”

“Now, Miss Camilla,” protested Banneker, “you mustn’t—”

“Now, Miss Camilla,” Banneker protested, “you shouldn’t—”

“I’m going to get up to-morrow,” repeated the other immutably. “Don’t be absurd about it. I’m not ill. It was only the sort of knock-down that I must expect from time to time. Within a day or two you’ll see me riding over.... Ban, stand over there in that light.... What’s that you’ve got on?”

“I’m going to get up tomorrow,” the other person said firmly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not sick. It was just the kind of setback I have to deal with every now and then. In a day or two, you’ll see me riding over.... Ban, stand over there in that light.... What’s that you’re wearing?”

“What, Miss Camilla?”

"What is it, Miss Camilla?"

“That necktie. It isn’t in your usual style. Where did you get it?”

“That necktie. It’s not your usual style. Where did you get it?”

“Sent to Angelica City for it. Don’t you like it?” he returned, trying for the nonchalant air, but not too successfully.

“Sent to Angelica City for it. Don’t you like it?” he replied, attempting to act casual, but not quite pulling it off.

“Not as well as your spotty butterflies,” answered the woman jealously. “That’s nonsense, though. Don’t mind me, Ban,” she added with a wry smile. “Plain colors are right for you. Browns, or blues, or reds, if they’re not too bright. And you’ve tied it very well. Did it take you long to do it?”

“Not as well as your colorful butterflies,” the woman replied, a bit enviously. “But that’s silly. Don’t pay attention to me, Ban,” she added with a smirk. “Solid colors suit you. Browns, or blues, or reds, as long as they’re not too bright. And you’ve tied it really well. Did it take you a long time to do that?”

Reddening and laughing, he admitted a prolonged and painful session before his glass. Miss Van Arsdale sighed. It was such a faint, abandoning breath of regret as might come from the breast of a mother when she sees her little son in his first pride of trousers.

Reddening and laughing, he confessed to a long and painful session in front of his drink. Miss Van Arsdale sighed. It was a soft, letting-go breath of regret that might come from a mother when she sees her little son in his first pair of pants.

“Go out and say good-night to Miss Welland,” she ordered, “and tell her to go to bed. I’ve taken a sleeping powder.”

“Go out and say goodnight to Miss Welland,” she instructed, “and tell her to head to bed. I’ve taken a sleeping pill.”

Banneker obeyed. He rode home slowly and thoughtfully. His sleep was sound enough that night.

Banneker did as he was told. He rode home at a slow pace, deep in thought. That night, he slept soundly.

Breakfast-getting processes did not appeal to him when he awoke in the morning. He walked over, through the earliest light, to the hotel, where he made a meal of musty eggs, chemical-looking biscuits, and coffee of a rank hue and flavor, in an atmosphere of stale odors and flies, sickeningly different from the dainty ceremonials of Io’s preparation. Rebuking himself for squeamishness, the station-agent returned to his office, caught an O.S. from the wire, took some general instructions, and went out to look at the weather. His glance never reached the horizon.

Breakfast routines didn't interest him when he woke up in the morning. He walked over, through the first light of day, to the hotel, where he had a meal of stale eggs, chemical-looking biscuits, and coffee with an unpleasant color and taste, surrounded by a mix of stale smells and flies, a nauseating contrast to the delicate rituals of Io’s preparation. Chiding himself for being picky, the station agent went back to his office, picked up an O.S. from the wire, took some general instructions, and stepped outside to check the weather. His gaze never reached the horizon.

In the foreground where he had swung the hammock under the alamo it checked and was held, absorbed. A blanketed figure lay motionless in the curve of the meshwork. One arm was thrown across the eyes, warding a strong beam which had forced its way through the lower foliage. He tiptoed forward.

In the foreground, where he had hung the hammock under the tree, it stopped moving and stayed still, fully absorbed. A figure wrapped in blankets lay still in the curve of the netting. One arm was draped over the eyes, blocking a strong beam of light that had pushed its way through the lower branches. He tiptoed forward.

Io’s breast was rising and falling gently in the hardly perceptible rhythm of her breathing. From the pale yellow surface of her dress, below the neck, protruded a strange, edged something, dun-colored, sharply defined and alien, which the man’s surprised eyes failed to identify. Slowly the edge parted and flattened out, broadwise, displaying the marbled brilliance of the butterfly’s inner wings, illumining the pale chastity of the sleeping figure as if with a quivering and evanescent jewel. Banneker, shaken and thrilled, closed his eyes. He felt as if a soul had opened its secret glories to him. When, commanding himself, he looked again, the living gem was gone. The girl slept evenly.

Io’s chest rose and fell gently in the barely noticeable rhythm of her breathing. From the pale yellow fabric of her dress, just below her neck, protruded a strange, jagged something, brownish in color, sharply defined and out of place, which the man’s surprised gaze couldn't recognize. Slowly, the edge split and spread out, revealing the marbled brilliance of the butterfly’s inner wings, illuminating the pale purity of the sleeping figure as if with a shimmering and fleeting jewel. Banneker, shaken and excited, closed his eyes. He felt like a soul had revealed its hidden beauty to him. When he gathered himself and looked again, the living gem had vanished. The girl slept peacefully.

Conning the position of the sun and the contour of the sheltering tree, Banneker estimated that in a half-hour or less a flood of sunlight would pour in upon the slumberer’s face to awaken her. Cautiously withdrawing, he let himself into the shack, lighted his oil stove, put on water to boil, set out the coffee and the stand. He felt different about breakfast-getting now. Having prepared the arrangements for his prospective guest, he returned and leaned against the alamo, filling his eyes with still delight of the sleeper.

Conning the position of the sun and the shape of the tree providing shade, Banneker figured that in half an hour or less, a flood of sunlight would stream onto the sleeper's face to wake her up. Carefully stepping back, he went into the shack, turned on his oil stove, put water on to boil, and got out the coffee and the stand. He felt differently about making breakfast now. After setting up everything for his expected guest, he went back and leaned against the tree, enjoying the peaceful sight of the sleeper.

Youthful, untouched, fresh though the face was, in the revealing stillness of slumber, it suggested rather than embodied something indefinably ancient, a look as of far and dim inheritances, subtle, ironic, comprehending, and aloof; as if that delicate and strong beauty of hers derived intimately from the wellsprings of the race; as if womanhood, eternal triumphant, and elusive were visibly patterned there.

Youthful, unspoiled, fresh as her face was, in the quiet stillness of sleep, it hinted at something that felt vaguely ancient, an expression of distant and fading legacies, subtle, ironic, all-knowing, and detached; as if her delicate yet powerful beauty came directly from the roots of her ancestry; as if the essence of womanhood—eternal, victorious, and elusive—was clearly reflected there.

Banneker, leaning against the slender tree-trunk, dreamed over her, happily and aimlessly.

Banneker, leaning against the thin tree trunk, dreamily thought about her, happily and without purpose.

Io opened her eyes to meet his. She stirred softly and smiled at him.

Io opened her eyes to meet his. She shifted slightly and smiled at him.

“So you discovered me,” she said.

“So you found me,” she said.

“How long have you been here?”

She studied the sun a moment before replying. “Several hours.”

She looked at the sun for a moment before answering. “A few hours.”

“Did you walk over in the night?”

“Did you come over last night?”

“No. You told me not to, you know. I waited till the dawn. Don’t scold me, Ban. I was dead for want of sleep and I couldn’t get it in the lodge. It’s haunted, I tell you, with unpeaceful spirits. So I remembered this hammock.”

“No. You told me not to, you know. I waited until dawn. Don’t scold me, Ban. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and I couldn’t get any in the lodge. It’s haunted, I swear, with restless spirits. So I remembered this hammock.”

“I’m not going to scold you. I’m going to feed you. The coffee’s on.”

“I’m not going to punish you. I’m going to take care of you. The coffee’s ready.”

“How good!” she cried, getting to her feet. “Am I a sight? I feel frowsy.”

“How great!” she exclaimed, standing up. “Do I look a mess? I feel so disheveled.”

“There’s a couple of buckets of water up in my room. Help yourself while I set out the breakfast.”

“There are a couple of buckets of water in my room. Feel free to take some while I get breakfast ready.”

In fifteen minutes she was down, freshened and joyous.

In fifteen minutes, she was ready, refreshed, and happy.

“I’ll just take a bite and then run back to my patient,” she said. “You can bring the blanket when you come. It’s heavy for a three-mile tramp.... What are you looking thoughtful and sober about, Ban? Do you disapprove of my escapade?”

“I’ll just take a quick bite and then head back to my patient,” she said. “You can bring the blanket when you come. It’s heavy for a three-mile trek... What are you looking so thoughtful and serious about, Ban? Do you disapprove of my little adventure?”

“That’s a foolish question.”

"That's a dumb question."

“It’s meant to be. And it’s meant to make you smile. Why don’t you? You are worried. ‘Fess up. What’s happened?”

“It’s meant to be. And it’s meant to make you smile. Why don’t you? You are worried. Come on, admit it. What’s happened?”

“I’ve had a letter from the reporter in Angelica City.”

“I received a letter from the reporter in Angelica City.”

“Oh! Did he send your article?”

“He did. But that isn’t the point. He says he’s coming up here again.”

“He did. But that’s not the point. He says he’s coming up here again.”

“What for?”

"What's the purpose?"

“You.”

"You."

“Does he know I’m here? Did he mention my name?”

“Does he know I'm here? Did he say my name?”

“No. But he’s had some information that probably points to you.”

“No. But he’s got some information that likely points to you.”

“What did you answer?”

"What did you say?"

Ban told her. “I think that will hold him off,” he said hopefully.

Ban told her, “I think that will keep him busy,” he said hopefully.

“Then he’s a very queer sort of reporter,” returned Io scornfully out of her wider experience. “No; he’ll come. And if he’s any good, he’ll find me.”

“Then he’s a really strange kind of reporter,” Io replied, scornful from her broader experience. “No; he’ll show up. And if he’s any good, he’ll track me down.”

“You can refuse to see him.”

“You can choose not to see him.”

“Yes; but it’s the mere fact of my being here that will probably give him enough to go on and build up a loathsome article. How I hate newspapers!... Ban,” she appealed wistfully, “can’t you stop him from coming? Must I go?”

“Yes; but just my being here will probably give him enough material to write a disgusting article. How I hate newspapers!... Ban,” she said with a longing look, “can't you stop him from coming? Do I have to go?”

“You must be ready to go.”

“You need to be ready to go.”

“Not until Miss Camilla is well again,” she declared obstinately. “But that will be in a day or two. Oh, well! What does it all matter! I’ve not much to pack up, anyway. How are you going to get me out?”

“Not until Miss Camilla is feeling better,” she insisted stubbornly. “But that’ll be in a day or two. Oh, whatever! What does it all matter! I don’t have much to pack, anyway. How are you going to get me out?”

“That depends on whether Gardner comes, and how he comes.”

"That depends on if Gardner comes, and how he shows up."

He pointed to a darkening line above the southwestern horizon. “If that is what it looks like, we may be in for another flood, though I’ve never known two bad ones in a season.”

He pointed to a darkening line above the southwestern horizon. “If that’s what it looks like, we might be in for another flood, although I’ve never seen two bad ones in a season.”

Io beckoned quaintly to the far clouds. “Hurry! Hurry!” she summoned. “You wrecked me once. Now save me from the Vandal. Good-bye, Ban. And thank you for the lodging and the breakfast.”

Io waved charmingly at the distant clouds. “Come on! Come on!” she called out. “You ruined me once. Now rescue me from the Vandal. Goodbye, Ban. And thanks for the room and the breakfast.”

Emergency demands held the agent at his station all that day and evening. Trainmen brought news of heavy rains beyond the mountains. In the morning he awoke to find his little world hushed in a murky light and with a tingling apprehension of suspense in the atmosphere. High, gray cloud shapes hurried across the zenith to a conference of the storm powers, gathering at the horizon. Weather-wise from long observation, Banneker guessed that the outbreak would come before evening, and that, unless the sullen threat of the sky was deceptive, Manzanita would be shut off from rail communication within twelve hours thereafter. Having two hours’ release at noon, he rode over to the lodge in the forest to return Io’s blanket. He found the girl pensive, and Miss Van Arsdale apparently recovered to the status of her own normal and vigorous self.

Emergency demands kept the agent at his station all day and into the evening. Train crews reported heavy rains beyond the mountains. In the morning, he woke up to find his small world quiet under a gloomy light and filled with a tense feeling of anticipation. High, gray clouds rushed across the sky to meet the storm gathering on the horizon. With his experience in weather observation, Banneker predicted that the storm would hit before evening, and unless the dark threat of the sky was misleading, Manzanita would be cut off from rail communication within the next twelve hours. Having a two-hour break at noon, he rode over to the lodge in the forest to return Io’s blanket. He found the girl deep in thought, and Miss Van Arsdale seemed to have returned to her usual energetic self.

“I’ve been telling Io,” said the older woman, “that, since the rumor is out of her being here, she will almost certainly be found by the reporter. Too many people in the village know that I have a guest.”

“I’ve been telling Io,” said the older woman, “that, now that the rumor about her being here is out, she will almost certainly be discovered by the reporter. Too many people in the village know that I have a guest.”

“How?” asked Banneker.

“How?” Banneker asked.

“From my marketing. Probably from Pedro.”

“Very likely from the patron of the Sick Coyote that you and I met on our walk,” added the girl.

“Probably from the patron of the Sick Coyote that you and I ran into on our walk,” added the girl.

“So the wise thing is for her to go,” concluded Miss Van Arsdale. “Unless she is willing to risk the publicity.”

“So the smart move is for her to leave,” concluded Miss Van Arsdale. “Unless she’s ready to deal with the publicity.”

“Yes,” assented Io. “The wise thing is for me to go.” She spoke in a curious tone, not looking at Banneker, not looking at anything outward and visible; her vision seemed somberly introverted.

“Yes,” Io agreed. “The smart move is for me to leave.” She said this in a strange way, not making eye contact with Banneker, not focusing on anything around her; her gaze seemed deeply turned inward.

“Not now, though,” said Banneker.

“Not right now,” said Banneker.

“Why not?” asked both women. He answered Io.

“You called for a storm. You’re going to get it. A big one. I could send you out on Number Eight, but that’s a way-train and there’s no telling where it would land you or when you’d get through. Besides, I don’t believe Gardner is coming. I’d have heard from him by now. Listen!”

“You asked for a storm. You’re going to get one. A big one. I could put you on Number Eight, but that’s a local train, and who knows where it would end up or when you’d arrive. Plus, I don’t think Gardner is coming. I would have heard from him by now. Listen!”

The slow pat-pat-pat of great raindrops ticked like a started clock on the roof. It ceased, and far overhead the great, quiet voice of the wind said, “Hush—sh—sh—sh—sh!”, bidding the world lie still and wait.

The slow pat-pat-pat of big raindrops tapped like a clock that just started on the roof. It stopped, and high above, the calm voice of the wind said, “Hush—sh—sh—sh—sh!”, telling the world to be still and wait.

“What if he does come?” asked Miss Van Arsdale

“What if he shows up?” asked Miss Van Arsdale.

“I’ll get word to you and get her out some way.”

"I'll let you know and find a way to get her out."

The storm burst on Banneker, homebound, just as he emerged from the woodland, in a wild, thrashing wind from the southwest and a downpour the most fiercely, relentlessly insistent that he had ever known. A cactus desert in the rare orgy of a rainstorm is a place of wonder. The monstrous, spiky forms trembled and writhed in ecstasy, heat-damned souls in their hour of respite, stretching out exultant arms to the bounteous sky. Tiny rivulets poured over the sand, which sucked them down with a thirsting, crisping whisper. A pair of wild doves, surprised and terrified, bolted close past the lone rider, so near that his mount shied and headed for the shelter of the trees again. A small snake, curving indecisively and with obvious bewilderment amidst the growth, paused to rattle a faint warning, half coiled in case the horse’s step meant a new threat, then went on with a rather piteous air of not knowing where to find refuge against this cataclysm of the elements.

The storm hit Banneker, who was on his way home, just as he came out of the woods, bringing with it a wild, howling wind from the southwest and a downpour that was the fiercest and most relentless he had ever experienced. A cactus desert during such a rare rainstorm is truly a sight to behold. The massive, spiky forms shook and swayed in delight, heat-damaged beings enjoying their moment of relief, reaching out joyful arms to the generous sky. Tiny streams flowed across the sand, which absorbed them with a thirsty, crackling whisper. A pair of wild doves, startled and scared, flew past the lone rider so closely that his horse jumped and veered towards the safety of the trees again. A small snake, twisting uncertainly and clearly confused among the plants, took a moment to rattle a faint warning, half coiled in case the horse's movement posed a new danger, then continued on with a pitying look of not knowing where to find shelter from this overwhelming storm.

Lashing in the wind, a long tentacle of the giant ocatilla drew its cimeter-set thong across Ban’s horse which incontinently bolted. The rider lifted up his voice and yelled in sheer, wild, defiant joy of the tumult. A lesser ocatilla thorn gashed his ear so that the blood mingled with the rain that poured down his face. A pod of the fishhook-barbed cholla drove its points through his trousers into the flesh of his knee and, detaching itself from the stem, as is the detestable habit of this vegetable blood-seeker, clung there like a live thing of prey, from barbs which must later be removed delicately and separately with the cold steel. Blindly homing, a jack-rabbit ran almost beneath the horse’s hooves, causing him to shy again, this time into a bulky vizcaya, as big as a full-grown man, and inflicting upon Ban a new species of scarification. It did not matter. Nothing mattered. He rode on, knees tight, lines loose, elate, shouting, singing, acclaiming the storm which was setting its irrefragable limits to the world wherein he and Io would still live close, a few golden days longer.

Lashing in the wind, a long tentacle of the giant ocatilla swiped across Ban’s horse, causing it to bolt. The rider raised his voice and yelled in pure, wild, defiant joy at the chaos. A smaller ocatilla thorn grazed his ear, making the blood mix with the rain pouring down his face. A pod of the fishhook-barbed cholla pierced through his trousers into his knee, and, detaching itself from the stem—typical of this annoying plant—it clung there like a living creature, with barbs that would need to be carefully removed later with cold steel. A jack-rabbit darted blindly under the horse’s hooves, causing it to shy again, this time into a bulky vizcaya, as big as an adult man, giving Ban a new kind of scar. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He kept riding, knees tight, reins loose, exhilarated, shouting, singing, celebrating the storm that was setting its unbreakable boundaries to the world where he and Io would still live close for a few more golden days.

What he picked from the wire when he reached it confirmed his hopes. The track was threatened in a dozen places. Repair crews were gathering. Already the trains were staggering along, far behind their schedule. They would, of course, operate as far as possible, but no reliance was to be placed upon their movements until further notice. Through the night traffic continued, but with the coming of the morning and the settling down of a soft, seeping, unintermittent pour of gray rain, the situation had clarified. Nothing came through. Complete stoppage, east and west. Between Manzanita and Stanwood the track was out, and in the other direction Dry Bed Arroyo was threatening. Banneker reported progress to the lodge and got back, soaked and happy. Io was thoughtful and content.

What he picked up from the wire when he reached it confirmed his hopes. The track was at risk in several spots. Repair crews were assembling. Already, the trains were struggling along, way behind schedule. They would, of course, operate as much as they could, but no one could depend on their movements until further notice. Throughout the night, traffic continued, but with the arrival of morning and the steady, drenching gray rain, the situation became clear. Nothing came through. Complete shutdown, east and west. Between Manzanita and Stanwood, the track was down, and in the opposite direction, Dry Bed Arroyo was a concern. Banneker reported progress back to the lodge and returned, soaked but happy. Io was thoughtful and content.

Late that afternoon the station-agent had a shock which jarred him quite out of his complacent security. Denny, the operator at Stanwood, wired, saying:

Late that afternoon, the station agent experienced a shock that completely disrupted his calm sense of security. Denny, the operator at Stanwood, messaged, saying:

Party here anxious to get through to Manzanita quick. Could auto make upper desert?

Party here anxious to get through to Manzanita quickly. Could the car make it over the upper desert?

No (clicked Banneker in response). Describe party.

No (clicked Banneker in response). Describe the party.

The answer came back confirming his suspicion:

The response came back, confirming his suspicion:

Thin, nice-spoken, wears goggles, smokes cork-tips. Arrived Five from Angelica held here.

Thin, polite, wears goggles, smokes cork-tipped cigarettes. Arrived at Five from Angelica, held here.

Tell impossible by any route (instructed Banneker). Wire result.

An hour later came the reply:

An hour later, the response arrived:

Won’t try to-night. Probably horse to-morrow.

Won’t try tonight. Probably horse tomorrow.

Here was a problem, indeed, fit to chill the untimely self-congratulations of Banneker. Should the reporter come in—and come he would if it were humanly possible, by Banneker’s estimate of him—it would be by the only route which gave exit to the west. On the other side the flooded arroyo cut off escape. To try to take Io out through the forest, practically trackless, in that weather, or across the channeled desert, would be too grave a risk. To all intents and purposes they were marooned on an island with no reasonable chance of exit—except! To Banneker’s feverishly searching mind reverted a local legend. Taking a chance on missing some emergency call, he hurried over to the village and interviewed, through the persuasive interpretation of sundry drinks, an aged and bearded wreck whose languid and chipped accents spoke of a life originally far alien to the habitudes of the Sick Coyote where he was fatalistically awaiting his final attack of delirium tremens.

Here was a problem that could definitely put a damper on Banneker's premature self-satisfaction. If the reporter were to come— and he would, based on Banneker's belief— it would be through the only exit to the west. On the other side, the flooded arroyo blocked any escape. Trying to take Io through the practically unmarked forest in that weather, or across the patterned desert, would be too risky. For all intents and purposes, they were stuck on an island with little hope of getting out— except! A local legend popped into Banneker's anxious mind. Taking the risk of missing an emergency call, he rushed to the village and, through the smooth persuasion of a few drinks, spoke with an old, bearded man whose slow, broken speech hinted at a life once very different from the routines of the Sick Coyote, where he was waiting for his final bout of delirium tremens.

Banneker returned from that interview with a map upon which had been scrawled a few words in shaky, scholarly writing.

Banneker came back from that meeting with a map that had some words written on it in shaky, scholarly handwriting.

“But one doesn’t say it’s safe, mind you,” had warned the shell of Lionel Streatham in his husky pipe. “It’s only as a sporting offer that one would touch it. And the courses may have changed in seven years.”

“But you can't say it's safe, just so you know,” warned the husky voice of Lionel Streatham from his pipe. “It's only worth considering as a risky proposition. And the circumstances might have changed in seven years.”

Denny wired in the morning that the inquiring traveler had set out from Manzanita, unescorted, on horseback, adding the prediction that he would have a hell of a trip, even if he got through at all. Late that afternoon Gardner arrived at the station, soaked, hollow-eyed, stiff, exhausted, and cheerful. He shook hands with the agent.

Denny messaged in the morning that the curious traveler had left Manzanita, alone, on horseback, adding that it would be a tough journey, even if he managed to make it. Later that afternoon, Gardner showed up at the station, drenched, looking worn out with hollow eyes, stiff, exhausted, and surprisingly cheerful. He shook hands with the agent.

“How do you like yourself in print?” he inquired.

“How do you feel about seeing yourself in print?” he asked.

“Pretty well,” answered Banneker. “It read better than I expected.”

“Pretty good,” Banneker replied. “It was better than I expected.”

“It always does, until you get old in the business. How would you like a New York job on the strength of it?”

“It always happens that way until you get old in the business. How would you like a job in New York based on that?”

Banneker stared. “You mean that I could get on a paper just by writing that?”

Banneker stared. "You mean I could get in a newspaper just by writing that?"

“I didn’t say so. Though I’ve known poorer stuff land more experienced men.”

“I didn’t say that. But I’ve seen worse things happen to more seasoned guys.”

“More experienced; that’s the point, isn’t it? I’ve had none at all.”

“More experienced; that’s the point, right? I haven’t had any experience at all.”

“So much the better. A metropolitan paper prefers to take a man fresh and train him to its own ways. There’s your advantage if you can show natural ability. And you can.”

“So much the better. A city newspaper likes to hire someone fresh and teach them its specific ways. That’s your advantage if you can demonstrate natural talent. And you can.”

“I see,” muttered Banneker thoughtfully.

“I get it,” muttered Banneker thoughtfully.

“Where does Miss Van Arsdale live?” asked the reporter without the smallest change of tone.

“Where does Miss Van Arsdale live?” asked the reporter, his tone remaining completely unchanged.

“What do you want to see Miss Van Arsdale for?” returned the other, his instantly defensive manner betraying him to the newspaper man.

“What do you want to see Miss Van Arsdale for?” the other replied, his immediately defensive attitude giving him away to the journalist.

“You know as well as I do,” smiled Gardner.

“You know just like I do,” smiled Gardner.

“Miss Van Arsdale has been ill. She’s a good deal of a recluse. She doesn’t like to see people.”

“Miss Van Arsdale has been sick. She’s quite the recluse. She doesn’t like being around people.”

“Does her visitor share that eccentricity?”

“Does her visitor have that same oddness?”

Banneker made no reply.

Banneker didn't respond.

“See here, Banneker,” said the reporter earnestly; “I’d like to know why you’re against me in this thing.”

“Listen, Banneker,” the reporter said sincerely; “I’d like to know why you’re opposing me on this.”

“What thing?” fenced the agent.

"What thing?" the agent fenced.

“My search for Io Welland.”

"My search for Io Welland."

“Who is Io Welland, and what are you after her for?” asked Banneker steadily.

“Who is Io Welland, and what do you want with her?” Banneker asked calmly.

“Apart from being the young lady that you’ve been escorting around the local scenery,” returned the imperturbable journalist, “she’s the most brilliant and interesting figure in the younger set of the Four Hundred. She’s a newspaper beauty. She’s copy. She’s news. And when she gets into a railroad wreck and disappears from the world for weeks, and her supposed fiancé, the heir to a dukedom, makes an infernal ass of himself over it all and practically gives himself away to the papers, she’s big news.”

“Apart from being the young woman you’ve been showing around the local sites,” replied the unflappable journalist, “she’s the most brilliant and interesting person in the younger crowd of the Four Hundred. She’s a newspaper sensation. She’s a story. She’s news. And when she gets into a train wreck and vanishes from the scene for weeks, while her supposed fiancé, the heir to a dukedom, makes a complete fool of himself over the whole situation and practically spills everything to the press, she becomes a major headline.”

“And if she hasn’t done any of these things,” retorted Banneker, drawing upon some of Camilla Van Arsdale’s wisdom, brought to bear on the case, “she’s libel, isn’t she?”

“And if she hasn’t done any of these things,” Banneker shot back, using some of Camilla Van Arsdale’s insights relevant to the situation, “she’s guilty of libel, right?”

“Hardly libel. But she isn’t safe news until she’s identified. You see, I’m playing an open game with you. I’m here to identify her, with half a dozen newspaper photos. Want to see ’em?”

“Barely libel. But she’s not safe news until her identity is clear. You see, I'm being upfront with you. I'm here to identify her, with half a dozen newspaper photos. Want to see them?”

“No, thank you.”

“No, thanks.”

“Not interested? Are you going to take me over to Miss Van Arsdale’s?”

“Not interested? Are you going to take me to Miss Van Arsdale’s?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“Why should I? It’s no part of my business as an employee of the road.”

“Why should I? It’s not my job as a road employee.”

“As to that, I’ve got a letter from the Division Superintendent asking you to further my inquiry in any possible way. Here it is.”

“As for that, I received a letter from the Division Superintendent asking you to assist my inquiry in any way you can. Here it is.”

Banneker took and read the letter. While not explicit, it was sufficiently direct.

Banneker picked up the letter and read it. While it wasn't explicit, it was clear enough.

“That’s official, isn’t it?” said Gardner mildly.

"That's official, right?" Gardner said casually.

“Yes.”

"Yeah."

“Well?”

"What's up?"

“And this is official,” added Banneker calmly. “The company can go to hell. Tell that to the D.S. with my compliments, will you?”

“And this is official,” Banneker said calmly. “The company can go to hell. Please tell that to the D.S. with my compliments, alright?”

“Certainly not. I don’t want to get you into trouble. I like you. But I’ve got to land this story. If you won’t take me to the place, I’ll find some one in the village that will. You can’t prevent my going there, you know.”

“Of course not. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I like you. But I have to get this story. If you won’t take me to the place, I’ll find someone in the village who will. You know you can’t stop me from going there.”

“Can’t I?” Banneker’s voice had grown low and cold. A curious light shone in his eyes. There was an ugly flicker of smile on his set mouth.

“Can’t I?” Banneker’s voice had become low and cold. A strange light sparkled in his eyes. There was a twisted flicker of a smile on his tight lips.

The reporter rose from the chair into which he had wetly slumped. He walked over to face his opponent who was standing at his desk. Banneker, lithe, powerful, tense, was half again as large as the other; obviously more muscular, better-conditioned, more formidable in every way. But there is about a man, singly and selflessly intent upon his job in hand, an inner potency impossible to obstruct. Banneker recognized it; inwardly admitted, too, the unsoundness of the swift, protective rage rising within, himself.

The reporter got up from the chair where he had slumped down. He walked over to face his opponent, who was standing at his desk. Banneker, slim, strong, and tense, was noticeably larger than the other man; he was clearly more muscular, in better shape, and more intimidating in every way. But there’s something about a person who is completely focused on their task that has an inner strength that's hard to block. Banneker recognized this and internally acknowledged the irrational protective anger rising within him.

“I don’t propose to make trouble for you or to have trouble with you,” said the reporter evenly. “But I’m going to Miss Van Arsdale’s unless I’m shot on the way there.”

“I don’t want to cause you any trouble or get into any with you,” the reporter said calmly. “But I’m going to Miss Van Arsdale’s unless I get shot on the way there.”

“That’s all right,” returned the agent, mastering himself. “I beg your pardon for threatening you. But you’ll have to find your own way. Will you put up here for the night, again?”

"That’s okay," the agent replied, regaining his composure. "I apologize for threatening you. But you'll need to figure things out on your own. Will you stay here for the night again?"

“Thanks. Glad to, if it won’t trouble you. See you later.”

“Thanks. I’d be happy to do it, if it’s not a problem for you. See you later.”

“Perhaps not. I’m turning in early. I’ll leave the shack unlocked for you.”

“Maybe not. I'm heading to bed early. I'll keep the shack unlocked for you.”

Gardner opened the outer door and was blown back into the station by an explosive gust of soaking wind.

Gardner opened the outer door and was knocked back into the station by a powerful blast of drenching wind.

“On second thought,” said he, “I don’t think I’ll try to go out there this evening. The young lady can’t very well get away to-night, unless she has wings, and it’s pretty damp for flying. Can I get dinner over at the village?”

“Actually,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll try to go out there this evening. The young lady can't really escape tonight unless she has wings, and it's too damp for flying. Can I have dinner over at the village?”

“Such as it is. I’ll go over with you.”

“That's how it is. I'll go through it with you.”

At the entrance to the unclean little hotel they parted, Banneker going further to find Mindle the “teamer,” whom he could trust and with whom he held conference, brief and very private. They returned to the station together in the gathering darkness, got a hand car onto the track, and loaded it with a strange burden, after which Mindle disappeared into the storm with the car while Banneker wired to Stanwood an imperative call for a relief for next day even though the substitute should have to walk the twenty-odd miles. Thereafter he made, from the shack, a careful selection of food with special reference to economy of bulk, fastened it deftly beneath his poncho, saddled his horse, and set out for the Van Arsdale lodge. The night was pitch-black when he entered the area of the pines, now sonorous with the rush of the upper winds.

At the entrance to the messy little hotel, they said goodbye, with Banneker going on to find Mindle the “teamer,” someone he could trust and have a quick, private talk with. They headed back to the station together as it got darker, grabbed a hand car, and loaded it with an unusual load. Then, Mindle took off into the storm with the car while Banneker sent an urgent message to Stanwood, asking for a replacement for the next day, even if it meant the substitute had to walk the twenty-some miles. After that, he carefully picked out some food from the shack, keeping bulk in mind, secured it under his poncho, saddled his horse, and headed for the Van Arsdale lodge. It was pitch-black by the time he entered the pine area, now filled with the sound of the strong winds.

Io saw the gleam of his flashlight and ran to the door to meet him.

Io saw the beam of his flashlight and rushed to the door to greet him.

“Are you ready?” he asked briefly.

“Are you ready?” he asked quickly.

“I can be in fifteen minutes.” She turned away, asking no questions.

“I can be there in fifteen minutes.” She turned away, asking no questions.

“Dress warmly,” he said. “It’s an all-night trip. By the way, can you swim?”

“For hours at a time.”

“For hours on end.”

Camilla Van Arsdale entered the room. “Are you taking her away, Ban? Where?”

Camilla Van Arsdale walked into the room. “Are you taking her away, Ban? Where to?”

“To Miradero, on the Southwestern and Sierra.”

“To Miradero, in the Southwest and Sierra.”

“But that’s insanity,” protested the other. “Sixty miles, isn’t it? And over trailless desert.”

“But that’s crazy,” the other person protested. “Sixty miles, right? And across a desert with no trails.”

“All of that. But we’re not going across country. We’re going by water.”

"All of that. But we're not traveling across the country. We're going by water."

“By water? Ban, you are out of your mind. Where is there any waterway?”

“By water? Ban, you are crazy. Where is there any waterway?”

“Dry Bed Arroyo. It’s running bank-full. My boat is waiting there.”

“Dry Bed Arroyo. It’s at full capacity. My boat is waiting there.”

“But it will be dangerous. Terribly dangerous. Io, you mustn’t.”

“But it's going to be dangerous. Really dangerous. Io, you can't.”

“I’ll go,” said the girl quietly, “if Ban says so.”

“I'll go,” the girl said softly, “if Ban says so.”

“There’s no other way out. And it isn’t so dangerous if you’re used to a boat. Old Streatham made it seven years ago in the big flood. Did it in a bark canoe on a hundred-dollar bet. The Arroyo takes you out to the Little Bowleg and that empties into the Rio Solano, and there you are! I’ve got his map.”

“There's no other way out. And it's not that dangerous if you're used to being on a boat. Old Streatham did it seven years ago during the big flood. He did it in a bark canoe on a hundred-dollar bet. The Arroyo takes you out to the Little Bowleg, which flows into the Rio Solano, and that's it! I've got his map.”

“Map?” cried Miss Van Arsdale. “What use is a map when you can’t see your hand before your face?”

“Map?” shouted Miss Van Arsdale. “What good is a map when you can’t see your hand in front of your face?”

“Give this wind a chance,” answered Banneker. “Within two hours the clouds will have broken and we’ll have moonlight to go by.... The Angelica Herald man is over at the hotel now,” he added.

“Give this wind a chance,” replied Banneker. “In about two hours, the clouds will clear up and we’ll have moonlight to guide us.... The Angelica Herald guy is over at the hotel right now,” he added.

“May I take a suitcase?” asked Io.

“Can I take a suitcase?” asked Io.

“Of course. I’ll strap it to your pony if you’ll get it ready. Miss Camilla, what shall we do with the pony? Hitch him under the bridge?”

“Sure. I’ll tie it to your pony if you get it ready. Miss Camilla, what do you want to do with the pony? Should we tie him up under the bridge?”

“If you’re determined to take her, I’ll ride over with you and bring him back. Io, think! Is it worth the risk? Let the reporter come. I can keep him away from you.”

“If you’re set on taking her, I’ll ride over with you and bring him back. Io, think about it! Is it worth the risk? Let the reporter come. I can keep him away from you.”

A brooding expression was in the girl’s deep eyes as she turned them, not to the speaker, but to Banneker. “No,” she said. “I’ve got to get away sooner or later. I’d rather go this way. It’s more—it’s more of a pattern with all the rest; better than stupidly waving good-bye from the rear of a train.”

A pensive look was in the girl’s deep eyes as she turned them, not to the speaker, but to Banneker. “No,” she said. “I have to leave sooner or later. I’d rather go this way. It’s more—it’s more in line with everything else; better than just waving goodbye from the back of a train.”

“But the danger.”

“But the risk.”

“Che sará, sará,” returned Io lightly. “I’ll trust him to take care of me.”

What will be, will be,” responded Io casually. “I’ll trust him to look out for me.”

While Ban went out to prepare the horses with the aid of Pedro, strictly enjoined to secrecy, the two women got Io’s few things together.

While Ban went out to get the horses ready with Pedro, who was strictly instructed to keep quiet about it, the two women gathered up Io’s few belongings.

“I can’t thank you,” said the girl, looking up as she snapped the lock of her case. “It simply isn’t a case for thanking. You’ve done too much for me.”

“I can’t thank you,” said the girl, looking up as she snapped the lock of her case. “It just isn’t a situation that calls for thanks. You’ve done too much for me.”

The older woman disregarded it. “How much are you hurting Ban?” she said, with musing eyes fixed on the dim and pure outline of the girlish face.

The older woman ignored it. “How much are you hurting, Ban?” she said, her thoughtful gaze focused on the soft and clear outline of the girl’s face.

“I? Hurt him?”

"Me? Hurt him?"

“Of course he won’t realize it until you’ve gone. Then I’m afraid to think what is coming to him.”

“Of course he won’t get it until you’re gone. Then I dread to think what’s coming for him.”

“And I’m afraid to think what is coming to me,” replied the girl, very low.

“And I’m scared to think about what’s coming for me,” replied the girl, very softly.

“Ah, you!” retorted her hostess, dismissing that consideration with contemptuous lightness. “You have plenty of compensations, plenty of resources.”

“Ah, you!” her hostess replied, brushing off that thought with a dismissive attitude. “You have so many advantages, so many resources.”

“Hasn’t he?”

"Hasn't he?"

“Perhaps. Up to now. What will he do when he wakes up to an empty world?”

“Maybe. Until now. What will he do when he wakes up to a deserted world?”

“Write, won’t he? And then the world won’t be empty.”

“Will he write? Then the world won’t feel empty.”

“He’ll think it so. That is why I’m sorry for him.”

“He’ll believe that. That’s why I feel sorry for him.”

“Won’t you be sorry a little for me?” pleaded the girl. “Anyway, for the part of me that I’m leaving here? Perhaps it’s the very best of me.”

“Won’t you feel at least a little sorry for me?” the girl asked. “Well, for the part of me that I’m leaving behind? Maybe it’s the very best part of me.”

Miss Van Arsdale shook her head. “Oh, no! A pleasantly vivid dream of changed and restful things. That’s all. Your waking will be only a sentimental and perfumed regret—a sachet-powder sorrow.”

Miss Van Arsdale shook her head. “Oh, no! Just a nice, vivid dream of things that have changed and are now peaceful. That’s all. When you wake up, it will be nothing more than a sentimental and scented regret—a powdery sadness.”

“You’re bitter.”

"You're resentful."

“I don’t want him hurt,” protested the other. “Why did you come here? What should a girl like you, feverish and sensation-loving and artificial, see in a boy like Ban to charm you?”

“I don’t want him hurt,” the other protested. “Why did you come here? What would a girl like you, all about drama and thrills and so superficial, see in a guy like Ban to attract you?”

“Ah, don’t you understand? It’s just because my world has been too dressed up and painted and powdered that I feel the charm of—of—well, of ease of existence. He’s as easy as an animal. There’s something about him—you must have felt it—sort of impassioned sense of the gladness of life; when he has those accesses he’s like a young god, or a faun. But he doesn’t know his own power. At those times he might do anything.”

“Ah, don’t you get it? It’s just that my world has been so made up and polished that I really appreciate the charm of—of—well, just the ease of living. He’s as relaxed as an animal. There’s something about him—you must have noticed it—this passionate sense of the joy of life; when he gets like that, he’s like a young god or a faun. But he doesn’t realize his own strength. In those moments, he could do anything.”

She shivered a little and her lids drooped over the luster of her dreaming eyes.

She shivered slightly, and her eyelids fell over the shine of her dreaming eyes.

“And you want to tempt him out of this to a world where he would be a wretched misfit,” accused the older woman.

“And you want to lure him out of this to a world where he would be a miserable outcast,” accused the older woman.

“Do I? No; I think I don’t. I think I’d rather hold him in my mind as he is here: a happy eremite; no, a restrained pagan. Oh, it’s foolish to seek definitions for him. He isn’t definable. He’s Ban....”

“Do I? No; I don’t think so. I’d rather keep him in my mind the way he is here: a happy hermit; no, a reserved pagan. Oh, it’s pointless to try to define him. He can’t be defined. He’s Ban....”

“And when you get back into the world, what will you do, I wonder?”

“And when you get back to the real world, what do you think you’ll do?”

“I won’t send for him, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m not going to call for him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“But what will you do, I wonder?”

“But what will you do, I wonder?”

“I wonder,” repeated Io somberly.

“I wonder,” Io said seriously.

CHAPTER XIII

Silently they rode through the stir and thresh of the night, the two women and the man. For guidance along the woods trail they must trust to the finer sense of their horses whose heads they could not see in the closed-in murk. A desultory spray fell upon them as the wind wrenched at the boughs overhead, but the rain had ceased. Infinitely high, infinitely potent sounded the imminent tumult of the invisible Powers of the night, on whose sufferance they moved, tiny, obscure, and unharmed. It filled all the distances.

Silently, the two women and the man rode through the stir and chaos of the night. They had to rely on their horses’ instincts to navigate the wooded trail since they couldn’t see their heads in the thick darkness. A light spray of rain fell on them as the wind tugged at the branches above, but the rain had stopped. The powerful sounds of the unseen forces of the night surrounded them, where they moved, small, hidden, and safe. It filled the entire space around them.

Debouching upon the open desert, they found their range of vision slightly expanded. They could dimly perceive each other. The horses drew closer together. With his flash covered by his poncho, Banneker consulted a compass and altered their course, for he wished to give the station, to which Gardner might have returned, a wide berth. Io moved up abreast of him as he stood, studying the needle. Had he turned the light upward he would have seen that she was smiling. Whether he would have interpreted that smile, whether, indeed, she could have interpreted it herself, is doubtful.

Stepping out into the open desert, they noticed their field of vision had widened a bit. They could faintly make out each other. The horses moved closer together. With his flashlight hidden under his poncho, Banneker checked the compass and changed their direction because he wanted to steer clear of the station where Gardner might have gone back to. Io walked up next to him as he looked at the needle. If he had pointed the light up, he would have seen her smiling. Whether he would have understood that smile, or if she could have understood it herself, is uncertain.

Presently they picked up the line of telegraph poles, well beyond the station, just the faintest suggestion of gaunt rigor against the troubled sky, and skirted them, moving more rapidly in the confidence of assured direction. A very gradual, diffused alleviation of the darkness began to be felt. The clouds were thinning. Something ahead of them hissed in a soft, full, insistent monosonance. Banneker threw up a shadowy arm. They dismounted on the crest of a tiny desert clifflet, now become the bank of a black current which nuzzled and nibbled into its flanks.

Right now, they followed the line of telegraph poles, well past the station, just barely visible against the troubled sky, and moved along them, picking up speed with a sense of purpose. A gentle, gradual easing of the darkness started to be felt. The clouds were breaking up. Something ahead of them hissed with a soft, full, persistent sound. Banneker raised a shadowy arm. They got off their horses on the edge of a small desert cliff, which had now become the bank of a dark current that lapped and nibbled at its sides.

Io gazed intently at the flood which was to deliver her out of the hands of the Philistine. How far away the other bank of the newborn stream might be, she could only guess from the vague rush in her ears. The arroyo’s water slipped ceaselessly, objectlessly away from beneath her strained vision, smooth, suave, even, effortless, like the process of some unhurried and mighty mechanism. Now and again a desert plant, uprooted from its arid home, eddied joyously past her, satiated for once of its lifelong thirst; and farther out she thought to have a glimpse of some dead and whitish animal. But these were minor blemishes on a great, lustrous ribbon of silken black, unrolled and re-rolled from darkness into darkness.

Io stared hard at the flood that was meant to save her from the Philistine. She could only guess how far away the other side of the new stream was from the vague rush she could hear. The water of the arroyo flowed endlessly and without purpose away from her strained gaze, smooth, sleek, even, and effortless, like the workings of some slow but powerful machine. Occasionally, a desert plant, uprooted from its dry home, spiraled happily past her, finally quenched after a lifetime of thirst; and further out, she thought she saw the glimpse of some dead, pale animal. But these were mere imperfections on a great, glossy ribbon of silky black, unrolled and re-rolled from darkness into darkness.

“It’s beckoning us,” said Io, leaning to Banneker, her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s calling us,” said Io, leaning toward Banneker, her hand on his shoulder.

“We must wait for more light,” he answered.

“We have to wait for more clarity,” he replied.

“Will you trust yourself to that?” asked Camilla Van Arsdale, with a gesture of fear and repulsion toward the torrent.

“Will you trust yourself to that?” asked Camilla Van Arsdale, gesturing with fear and disgust at the rushing water.

“Anywhere!” returned Io. There was exaltation in her voice.

“Anywhere!” Io replied, her voice full of excitement.

“I can’t understand it,” cried the older woman. “How do you know what may lie before you?”

“I can’t understand it,” cried the older woman. “How do you know what could be ahead of you?”

“That is the thrill of it.”

"That's the thrill of it."

“There may be death around the first curve. It’s so unknown; so secret and lawless.”

“There might be death waiting around the first turn. It’s so mysterious; so hidden and chaotic.”

“Ah, and I’m lawless!” cried Io. “I could defy the gods on a night like this!”

“Ah, and I’m untamed!” shouted Io. “I could challenge the gods on a night like this!”

She flung her arms aloft, in a movement of sweet, wild abandon, and, as if in response to an incantation, the sky was reft asunder and the moon rushed forth, free for the moment of the clutching clouds, fugitive, headlong, a shining Maenad of the heavens, surrounded by the rush and whirl that had whelmed earth and its waters and was hurrying them to an unknown, mad destiny.

She threw her arms up in a moment of joyful, wild freedom, and, as if responding to a spell, the sky split open and the moon burst out, momentarily free from the grasping clouds, rushing forward, shining like a wild spirit of the heavens, surrounded by the chaos and swirl that had engulfed the earth and its waters, pushing them toward an unknown, frenzied fate.

“Now we can see our way,” said Banneker, the practical.

“Now we can see our path,” said Banneker, the practical.

He studied the few rods of sleek, foamless water between him and the farther bank, and, going to the steel boat which Mindle had brought to the place on the hand car, took brief inventory of its small cargo. Satisfied, he turned to load in Io’s few belongings. He shipped the oars.

He looked at the small stretch of smooth, foam-free water separating him from the other shore, and then walked over to the steel boat that Mindle had brought on the handcar. He quickly checked its limited cargo. Happy with what he saw, he turned to load Io’s few belongings. He put the oars in place.

“I’ll let her go stem-first,” he explained; “so that I can see what we’re coming to and hold her if there’s trouble.”

“I’ll let her go in headfirst,” he explained; “so that I can see what we're approaching and grab her if there's any trouble.”

“But can you see?” objected Miss Van Arsdale, directing a troubled look at the breaking sky.

“But can you see?” protested Miss Van Arsdale, casting a worried glance at the darkening sky.

“If we can’t, we’ll run her ashore until we can.”

“If we can’t, we’ll take her to shore until we can.”

He handed Io the flashlight and the map.

He gave Io the flashlight and the map.

“You’ll want me in the bow seat if we’re traveling reversed,” said she.

“You'll want me in the front seat if we're driving backward,” she said.

He assented. “Good sailorwoman!”

He agreed. “Great sailor woman!”

“I don’t like it,” protested Miss Van Arsdale. “It’s a mad business. Ban, you oughtn’t to take her.”

“I don’t like it,” protested Miss Van Arsdale. “It’s a crazy situation. Ban, you shouldn’t take her.”

“It’s too late to talk of that,” said Io.

“It’s too late to talk about that,” said Io.

“Ready?” questioned Banneker.

“Ready?” Banneker asked.

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

He pushed the stern of the boat into the stream, and the current laid it neatly and powerfully flat to the sheer bank. Io kissed Camilla Van Arsdale quickly and got in.

He nudged the back of the boat into the stream, and the current smoothly and strongly pressed it against the steep bank. Io kissed Camilla Van Arsdale quickly and climbed in.

“We’ll wire you from Miradero,” she promised. “You’ll find the message in the morning.”

“We’ll send you a message from Miradero,” she promised. “You’ll find it in the morning.”

The woman, mastering herself with a difficult effort, held out her hand to Banneker.

The woman, making a tough effort to control herself, reached out her hand to Banneker.

“If you won’t be persuaded,” she said, “then good—”

“If you won’t be convinced,” she said, “then fine—”

“No,” he broke in quickly. “That’s bad luck. We shall be all right.”

“No,” he interrupted quickly. “That’s just bad luck. We’ll be fine.”

“Good luck, then,” returned his friend, and turned away into the night.

“Good luck, then,” his friend replied, and walked away into the night.

Banneker, with one foot in the boat, gave a little shove and caught up his oars. An unseen hand of indeterminable might grasped the keel and moved them quietly, evenly, outward and forward, puppets given into the custody of the unregarding powers. Oars poised and ready, Ban sat with his back toward his passenger, facing watchfully downstream.

Banneker, with one foot in the boat, gave a slight push and picked up his oars. An invisible force of unknown strength held the keel and moved them smoothly and steadily, like puppets controlled by indifferent powers. With his oars at the ready, Ban sat with his back to his passenger, keeping a watchful eye on the river ahead.

Leaning back into the curve of the bow, Io gave herself up to the pulsing sweep of the night. Far, far above her stirred a cosmic tumult. The air might have been filled with vast wings, invisible and incessant in the night of wonders. The moon plunged headlong through the clouds, now submerged, now free, like a strong swimmer amidst surf. She moved to the music of a tremendous, trumpeting note, the voice of the unleashed Spring, male and mighty, exulting in his power, while beneath, the responsive, desirous earth thrilled and trembled and was glad.

Leaning back into the curve of the bow, Io surrendered to the rhythmic embrace of the night. High above her, a cosmic chaos stirred. The air might have been filled with enormous, invisible wings, constantly moving in this night of wonders. The moon plunged through the clouds, sometimes hidden, sometimes visible, like a strong swimmer battling the waves. She moved to the sound of a powerful, trumpeting note, the voice of unrestrained Spring, bold and strong, celebrating its power, while below, the eager, yearning earth vibrated and trembled with joy.

The boat, a tiny speck on the surface of chaos, darted and checked and swerved lightly at the imperious bidding of unguessed forces, reaching up from the depths to pluck at it in elfish sportiveness. Only when Ban thrust down the oar-blades, as he did now and again to direct their course or avoid some obstacle, was Io made sensible, through the jar and tremor of the whole structure, how swiftly they moved. She felt the spirit of the great motion, of which they were a minutely inconsiderable part, enter into her soul. She was inspired of it, freed, elated, glorified. She lifted up her voice and sang. Ban, turning, gave her one quick look of comprehension, then once more was intent and watchful of their master and servitor, the flood.

The boat, a tiny dot on the chaotic surface, zipped and swerved lightly at the command of unseen forces reaching up from the depths to play with it mischievously. Only when Ban pushed down the oar-blades, as he did now and then to steer their course or dodge an obstacle, did Io realize, through the vibrations of the whole structure, how quickly they moved. She felt the essence of the great movement, of which they were a minute part, fill her soul. She was inspired by it, liberated, uplifted, and glorified. She raised her voice and sang. Ban turned to give her a quick look of understanding, then once again focused intently on their master and servant, the flood.

“Ban,” she called.

"Ban," she shouted.

He tossed an oar to indicate that he had heard.

He threw an oar to show that he had heard.

“Come back and sit by me.”

“Come back and sit with me.”

He seemed to hesitate.

He seemed unsure.

“Let the boat go where it wants to! The river will take care of us. It’s a good river, and so strong! I think it loves to have us here.”

“Let the boat go wherever it wants! The river will look after us. It’s a great river, and so powerful! I think it enjoys having us here.”

Ban shook his head.

“‘Let the great river bear us to the sea,’” sang Io in her fresh and thrilling voice, stirring the uttermost fibers of his being with delight. “Ban, can’t you trust the river and the night and—and the mad gods? I can.”

“‘Let the great river take us to the sea,’” sang Io in her vibrant and exciting voice, awakening every part of his being with joy. “Ban, can’t you trust the river and the night and—and the wild gods? I can.”

Again he shook his head. In his attitude she sensed a new concentration upon something ahead. She became aware of a strange stir that was not of the air nor the water.

Again he shook his head. In his demeanor, she noticed a new focus on something in the distance. She felt an unusual agitation that wasn’t from the air or the water.

“Hush—sh—sh—sh—sh!” said something unseen, with an immense effect of restraint and enforced quiet.

“Hush—sh—sh—sh—sh!” said something unseen, creating a powerful sense of control and forced silence.

The boat slewed sharply as Banneker checked their progress with a downthrust of oars. He edged in toward the farther bank which was quite flat, studying it with an eye to the most favoring spot, having selected which, he ran the stern up with several hard shoves, leapt out, hauled the body of the craft free from the balked and snatching current, and held out a hand to his passenger.

The boat swung sharply as Banneker checked their progress with a powerful stroke of the oars. He steered toward the far bank, which was quite flat, carefully looking for the best spot. Once he found it, he pushed the back of the boat hard several times, jumped out, pulled the boat free from the struggling current, and extended a hand to his passenger.

“What is it?” she asked as she joined him.

“What is it?” she asked as she walked over to him.

“I don’t know. I’m trying to think where I’ve heard that noise before.” He pondered. “Ah, I’ve got it! It was when I was out on the coast in the big rains, and a few million tons of river-bank let go all holds and smushed down into the stream.... What’s on your map?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to remember where I’ve heard that noise before.” He thought. “Oh, I remember! It was when I was on the coast during the heavy rains, and a ton of riverbank gave way and collapsed into the stream.... What’s on your map?”

He bent over it, conning its detail by the light of the flash which she turned on.

He leaned over it, studying its details by the light of the flash she turned on.

“We should be about here,” he indicated, touching the paper, “I’ll go ahead and take a look.”

“We should be around here,” he said, pointing to the paper, “I’ll head on and check it out.”

“Shan’t I go with you?”

“Shouldn’t I go with you?”

“Better stay quiet and get all the rest you can.”

“It's better to stay quiet and get as much rest as you can.”

He was gone some twenty minutes. “There’s a big, fresh-looking split-off in the opposite bank,” he reported; “and the water looks fizzy and whirly around there. I think we’ll give her a little time to settle. A sudden shift underneath might suck us down. The water’s rising every minute, which makes it worth while waiting. Besides, it’s dark just now.”

He was gone for about twenty minutes. “There’s a big, fresh-looking crack on the opposite shore,” he reported. “And the water looks all fizzy and swirl-y over there. I think we should wait a bit for it to settle. A sudden shift below could pull us under. The water’s rising every minute, so it’s worth waiting. Plus, it’s dark right now.”

“Do you believe in fate?” asked the girl abruptly, as he seated himself on the sand beside her. “That’s a silly, schoolgirl thing to say, isn’t it?” she added. “But I was thinking of this boat being there in the middle of the dry desert, just when we needed it most.”

“Do you believe in fate?” the girl asked suddenly as he sat down on the sand next to her. “That’s a silly, schoolgirl thing to say, right?” she added. “But I was thinking about that boat being right there in the middle of the dry desert, just when we needed it the most.”

“It had been there some time,” pointed out Banneker. “And if we couldn’t have come this way, I’d have found some other.”

“It had been there for a while,” Banneker pointed out. “And if we couldn’t have come this way, I would have found another route.”

“I believe you would,” crowed Io softly.

“I think you would,” Io said softly.

“So, I don’t believe in fate; not the ready-made kind. Things aren’t that easy. If I did—”

“So, I don’t believe in fate; not the preordained kind. Things aren’t that simple. If I did—”

“If you did?” she prompted as he paused.

“If you did?” she encouraged as he hesitated.

“I’d get back into the boat with you and throw away the oars.”

“I’d get back in the boat with you and toss the oars aside.”

“I dare you!” she cried recklessly.

"I dare you!" she shouted without thinking.

“We’d go whirling and spinning along,” he continued with dreams in his voice, “until dawn came, and then we’d go ashore and camp.”

“We’d go whirling and spinning along,” he continued with dreams in his voice, “until dawn came, and then we’d go ashore and set up camp.”

“Where?”

"Where at?"

“How should I know? In the Enchanted Canyon where it enters the Mountains of Fulfillment.... They’re not on this map.”

“They’re not on any map. More’s the pity. And then?”

“They’re not on any map. What a shame. So then?”

“Then we’d rest. And after that we’d climb to the Plateau Beyond the Clouds where the Fadeless Gardens are, and there...”

“Then we’d take a break. After that, we’d climb to the Plateau Beyond the Clouds where the Everlasting Gardens are, and there...”

“And there?”

"And there?"

“There we’d hear the Undying Voices singing.”

“Should we sing, too?”

"Should we join in singing?"

“Of course. ‘For they who attain these heights, through pain of upward toil and the rigors of abstention, are as the demigods, secure above evil and the fear thereof.’”

“Of course. ‘For those who reach these heights, through the struggle of hard work and the challenges of self-control, are like demigods, safe from evil and its fear.’”

“I don’t know what that is, but I hate the ‘upward toil’ part of it, and the ‘abstention’ even more. We ought to be able to become demigods without all that, just because we wish it. In a fairy-tale, anyway. I don’t think you’re a really competent fairy-tale-monger, Ban.”

“I don’t know what that is, but I hate the ‘upward toil’ part of it, and the ‘abstention’ even more. We should be able to become demigods without all that, just because we want to. In a fairy tale, at least. I don’t think you’re a very good fairy tale creator, Ban.”

“You haven’t let me go on to the ‘live happy ever after’ part,” he complained.

“You haven’t let me move on to the ‘live happily ever after’ part,” he said.

“Ah, that’s the serpent, the lying, poisoning little serpent, always concealed in the gardens of dreams. They don’t, Ban; people don’t live happy ever after. I could believe in fairy-tales up to that point. Just there ugly old Experience holds up her bony finger—she’s a horrid hag, Ban, but we’d all be dead or mad without her—and points to the wriggling little snake.”

“Ah, that’s the snake, the deceitful, toxic little snake, always hiding in the gardens of dreams. They don’t, Ban; people don’t live happily ever after. I could believe in fairy tales up until that point. Right there, ugly old Experience raises her bony finger—she’s a terrible witch, Ban, but we’d all be dead or insane without her—and points to the wriggling little snake.”

“In my garden,” said he, “she’d have shining wings and eyes that could look to the future as well as to the past, and immortal Hope for a lover. It would be worth all the toil and the privation.”

“In my garden,” he said, “she’d have shining wings and eyes that could see both the future and the past, along with eternal Hope as her lover. It would be worth all the hard work and sacrifice.”

“Nobody ever made up a Paradise,” said the girl fretfully, “but what the Puritan in him set the road with sharp stones and bordered it with thorns and stings.... Look, Ban! Here’s the moon come back to us.... And see what’s laughing at us and our dreams.”

“Nobody ever created a Paradise,” the girl said irritably, “without the Puritan in him laying the path with sharp stones and lining it with thorns and stings.... Look, Ban! The moon is back with us.... And see what’s mocking us and our dreams.”

On the crest of a sand-billow sprawled a huge organ-cactus, brandishing its arms in gnomish derision of their presence.

On top of a sand dune lay a massive organ cactus, waving its arms mockingly at their presence.

“How can one help but believe in foul spirits with that thing to prove their existence?” she said. “And, look! There’s the good spirit in front of that shining cloud.”

“How can anyone not believe in evil spirits with that thing proving they exist?” she said. “And look! There’s the good spirit in front of that shining cloud.”

She pointed to a yucca in full, creamy flower; a creature of unearthly purity in the glow of the moon, a dream-maiden beckoning at the gates of darkness to a world of hidden and ineffable beauty.

She pointed to a yucca in full bloom, creamy white flowers shining; a being of otherworldly purity in the moonlight, a dream-like figure inviting at the edge of darkness to a realm of concealed and indescribable beauty.

“When I saw my first yucca in blossom,” said Banneker, “it was just before sunrise after I had been riding all night, and I came on it around a dip in the hills, standing alone against a sky of pearl and silver. It made me think of a ghost, the ghost of a girl who had died too young to know womanhood, died while she was asleep and dreaming pale, soft dreams, never to be fulfilled.”

“When I saw my first yucca in bloom,” said Banneker, “it was just before sunrise after I had been riding all night, and I came across it around a dip in the hills, standing alone against a sky of pearl and silver. It reminded me of a ghost, the spirit of a girl who died too young to experience womanhood, who passed away while she was sleeping and dreaming gentle, soft dreams that would never come true.”

“That’s the injustice of death,” she answered. “To take one before one knows and has felt and been all that there is to know and feel and be.”

"That’s the unfairness of death," she replied. "To take someone away before they've experienced everything there is to know, feel, and be."

“Yet”—he turned a slow smile to her—“you were just now calling Experience bad names; a horrid hag, wasn’t it?”

“Yet”—he gave her a slow smile—“you were just calling Experience some pretty nasty names; a horrible hag, wasn’t it?”

“At least, she’s life,” retorted the girl.

“At least, she’s alive,” retorted the girl.

“Yes. She’s life.”

"Yes. She’s everything."

“Ban, I want to go on. The whole universe is in motion. Why must we stand still?”

“Ban, I want to keep going. The whole universe is moving. Why should we just stay put?”

They reëmbarked. The grip of the hurrying depths took them past crinkly water, lustrously bronze in the moonlight where the bank had given way, and presently delivered them, around the shoulder of a low, brush-crowned bluff, into the keeping of a swollen creek. Here the going was more tricky. There were shoals and whirls at the bends, and plunging flotsam to be avoided. Banneker handled the boat with masterly address, easing her through the swift passages, keeping her, with a touch here and a dip there, to the deepest flow, swerving adroitly to dodge the trees and brush which might have punctured the thin metal. Once he cried out and lunged at some object with an unshipped oar. It rolled and sank, but not before Io had caught the contour of a pasty face. She was startled rather than horrified at this apparition of death. It seemed an accessory proper to the pattern of the bewitched night.

They got back on the boat. The pull of the rushing water took them past rippling waves, shining bronze in the moonlight where the shore had eroded, and soon led them, around the curve of a low, bushy bluff, into a swollen creek. Here, the navigation was trickier. There were shallow spots and whirlpools at the bends, and floating debris to avoid. Banneker skillfully maneuvered the boat, guiding it through the fast currents, keeping it, with a gentle touch here and a dip there, in the deepest part of the flow, skillfully dodging the trees and brush that could have punctured the thin metal. At one point, he shouted and lunged at something with a loose oar. It rolled and sank, but not before Io caught a glimpse of a pale face. She felt more startled than horrified by this sight of death. It seemed like a fitting part of the strange night’s pattern.

Through a little, silvered surf of cross-waves, they were shot, after an hour of this uneasy going, into the broad, clean sweep of the Little Bowleg River. After the troubled progress of the lesser current it seemed very quiet and secure; almost placid. But the banks slipped by in an endless chain. Presently they came abreast of three horsemen riding the river trail, who urged their horses into a gallop, keeping up with them for a mile or more. As they fell away, Io waved a handkerchief at them, to which they made response by firing a salvo from their revolvers into the air.

Through a small, shimmering surf of cross-waves, they were swept, after an hour of this uneasy journey, into the wide, clear stretch of the Little Bowleg River. After the troubled progress of the smaller current, it felt very calm and safe; almost tranquil. But the banks passed by in an endless stream. Soon they came alongside three horsemen on the river trail, who urged their horses into a gallop, keeping pace with them for a mile or more. As they pulled ahead, Io waved a handkerchief at them, and they responded by firing a few shots from their revolvers into the air.

“We’re making better than ten miles an hour,” Banneker called over his shoulder to his passenger.

“We're going faster than ten miles an hour,” Banneker shouted back to his passenger.

They shot between the split halves of a little, scraggly, ramshackle town, danced in white water where the ford had been, and darted onward. Now Banneker began to hold against the current, scanning the shores until, with a quick wrench, he brought the stern around and ran it up on a muddy bit of strand.

They shot between the split halves of a small, shabby, rundown town, danced in the white water where the crossing used to be, and quickly moved on. Now Banneker started to fight the current, looking at the shores until, with a quick turn, he swung the back around and ran it up onto a muddy piece of beach.

“Grub!” he announced gayly.

“Food!” he announced cheerfully.

Languor had taken possession of Io, the languor of one who yields to unknown and fateful forces. Passive and at peace, she wanted nothing but to be wafted by the current to whatever far bourne might await her. That there should be such things as railway trains and man-made schedules in this world of winds and mystery and the voice of great waters, was hard to believe; hardly worth believing in any case. Better not to think of it: better to muse on her companion, building fire as the first man had built for the first woman, to feed and comfort her in an environment of imminent fears.

Languor had taken over Io, the kind that comes from giving in to unknown and fateful forces. Passive and at peace, she wanted nothing more than to be carried along by the current to whatever distant place awaited her. The idea that there could be railway trains and man-made schedules in this world of winds and mystery and the sound of great waters was hard to believe; hardly worth believing in anyway. Better not to think about it: better to reflect on her companion, building a fire like the first man had for the first woman, to feed and comfort her in a setting filled with looming fears.

Coffee, when her man brought it, seemed too artificial for the time and place. She shook her head. She was not hungry.

Coffee, when her guy brought it, felt too fake for the moment and setting. She shook her head. She wasn’t hungry.

“You must,” insisted Ban. He pointed downstream where the murk lay heavy. “We shall run into more rain. You will need the warmth and support of food.”

“You have to,” Ban insisted. He pointed downstream where the darkness hung thick. “We’re going to encounter more rain. You’ll need the warmth and energy from food.”

So, because there were only they two on the face of the known earth, woman and man, the woman obeyed the man. To her surprise, she found that she was hungry, ardently hungry. Both ate heartily. It was a silent meal; little spoken except about the chances and developments of the journey, until she got to her feet. Then she said:

So, since there were just the two of them on earth, a woman and a man, the woman followed the man’s lead. To her surprise, she realized she was really hungry. They both ate a lot. It was a quiet meal, with hardly any conversation except about the ups and downs of their journey, until she stood up. Then she said:

“I shall never, as long as I live, wherever I go, whatever I do, know anything like this again. I shall not want to. I want it to stand alone.”

“I will never, as long as I live, wherever I go, whatever I do, know anything like this again. I don't want to. I want it to stand alone.”

“It will stand alone,” he answered.

“It will stand alone,” he replied.

They met the rain within half an hour, a wall-like mass of it. It blotted out everything around them. The roar of it cut off sound, as the mass of it cut off sight. Fortunately the boat was now going evenly as in an oiled groove. By feeling, Io knew that her guide was moving from his seat, and guessed that he was bailing. The spare poncho, put in by Miss Van Arsdale, protected her. She was jubilant with the thresh of the rain in her face, the sweet, smooth motion of the boat beneath her, the wild abandon of the night, which, entering into her blood, had transmuted it into soft fire.

They encountered the rain within half an hour, a massive wall of it. It wiped out everything around them. The roar drowned out all sound, just as the thick rain obscured their vision. Luckily, the boat was now gliding smoothly along. Io could feel that her guide was getting up from his seat and guessed he was bailing water. The spare poncho that Miss Van Arsdale had packed kept her dry. She felt ecstatic with the rain hitting her face, the gentle movement of the boat beneath her, and the wild energy of the night, which filled her with a warm glow.

How long she crouched, exultant and exalted, under the beat of the storm, she could not guess. She half emerged from her possession with a strange feeling that the little craft was being irresistibly drawn forward and downward in what was now a suction rather than a current. At the same time she felt the spring and thrust of Banneker’s muscles, straining at the oars. She dipped a hand into the water. It ridged high around her wrists with a startling pressure. What was happening?

How long she crouched, thrilled and elevated, under the pounding of the storm, she couldn't tell. She partially came out of her daze with a strange sense that the small boat was being pulled forward and downward in what felt more like a suction than a current. At the same time, she could feel the power and force of Banneker’s muscles, straining at the oars. She dipped a hand into the water. It rose high around her wrists with an intense pressure. What was happening?

Through the uproar she could dimly hear Ban’s voice. He seemed to be swearing insanely. Dropping to her hands and knees, for the craft was now swerving and rocking, she crept to him.

Through the chaos, she could faintly hear Ban's voice. He sounded like he was cursing wildly. Dropping to her hands and knees, as the craft was now swerving and rocking, she crawled over to him.

“The dam! The dam! The dam!” he shouted. “I’d forgotten about it. Go back. Turn on the flash. Look for shore.”

“The dam! The dam! The dam!” he yelled. “I totally forgot about it. Go back. Turn on the flashlight. Look for land.”

Against rather than into that impenetrable enmeshment of rain, the glow dispersed itself ineffectually. Io sat, not frightened so much as wondering. Her body ached in sympathy with the panting, racking toil of the man at the oars, the labor of an indomitable pigmy, striving to thwart a giant’s will. Suddenly he shouted. The boat spun. Something low and a shade blacker than the dull murk about them, with a white, whispering ripple at its edge, loomed. The boat’s prow drove into soft mud as Banneker, all but knocking her overboard in his dash, plunged to the land and with one powerful lift, brought boat and cargo to safety.

Against that thick wall of rain, the light spread out weakly. Io sat there, not so much scared as curious. Her body ached in tune with the exhausting effort of the man at the oars, battling like a tiny warrior against a giant’s force. Suddenly, he shouted. The boat spun around. Something low and slightly darker than the gloomy water surrounding them, with a white, soft ripple at its edge, appeared. The boat’s front slammed into soft mud as Banneker, almost knocking her overboard in his hurry, jumped to land and in one strong motion, pulled the boat and its cargo to safety.

For a moment he leaned, gasping, against a stump. When he spoke, it was to reproach himself bitterly.

For a moment, he leaned against a stump, gasping for breath. When he finally spoke, it was to harshly criticize himself.

“We must have come through the town. There’s a dam below it. I’d forgotten it. My God! If we hadn’t had the luck to strike shore.”

“We must have gone through the town. There’s a dam down there. I’d forgotten about it. Oh my God! If we hadn’t been lucky enough to reach the shore.”

“Is it a high dam?” she asked.

“Is it a big dam?” she asked.

“In this flood we’d be pounded to death the moment we were over. Listen! You can hear it.”

“In this flood, we’d be crushed the moment we went over. Listen! You can hear it.”

The rain had diminished a little. Above its insistence sounded a deeper, more formidable beat and thrill.

The rain had lessened a bit. Above its persistence was a deeper, more powerful rhythm and excitement.

“We must be quite close to it,” she said.

“We must be really close to it,” she said.

“A few rods, probably. Let me have the light. I want to explore before we start out.”

“A few yards, probably. Give me the light. I want to check things out before we head out.”

Much sooner than she had expected, he was back. He groped for and took her hand. His own was steady, but his voice shook as he said:

Much sooner than she had expected, he was back. He reached for and took her hand. His own was steady, but his voice trembled as he said:

“Io.”

"Yo."

“It’s the first time you’ve called me that. Well, Ban?”

“It’s the first time you’ve called me that. So, Ban?”

“Can you stand it to—to have me tell you something?”

“Can you handle it if I tell you something?”

“Yes.”

"Yup."

“We’re not on the shore.”

"We're not on the coast."

“Where, then? An island?”

“Where, then? A tropical island?”

“There aren’t any islands here. It must be a bit of the mainland cut off by the flood.”

“There aren’t any islands here. It must be a part of the mainland that got cut off by the flood.”

“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean. We can stand it until dawn.”

“I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re getting at. We can handle it until morning.”

A wavelet lapped quietly across her foot. She withdrew it and with that involuntary act came understanding. Her hand, turning in his, pressed close, palm cleaving to palm.

A wavelet gently touched her foot. She pulled it back, and with that instinctive action came understanding. Her hand, turning in his, pressed close, palm to palm.

“How much longer?” she asked in a whisper.

“How much longer?” she asked quietly.

“Not long. It’s just a tiny patch. And the river is rising every minute.”

“Not long. It’s just a small area. And the river is rising every minute.”

“How long?” she persisted.

“How long?” she pressed.

“Perhaps two hours. Perhaps less. My good God! If there’s any special hell for criminal fools, I ought to go to it for bringing you to this,” he burst out in agony.

“Maybe two hours. Maybe less. My God! If there’s any special hell for criminal idiots, I deserve to go there for putting you through this,” he exclaimed in pain.

“I brought you. Whatever there is, we’ll go to it together.”

“I brought you. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

“You’re wonderful beyond all wonders. Aren’t you afraid?”

“You're amazing beyond anything else. Aren't you scared?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t so much fear, though I dread to think of that hammering-down weight of water.”

“I don’t know. It’s not really fear, but I do dread the thought of that heavy weight of water pressing down."

“Don’t!” he cried brokenly. “I can’t bear to think of you—” He lifted his head sharply. “Isn’t it lightening up? Look! Can you see shore? We might be quite near.”

“Don’t!” he shouted, his voice trembling. “I can’t stand the thought of you—” He raised his head suddenly. “Isn’t it getting lighter? Look! Can you see the shore? We could be really close.”

She peered out, leaning forward. “No; there’s nothing.” Her hand turned within his, released itself gently. “I’m not afraid,” she said, speaking clear and swift. “It isn’t that. But I’m—rebellious. I hate the idea of it, of ending everything; the unfairness of it. To have to die without knowing the—the realness of life. Unfulfilled. It isn’t fair,” she accused breathlessly. “Ban, it’s what we were saying. Back there on the river-bank where the yucca stands. I don’t want to go—I can’t bear to go—before I’ve known ... before....”

She looked out, leaning forward. “No; there’s nothing.” Her hand moved within his, gently pulling away. “I’m not afraid,” she said, her words clear and quick. “It’s not that. But I’m—rebellious. I hate the idea of it, of ending everything; the unfairness of it. To have to die without experiencing the— the reality of life. Unfulfilled. It’s not fair,” she accused breathlessly. “Ban, it’s what we were talking about. Back there on the riverbank where the yucca grows. I don’t want to go—I can’t stand the thought of leaving—before I’ve known ... before....”

Her arms crept to enfold him. Her lips sought his, tremulous, surrendering, demanding in surrender. With all the passion and longing that he had held in control, refusing to acknowledge even their existence, as if the mere recognition of them would have blemished her, he caught her to him. He heard her, felt her sob once. The roar of the cataract was louder, more insistent in his ears ... or was it the rush of the blood in his veins?... Io cried out, a desolate and hungry cry, for he had wrenched his mouth from hers. She could feel the inner man abruptly withdrawn, concentrated elsewhere. She opened her eyes upon an appalling radiance wherein his face stood out clear, incredulous, then suddenly eager and resolute.

Her arms wrapped around him. Her lips reached for his, trembling, giving in, demanding in their giving. With all the passion and longing he had kept under control, refusing to even acknowledge they existed, as if just recognizing them would tarnish her, he pulled her close. He heard her and felt her sob once. The roar of the waterfall was louder, more urgent in his ears... or was it the rush of blood in his veins? Io cried out, a desolate and hungry cry, because he had pulled his mouth away from hers. She could sense the inner man suddenly withdrawing, focused on something else. She opened her eyes to an overwhelming brightness where his face stood out clear, disbelieving, then suddenly eager and determined.

“It’s a headlight!” he cried. “A train! Look, Io! The mainland. It’s only a couple of rods away.”

“It’s a headlight!” he shouted. “A train! Look, Io! The mainland. It’s just a couple of yards away.”

He slipped from her arms, ran to the boat.

He slipped out of her arms and ran to the boat.

“What are you going to do?” she called weakly. “Ban! You can never make it.”

“What are you going to do?” she called faintly. “Ban! You can never pull this off.”

“I’ve got to. It’s our only chance.”

“I have to. It's our only shot.”

As he spoke, he was fumbling under the seat. He brought out a coil of rope. Throwing off poncho, coat, and waistcoat, he coiled the lengths around his body.

As he talked, he was digging around under the seat. He pulled out a coil of rope. Taking off his poncho, coat, and vest, he wrapped the lengths around his body.

“Let me swim with you,” she begged.

“Let me swim with you,” she pleaded.

“You’re not strong enough.”

“You're not strong enough.”

“I don’t care. We’d go together ... I—I can’t face it alone, Ban.”

“I don’t care. We’ll go together ... I—I can’t face it alone, Ban.”

“You’ll have to. Or give up our only chance of life. You must, Io. If I shouldn’t get across, you may try it; the chances of the current might help you. But not until after you’re sure I haven’t made it. You must wait.”

“You have to. Or you'll lose our only chance at survival. You must, Io. If I don’t make it across, you can give it a shot; the current might work in your favor. But only after you’re certain I haven’t succeeded. You have to wait.”

“Yes,” she said submissively.

“Yes,” she replied obediently.

“As soon as I get to shore, I’ll throw the rope across to you. Listen for it. I’ll keep throwing until it strikes where you can get it.”

“As soon as I reach the shore, I’ll toss the rope over to you. Listen for it. I’ll keep tossing it until it lands where you can grab it.”

“I’ll give you the light.”

“I'll give you the go-ahead.”

“That may help. Then you make fast under the forward seat of the boat. Be sure it’s tight.”

"That might help. Then secure it under the front seat of the boat. Make sure it’s tight."

“Yes, Ban.”

“Yep, Ban.”

“Twitch three times on the rope to let me know when you’re ready and shove out and upstream as strongly as you can.”

“Twitch the rope three times to let me know when you’re ready, then push out and upstream as hard as you can.”

“Can you hold it against the current?”

“Can you keep it steady against the current?”

“I must. If I do, you’ll drift around against the bank. If I don’t—I’ll follow you.”

“I have to. If I don’t, you’ll just float around by the shore. If I do—I’ll keep up with you.”

“No, Ban,” she implored. “Not you, too. There’s no need—”

“No, Ban,” she pleaded. “Not you, too. There’s no need—”

“I’ll follow you,” said he. “Now, Io.”

“I'll follow you,” he said. “Now, Io.”

He kissed her gently, stepped back, took a run and flung himself upward and outward into the ravening current.

He kissed her softly, stepped back, took a running leap, and launched himself up and out into the rushing water.

She saw a foaming thresh that melted into darkness....

She saw a frothy wave that faded into darkness....

Time seemed to have stopped for her. She waited, waited, waited in a world wherein only Death waited with her.... Ban was now limp and lifeless somewhere far downstream, asprawl in the swiftness, rolling a pasty face to the sky like that grisly wayfarer who had hailed them silently in the upper reach of the river, a messenger and prophet of their fate. The rising waters eddied about her feet. The boat stirred uneasily. Mechanically she drew it back from the claim of the flood. A light blow fell upon her cheek and neck.

Time felt like it was standing still for her. She waited, waited, waited in a world where only Death was there with her. Ban was now limp and lifeless somewhere far downstream, sprawled out in the swift current, turning a pale face to the sky like that grim traveler who had silently greeted them in the upper part of the river, a messenger and prophet of their fate. The rising waters swirled around her feet. The boat shifted uneasily. Automatically, she pulled it back from the flood's grasp. A gentle touch landed on her cheek and neck.

It was the rope.

Instantly and intensely alive, Io tautened it and felt the jerk of Ban’s signal. With expert hands she made it fast, shipped the oars, twitched the cord thrice, and, venturing as far as she dared into the deluge, pushed with all her force and threw herself over the stern.

Instantly and intensely alive, Io tightened it and felt Ban's signal. With skilled hands, she secured it, stowed the oars, pulled the cord three times, and, pushing her limits into the downpour, pushed with all her strength and threw herself over the back.

The rope twanged and hummed like a gigantic bass-string. Io crawled to the oars, felt the gunwale dip and right again, and, before she could take a stroke, was pressed against the far bank. She clambered out and went to Banneker, guiding herself by the light. His face, in the feeble glow, shone, twisted in agony. He was shaking from head to foot. The other end of the rope which had brought her to safety was knotted fast around his waist.... So he would have followed, as he said!

The rope twanged and vibrated like a giant bass string. Io crawled to the oars, felt the edge of the boat dip and then rise again, and, before she could paddle, was pushed against the far bank. She climbed out and went to Banneker, using the light to guide her. His face, in the dim glow, shone, contorted in pain. He was shaking all over. The other end of the rope that had brought her to safety was tightly tied around his waist... So he really would have followed, as he said!

Through Io’s queer, inconsequent brain flitted a grotesque conjecture: what would the newspapers make of it if she had been found, washed up on the river-bank, and the Manzanita agent of the Atkinson and St. Philip Railroad Company drowned and haltered by a long tether to his boat, near by? A sensational story!...

Through Io’s strange, disjointed thoughts flashed a bizarre idea: what would the newspapers say if she were found washed up on the riverbank, and the Manzanita agent of the Atkinson and St. Philip Railroad Company had drowned, tied to his boat with a long rope, nearby? A sensational story!...

She went to Banneker, still helplessly shaking, and put her firm, slight hands on his shoulders.

She went to Banneker, still shaking uncontrollably, and placed her small, steady hands on his shoulders.

“It’s all right, Ban,” she said soothingly. “We’re out of it.”

“It’s okay, Ban,” she said gently. “We’re past that.”

CHAPTER XIV

“Arrived safe” was the laconic message delivered to Miss Camilla Van Arsdale by Banneker’s substitute when, after a haggard night, she rode over in the morning for news.

“Arrived safe” was the brief message delivered to Miss Camilla Van Arsdale by Banneker’s substitute when, after a tiring night, she rode over in the morning for updates.

Banneker himself returned on the second noon, after much and roundabout wayfaring. He had little to say of the night journey; nothing of the peril escaped. Miss Welland had caught a morning train for the East. She was none the worse for the adventurous trip. Camilla Van Arsdale, noting his rapt expression and his absent, questing eyes, wondered what underlay such reticence.... What had been the manner of their parting?

Banneker came back on the second noon after a long and winding journey. He didn’t share much about the night trip or the dangers he had faced. Miss Welland had taken a morning train to the East. She was completely fine after the adventurous journey. Camilla Van Arsdale, noticing his deep expression and distant, searching eyes, wondered what was behind his silence... What had their goodbye been like?

It had, indeed, been anti-climax. Both had been a little shy, a little furtive. Each, perhaps feeling a mutual strain, wanted the parting over, restlessly desiring the sedative of thought and quiet memory after that stress. The desperate peril from which they had been saved seemed a lesser crisis, leading from a greater and more significant one; leading to—what? For his part Banneker was content to “breathe and wait.” When they should meet again, it would be determined. How and when the encounter might take place, he did not trouble himself to consider. The whole universe was moulded and set for that event. Meantime the glory was about him; he could remember, recall, repeat, interpret....

It had definitely been an anti-climax. Both were a bit shy, a bit evasive. Each, maybe sensing a mutual tension, wanted to get the goodbyes over with, eagerly seeking the comfort of thought and quiet memories after that stress. The dire danger they had just escaped felt like a minor issue, leading from something much bigger and more meaningful; leading to—what? As for Banneker, he was fine with just “breathing and waiting.” When they met again, it would be decided then. He didn’t worry about how or when that meeting might happen. The whole universe was shaped and ready for that moment. In the meantime, the beauty surrounded him; he could remember, reflect, repeat, interpret....

For the hundredth time—or was it the thousandth?—he reconstructed that last hour of theirs together in the station at Miradero, waiting for the train. What had they said to each other? Commonplaces, mostly, and at times with effort, as if they were making conversation. They two! After that passionate and revealing moment between life and death on the island. What should he have said to her? Begged her to stay? On what basis? How could he?.... As the distant roar of the train warned them that the time of parting was close, it was she who broke through that strange restraint, turning upon him her old-time limpid and resolute regard.

For the hundredth time—or was it the thousandth?—he replayed that last hour they spent together at the station in Miradero, waiting for the train. What had they talked about? Mostly small talk, and at times it felt forced, as if they were trying to make conversation. Just the two of them! After that intense and revealing moment between life and death on the island. What should he have said to her? Should he have begged her to stay? On what grounds? How could he?.... As the distant sound of the train reminded them that the time to say goodbye was near, it was she who broke through that awkward tension, looking at him with her familiar, clear, and determined gaze.

“Ban; promise me something.”

"Ban; promise me one thing."

“Anything.”

“There may be a time coming for us when you won’t understand.”

“There might be a time ahead when you won't get it.”

“Understand what?”

"What do you mean?"

“Me. Perhaps I shan’t understand myself.”

“Me. Maybe I won’t understand myself.”

“You’ll always understand yourself, Io.”

“You will always understand yourself, Io.”

“If that comes—when that comes—Ban, there’s something in the book, our book, that I’ve left you to read.”

“If that happens—when that happens—Ban, there’s something in the book, our book, that I’ve left for you to read.”

“‘The Voices’?”

"The Voices?"

“Yes. I’ve fastened the pages together so that you can’t read it too soon.”

“Yes. I’ve bound the pages together so you can’t read it too soon.”

“When, then?”

"When is that?"

“When I tell you ... No; not when I tell you. When—oh, when you must! You’ll read it, and afterward, when you think of me, you’ll think of that, too. Will you?”

“When I tell you ... No; not when I tell you. When—oh, when you have to! You’ll read it, and afterward, when you think of me, you’ll think of that, too. Will you?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Always?”

"Always?"

“Always.”

“Forever.”

“No matter what happens?”

"Whatever happens?"

“No matter what happens.”

"Whatever happens."

“It’s like a litany.” She laughed tremulously.... “Here’s the train. Good-bye, dear.”

“It’s like a routine.” She laughed nervously.... “Here comes the train. Goodbye, dear.”

He felt the tips of slender fingers on his temples, the light, swift pressure of cold lips on his mouth.... While the train pulled out, she stood on the rear platform, looking, looking. She was very still. All motion, all expression seemed centered in the steady gaze which dwindled away from him, became vague ... featureless ... vanished in a lurch of the car.

He felt the tips of slender fingers on his temples and the light, quick pressure of cold lips on his mouth.... As the train pulled away, she stood on the back platform, looking, looking. She was completely still. All movement, all expression seemed focused in the steady gaze that faded away from him, became blurry... featureless... disappeared suddenly with a jolt of the car.

Banneker, at home again, planted a garden of dreams, and lived in it, mechanically acceptant of the outer world, resentful of any intrusion upon that flowerful retreat. Even of Miss Van Arsdale’s.

Banneker, back home, created a garden of dreams and immersed himself in it, passively accepting the outside world while feeling annoyed by any interruption to that beautiful escape. Even by Miss Van Arsdale’s presence.

Not for days thereafter did the Hunger come. It began as a little gnawing doubt and disappointment. It grew to a devastating, ravening starvation of the heart, for sign or sight or word of Io Welland. It drove him out of his withered seclusion, to seek Miss Van Arsdale, in the hope of hearing Io’s name spoken. But Miss Van Arsdale scarcely referred to Io. She watched Banneker with unconcealed anxiety.

Not for days afterward did the Hunger come. It started as a small, gnawing doubt and disappointment. It expanded into a devastating, ravenous starvation of the heart, craving any sign, sight, or word of Io Welland. It pushed him out of his lonely retreat to find Miss Van Arsdale, hoping to hear Io’s name mentioned. But Miss Van Arsdale barely acknowledged Io. She looked at Banneker with clear concern.

... Why had there been no letter?...

... Why hadn’t there been a letter?...

Appeasement came in the form of a package addressed in her handwriting. Avidly he opened it. It was the promised Bible, mailed from New York City. On the fly-leaf was written “I.O.W. to E.B.”—nothing more. He went through it page by page, seeking marked passages. There was none. The doubt settled down on him again. The Hunger bit into him more savagely.

Appeasement arrived in a package written in her handwriting. He eagerly opened it. It was the promised Bible, sent from New York City. On the inside cover was written “I.O.W. to E.B.” — nothing more. He flipped through it page by page, looking for highlighted passages. There were none. Doubt crept in once more. The Hunger gnawed at him more fiercely.

... Why didn’t she write? A word! Anything!

... Why didn’t she write? Just a word! Anything!

... Had she written Miss Van Arsdale?

... Had she written to Miss Van Arsdale?

At first it was intolerable that he should be driven to ask about her from any other person; about Io, who had clasped him in the Valley of the Shadow, whose lips had made the imminence of death seem a light thing! The Hunger drove him to it.

At first, it felt unbearable that he had to ask someone else about her; about Io, who had held him in the Valley of the Shadow, whose kiss had made the thought of dying seem insignificant! The Hunger pushed him to do it.

Yes; Miss Van Arsdale had heard. Io Welland was in New York, and well. That was all. But Banneker felt an undermining reserve.

Yes; Miss Van Arsdale had heard. Io Welland was in New York, and that was it. But Banneker sensed an underlying hesitation.

Long days of changeless sunlight on the desert, an intolerable glare. From the doorway of the lonely station Banneker stared out over leagues of sand and cactus, arid, sterile, hopeless, promiseless. Life was like that. Four weeks now since Io had left him. And still, except for the Bible, no word from her. No sign. Silence.

Long days of unending sunlight in the desert, an unbearable glare. From the doorway of the lonely station, Banneker gazed out over miles of sand and cactus, dry, barren, bleak, and without hope. Life felt like that. It had been four weeks since Io had left him. And still, aside from the Bible, no word from her. No sign. Silence.

Why that? Anything but that! It was too unbearable to his helpless masculine need of her. He could not understand it. He could not understand anything. Except the Hunger. That he understood well enough now....

Why that? Anything but that! It was just too much for his desperate need for her. He couldn't wrap his head around it. He couldn't make sense of anything. Except for the Hunger. He understood that all too well now....

At two o’clock of a savagely haunted night, Banneker staggered from his cot. For weeks he had not known sleep otherwise than in fitful passages. His brain was hot and blank. Although the room was pitch-dark, he crossed it unerringly to a shelf and look down his revolver. Slipping on overcoat and shoes, he dropped the weapon into his pocket and set out up the railroad track. A half-mile he covered before turning into the desert. There he wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, and after that groped his way, guarding with a stick against the surrounding threat of the cactus, for his eyes were tight closed. Still blind, he drew out the pistol, gripped it by the barrel, and threw it, whirling high and far, into the trackless waste. He passed on, feeling his uncertain way patiently.

At two o’clock on a brutally haunted night, Banneker stumbled out of his cot. For weeks, he had only experienced sleep in short bursts. His mind felt hot and empty. Even though the room was completely dark, he moved confidently to the shelf and picked up his revolver. After putting on his coat and shoes, he stuffed the weapon into his pocket and started walking along the railroad track. He covered half a mile before veering into the desert. There, he wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, then navigated carefully, using a stick to protect himself from the nearby cacti, as his eyes were tightly shut. Still blind, he pulled out the pistol, held it by the barrel, and tossed it high and far into the empty land. He moved on, feeling his way with patience.

It took him a quarter of an hour to find the railroad track and set a sure course for home, so effectually had he lost himself.... No chance of his recovering that old friend. It had been whispering to him, in the blackness of empty nights, counsels that were too persuasive.

It took him fifteen minutes to locate the railroad track and confidently head home, completely disoriented… He had no hope of reconnecting with that old friend. It had been whispering to him in the darkness of lonely nights, offering advice that was too tempting to ignore.

Back in his room over the station he lighted the lamp and stood before the few books which he kept with him there; among them Io’s Bible and “The Undying Voices,” with the two pages still joined as her fingers had left them. He was summoning his courage to face what might be the final solution. When he must, she had said, he was to open and read. Well ... he must. He could bear it no longer, the wordless uncertainty. He lifted down the volume, gently parted the fastened pages and read. From out the still, ordered lines, there rose to him the passionate cry of protest and bereavement:

Back in his room above the station, he turned on the lamp and stood in front of the few books he had there; among them were Io’s Bible and “The Undying Voices,” with the two pages still stuck together as her fingers had left them. He was gathering his courage to face what could be the final answer. When the time came, she had said, he was to open and read. Well ... he had to. He couldn't take the wordless uncertainty any longer. He took the book down, gently separated the fastened pages, and read. From the quiet, organized lines, the passionate cry of protest and loss rose to him:

“............................Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forbore—Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine And sees within my eyes the tears of two.”

“............................Nevermore Alone at my front door Of my individual life, I will take control Of my soul’s purpose, and I won’t raise My hand in the sunlight like I did before, Without feeling what I’ve held back—Your touch on my palm. The greatest distance Doom creates between us still leaves your heart with mine, Beating in sync. What I do And what I dream all include you, just like wine Must taste like its own grapes. And when I ask God for myself, He hears your name And sees in my eyes the tears of us both.”

Over and over he read it with increasing bewilderment, with increasing fear, with slow-developing comprehension. If that was to be her farewell ... but why! Io, the straightforward, the intrepid, the exponent of fair play and the rules of the game!... Had it been only a game? No; at least he knew better than that.

Over and over he read it, feeling more confused and scared, slowly starting to understand. If that was intended to be her goodbye... but why! Io, the honest one, the brave one, the champion of fairness and the rules of the game!... Was it just a game? No; he knew better than that.

What could it all mean? Why that medium for her message? Should he write and ask her? But what was there to ask or say, in the face of her silence? Besides, he had not even her address. Miss Camilla could doubtless give him that. But would she? How much did she understand? Why had she turned so unhelpful?

What could it all mean? Why that method for her message? Should he write and ask her? But what was there to ask or say, given her silence? Plus, he didn't even have her address. Miss Camilla could probably provide that. But would she? How much did she really understand? Why had she become so unhelpful?

Banneker sat with his problem half through a searing night; and the other half of the night he spent in writing. But not to Io.

Banneker spent half the night wrestling with his problem and the other half writing. But not for Io.

At noon Camilla Van Arsdale rode up to the station.

At noon, Camilla Van Arsdale rode up to the station.

“Are you ill, Ban?” was her greeting, as soon as she saw his face.

“Are you sick, Ban?” was her greeting, as soon as she saw his face.

“No, Miss Camilla. I’m going away.”

“No, Ms. Camilla. I’m leaving.”

She nodded, confirming not so much what he said as a fulfilled suspicion of her own. “New York is a very big city,” she said.

She nodded, acknowledging not so much what he said as a suspicion she had already confirmed. “New York is a really big city,” she said.

“I haven’t said that I was going to New York.”

“I didn’t say I was going to New York.”

“No; there is much you haven’t said.”

“No; there’s a lot you haven’t said.”

“I haven’t felt much like talking. Even to you.”

“I haven’t really felt like talking. Not even to you.”

“Don’t go, Ban.”

“Don’t leave, Ban.”

“I’ve got to. I’ve got to get away from here.”

“I have to. I need to get away from here.”

“And your position with the railroad?”

“And what’s your role with the railroad?”

“I’ve resigned. It’s all arranged.” He pointed to the pile of letters, his night’s work.

“I’ve resigned. It’s all set.” He pointed to the stack of letters, his work from the night.

“What are you going to do?”

“How do I know! I beg your pardon, Miss Camilla. Write, I suppose.”

“How should I know! I’m sorry, Miss Camilla. I guess you should write.”

“Write here.”

“Type here.”

“There’s nothing to write about.”

“There's nothing to write about.”

The exile, who had spent her years weaving exquisite music from the rhythm of desert winds and the overtones of the forest silence, looked about her, over the long, yellow-gray stretches pricked out with hints of brightness, to the peaceful refuge of the pines, and again to the naked and impudent meanness of the town. Across to her ears, borne on the air heavy with rain still unshed, came the rollicking, ragging jangle of the piano at the Sick Coyote.

The exile, who had spent her years crafting beautiful music from the rhythm of desert winds and the tones of quiet forests, looked around her, across the long, yellow-gray stretches dotted with hints of brightness, to the peaceful shelter of the pines, and then to the bare and vulgar ugliness of the town. From across the distance, carried on the air heavy with rain that had yet to fall, came the lively, chaotic sound of the piano at the Sick Coyote.

“Aren’t there people to write about there?” she said. “Tragedies and comedies and the human drama? Barrie found it in a duller place.”

“Aren’t there people to write about there?” she said. “Tragedies and comedies and the human drama? Barrie found it in a less interesting place.”

“Not until he had seen the world first,” he retorted quickly. “And I’m not a Barrie.... I can’t stay here, Miss Camilla.”

“Not until he’s seen the world first,” he shot back quickly. “And I’m not a Barrie... I can't stay here, Miss Camilla.”

“Poor Ban! Youth is always expecting life to fulfill itself. It doesn’t.”

“Poor Ban! Young people always expect life to live up to their hopes. It doesn’t.”

“No; it doesn’t—unless you make it.”

“And how will you make it?”

“And how are you going to make it?”

“I’m going to get on a newspaper.”

“I’m going to get in a newspaper.”

“It isn’t so easy as all that, Ban.”

“It’s not that easy, Ban.”

“I’ve been writing.”

"I’ve been writing."

In the joyous flush of energy, evoked under the spell of Io’s enchantment, he had filled his spare hours with work, happy, exuberant, overflowing with a quaint vitality. A description of the desert in spate, thumb-nail sketches from a station-agent’s window, queer little flavorous stories of crime and adventure and petty intrigue in the town; all done with a deftness and brevity that was saved from being too abrupt only by broad touches of color and light. And he had had a letter. He told Miss Van Arsdale of it.

In the joyful excitement stirred by Io’s enchantment, he had filled his free time with work, feeling happy, energetic, and full of a unique vitality. He wrote about the desert in a rush, created quick sketches from a station-agent’s window, and shared quirky little stories of crime, adventure, and minor intrigues in the town; all done with a skillful and concise style that avoided being too abrupt thanks to broad touches of color and light. And he had received a letter. He mentioned it to Miss Van Arsdale.

“Oh, if you’ve a promise, or even a fair expectation of a place. But, Ban, I wouldn’t go to New York, anyway.”

“Oh, if you have a promise, or even a reasonable expectation of a place. But, Ban, I wouldn’t go to New York, anyway.”

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“It’s no use.”

“It's pointless.”

His strong eyebrows went up. “Use?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Use?”

“You won’t find her there.”

"You won't find her here."

“She’s not in New York?”

"She's not in NYC?"

“No.”

“You’ve heard from her, then? Where is she?”

“You’ve heard from her, right? Where is she?”

“Gone abroad.”

"Traveled overseas."

Upon that he meditated. “She’ll come back, though.”

Upon that, he thought. “She’ll come back, right?”

“Not to you.”

“Not for you.”

He waited, silent, attentive, incredulous.

He waited, quiet, focused, amazed.

“Ban; she’s married.”

"Sorry, she’s married."

“Married!”

"Just got married!"

The telegraph instrument clicked in the tiny rhythm of an elfin bass-drum. “O.S. O.S.” Click. Click. Click-click-click. Mechanically responsive to his office he answered, and for a moment was concerned with some message about a local freight. When he raised his face again, Miss Van Arsdale read there a sick and floundering skepticism.

The telegraph device clicked with the light rhythm of a miniature bass drum. “O.S. O.S.” Click. Click. Click-click-click. Automatically responding to his office, he replied, briefly focused on a message about a local freight. When he looked up again, Miss Van Arsdale saw a troubled and wavering skepticism on his face.

“Married!” he repeated. “Io! She couldn’t.”

“Married!” he echoed. “No way! She couldn’t.”

The woman, startled by the conviction in his tone, wondered how much that might imply.

The woman, taken aback by the certainty in his voice, wondered what that could mean.

“She wrote me,” said she presently.

“She wrote to me,” she said after a moment.

“That she was married?”

“Is she married?”

“That she would be by the time the letter reached me.”

“That she would be by the time the letter got to me.”

(“You will think me a fool,” the girl had written impetuously, “and perhaps a cruel fool. But it is the wise thing, really. Del Eyre is so safe! He is safety itself for a girl like me. And I have discovered that I can’t wholly trust myself.... Be gentle with him, and make him do something worth while.”)

(“You might think I’m silly,” the girl had written impulsively, “and maybe even a mean silly person. But honestly, it’s the smart choice. Del Eyre is so dependable! He’s a safe bet for someone like me. And I’ve realized that I can’t completely trust myself.... Please be kind to him, and encourage him to do something meaningful.”)

“Ah!” said Ban. “But that—”

“And I have the newspaper since with an account of the wedding.... Ban! Don’t look like that!”

“And I have the newspaper with a report on the wedding.... Stop! Don't make that face!”

“Like what?” said he stupidly.

“Like what?” he said dumbly.

“You look like Pretty Willie as I saw him when he was working himself up for the killing.” Pretty Willie was the soft-eyed young desperado who had cleaned out the Sick Coyote.

“You look like Pretty Willie the way I saw him when he was gearing up for the kill.” Pretty Willie was the soft-eyed young outlaw who had taken down the Sick Coyote.

“Oh, I’m not going to kill anybody,” he said with a touch of grim amusement for her fears. “Not even myself.” He rose and went to the door. “Do you mind, Miss Camilla?” he added appealingly.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt anyone,” he said with a hint of dark humor at her worries. “Not even myself.” He stood up and walked to the door. “Is that okay with you, Miss Camilla?” he added, looking at her earnestly.

“You want me to leave you now?”

“You want me to go now?”

He nodded. “I’ve got to think.”

He nodded. “I need to think.”

“When would you leave, Ban, if you do go?”

“When would you leave, Ban, if you decide to go?”

“I don’t know.”

On the following morning he went, after a night spent in arranging, destroying, and burning. The last thing to go into the stove, 67 S 4230, was a lock of hair, once glossy, but now stiffened and stained a dull brown, which he had cut from the wound on Io’s head that first, strange night of theirs, the stain of her blood that had beaten in her heart, and given life to the sure, sweet motion of her limbs, and flushed in her cheeks, and pulsed in the warm lips that she had pressed to his—Why could they not have died together on their dissolving island, with the night about them, and their last, failing sentience for each other!

On the next morning, he left after a night spent organizing, destroying, and burning. The last thing he put in the stove, 67 S 4230, was a lock of hair that used to be glossy but was now stiff and stained a dull brown. He had cut it from the wound on Io’s head that first strange night they had together, the stain from her blood that had thumped in her heart, bringing life to the gentle, sweet movement of her limbs, flushing her cheeks, and pulsing in the warm lips she had pressed to his—Why couldn’t they have died together on their fading island, surrounded by the night, with their last fading awareness of each other?

The flame of the greedy stove licked up the memento, but not the memory.

The flame of the greedy stove consumed the keepsake, but not the memory.

“You must not worry about me,” he wrote in the note left with his successor for Miss Van Arsdale. “I shall be all right. I am going to succeed.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he wrote in the note left with his successor for Miss Van Arsdale. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to succeed.”

PART II—THE VISION

CHAPTER I

Mrs. Brashear’s rooming-house on Grove Street wore its air of respectability like a garment, clean and somber, in an environment of careful behavior. Greenwich Village, not having fully awakened to the commercial advantages of being a locale, had not yet stretched between itself and the rest of New York that gauzy and iridescent curtain of sprightly impropriety and sparkling intellectual naughtiness, since faded to a lather tawdry pattern. An early pioneer of the Villager type, emancipated of thought and speech, chancing upon No. 11 Grove, would have despised it for its lack of atmosphere and its patent conservatism. It did not go out into the highways and byways, seeking prospective lodgers. It folded its hands and waited placidly for them to come. When they came, it pondered them with care, catechized them tactfully, and either rejected them with courteous finality or admitted them on probation. Had it been given to self-exploitation, it could have boasted that never had it harbored a bug or a scandal within its doors.

Mrs. Brashear’s rooming house on Grove Street had an air of respectability that felt like a well-fitted outfit, clean and serious, amidst a world of careful behavior. Greenwich Village, not yet fully aware of the commercial benefits of becoming a trendy spot, hadn’t developed that gauzy, colorful facade of lively mischief and charming intellectual rebellion that has since faded into a cheap, worn-out pattern. An early pioneer of the Village type, free in thought and speech, stumbling upon No. 11 Grove, would have looked down on it for its lack of ambiance and clear conservatism. It didn’t actively seek out potential tenants. Instead, it sat quietly, waiting for them to arrive. When they did, it examined them thoughtfully, asked questions tactfully, and either politely turned them away or accepted them on a trial basis. If it had been inclined to promote itself, it could have proudly claimed that it had never allowed a bug or a scandal to cross its threshold.

Now, on this filmy-soft April day it was nonplussed. A type new to its experience was applying for a room, and Mrs. Brashear, who was not only the proprietress, but, as it were, the familiar spirit and incarnation of the institution, sat peering near-sightedly and in some perturbation of soul at the phenomenon. He was young, which was against him, and of a winning directness of manner, which was in his favor, and extremely good to look at, which was potential of complications, and encased in clothing of an uncompromising cut and neutral pattern (to wit; No. 45 T 370, “an ideal style for a young business man of affairs; neat, impressive and dignified”), which was reassuring.

Now, on this soft, breezy April day, it was taken aback. A type new to its experience was applying for a room, and Mrs. Brashear, who was not only the owner but also the familiar spirit and embodiment of the place, sat peering with her near-sighted eyes and a bit anxious at the scene. He was young, which worked against him, but his straightforwardness was a plus, and he was very attractive, which could lead to complications. He was dressed in clothing with a strict cut and neutral pattern (specifically, No. 45 T 370, “an ideal style for a young business professional; neat, impressive, and dignified”), which was reassuring.

“My name is Banneker,” he had said, immediately the door was opened to him. “Can I get a room here?”

"My name is Banneker," he said as soon as the door opened for him. "Can I get a room here?"

“There is a room vacant,” admitted the spirit of the house unwillingly.

“There’s a room empty,” admitted the spirit of the house reluctantly.

“I’d like to see it.”

"I want to see it."

As he spoke, he was mounting the stairs; she must, perforce, follow. On the third floor she passed him and led the way to a small, morosely papered front room, almost glaringly clean.

As he spoke, he was climbing the stairs; she had no choice but to follow. On the third floor, she passed him and took the lead to a small, grimly decorated front room, almost excessively clean.

“All right, if I can have a work-table in it and if it isn’t too much,” he said, after one comprehensive glance around.

“All right, if I can get a work table in there and if it isn’t too much,” he said, after taking a quick look around.

“The price is five dollars a week.”

“The price is five bucks a week.”

Had Banneker but known it, this was rather high. The Brashear rooming-house charged for its cleanliness, physical and moral. “Can I move in at once?” he inquired.

Had Banneker known it, this was quite expensive. The Brashear rooming house charged for its cleanliness, both physical and moral. “Can I move in right away?” he asked.

“I don’t know you nor anything about you, Mr. Banneker,” she replied, but not until they had descended the stairs and were in the cool, dim parlor. At the moment of speaking, she raised a shade, as if to help in the determination.

“I don’t know you or anything about you, Mr. Banneker,” she replied, but not until they had gone down the stairs and were in the cool, dim living room. As she spoke, she pulled up a shade, as if to assist in the decision.

“Is that necessary? They didn’t ask me when I registered at the hotel.”

“Is that really needed? They didn’t ask me when I checked in at the hotel.”

Mrs. Brashear stared, then smiled. “A hotel is different. Where are you stopping?”

Mrs. Brashear stared, then smiled. “A hotel is different. Where are you staying?”

“At the St. Denis.”

"At St. Denis."

“A very nice place. Who directed you here?”

“A really nice place. Who sent you here?”

“No one. I strolled around until I found a street I liked, and looked around until I found a house I liked. The card in the window—”

“No one. I walked around until I found a street I liked, and looked around until I found a house I liked. The card in the window—”

“Of course. Well, Mr. Banneker, for the protection of the house I must have references.”

“Of course. Well, Mr. Banneker, to keep the house secure, I need references.”

“References? You mean letters from people?”

“Not necessarily. Just a name or two from whom I can make inquiries. You have friends, I suppose.”

“Not really. Just a name or two I can ask about. You have some friends, I assume.”

“No.”

“Your family—”

"Your family—"

“I haven’t any.”

"I don't have any."

“Then the people in the place where you work. What is your business, by the way?”

“Then the people at your workplace. What's your job, by the way?”

“I expect to go on a newspaper.”

“I plan to be in a newspaper.”

“Expect?” Mrs. Brashear stiffened in defense of the institution. “You have no place yet?”

“Expect?” Mrs. Brashear tensed, defending the institution. “You don’t have a place yet?”

He answered not her question, but her doubt. “As far as that is concerned, I’ll pay in advance.”

He didn't answer her question, but her doubt. “Regarding that, I'll pay in advance.”

“It isn’t the financial consideration,” she began loftily—“alone,” she added more honestly. “But to take in a total stranger—”

“It’s not just the money,” she started off grandly—“not entirely,” she admitted more honestly. “But bringing in a complete stranger—”

Banneker leaned forward to her. “See here, Mrs. Brashear; there’s nothing wrong about me. I don’t get drunk. I don’t smoke in bed. I’m decent of habit and I’m clean. I’ve got money enough to carry me. Couldn’t you take me on my say-so? Look me over.”

Banneker leaned forward to her. “Listen, Mrs. Brashear; there’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t drink too much. I don’t smoke in bed. I have good habits and I’m clean. I have enough money to take care of myself. Can’t you accept me at my word? Just take a good look at me.”

Though it was delivered with entire gravity, the speech provoked a tired and struggling smile on the landlady’s plain features. She looked.

Though it was delivered with complete seriousness, the speech brought a weary and forced smile to the landlady’s plain face. She looked.

“Well?” he queried pleasantly. “What do you think? Will you take a chance?”

"Well?" he asked cheerfully. "What do you think? Are you willing to take a chance?"

That suppressed motherliness which, embodying the unformulated desire to look after and care for others, turns so many widows to taking lodgers, found voice in Mrs. Brashear’s reply:

That hidden instinct to nurture, which represents the unspoken wish to take care of others, leads many widows to take in boarders, was expressed in Mrs. Brashear’s response:

“You’ve had a spell of sickness, haven’t you?”

“You’ve been sick for a while, haven’t you?”

“No,” he said, a little sharply. “Where did you get that idea?”

“No,” he said, a bit sharply. “Where did you come up with that idea?”

“Your eyes look hot.”

“Your eyes look amazing.”

“I haven’t been sleeping very well. That’s all.”

"I've been having a tough time sleeping. That's all."

“Too bad. You’ve had a loss, maybe,” she ventured sympathetically.

“That's too bad. You might be dealing with a loss,” she suggested sympathetically.

“A loss? No.... Yes. You might call it a loss. You’ll take me, then?”

“A loss? No.... Yes. You could call it a loss. So, you’re going to take me, then?”

“You can move in right away,” said Mrs. Brashear recklessly.

“You can move in right away,” Mrs. Brashear said carelessly.

So the Brashear rooming-house took into its carefully guarded interior the young and unknown Mr. Banneker—who had not been sleeping well. Nor did he seem to be sleeping well in his new quarters, since his light was to be seen glowing out upon the quiet street until long after midnight; yet he was usually up betimes, often even before the moving spirit of the house, herself. A full week had he been there before his fellow lodgers, self-constituted into a Committee on Membership, took his case under consideration in full session upon the front steps. None had had speech with him, but it was known that he kept irregular hours.

So the Brashear rooming house welcomed the young and unknown Mr. Banneker—who hadn’t been sleeping well. He didn’t seem to be getting much sleep in his new place either, since his light was visible shining out onto the quiet street long after midnight; yet he usually woke up early, often even before the lively spirit of the house herself. He had been there for a full week before his fellow lodgers, who had formed a self-appointed Committee on Membership, took his case under review in a full meeting on the front steps. None of them had spoken to him, but it was known that he kept odd hours.

“What’s his job: that’s what I’d like to know,” demanded in a tone of challenge, young Wickert, a man of the world who clerked in the decorative department of a near-by emporium.

“What’s his job? That’s what I want to know,” demanded young Wickert in a challenging tone, a worldly man who worked as a clerk in the decorative department of a nearby store.

“Newsboy, I guess,” said Lambert, the belated art-student of thirty-odd with a grin. “He’s always got his arms full of papers when he comes in.”

“Newsboy, I guess,” said Lambert, the late art student in his thirties, with a grin. “He always comes in with his arms full of papers.”

“And he sits at his table clipping pieces out of them and arranging them in piles,” volunteered little Mrs. Bolles, the trained nurse on the top floor. “I’ve seen him as I go past.”

“And he sits at his table cutting pieces out of them and stacking them in piles,” said little Mrs. Bolles, the nurse on the top floor. “I’ve seen him as I walk by.”

“Help-wanted ads,” suggested Wickert, who had suffered experience in that will-o’-the-wisp chase.

“Help-wanted ads,” suggested Wickert, who had experienced the frustrating pursuit firsthand.

“Then he hasn’t got a job,” deduced Mr. Hainer, a heavy man of heavy voice and heavy manner, middle-aged, a small-salaried accountant.

“Then he doesn’t have a job,” figured Mr. Hainer, a big man with a deep voice and serious demeanor, middle-aged, a low-paid accountant.

“Maybe he’s got money,” suggested Lambert.

“Maybe he’s got money,” said Lambert.

“Or maybe he’s a dead beat; he looks on the queer,” opined young Wickert.

“Or maybe he’s just a loser; he looks a bit odd,” said young Wickert.

“He has a very fine and sensitive face. I think he has been ill.” The opinion came from a thin, quietly dressed woman of the early worn-out period of life, who sat a little apart from the others. Young Wickert started a sniff, but suppressed it, for Miss Westlake was held locally in some degree of respect, as being “well-connected” and having relatives who called on her in their own limousines, though seldom.

“He has a very delicate and sensitive face. I think he's been unwell.” The comment came from a slender, simply dressed woman who seemed a bit past her prime, sitting somewhat apart from the others. Young Wickert started to sniffle but held it back, as Miss Westlake was regarded with a degree of respect in the area for being “well-connected” and having relatives who visited her in their own luxury cars, although rarely.

“Anybody know his name?” asked Lambert.

“Does anyone know his name?” asked Lambert.

“Barnacle,” said young Wickert wittily. “Something like that, anyway. Bannsocker, maybe. Guess he’s some sort of a Swede.”

“Barnacle,” young Wickert said playfully. “Something like that, anyway. Bannsocker, maybe. I guess he’s some kind of Swede.”

“Well, I only hope he doesn’t clear out some night with his trunk on his back and leave poor Mrs. Brashear to whistle,” declared Mrs. Bolles piously.

“Well, I just hope he doesn’t sneak out one night with his trunk on his back and leave poor Mrs. Brashear to deal with it,” declared Mrs. Bolles seriously.

The worn face of the landlady, with its air of dispirited motherliness, appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Banneker is a gentleman,” she said.

The tired face of the landlady, with its sense of exhausted motherliness, appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Banneker is a gentleman,” she said.

“Gentleman” from Mrs. Brashear, with that intonation, meant one who, out of or in a job, paid his room rent. The new lodger had earned the title by paying his month in advance. Having settled that point, she withdrew, followed by the two other women. Lambert, taking a floppy hat from the walnut rack in the hall, went his way, leaving young Wickert and Mr. Hainer to support the discussion, which they did in tones less discreet than the darkness warranted.

“Gentleman” from Mrs. Brashear, with that tone, referred to someone who, whether working or not, paid their room rent. The new tenant had earned the title by paying his rent a month in advance. Having settled that issue, she left, followed by the two other women. Lambert grabbed a floppy hat from the walnut rack in the hall and went on his way, leaving young Wickert and Mr. Hainer to continue the discussion, which they did in voices that were less discreet than the darkness called for.

“Where would he hail from, would you think?” queried the elder. “Iowa, maybe? Or Arkansas?”

“Where do you think he’s from?” asked the elder. “Iowa, maybe? Or Arkansas?”

“Search me,” answered young Wickert. “But it was a small-town carpenter built those honest-to-Gawd clothes. I’d say the corn-belt.”

“Search me,” replied young Wickert. “But it was a small-town carpenter who made those honest-to-God clothes. I’d say the corn belt.”

“Dressed up for the monthly meeting of the Farmers’ Alliance, all but the oil on his hair. He forgot that,” chuckled the accountant.

“Dressed up for the monthly meeting of the Farmers’ Alliance, all except for the oil in his hair. He forgot that,” chuckled the accountant.

“He’s got a fine chance in Nuh Yawk—of buying a gold brick cheap,” prophesied the worldly Wickert out of the depths of his metropolitan experience. “Somebody ought to put him onto himself.”

“He's got a good shot in New York—at getting a gold brick for a bargain,” predicted the savvy Wickert based on his city experience. “Someone should make him aware of himself.”

A voice from the darkened window above said, with composure, “That will be all right. I’ll apply to you for advice.”

A voice from the darkened window above said calmly, “That’ll be fine. I’ll ask you for advice.”

“Oh, Gee!” whispered young Wickert, in appeal to his companion. “How long’s he been there?”

“Oh, wow!” whispered young Wickert, looking at his companion. “How long has he been there?”

Acute hearing, it appeared, was an attribute of the man above, for he answered at once:

Acute hearing, it seemed, was a trait of the man above, as he responded immediately:

“Just put my head out for a breath of air when I heard your kind expressions of solicitude. Why? Did I miss something that came earlier?”

“Just stuck my head out for a breath of fresh air when I heard your kind expressions of concern. What happened? Did I miss something that came before?”

Mr. Hainer melted unostentatiously into the darkness. While young Wickert was debating whether his pride would allow him to follow this prudent example, the subject of their over-frank discussion appeared at his elbow. Evidently he was as light of foot as he was quick of ear. Meditating briefly upon these physical qualities, young Wickert said, in a deprecatory tone:

Mr. Hainer quietly slipped into the darkness. While young Wickert was weighing whether his pride would let him take this sensible route, the topic of their candid conversation appeared next to him. Clearly, he was as nimble on his feet as he was sharp-eared. Reflecting briefly on these traits, young Wickert said in a dismissive tone:

“We didn’t mean to get fresh with you. It was just talk.”

“We didn’t mean to come on to you. It was just a conversation.”

“Very interesting talk.”

“Really interesting talk.”

Wickert produced a suspiciously jeweled case. “Have a cigarette?”

Wickert pulled out a case that was suspiciously adorned with jewels. “Want a cigarette?”

“I have some of my own, thank you.”

“I have some of my own, thanks.”

“Give you a light?”

"Need a light?"

The metropolitan worldling struck a match and held it up. This was on the order of strategy. He wished to see Banneker’s face. To his relief it did not look angry or even stern. Rather, it appeared thoughtful. Banneker was considering impartially the matter of his apparel.

The city guy struck a match and held it up. This was part of his strategy. He wanted to see Banneker’s face. To his relief, it didn’t look angry or even serious. Instead, it looked thoughtful. Banneker was calmly thinking about his outfit.

“What is the matter with my clothes?” he asked.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” he asked.

“Why—well,” began Wickert, unhappy and fumbling with his ideas; “Oh, they’re all right.”

“Why—well,” started Wickert, feeling frustrated and struggling with his thoughts; “Oh, they’re fine.”

“For a meeting of the Farmers’ Alliance.” Banneker was smiling good-naturedly. “But for the East?”

“For a meeting of the Farmers’ Alliance.” Banneker was smiling kindly. “But for the East?”

“Well, if you really want to know,” began Wickert doubtfully. “If you won’t get sore—” Banneker nodded his assurance. “Well, they’re jay. No style. No snap. Respectable, and that lets ’em out.”

“Well, if you really want to know,” Wickert said hesitantly. “If you won’t get upset—” Banneker nodded his reassurance. “Well, they’re average. No style. No flair. Safe, and that disqualifies them.”

“They don’t look as if they were made in New York or for New York?”

“They don’t look like they were made in New York or for New York?”

Young Mr. Wickert apportioned his voice equitably between a laugh and a snort. “No: nor in Hoboken!” he retorted. “Listen, ‘bo,” he added, after a moment’s thought. “You got to have a smooth shell in Nuh Yawk. The human eye only sees the surface. Get me? And it judges by the surface.” He smoothed his hands down his dapper trunk with ineffable complacency. “Thirty-eight dollars, this. Bernholz Brothers, around on Broadway. Look it over. That’s a cut!”

Young Mr. Wickert balanced his voice between a laugh and a snort. “No way, not even in Hoboken!” he shot back. “Listen, buddy,” he continued after thinking for a moment. “You have to have a polished exterior in New York. People only see what’s on the surface. Understand? And they judge by that.” He smoothed his hands over his stylish suit with undeniable satisfaction. “This cost thirty-eight dollars, from Bernholz Brothers on Broadway. Take a look. That’s a good deal!”

“Is that how they’re making them in the East?” doubtfully asked the neophyte, reflecting that the pinched-in snugness of the coat, and the flare effect of the skirts, while unquestionably more impressive than his own box-like garb, still lacked something of the quiet distinction which he recalled in the clothes of Herbert Cressey. The thought of that willing messenger set him to groping for another sartorial name. He hardly heard Wickert say proudly:

“Is that how they’re making them in the East?” doubtfully asked the newcomer, realizing that the tight fit of the coat and the flared skirts, although definitely more striking than his own boxy outfit, still seemed to miss the subtle elegance he remembered in Herbert Cressey’s clothes. The memory of that eager messenger made him search for another fashion reference. He barely heard Wickert say proudly:

“If Bernholz’s makes ’em that way, you can bet it’s up to the split-second of date, and maybe they beat the pistol by a jump. I bluffed for a raise of five dollars, on the strength of this outfit, and got it off the bat. There’s the suit paid for in two months and a pair of shoes over.” He thrust out a leg, from below the sharp-pressed trouser-line of which protruded a boot trimmed in a sort of bizarre fretwork. “Like me to take you around to Bernholz’s?”

“If Bernholz’s makes them like that, you can bet they’re totally up to date, and maybe they beat the clock by a second. I bluffed for a five-dollar raise, based on this outfit, and I got it right away. There’s the suit paid for in two months and a pair of shoes to spare.” He kicked out a leg, and from below the sharply pressed trouser line, a boot adorned with some strange designs peeked out. “Want me to take you over to Bernholz’s?”

Banneker shook his head. The name for which he sought had come to him. “Did you ever hear of Mertoun, somewhere on Fifth Avenue?”

Banneker shook his head. The name he was looking for had come to him. “Have you ever heard of Mertoun, somewhere on Fifth Avenue?”

“Yes. And I’ve seen Central Park and the Statue of Liberty,” railed the other. “Thinkin’ of patternizing Mertoun, was you?”

“Yes. And I’ve seen Central Park and the Statue of Liberty,” snapped the other. “Were you thinking of making Mertoun a pattern?”

“Yes, I’d like to.”

"Yes, I want to."

“Like to! There’s a party at the Astorbilt’s to-morrow night; you’d like to go to that, wouldn’t you? Fat chance!” said the disdainful and seasoned cit. “D’you know what Mertoun would do to you? Set you back a hundred simoleons soon as look at you. And at that you got to have a letter of introduction like gettin’ in to see the President of the United States or John D. Rockefeller. Come off, my boy! Bernholz’s ‘ll fix you just as good, all but the label. Better come around to-morrow.”

“Sure! There’s a party at the Astorbilt’s tomorrow night; you’d want to go to that, wouldn’t you? No way!” said the cynical and experienced city dweller. “Do you know what Mertoun would do to you? Charge you a hundred bucks as soon as he looks at you. And you need a letter of introduction, just like trying to meet the President of the United States or John D. Rockefeller. Come on, my friend! Bernholz’s will take care of you just as well, except for the label. You should come by tomorrow.”

“Much obliged, but I’m not buying yet. Where would you say a fellow would have a chance to see the best-dressed men?”

“Thanks, but I’m not buying yet. Where would you suggest a guy could see the best-dressed men?”

Young Mr. Wickert looked at once self-conscious and a trifle miffed, for in his own set he was regarded as quite the mould of fashion. “Oh, well, if you want to pipe off the guys that think they’re the whole thing, walk up the Avenue and watch the doors of the clubs and the swell restaurants. At that, they haven’t got anything on some fellows that don’t spend a quarter of the money, but know what’s what and don’t let grafters like Mertoun pull their legs,” said he. “Say, you seem to know what you want, all right, all right,” he added enviously. “You ain’t goin’ to let this little old town bluff you; ay?”

Young Mr. Wickert looked a bit self-conscious and slightly annoyed because, in his own circle, he was seen as quite fashionable. “Well, if you want to call out the guys who think they’re the best, just walk up the Avenue and check out the entrances of the clubs and fancy restaurants. Honestly, they can’t hold a candle to some guys who spend way less but really know what’s up and don’t let con artists like Mertoun take advantage of them,” he said. “You definitely seem to know what you want, that’s for sure,” he added with a hint of envy. “You’re not going to let this little town intimidate you, right?”

“No. Not for lack of a few clothes. Good-night,” replied Banneker, leaving in young Wickert’s mind the impression that he was “a queer gink,” but also, on the whole, “a good guy.” For the worldling was only small, not mean of spirit.

“No. Not because I don’t have a few clothes. Good night,” replied Banneker, leaving young Wickert with the impression that he was “a strange guy,” but also, overall, “a good guy.” Because the worldly person was just a little small-minded, not mean-spirited.

Banneker might have added that one who had once known cities and the hearts of men from the viewpoint of that modern incarnation of Ulysses, the hobo, contemptuous and predatory, was little likely to be overawed by the most teeming and headlong of human ant-heaps. Having joined the ant-heap, Banneker was shrewdly concerned with the problem of conforming to the best type of termite discoverable. The gibes of the doorstep chatterers had not aroused any new ambition; they had merely given point to a purpose deferred because of other and more immediate pressure. Already he had received from Camilla Van Arsdale a letter rich in suggestion, hint, and subtly indicated advice, with this one passage of frank counsel:

Banneker might have added that someone who had once experienced cities and understood people through the lens of that modern version of Ulysses, the hobo—contemptuous and predatory—was unlikely to be intimidated by the busiest and most chaotic human crowds. After joining the crowd, Banneker was smartly focused on figuring out how to fit in with the best kind of people around. The teasing from the gossips on the doorstep hadn’t sparked any new ambitions; it had only highlighted a goal that had been postponed due to other pressing matters. He had already received a letter from Camilla Van Arsdale full of suggestions, hints, and subtly suggested advice, with this one passage of straightforward guidance:

If I were writing, spinster-aunt-wise, to any one else in your position, I should be tempted to moralize and issue warnings about—well, about the things of the spirit. But you are equipped, there. Like the “Master,” you will “go your own way with inevitable motion.” With the outer man—that is different. You have never given much thought to that phase. And you have an asset in your personal appearance. I should not be telling you this if I thought there were danger of your becoming vain. But I really think it would be a good investment for you to put yourself into the hands of a first-class tailor, and follow his advice, in moderation, of course. Get the sense of being fittingly turned out by going where there are well-dressed people; to the opera, perhaps, and the theater occasionally, and, when you can afford it, to a good restaurant. Unless the world has changed, people will look at you. But you must not know it. Important, this is!... I could, of course, give you letters of introduction. “Les morts vont vite,” it is true, and I am dead to that world, not wholly without the longings of a would-be revenant; but a ghost may still claim some privileges of memory, and my friends would be hospitable to you. Only, I strongly suspect that you would not use the letters if I gave them. You prefer to make your own start; isn’t it so? Well; I have written to a few. Sooner or later you will meet with them. Those things always happen even in New York.... Be sure to write me all about the job when you get it—

If I were writing, aunt-style, to anyone else in your situation, I'd feel like moralizing and giving warnings about—well, the things that matter. But you already have that covered. Like the “Master,” you’ll “go your own way with inevitable motion.” The outer appearance—that's a different story. You’ve never really thought much about that part. And you have an advantage in your looks. I wouldn’t mention this if I thought you might become vain. But honestly, I think it would be a smart move for you to get yourself into the hands of a top-notch tailor, and follow his suggestions, within reason, of course. Get a sense of looking good by going where there are well-dressed people; maybe to the opera now and then, and the theater when you can, and, when you can afford it, to a nice restaurant. Unless the world has changed, people will notice you. But you must not acknowledge it. This is important!... I could give you letters of introduction. “Les morts vont vite,” it’s true, and I’m dead to that world, not entirely without the wishes of a would-be revenant; but a ghost might still claim some memories, and my friends would welcome you. Still, I strongly suspect you wouldn’t use the letters if I gave them to you. You prefer to start on your own, right? Well; I've written to a few. Eventually, you’ll run into them. Those things always happen, even in New York.... Be sure to write me all about the job when you get it—

Prudence dictated that he should be earning something before he invested in expensive apparel, be it never so desirable and important. However, he would outfit himself just as soon as a regular earning capacity justified his going into his carefully husbanded but dwindling savings. He pictured himself clad as a lily of the field, unconscious of perfection as Herbert Cressey himself, in the public haunts of fashion and ease; through which vision there rose the searing prospect of thus encountering Io Welland. What was her married name? He had not even asked when the news was broken to him; had not wanted to ask; was done with all that for all time.

Prudence told him to earn some money before investing in expensive clothes, no matter how desirable and important they were. However, he would get dressed up as soon as he had a steady income that justified dipping into his carefully managed but dwindling savings. He imagined himself looking as sharp as a lily of the field, completely unaware of his perfection, just like Herbert Cressey, in the fashionable and relaxed places frequented by others; through that vision, the painful thought of potentially running into Io Welland arose. What was her married name? He hadn't even bothered to ask when he got the news; he didn't want to know; he was done with all that for good.

He was still pathetically young and inexperienced. And he had been badly hurt.

He was still incredibly young and inexperienced. And he had been deeply hurt.

CHAPTER II

Dust was the conspicuous attribute of the place. It lay, flat and toneless, upon the desk, the chairs, the floor; it streaked the walls. The semi-consumptive office “boy’s” middle-aged shoulders collected it. It stirred in the wake of quiet-moving men, mostly under thirty-five, who entered the outer door, passed through the waiting-room, and disappeared behind a partition. Banneker felt like shaking himself lest he should be eventually buried under its impalpable sifting. Two hours and a half had passed since he had sent in his name on a slip of paper, to Mr. Gordon, managing editor of the paper. On the way across Park Row he had all but been persuaded by a lightning printer on the curb to have a dozen tasty and elegant visiting-cards struck off, for a quarter; but some vague inhibition of good taste checked him. Now he wondered if a card would have served better.

Dust was the obvious feature of the place. It lay flat and dull on the desk, the chairs, the floor; it streaked the walls. The middle-aged office "boy" collected it on his slumped shoulders. It stirred in the wake of quietly moving men, mostly under thirty-five, who entered the outer door, passed through the waiting room, and disappeared behind a partition. Banneker felt like shaking himself off, lest he eventually be buried under its fine sifting. Two and a half hours had passed since he had sent in his name on a slip of paper to Mr. Gordon, the managing editor of the paper. On the way across Park Row, he had almost been persuaded by a fast-talking printer on the curb to get a dozen stylish and fancy visiting cards made for a quarter; but some vague sense of good taste held him back. Now he wondered if a card would have been more useful.

While he waited, he checked up the actuality of a metropolitan newspaper entrance-room, as contrasted with his notion of it, derived from motion pictures. Here was none of the bustle and hurry of the screen. No brisk and earnest young figures with tense eyes and protruding notebooks darted feverishly in and out; nor, in the course of his long wait, had he seen so much as one specimen of that invariable concomitant of all screen journalism, the long-haired poet with his flowing tie and neatly ribboned manuscript. Even the office “boy,” lethargic, neutrally polite, busy writing on half-sheets of paper, was profoundly untrue to the pictured type. Banneker wondered what the managing editor would be like; would almost, in the wreckage of his preconceived notions, have accepted a woman or a priest in that manifestation, when Mr. Gordon appeared and was addressed by name by the hollow-chested Cerberus. Banneker at once echoed the name, rising.

While he waited, he looked around the lobby of a city newspaper, comparing it to his idea of it from movies. There was none of the hustle and bustle you'd see on screen. No young, eager reporters with intense eyes and notepads rushing in and out; during his long wait, he hadn't spotted even one of those typical screen journalists, the long-haired poet with a flowing tie and neatly tied manuscript. Even the office “boy,” sluggish, politely neutral, scribbling on scrap paper, was nothing like the usual stereotype. Banneker wondered what the managing editor would be like; he would almost have accepted a woman or a priest in that role, given the shattered image he had, until Mr. Gordon showed up and was called by name by the thin, intimidating receptionist. Banneker immediately echoed the name, standing up.

The managing editor, a tall, heavy man, whose smoothly fitting cutaway coat seemed miraculously to have escaped the plague of dust, stared at him above heavy glasses.

The managing editor, a tall, hefty man, whose well-fitted cutaway coat seemed to have miraculously avoided any dust, glared at him over thick glasses.

“You want to see me?”

"Do you want to see me?"

“Yes. I sent in my name.”

"Yes, I submitted my name."

“Did you? When?”

“Did you? When did it happen?”

“At two-forty-seven, thirty,” replied the visitor with railroad accuracy.

“At 2:47:30,” replied the visitor with precise timing.

The look above the lowered glasses became slightly quizzical. “You’re exact, at least. Patient, too. Good qualities for a newspaper man. That’s what you are?”

The expression above the lowered glasses turned slightly curious. “You’re precise, at least. Patient, too. Good traits for a reporter. That’s what you are?”

“What I’m going to be,” amended Banneker.

“What I’m going to be,” corrected Banneker.

“There is no opening here at present.”

“There is no opening here right now.”

“That’s formula, isn’t it?” asked the young man, smiling.

"That’s a formula, right?" the young man asked, smiling.

The other stared. “It is. But how do you know?”

The other stared. “It is. But how do you know that?”

“It’s the tone, I suppose. I’ve had to use it a good deal myself, in railroading.”

“It’s the tone, I guess. I’ve had to use it a lot myself, in railroading.”

“Observant, as well as exact and patient. Come in. I’m sorry I misplaced your card. The name is—?”

“Observant, as well as precise and patient. Come in. I’m sorry I lost your card. The name is—?”

“Banneker, E. Banneker.”

"Banneker, E. Banneker."

Following the editor, he passed through a large, low-ceilinged room, filled with desk-tables, each bearing a heavy crystal ink-well full of a fluid of particularly virulent purple. A short figure, impassive as a Mongol, sat at a corner desk, gazing out over City Hall Park with a rapt gaze. Across from him a curiously trim and graceful man, with a strong touch of the Hibernian in his elongated jaw and humorous gray eyes, clipped the early evening editions with an effect of highly judicious selection. Only one person sat in all the long files of the work-tables, littered with copy-paper and disarranged newspapers; a dark young giant with the discouraged and hurt look of a boy kept in after school. All this Banneker took in while the managing editor was disposing, usually with a single penciled word or number, of a sheaf of telegraphic “queries” left upon his desk. Having finished, he swiveled in his chair, to face Banneker, and, as he spoke, kept bouncing the thin point of a letter-opener from the knuckles of his left hand. His hands were fat and nervous.

Following the editor, he walked through a large room with low ceilings, filled with desks, each holding a heavy crystal ink well filled with a particularly vibrant purple liquid. A short figure, expressionless like a Mongol, sat at a corner desk, staring out at City Hall Park with an intense gaze. Across from him sat a surprisingly neat and elegant man, with distinct Irish features in his elongated jaw and playful gray eyes, going through the early evening editions with a meticulous approach. Only one person occupied the long rows of work tables, cluttered with copy paper and messy newspapers; a tall young man with a defeated and sad look, like a boy left after school. Banneker took all this in while the managing editor was quickly going through a stack of telegraphic "queries" left on his desk, usually with a single penciled word or number. Once he was done, he turned in his chair to face Banneker and, as he spoke, kept bouncing the thin tip of a letter opener off the knuckles of his left hand. His hands were large and fidgety.

“So you want to do newspaper work?”

“So, you’re interested in working for a newspaper?”

“Yes.”

"Yeah."

“Why?”

“I think I can make a go of it.”

“I think I can make this work.”

“Any experience?”

"Got any experience?"

“None to speak of. I’ve written a few things. I thought you might remember my name.”

“Not really. I've written a few things. I thought you might remember me.”

“Your name? Banneker? No. Why should I?”

“Your name? Banneker? No way. Why should I?”

“You published some of my things in the Sunday edition, lately. From Manzanita, California.”

“You published some of my work in the Sunday edition recently. From Manzanita, California.”

“No. I don’t think so. Mr. Homans.” A graying man with the gait of a marionnette and the precise expression of a rocking-horse, who had just entered, crossed over. “Have we sent out any checks to a Mr. Banneker recently, in California?”

“No. I don’t think so. Mr. Homans.” A graying man with the walk of a puppet and the exact look of a rocking horse, who had just walked in, came over. “Have we sent any checks to a Mr. Banneker recently, in California?”

The new arrival, who was copy-reader and editorial selecter for the Sunday edition, repeated the name in just such a wooden voice as was to be expected. “No,” he said positively.

The new arrival, who was a copy editor and editorial selector for the Sunday edition, repeated the name in a completely stiff voice as expected. “No,” he said firmly.

“But I’ve cashed the checks,” returned Banneker, annoyed and bewildered. “And I’ve seen the clipping of the article in the Sunday Sphere of—”

“But I’ve cashed the checks,” Banneker replied, annoyed and confused. “And I’ve seen the clipping of the article in the Sunday Sphere of—”

“Just a moment. You’re not in The Sphere office. Did you think you were? Some one has directed you wrong. This is The Ledger.”

“Just a moment. You’re not in The Sphere office. Did you think you were? Someone has misled you. This is The Ledger.”

“Oh!” said Banneker. “It was a policeman that pointed it out. I suppose I saw wrong.” He paused; then looked up ingenuously. “But, anyway, I’d rather be on The Ledger.”

“Oh!” said Banneker. “It was a cop who pointed it out. I guess I saw it wrong.” He paused, then looked up innocently. “But, either way, I’d prefer to be on The Ledger.”

Mr. Gordon smiled broadly, the thin blade poised over a plump, reddened knuckle.

Mr. Gordon smiled widely, the thin blade hovering over a chubby, red knuckle.

“Would you! Now, why?”

"Why would you do that?"

“I’ve been reading it. I like the way it does things.”

"I've been reading it. I like how it does things."

The editor laughed outright. “If you didn’t look so honest, I would think that somebody of experience had been tutoring you. How many other places have you tried?”

The editor laughed out loud. “If you didn’t look so trustworthy, I’d think someone experienced had been giving you lessons. How many other places have you applied to?”

“None.”

None.

“You were going to The Sphere first? On the promise of a job?”

“You were going to The Sphere first? Because you were promised a job?”

“No. Because they printed what I wrote.”

“No. Because they published what I wrote.”

“The Sphere’s ways are not our ways,” pronounced Mr. Gordon primly. “It’s a fundamental difference in standards.”

“The Sphere’s ways are different from ours,” Mr. Gordon said with a stern face. “It’s a basic difference in standards.”

“I can see that.”

"Got it."

“Oh, you can, can you?” chuckled the other. “But it’s true that we have no opening here.”

“Oh, you can, can you?” laughed the other. “But it’s true that we have no openings here.”

(The Ledger never did have an “opening”; but it managed to wedge in a goodly number of neophytes, from year to year, ninety per cent of whom were automatically and courteously ejected after due trial. Mr. Gordon performed a surpassing rataplan upon his long-suffering thumb-joint and wondered if this queer and direct being might qualify among the redeemable ten per cent.)

(The Ledger never had an “opening”; but it still managed to bring in quite a few newcomers each year, ninety percent of whom were promptly and politely dismissed after their trial period. Mr. Gordon tapped his long-suffering thumb joint and wondered if this strange and straightforward person might be one of the redeemable ten percent.)

“I can wait.” (They often said that.) “For a while,” added the youth thoughtfully.

“I can wait.” (They often said that.) “For a bit,” added the young man thoughtfully.

“How long have you been in New York?”

“Thirty-three days.”

"33 days."

“And what have you been doing?”

“And what have you been up to?”

“Reading newspapers.”

"Reading news online."

“No! Reading—That’s rather surprising. All of them?”

“No! Reading—that's quite surprising. All of them?”

“All that I could manage.”

"That's all I could do."

“Some were so bad that you couldn’t worry through them, eh?” asked the other with appreciation.

“Some were so bad that you couldn’t get through them, right?” asked the other with appreciation.

“Not that. But I didn’t know the foreign languages except French, and Spanish, and a little Italian.”

“Not that. But I didn’t know any foreign languages except for French, Spanish, and a little bit of Italian.”

“The foreign-language press, too. Remarkable!” murmured the other. “Do you mind telling me what your idea was?”

“The foreign-language press, as well. Amazing!” whispered the other. “Could you share what your idea was?”

“It was simple enough. As I wanted to get on a newspaper, I thought I ought to find out what newspapers were made of.”

“It was straightforward. Since I wanted to get into journalism, I figured I should learn what newspapers were all about.”

“Simple, as you say. Beautifully simple! So you’ve devised for yourself the little job of perfecting yourself in every department of journalism; politics, finances, criminal, sports, society; all of them, eh?”

“Simple, as you say. Beautifully simple! So you’ve created for yourself the task of becoming perfect in every area of journalism: politics, finance, crime, sports, society; all of them, right?”

“No; not all,” replied Banneker.

“No, not all,” replied Banneker.

“Not? What have you left out?”

“Not? What did you leave out?”

“Society news” was the answer, delivered less promptly than the other replies.

“Social news” was the answer, given more slowly than the other responses.

Bestowing a twinkle of mingled amusement and conjecture upon the applicant’s clothing, Mr. Gordon said:

Bestowing a spark of mixed amusement and curiosity upon the applicant’s clothing, Mr. Gordon said:

“You don’t approve of our social records? Or you’re not interested? Or why is it that you neglect this popular branch?”

“You don’t like our social records? Or you're not interested? Or why do you overlook this popular area?”

“Personal reasons.”

"Personal reasons."

This reply, which took the managing editor somewhat aback, was accurate if not explanatory. Miss Van Arsdale’s commentaries upon Gardner and his quest had inspired Banneker with a contemptuous distaste for this type of journalism. But chiefly he had shunned the society columns from dread of finding there some mention of her who had been Io Welland. He was resolved to conquer and evict that memory; he would not consciously put himself in the way of anything that recalled it.

This reply took the managing editor by surprise; it was accurate but not very explanatory. Miss Van Arsdale’s critiques of Gardner and his pursuits had filled Banneker with a scornful dislike for this kind of journalism. But mainly, he avoided the society columns because he was afraid of seeing any mention of her, who was once Io Welland. He was determined to overcome and erase that memory; he wouldn’t intentionally put himself in a position to be reminded of it.

“Hum! And this notion of making an intensive study of the papers; was that original with you?”

“Hmm! And this idea of doing a deep dive into the papers; was that your idea?”

“Well, no, not entirely. I got it from a man who made himself a bank president in seven years.”

“Well, no, not really. I got it from a guy who became a bank president in seven years.”

“Yes? How did he do that?”

“Yes? How did he manage that?”

“He started by reading everything he could find about money and coinage and stocks and bonds and other financial paper. He told me that it was incredible the things that financial experts didn’t know about their own business—the deep-down things—and that he guessed it was so with any business. He got on top by really knowing the things that everybody was supposed to know.”

“He started by reading everything he could find about money and coinage, stocks and bonds, and other financial papers. He told me it was amazing how much financial experts didn’t know about their own industry—the fundamental things—and he figured it was the same in any field. He succeeded by truly understanding what everyone was expected to know.”

“A sound theory, I dare say. Most financiers aren’t so revealing.”

“A solid theory, if I may say so. Most financiers aren’t that open.”

“He and I were padding the hoof together. We were both hoboes then.”

“He and I were wandering together. We were both homeless back then.”

The managing editor looked up, alert, from his knuckle-tapping. “From bank president to hobo. Was his bank an important one?”

The managing editor looked up, alert, from his knuckle-tapping. “From bank president to homeless. Was his bank a significant one?”

“The biggest in a medium-sized city.”

“The largest in a medium-sized city.”

“And does that suggest nothing to you, as a prospective newspaper man?”

“And doesn’t that mean anything to you, as someone who might work in journalism?”

“What? Write him up?”

"What? Write him up?"

“It would make a fairly sensational story.”

“It would make a pretty sensational story.”

“I couldn’t do that. He was my friend. He wouldn’t like it.”

Mr. Gordon addressed his wedding-ring finger which was looking a bit scarified. “Such an article as that, properly done, would go a long way toward getting you a chance on this paper—Sit down, Mr. Banneker.”

Mr. Gordon looked at his wedding-ring finger, which was looking a bit worn. “Something like that, done right, would really help you get a shot at this paper—Have a seat, Mr. Banneker.”

“You and I,” said Banneker slowly and in the manner of the West, “can’t deal.”

“You and I,” said Banneker slowly and in a Western way, “can’t deal.”

“Yes, we can.” The managing editor threw his steel blade on the desk. “Sit down, I tell you. And understand this. If you come on this paper—I’m going to turn you over to Mr. Greenough, the city editor, with a request that he give you a trial—you’ll be expected to subordinate every personal interest and advantage to the interests and advantages of the paper, except your sense of honor and fair-play. We don’t ask you to give that up; and if you do give it up, we don’t want you at all. What have you done besides be a hobo?”

“Yes, we can.” The managing editor slammed his steel blade on the desk. “Sit down, I’m telling you. And understand this. If you join this paper—I’m going to hand you over to Mr. Greenough, the city editor, and ask him to give you a trial—you’ll be expected to put every personal interest and benefit aside for the paper’s interests and benefits, except for your sense of honor and fair play. We don’t ask you to give that up; and if you do, we don’t want you here at all. What have you done besides being a hobo?”

“Railroading. Station-agent.”

"Train management. Station agent."

“Where were you educated?”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Nowhere. Wherever I could pick it up.”

“Nowhere. I could pick it up wherever.”

“Which means everywhere. Ever read George Borrow?”

“Which means everywhere. Have you ever read George Borrow?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

The heavy face of Mr. Gordon lighted up. “Ree-markable! Keep on. He’s a good offset to—to the daily papers. Writing still counts, on The Ledger. Come over and meet Mr. Greenough.”

The serious face of Mr. Gordon brightened. “Remarkable! Keep going. He’s a good counterbalance to the daily papers. Writing still matters at The Ledger. Come over and meet Mr. Greenough.”

The city editor unobtrusively studied Banneker out of placid, inscrutable eyes, soft as a dove’s, while he chatted at large about theaters, politics, the news of the day. Afterward the applicant met the Celtic assistant, Mr. Mallory, who broadly outlined for him the technique of the office. With no further preliminaries Banneker found himself employed at fifteen dollars a week, with Monday for his day off and directions to report on the first of the month.

The city editor quietly observed Banneker with calm, unreadable eyes that were soft like a dove’s, as he talked at length about theaters, politics, and the news of the day. Later, the applicant met the Celtic assistant, Mr. Mallory, who clearly explained the office's procedures. Without any more formalities, Banneker was hired at fifteen dollars a week, with Monday as his day off and instructions to report on the first of the month.

As the day-desk staff was about departing at six o’clock, Mr. Gordon sauntered over to the city desk looking mildly apologetic.

As the day desk staff was about to leave at six o’clock, Mr. Gordon strolled over to the city desk, looking a bit apologetic.

“I practically had to take that young desert antelope on,” said he.

“I basically had to take on that young desert antelope,” he said.

“Too ingenuous to turn down,” surmised the city editor.

“Too naive to turn down,” thought the city editor.

“Ingenuous! He’s heir to the wisdom of the ages. And now I’m afraid I’ve made a ghastly mistake.”

“Genuine! He’s the heir to the wisdom of the ages. And now I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Something wrong with him?”

“Is something wrong with him?”

“I’ve had his stuff in the Sunday Sphere looked up.”

“I’ve had his stuff in the Sunday Sphere checked out.”

“Pretty weird?” put in Mallory, gliding into his beautifully fitting overcoat.

“Pretty weird?” Mallory said, slipping into his perfectly fitted overcoat.

“So damned good that I don’t see how The Sphere ever came to take it. Greenough, you’ll have to find some pretext for firing that young phenomenon as soon as possible.”

“So incredibly good that I don’t see how The Sphere ever managed to take it. Greenough, you’ll need to come up with some excuse to fire that young prodigy as soon as you can.”

Perfectly comprehending his superior’s mode of indirect expression the city editor replied:

Perfectly understanding his boss’s way of speaking indirectly, the city editor replied:

“You think so highly of him as that?”

"You really think that highly of him?"

“Not one of our jobs will be safe from him if he once gets his foot planted,” prophesied the other with mock ruefulness. “Do you know,” he added, “I never even asked him for a reference.”

“Not one of our jobs will be safe from him if he ever gets his foot in the door,” predicted the other with fake sadness. “You know,” he added, “I never even asked him for a reference.”

“You don’t need to,” pronounced Mallory, shaking the last wrinkle out of himself and lighting the cigarette of departure. “He’s got it in his face, if I’m any judge.”

“You don’t need to,” Mallory said, smoothing out the last wrinkle in his clothes and lighting his departure cigarette. “It’s written all over his face, if you ask me.”

Highly elate, Banneker walked on springy pavements all the way to Grove Street. Fifteen a week! He could live on that. His other income and savings could be devoted to carrying out Miss Camilla’s advice. For he need not save any more. He would go ahead, fast, now that he had got his start. How easy it had been.

Highly elated, Banneker walked on springy sidewalks all the way to Grove Street. Fifteen a week! He could live on that. His other income and savings could be dedicated to following Miss Camilla’s advice. He didn’t need to save anymore. He would move forward quickly now that he had gotten his start. How easy it had been.

Entering the Brashear door, he met plain, middle-aged little Miss Westlake. A muffler was pressed to her jaw. He recalled having heard her moving about her room, the cheapest and least desirable in the house, and groaning softly late in the night; also having heard some lodgers say that she was a typist with very little work. Obviously she needed a dentist, and presumably she had not the money to pay his fee. In the exultation of his good luck, Banneker felt a stir of helpfulness toward this helpless person.

Entering the Brashear door, he encountered plain, middle-aged Miss Westlake. A scarf was pressed to her jaw. He remembered hearing her move around her room, the cheapest and least desirable in the house, and softly groaning late at night; he also overheard some lodgers mention that she was a typist with very little work. Clearly, she needed a dentist, and likely she didn’t have the money to pay for one. In his excitement over his good fortune, Banneker felt a wave of helpfulness toward this vulnerable person.

“Oh!” said he. “How do you do! Could you find time to do some typing for me quite soon?”

“Oh!” he said. “How’s it going? Could you find some time to do some typing for me soon?”

It was said impulsively and was followed by a surge of dismay. Typing? Type what? He had absolutely nothing on hand!

It was said on a whim and was followed by a wave of frustration. Typing? Type what? He had nothing at all!

Well, he must get up something. At once. It would never do to disappoint that pathetic and eager hope, as of a last-moment rescue, expressed in the little spinster’s quick flush and breathless, thankful affirmative.

Well, he has to do something. Right away. It wouldn't be right to let down that sad and hopeful wish for a last-minute rescue, which was clear in the little spinster’s quick blush and her breathless, grateful response.

CHAPTER III

Ten days’ leeway before entering upon the new work. To which of scores of crowding purposes could Banneker best put the time? In his offhand way the instructive Mallory had suggested that he familiarize himself with the topography and travel-routes of the Island of Manhattan. Indefatigably he set about doing this; wandering from water-front to water-front, invading tenements, eating at queer, Englishless restaurants, picking up chance acquaintance with chauffeurs, peddlers, street-fakers, park-bench loiterers; all that drifting and iridescent scum of life which variegates the surface above the depths. Everywhere he was accepted without question, for his old experience on the hoof had given him the uncoded password which loosens the speech of furtive men and wise. A receptivity, sensitized to a high degree by the inspiration of new adventure, absorbed these impressions. The faithful pocket-ledger was filling rapidly with notes and phrases, brisk and trenchant, set down with no specific purpose; almost mechanically, in fact, but destined to future uses. Mallory, himself no mean connoisseur of the tumultuous and flagrant city, would perhaps have found matter foreign to his expert apprehension could he have seen and translated the pages of 3 T 9901.

Ten days of freedom before starting the new job. How should Banneker best use this time, with so many purposes vying for his attention? In a casual way, the insightful Mallory had suggested that he get to know the layout and travel routes of Manhattan. With relentless energy, he set out to do just that; wandering from one waterfront to another, exploring tenements, eating in strange, language-barrier restaurants, and making casual connections with drivers, vendors, street hustlers, and park bench wanderers; all that drifting and colorful mix of life that covers the surface above the depths. He was welcomed everywhere, as his past experiences had given him the unspoken key to unlock conversations with discreet and wise people. His openness, heightened by the excitement of new adventures, soaked up these experiences. His trusty pocket notebook was quickly filling up with sharp and lively notes and phrases, written without any clear purpose; almost instinctively, in fact, but meant for future use. Mallory, who was no stranger to the chaos and vibrancy of the city, would likely have found foreign elements in Banneker's notes if he could have seen and interpreted the pages of 3 T 9901.

Banneker would go forward in the fascinating paths of exploration; but there were other considerations.

Banneker would continue along the exciting paths of exploration; however, there were other factors to consider.

The outer man, for example. The inner man, too; the conscious inner man strengthened upon the strong milk of the philosophers, the priests, and the prophets so strangely mingled in that library now stored with Camilla Van Arsdale; exhilarated by the honey-dew of “The Undying Voices,” of Keats and Shelley, and of Swinburne’s supernal rhythms, which he had brought with him. One visit to the Public Library had quite appalled him; the vast, chill orderliness of it. He had gone there, hungry to chat about books! To the Public Library! Surely a Homeric joke for grim, tomish officialdom. But tomish officialdom had not even laughed at him; it was too official to appreciate the quality of such side-splitting innocence.... Was he likely to meet a like irresponsiveness when he should seek clothing for the body?

The outer man, for instance. The inner man too; the conscious inner man strengthened by the rich insights of philosophers, priests, and prophets all strangely mixed in the library now filled with Camilla Van Arsdale; invigorated by the sweet inspiration of “The Undying Voices,” Keats and Shelley, and Swinburne’s celestial rhythms, which he had brought with him. One trip to the Public Library had really shocked him; the vast, cold orderliness of it. He had gone there, eager to talk about books! To the Public Library! Surely a Homeric joke for the grim, stuffy officials. But those stuffy officials hadn’t even laughed at him; they were too official to see the humor in such hilarious innocence.... Was he likely to encounter a similar lack of understanding when he went looking for clothes for his body?

Watch the clubs, young Wickert had advised. Banneker strolled up Fifth Avenue, branching off here and there, into the more promising side streets.

Watch the clubs, young Wickert had advised. Banneker walked along Fifth Avenue, veering off here and there into the more promising side streets.

It was the hour of the First Thirst; the institutions which cater to this and subsequent thirsts drew steadily from the main stream of human activity flowing past. Many gloriously clad specimens passed in and out of the portals, socially sacred as in the quiet Fifth Avenue clubs, profane as in the roaring, taxi-bordered “athletic” foundations; but there seemed to the anxious observer no keynote, no homogeneous character wherefrom to build as on a sure foundation. Lacking knowledge, his instinct could find no starting-point; he was bewildered in vision and in mind. Just off the corner of the quietest of the Forties, he met a group of four young men, walking compactly by twos. The one nearest him in the second line was Herbert Cressey. His heavy and rather dull eye seemed to meet Banneker’s as they came abreast. Banneker nodded, half checking himself in his slow walk.

It was the time of the First Thirst; the places that catered to this and the following cravings drew steadily from the main stream of human activity flowing by. Many beautifully dressed individuals moved in and out of the entrances, as socially esteemed as in the quiet Fifth Avenue clubs, and as rowdy as in the bustling, taxi-lined "athletic" venues; but to the anxious observer, there seemed to be no clear theme, no unifying character to build upon as a solid base. Lacking knowledge, his instinct couldn't find a starting point; he was confused in vision and thought. Just off the corner of the quietest street in the Forties, he ran into a group of four young men, walking closely together in pairs. The one nearest to him in the second line was Herbert Cressey. His heavy and somewhat dull gaze seemed to lock onto Banneker’s as they walked side by side. Banneker nodded, half pausing in his slow stride.

“How are you?” he said with an accent of surprise and pleasure.

“How are you?” he said, surprised and pleased.

Cressey’s expressionless face turned a little. There was no response in kind to Banneker’s smile.

Cressey’s blank face shifted slightly. There was no reaction to Banneker’s smile.

“Oh! H’ware you!” said he vaguely, and passed on.

“Oh! How are you!” he said vaguely and moved on.

Banneker advanced mechanically until he reached the corner. There he stopped. His color had heightened. The smile was still on his lips; it had altered, taken on a quality of gameness. He did not shake his fist at the embodied spirit of metropolitanism before him, as had a famous Gallic precursor of his, also a determined seeker for Success in a lesser sphere; but he paraphrased Rastignac’s threat in his own terms.

Banneker moved forward steadily until he reached the corner. There, he stopped. His face was flushed. The smile was still on his lips, but it had changed, taking on a sense of determination. He didn’t shake his fist at the embodiment of city life in front of him, like a well-known French character of his—also someone striving for success in a smaller arena; instead, he rephrased Rastignac’s challenge in his own way.

“I reckon I’ll have to lick this town and lick it good before it learns to be friendly.”

“I guess I’ll have to take on this town and really show it who's boss before it gets friendly.”

A hand fell on his arm. He turned to face Cressey.

A hand landed on his arm. He turned to look at Cressey.

“You’re the feller that bossed the wreck out there in the desert, aren’t you? You’re—lessee—Banneker.”

“You're the guy who handled the crash out there in the desert, right? You're—let's see—Banneker.”

“I am.” The tone was curt.

“I am.” The tone was short.

“Awfully sorry I didn’t spot you at once.” Cressey’s genuineness was a sufficient apology. “I’m a little stuffy to-day. Bachelor dinner last night. What are you doing here? Looking around?”

“Really sorry I didn’t see you right away.” Cressey’s sincerity was a good enough apology. “I’m a bit stuffy today. Had a bachelor dinner last night. What are you doing here? Just checking things out?”

“No. I’m living here.”

"Nope. I'm staying here."

“That so? So am I. Come into my club and let’s talk. I’m glad to see you, Mr. Banneker.”

“That right? So am I. Come into my club and let’s chat. I’m happy to see you, Mr. Banneker.”

Even had Banneker been prone to self-consciousness, which he was not, the extreme, almost monastic plainness of the small, neutral-fronted building to which the other led him would have set him at ease. It gave no inkling of its unique exclusiveness, and equally unique expensiveness. As for Cressey, that simple, direct, and confident soul took not the smallest account of Banneker’s standardized clothing, which made him almost as conspicuous in that environment as if he had entered clad in a wooden packing-case. Cressey’s creed in such matters was complete; any friend of his was good enough for any environment to which he might introduce him, and any other friend who took exceptions might go farther!

Even if Banneker had been self-conscious, which he wasn't, the extreme, almost monk-like simplicity of the small, neutral-fronted building he was taken to would have put him at ease. It gave no hint of its unique exclusivity and equally unique cost. As for Cressey, that straightforward, confident guy didn't think twice about Banneker’s plain clothes, which made him stick out in that setting as if he had walked in wearing a wooden packing crate. Cressey’s belief in these matters was clear; any friend of his was good enough for any place he might bring them, and any other friend who disagreed could take a hike!

“Banzai!” said the cheerful host over his cocktail. “Welcome to our city. Hope you like it.”

"Banzai!" said the happy host, raising his cocktail. "Welcome to our city. Hope you enjoy it."

“I do,” said Banneker, lifting his glass in response.

“I do,” Banneker said, raising his glass in reply.

“Where are you living?”

"Where do you live?"

“Grove Street.”

"Grove Street."

Cressey knit his brows. “Where’s that? Harlem?”

Cressey frowned. “Where’s that? Harlem?”

“No. Over west of Sixth Avenue.”

“No. It's over west of Sixth Avenue.”

“Queer kind of place to live, ain’t it? There’s a corkin’ little suite vacant over at the Regalton. Cheap at the money. Oh!-er-I-er-maybe—”

“Strange kind of place to live, isn’t it? There’s a great little apartment open at the Regalton. A good deal for the price. Oh!—uh—I—maybe—”

“Yes; that’s it,” smiled Banneker. “The treasury isn’t up to bachelor suites, yet awhile. I’ve only just got a job.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Banneker smiled. “The treasury isn’t ready for bachelor pads just yet. I’ve only just landed a job.”

“What is it?”

"What is that?"

“Newspaper work. The Morning Ledger.”

“Reporting?” A dubious expression clouded the candid cheerfulness of the other’s face.

“Reporting?” A skeptical look overshadowed the genuine cheerfulness of the other person's face.

“Yes. What’s the matter with that?”

"Yeah. What's wrong with that?"

“Oh; I dunno. It’s a piffling sort of job, ain’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a pretty trivial job, isn’t it?”

“Piffling? How do you mean?”

"Insignificant? What do you mean?"

“Well, I supposed you had to ask a lot of questions and pry into other people’s business and—and all that sorta thing.”

“Well, I guess you have to ask a lot of questions and dig into other people’s business and—and all that kind of stuff.”

“If nobody asked questions,” pointed out Banneker, remembering Gardner’s resolute devotion to his professional ideals, “there wouldn’t be any news, would there?”

“If nobody asked questions,” Banneker pointed out, recalling Gardner’s strong commitment to his professional principles, “there wouldn’t be any news, right?”

“Sure! That’s right,” agreed the gilded youth. “The Ledger’s the decentest paper in town, too. It’s a gentleman’s paper. I know a feller on it; Guy Mallory; was in my class at college. Give you a letter to him if you like.”

“Sure! That’s right,” agreed the wealthy young man. “The Ledger is the best paper in town, too. It’s a classy paper. I know a guy who works there; Guy Mallory; he was in my college class. I can give you a letter to him if you want.”

Informed that Banneker already knew Mr. Mallory, his host expressed the hope of being useful to him in any other possible manner—“any tips I can give you or anything of that sort, old chap?”—so heartily that the newcomer broached the subject of clothes.

Informed that Banneker already knew Mr. Mallory, his host expressed the hope of being helpful to him in any other way—“any advice I can give you or anything like that, old friend?”—so warmly that the newcomer brought up the topic of clothes.

“Nothin’ easier,” was the ready response. “I’ll take you right down to Mertoun. Just one more and we’re off.”

“Nothing easier,” was the quick reply. “I’ll take you straight down to Mertoun. Just one more and we’re good to go.”

The one more having been disposed of: “What is it you want?” inquired Cressey, when they were settled in the taxi which was waiting at the club door for them.

The last one taken care of: “What do you want?” Cressey asked as they settled into the taxi waiting for them outside the club.

“Well, what do I want? You tell me.”

“How far do you want to go? Will five hundred be too much?”

“No.”

Cressey lost himself in mental calculations out of which he presently delivered himself to this effect:

Cressey got lost in his thoughts, and after a while, he came to this conclusion:

“Evening clothes, of course. And a dinner-jacket suit. Two business suits, a light and a dark. You won’t need a morning coat, I expect, for a while. Anyway, we’ve got to save somethin’ out for shirts and boots, haven’t we?”

“Evening wear, obviously. And a tuxedo. Two business suits, one light and one dark. I don't think you'll need a morning coat for a while. Anyway, we need to save some money for shirts and boots, right?”

“I haven’t the money with me” remarked Banneker, his innocent mind on the cash-with-order policy of Sears-Roebuck.

“I don’t have the money with me,” Banneker said, his innocent mind focused on the cash-with-order policy of Sears-Roebuck.

“Now, see here,” said Cressey, good-humoredly, yet with an effect of authority. “This is a game that’s got to be played according to the rules. Why, if you put down spot cash before Mertoun’s eyes he’d faint from surprise, and when he came to, he’d have no respect for you. And a tailor’s respect for you,” continued Cressey, the sage, “shows in your togs.”

“Now, listen up,” said Cressey, cheerfully but with a touch of authority. “This is a game that needs to be played by the rules. If you threw down cash in front of Mertoun, he’d be so surprised he’d faint, and when he came to, he wouldn’t respect you at all. And a tailor’s respect for you,” continued Cressey, the wise one, “is reflected in your clothes.”

“When do I pay, then?”

"When should I pay?"

“Oh, in three or four months he sends around a bill. That’s more of a reminder to come in and order your fall outfit than it is anything else. But you can send him a check on account, if you feel like it.”

“Oh, in three or four months he sends a bill. That’s more of a reminder to come in and get your fall outfit than anything else. But if you want, you can send him a check in advance.”

“A check?” repeated the neophyte blankly. “Must I have a bank account?”

“A check?” repeated the newcomer blankly. “Do I need to have a bank account?”

“Safer than a sock, my boy. And just as simple. To-morrow will do for that, when we call on the shirt-makers and the shoe sharps. I’ll put you in my bank; they’ll take you on for five hundred.”

“Safer than a sock, my boy. And just as simple. Tomorrow will work for that when we visit the shirt-makers and the shoe experts. I’ll deposit you in my bank; they’ll accept you for five hundred.”

Arrived at Mertoun’s, Banneker unobtrusively but positively developed a taste of his own in the matter of hue and pattern; one, too, which commanded Cressey’s respect. The gilded youth’s judgment tended toward the more pronounced herringbones and homespuns.

Arriving at Mertoun’s, Banneker quietly but firmly established his own style in terms of color and pattern; a style that earned Cressey’s respect. The wealthy young man's taste leaned towards the bolder herringbones and homespun fabrics.

“All right for you, who can change seven days in the week; but I’ve got to live with these clothes, day in and day out,” argued Banneker.

To which Cressey deferred, though with a sigh. “You could carry off those sporty things as if they were woven to order for you,” he declared. “You’ve got the figure, the carriage, the—the whatever-the-devil it is, for it.”

To which Cressey agreed, though with a sigh. “You could pull off those sporty outfits as if they were made just for you,” he said. “You’ve got the figure, the posture, and—whatever it is that makes it work.”

Prospectively poorer by something more than four hundred dollars, Banneker emerged from Mertoun’s with his mentor.

Prospectively poorer by more than four hundred dollars, Banneker left Mertoun’s with his mentor.

“Gotta get home and dress for a rotten dinner,” announced that gentleman cheerfully. “Duck in here with me,” he invited, indicating a sumptuous bar, near the tailor’s, “and get another little kick in the stomach. No? Oh, verrawell. Where are you for?”

“Got to get home and get ready for a terrible dinner,” that man said cheerfully. “Come in here with me,” he suggested, pointing to a fancy bar near the tailor’s, “and have another quick drink. No? Oh, very well. Where are you headed?”

“The Public Library.”

“Public Library.”

“Gawd!” said his companion, honestly shocked. “That’s a gloomy hole, ain’t it?”

“Wow!” said his friend, genuinely shocked. “That’s a dark hole, isn’t it?”

“Not so bad, when you get used to it. I’ve been putting in three hours a day there lately.”

“Not too bad, once you get used to it. I’ve been putting in three hours a day there lately.”

“Whatever for?”

"What's that for?"

“Oh, browsing. Book-hungry, I suppose. Carnegie hasn’t discovered Manzanita yet, you know; so I haven’t had many library opportunities.”

“Oh, browsing. I guess I'm just hungry for books. Carnegie hasn’t found Manzanita yet, you know; so I haven’t had many chances to go to the library.”

“Speaking of Manzanita,” remarked Cressey, and spoke of it, reminiscently and at length, as they walked along together. “Did the lovely and mysterious I.O.W. ever turn up and report herself?”

“Speaking of Manzanita,” Cressey said, reminiscing and going on about it as they walked together. “Did the beautiful and mysterious I.O.W. ever show up and identify herself?”

Banneker’s breath caught painfully in his throat.

Banneker's breath was caught painfully in his throat.

“D’you know who she was?” pursued the other, without pause for reply to his previous question; and still without intermission continued: “Io Welland. That’s who she was. Oh, but she’s a hummer! I’ve met her since. Married, you know. Quick work, that marriage. There was a dam’ queer story whispered around about her starting to elope with some other chap, and his going nearly batty because she didn’t turn up, and all the time she was wandering around in the desert until somebody picked her up and took care of her. You ought to know something of that. It was supposed to be right in your back-yard.”

“Do you know who she was?” the other person continued, not waiting for a response to his previous question, and went on without a break: “Io Welland. That’s who she was. Oh, but she’s something else! I’ve met her since. She’s married now, you know. Quick move on that marriage. There was a really strange story going around about her planning to elope with another guy, and he nearly lost it because she didn’t show up, while all the time she was wandering around in the desert until someone found her and helped her out. You should have some knowledge about that. It was supposed to happen right in your backyard.”

“I?” said Banneker, commanding himself with an effort; “Miss Welland reported in with a slight injury. That’s all.”

“I?” said Banneker, steadying himself with some effort; “Miss Welland checked in with a minor injury. That’s it.”

One glance at him told Cressey that Banneker did indeed “know something” of the mysterious disappearance which had so exercised a legion of busy tongues in New York; how much that something might be, he preserved for future and private speculation, based on the astounding perception that Banneker was in real pain of soul. Tact inspired Cressey to say at once: “Of course, that’s all you had to consider. By the way, you haven’t seen my revered uncle since you got here, have you?”

One look at him made Cressey realize that Banneker definitely “knew something” about the mysterious disappearance that had stirred up so much talk in New York. How much he actually knew was something Cressey would keep for his own future thoughts, based on the surprising feeling that Banneker was genuinely troubled. Being tactful, Cressey quickly said, “Of course, that’s all you needed to think about. By the way, you haven’t seen my beloved uncle since you arrived, have you?”

“Mr. Vanney? No.”

"Mr. Vanney? Nope."

“Better drop in on him.”

"Better check in on him."

“He might try to give me another yellow-back,” smiled the ex-agent.

“He might try to give me another cheap book,” smiled the ex-agent.

“Don’t take Uncle Van for a fool. Once is plenty for him to be hit on the nose.”

“Don’t underestimate Uncle Van. Once is more than enough for him to get hit on the nose.”

“Has he still got a green whisker?”

“Does he still have a green whisker?”

“Go and see. He’s asked about you two or three times in the last coupla months.”

“Go and check it out. He’s asked about you a couple of times in the last few months.”

“But I’ve no errand with him.”

“But I have no business with him.”

“How can you tell? He might start something for you. It isn’t often that he keeps a man in mind like he has you. Anyway, he’s a wise old bird and may hand you a pointer or two about what’s what in New York. Shall I phone him you’re in town?”

“How can you tell? He might start something for you. It’s not often that he keeps someone in mind like he has with you. Anyway, he’s a wise old guy and might give you some advice about what’s going on in New York. Should I call him and let him know you’re in town?”

“Yes. I’ll get in to see him some time to-morrow.”

“Yes. I’ll see him sometime tomorrow.”

Having made an appointment, in the vital matter of shirts and shoes, for the morning, they parted. Banneker set to his browsing in the library until hunger drove him forth. After dinner he returned to his room, cumbered with the accumulation of evening papers, for study.

Having scheduled an appointment in the important matter of shirts and shoes for the morning, they went their separate ways. Banneker started browsing in the library until hunger pushed him to leave. After dinner, he returned to his room, weighed down with a pile of evening papers to study.

Beyond the thin partition he could hear Miss Westlake moving about and humming happily to herself. The sound struck dismay to his soul. The prospect of work from him was doubtless the insecure foundation of that cheerfulness. “Soon” he had said; the implication was that the matter was pressing. Probably she was counting on it for the morrow. Well, he must furnish something, anything, to feed the maw of her hungry typewriter; to fulfill that wistful hope which had sprung in her eyes when he spoke to her.

Beyond the thin wall, he could hear Miss Westlake moving around and happily humming to herself. The sound filled him with dread. The thought of him doing work was likely the shaky foundation of her cheerfulness. "Soon," he had said; it implied that the matter was urgent. She was probably counting on it for tomorrow. Well, he had to provide something, anything, to satisfy the appetite of her eager typewriter; to meet that longing hope that had lit up her eyes when he spoke to her.

Sweeping his table bare of the lore and lure of journalism as typified in the bulky, black-faced editions, he set out clean paper, cleansed his fountain pen, and stared at the ceiling. What should he write about? His mental retina teemed with impressions. But they were confused, unresolved, distorted for all that he knew, since he lacked experience and knowledge of the environment, and therefore perspective. Groping, he recalled a saying of Gardner’s as that wearied enthusiast descanted upon the glories of past great names in metropolitan journalism.

Clearing his table of the clutter and temptations of journalism, represented by the heavy, dark editions, he laid out fresh paper, cleaned his fountain pen, and stared at the ceiling. What should he write about? His mind was filled with ideas, but they were jumbled, unclear, and distorted, given his lack of experience and understanding of his surroundings, which meant he lacked perspective. Struggling, he remembered something Gardner used to say as that tired enthusiast elaborated on the achievements of past giants in city journalism.

“They used to say of Julian Ralph that he was always discovering City Hall Park and getting excited over it; and when he got excited enough, he wrote about it so that the public just ate it up.”

“They used to say about Julian Ralph that he was always discovering City Hall Park and getting really excited about it; and when he got excited enough, he wrote about it in a way that the public just loved.”

Well, he, Banneker, hadn’t discovered City Hall Park; not consciously. But he had gleaned wonder and delight from other and more remote spots, and now one of them began to stand forth upon the blank ceiling at which he stared, seeking guidance. A crowded corner of Essex Street, stewing in the hard sunshine. The teeming, shrill crowd. The stench and gleam of a fish-stall offering bargains. The eager games of the children, snatched between onsets of imminent peril as cart or truck came whirling through and scattering the players. Finally the episode of the trade fracas over the remains of a small and dubious weakfish, terminating when the dissatisfied customer cast the delicacy at the head of the stall-man and missed him, the corpus delicti falling into the gutter where it was at once appropriated and rapt away by an incredulous, delighted, and mangy cat. A crude, commonplace, malodorous little street row, the sort of thing that happens, in varying phases, on a dozen East-Side corners seven days in the week.

Well, Banneker hadn’t discovered City Hall Park; not on purpose. But he had found wonder and joy in other, more distant places, and now one of them started to come to mind as he stared blankly at the ceiling, looking for direction. A busy corner of Essex Street, sizzling under the harsh sunlight. The loud, bustling crowd. The stench and shine of a fish stall offering deals. The excited games of the kids, interrupted by the imminent danger as carts or trucks sped by, scattering the players. Finally, there was the scene of the argument over the remains of a small and questionable weakfish, ending when the unhappy customer threw the fish at the stall owner and missed, the fish landing in the gutter where it was quickly claimed and whisked away by a surprised, happy, and scrappy cat. A rough, ordinary, smelly little street fight, the kind of thing that happens, in different forms, on a dozen East Side corners every day of the week.

Banneker approached and treated the matter from the viewpoint of the cat, predatory, philosophic, ecstatic. One o’clock in the morning saw the final revision, for he had become enthralled with the handling of his subject. It was only a scant five pages; less than a thousand words. But as he wrote and rewrote, other schemata rose to the surface of his consciousness, and he made brief notes of them on random ends of paper; half a dozen of them, one crowding upon another. Some day, perhaps, when there were enough of them, when he had become known, had achieved the distinction of a signature like Gardner, there might be a real series.... His vague expectancies were dimmed in weariness.

Banneker approached the matter from the perspective of a cat—predatory, thoughtful, and excited. One o’clock in the morning marked the final revision, as he had become fascinated with his topic. It was only about five pages; less than a thousand words. But as he wrote and rewrote, other ideas popped up in his mind, and he jotted them down on random scraps of paper; about half a dozen of them, one idea crowding another. Maybe someday, when he had enough of them, when he was well-known and had the kind of signature like Gardner, there could be a real series... His vague hopes were clouded by tiredness.

Such was the genesis of the “Local Vagrancies” which later were to set Park Row speculating upon the signature “Eban.”

Such was the origin of the “Local Vagrancies” that later had Park Row wondering about the signature “Eban.”

CHAPTER IV

Accessibility was one of Mr. Horace Vanney’s fads. He aspired to be a publicist, while sharing fallible humanity’s ignorance of just what the vague and imposing term signifies; and, as a publicist, he conceived it in character to be readily available to the public. Almost anybody could get to see Mr. Vanney in his tasteful and dignified lower Broadway offices, upon almost any reasonable or plausible errand. Especially was he hospitable to the newspaper world, the agents of publicity; and, such is the ingratitude of the fallen soul of man, every newspaper office in the city fully comprehended his attitude, made use of him as convenient, and professionally regarded him as a bit of a joke, albeit a useful and amiable joke. Of this he had no inkling. Enough for him that he was frequently, even habitually quoted, upon a wide range of windy topics, often with his picture appended.

Accessibility was one of Mr. Horace Vanney’s passions. He wanted to be a publicist, while sharing humanity's flawed understanding of what the vague and impressive term really means; and, as a publicist, he thought it was important to be readily accessible to the public. Almost anyone could meet Mr. Vanney in his stylish and respectable lower Broadway offices for nearly any reasonable or believable reason. He was particularly welcoming to the newspaper world, the agents of publicity; and, such is the ingratitude of mankind, every newspaper office in the city fully understood his approach, used him when convenient, and typically regarded him as a bit of a joke, though a useful and friendly one. He had no idea about this. For him, it was enough that he was frequently, even routinely quoted on a wide range of trivial subjects, often with his picture included.

With far less difficulty than he had found in winning the notice of Mr. Gordon, Banneker attained the sanctum of the capitalist.

With much less trouble than he had in getting Mr. Gordon's attention, Banneker reached the private office of the businessman.

“Well, well!” was the important man’s greeting as he shook hands. “Our young friend from the desert! How do we find New York?”

“Well, well!” was the important man’s greeting as he shook hands. “Our young friend from the desert! How do you find New York?”

From Banneker’s reply, there grew out a pleasantly purposeless conversation, which afforded the newcomer opportunity to decide that he did not like this Mr. Vanney, sleek, smiling, gentle, and courteous, as well as he had the brusque old tyrant of the wreck. That green-whiskered autocrat had been at least natural, direct, and unselfish in his grim emergency work. This manifestation seemed wary, cautious, on its guard to defend itself against some probable tax upon its good nature. All this unconscious, instinctive reckoning of the other man’s characteristics gave to the young fellow an effect of poise, of judicious balance and quiet confidence. It was one of Banneker’s elements of strength, which subsequently won for him his unique place, that he was always too much interested in estimating the man to whom he was talking, to consider even what the other might think of him. It was at once a form of egoism, and the total negation of egotism. It made him the least self-conscious of human beings. And old Horace Vanney, pompous, vain, the most self-conscious of his genus, felt, though he could not analyze, the charm of it.

From Banneker’s response, a laid-back conversation emerged, giving the newcomer a chance to decide he didn’t like this Mr. Vanney, who was slick, smiling, gentle, and polite, any better than the blunt old tyrant he had encountered before. That green-whiskered autocrat had at least been genuine, straightforward, and selfless in his tough work. This interaction felt cautious and defensive, wary of being taken advantage of for its kindness. All this instinctive assessment of the other man’s traits gave the young guy an aura of composure, balanced judgment, and quiet confidence. One of Banneker’s strengths, which later earned him his distinctive position, was that he was always more interested in evaluating the person he was talking to than in worrying about how that person perceived him. It was a mix of self-interest and a complete lack of egotism. This made him one of the least self-conscious people around. Meanwhile, old Horace Vanney, who was pompous, vain, and the most self-conscious of his kind, sensed, though he couldn't put his finger on it, the appeal of that quality.

A chance word indicated that Banneker was already “placed.” At once, though almost insensibly, the attitude of Mr. Vanney eased; obviously there was no fear of his being “boned” for a job. At the same time he experienced a mild misgiving lest he might be forfeiting the services of one who could be really useful to him. Banneker’s energy and decisiveness at the wreck had made a definite impression upon him. But there was the matter of the rejected hundred-dollar tip. Unpliant, evidently, this young fellow. Probably it was just as well that he should be broken in to life and new standards elsewhere than in the Vanney interests. Later, if he developed, watchfulness might show it to be worth while to....

A casual comment suggested that Banneker was already “set.” Immediately, though almost without noticing, Mr. Vanney's demeanor relaxed; clearly, he didn’t have to worry about being “gamed” for a job. At the same time, he felt a slight unease about possibly losing someone who could be genuinely helpful to him. Banneker’s energy and decisiveness during the wreck had left a strong impression on him. But there was the issue of the declined hundred-dollar tip. This young guy seemed to be quite resistant. Perhaps it was for the best that he should start fresh and adapt to new standards outside of the Vanney interests. Later on, if he proved himself, careful observation might reveal that it was worth it to....

“What is it that you have in mind, my boy?” inquired the benign Mr. Vanney.

“What do you have in mind, my boy?” asked the friendly Mr. Vanney.

“I start in on The Ledger next month.”

“I’m starting on The Ledger next month.”

“The Ledger! Indeed! I did not know that you had any journalistic experience.”

“The Ledger! Really! I had no idea you had any experience in journalism.”

“I haven’t.”

"I haven't."

“Well. Er—hum! Journalism, eh? A—er—brilliant profession!”

“Well. Um—wow! Journalism, huh? A—um—fantastic profession!”

“You think well of it?”

“Do you think it's good?”

“I have many friends among the journalists. Fine fellows! Very fine fellows.”

"I have a lot of friends among the journalists. Great guys! Really great guys."

The instinctive tone of patronage was not lost upon Banneker. He felt annoyed at Mr. Vanney. Unreasonably annoyed. “What’s the matter with journalism?” he asked bluntly.

The instinctive tone of patronage wasn't missed by Banneker. He felt annoyed at Mr. Vanney. Unreasonably annoyed. “What’s wrong with journalism?” he asked directly.

“The matter?” Mr. Vanney was blandly surprised. “Haven’t I just said—”

“The matter?” Mr. Vanney said with mild surprise. “Haven’t I just said—”

“Yes; you have. Would you let your son go into a newspaper office?”

“Yes; you have. Would you let your son work in a newspaper office?”

“My son? My son chose the profession of law.”

“My son? My son decided to become a lawyer.”

“But if he had wanted to be a journalist?”

“But what if he wanted to be a journalist?”

“Journalism does not perhaps offer the same opportunities for personal advancement as some other lines,” said the financier cautiously.

“Journalism might not provide the same opportunities for personal growth as some other professions,” the financier said carefully.

“Why shouldn’t it?”

“Why not?”

“It is largely anonymous.” Mr. Vanney gave the impression of feeling carefully for his words. “One may go far in journalism and yet be comparatively unknown to the public. Still, he might be of great usefulness,” added the sage, brightening, “very great usefulness. A sound, conservative, self-respecting newspaper such as The Ledger, is a public benefactor.”

“It’s mostly anonymous.” Mr. Vanney seemed to choose his words carefully. “You can go really far in journalism and still be pretty unknown to the public. But you can still be incredibly useful,” he added, looking brighter, “very, very useful. A solid, reliable, self-respecting newspaper like The Ledger is a benefit to the public.”

“And the editor of it?”

"And who’s the editor?"

“That’s right, my boy,” approved the other. “Aim high! Aim high! The great prizes in journalism are few. They are, in any line of endeavor. And the apprenticeship is hard.”

“That’s right, my boy,” agreed the other. “Aim high! Aim high! The big rewards in journalism are rare. They are in any field of work. And the training is tough.”

Herbert Cressey’s clumsy but involuntary protest reasserted itself in Banneker’s mind. “I wish you would tell me frankly, Mr. Vanney, whether reporting is considered undignified and that sort of thing?”

Herbert Cressey’s awkward but unintended protest came back to Banneker. “I wish you would tell me honestly, Mr. Vanney, whether reporting is seen as undignified and all that?”

“Reporters can be a nuisance,” replied Mr. Vanney fervently. “But they can also be very useful.”

“Reporters can be a pain,” Mr. Vanney replied passionately. “But they can also be really helpful.”

“But on the whole—”

“But overall—”

“On the whole it is a necessary apprenticeship. Very suitable for a young man. Not a final career, in my judgment.”

“Overall, it's a necessary learning experience. It’s very suitable for a young man. In my opinion, it's not a final career.”

“A reporter on The Ledger, then, is nothing but a reporter on The Ledger.”

“A reporter for The Ledger is just a reporter for The Ledger.”

“Isn’t that enough, for a start?” smiled the other. “The station-agent at—what was the name of your station? Yes, Manzanita. The station-agent at Manzanita—”

“Isn’t that enough to begin with?” smiled the other. “The station agent at—what was the name of your station? Yes, Manzanita. The station agent at Manzanita—”

“Was E. Banneker,” interposed the owner of that name positively. “A small puddle, but the inhabitant was an individual toad, at least. To keep one’s individuality in New York isn’t so easy, of course.”

“Was E. Banneker,” interrupted the person with that name confidently. “A small puddle, but the resident was definitely a single toad. It’s not so easy to maintain your individuality in New York, of course.”

“There are quite a number of people in New York,” pointed out the philosopher, Vanney. “Mostly crowd.”

“There are a lot of people in New York,” pointed out the philosopher, Vanney. “Mostly a crowd.”

“Yes,” said Banneker. “You’ve told me something about the newspaper business that I wanted to know.” He rose.

“Yes,” said Banneker. “You’ve shared some insights about the newspaper business that I was curious about.” He got up.

The other put out an arresting hand. “Wouldn’t you like to do a little reporting for me, before you take up your regular work?”

The other person raised a hand to stop him. “Wouldn’t you like to do a bit of reporting for me before you start your regular work?”

“What kind of reporting?”

“What type of reporting?”

“Quite simple. A manufacturing concern in which I own a considerable interest has a strike on its hands. Suppose you go down to Sippiac, New Jersey, where our factories are, spend three or four days, and report back to me your impressions and any ideas you may gather as to improving our organization for furthering our interests.”

“It's pretty straightforward. A manufacturing company I have a significant stake in is currently facing a strike. Let’s say you go to Sippiac, New Jersey, where our factories are located, spend three or four days there, and then come back to me with your impressions and any ideas you might have on how we can improve our organization to benefit our interests.”

“What makes you think that I could be useful in that line?” asked Banneker curiously.

“What makes you think I could be useful in that area?” Banneker asked, curious.

“My observations at the Manzanita wreck. You have, I believe, a knack for handling a situation.”

“My observations at the Manzanita wreck. I think you have a talent for managing a situation.”

“I can always try,” accepted Banneker.

“I can always give it a shot,” Banneker agreed.

Supplied with letters to the officials of the International Cloth Company, and a liberal sum for expenses, the neophyte went to Sippiac. There he visited the strongly guarded mills, still making a feeble pretense of operating, talked with the harassed officials, the gang-boss of the strike-breakers, the “private guards,” who had, in fact, practically assumed dominant police authority in the place; all of which was faithful to the programme arranged by Mr. Vanney. Having done so much, he undertook to obtain a view of the strike from the other side; visited the wretched tenements of the laborers, sought out the sullen and distrustful strike-leaders, heard much fiery oratory and some veiled threats from impassioned agitators, mostly foreign and all tragically earnest; chatted with corner grocerymen, saloon-keepers, ward politicians, composing his mental picture of a strike in a minor city, absolutely controlled, industrially, politically, and socially by the industry which had made it. The town, as he came to conceive it, was a fevered and struggling gnome, bound to a wheel which ground for others; a gnome who, if he broke his bonds, would be perhaps only the worse for his freedom. At the beginning of the sixth day, for his stay had outgrown its original plan, the pocket-ledger, 3 T 9901, was but little the richer, but the mind of its owner teemed with impressions.

Supplied with letters to the officials of the International Cloth Company and a generous budget for expenses, the newcomer went to Sippiac. There, he visited the heavily guarded mills, which were still making a faint attempt to operate, spoke with the stressed officials, the gang leader of the strike-breakers, and the "private guards," who had essentially taken over police authority in the area; all of this was in line with the plan arranged by Mr. Vanney. Having accomplished this, he set out to get the workers' perspective on the strike; he visited the rundown apartments of the laborers, sought out the sullen and suspicious strike leaders, listened to a lot of passionate speeches and some subtle threats from emotionally charged activists, mostly foreign and all deeply serious; chatted with local grocers, bar owners, and neighborhood politicians, piecing together his mental image of a strike in a small city, completely controlled—industrially, politically, and socially—by the very industry that had created it. The town, as he came to envision it, was like a feverish and struggling gnome, chained to a wheel that ground for others; a gnome who, if he broke free, might only suffer more for his newfound freedom. On the morning of the sixth day, as his stay had exceeded its original plan, the pocket ledger, 3 T 9901, was only slightly richer, but the mind of its owner was overflowing with impressions.

It was his purpose to take those impressions in person to Mr. Horace Vanney, by the 10 A.M. train. Arriving at the station early, he was surprised at being held up momentarily by a line of guards engaged in blocking off a mob of wailing, jabbering women, many of whom had children in their arms, or at their skirts. He asked the ticket-agent, a big, pasty young man about them.

It was his goal to personally deliver those impressions to Mr. Horace Vanney on the 10 A.M. train. Arriving early at the station, he was surprised to be briefly held up by a line of guards trying to control a crowd of crying, chattering women, many of whom were holding their children in their arms or at their skirts. He asked the ticket agent, a large, pale young man, about them.

“Mill workers,” said the agent, making change.

“Mill workers,” said the agent, counting out the change.

“What are they after?”

"What do they want?"

“Wanta get to the 10.10 train.”

“Want to catch the 10:10 train.”

“And the guards are stopping them?”

“You can use your eyes, cantcha?”

“You can use your eyes, can’t you?”

Using his eyes, Banneker considered the position. “Are those fellows on railroad property?”

Using his eyes, Banneker evaluated the situation. “Are those guys on railroad property?”

“What is it to you whether they are or ain’t?”

“What does it matter to you if they are or aren’t?”

Banneker explained his former occupation. “That’s different,” said the agent. “Come inside. That’s a hell of a mess, ain’t it!” he added plaintively as Banneker complied. “Some of those poor Hunkies have got their tickets and can’t use ’em.”

Banneker explained his previous job. “That’s different,” said the agent. “Come inside. That’s quite a mess, isn’t it!” he added sadly as Banneker agreed. “Some of those poor Hunkies have their tickets and can’t use them.”

“I’d see that they got their train, if this was my station,” asserted Banneker.

“I'd make sure they caught their train if this were my station,” asserted Banneker.

“Yes, you would! With that gang of strong-arms against you.”

“Yes, you would! With that group of muscleheads against you.”

“Chase ’em,” advised Banneker simply. “They’ve got no right keeping your passengers off your trains.”

“Chase them,” Banneker said casually. “They have no right to keep your passengers off your trains.”

“Chase ’em, ay? You’d do it, I suppose.”

“Chase them, right? I guess you would.”

“I would.”

"Yeah, I would."

“How?”

“How so?”

“You’ve got a gun, haven’t you?”

“You have a gun, don’t you?”

“Maybe you think those guys haven’t got guns, too.”

“Maybe you think those guys don’t have guns, either.”

“Well, all I can say is, that if there had been passengers held up from their trains at my station and I didn’t get them through, I’d have been through so far as the Atkinson and St. Philip goes.”

“Well, all I can say is, if there had been passengers stuck at my station waiting for their trains and I didn’t get them through, I would have been done for as far as Atkinson and St. Philip are concerned.”

“This railroad’s different. I’d be through if I butted in on this mill row.”

“This railroad is different. I'd be done for if I interfered with this mill row.”

“How’s that?”

"How's that?"

“Well, for one thing, old Vanney, who’s the real boss here, is a director of the road.”

“Well, for one thing, old Vanney, who’s actually in charge here, is a director of the road.”

“So that’s it!” Banneker digested this information. “Why are the women so anxious to get away?”

“So that’s it!” Banneker processed this information. “Why are the women so eager to leave?”

“They say”—the local agent lowered his voice—“their children are starving here, and they can get better jobs in other places. Naturally the mills don’t want to lose a lot of their hands, particularly the women, because they’re the cheapest. I don’t know as I blame ’em for that. But this business of hiring a bunch of ex-cons and—Hey! Where are you goin’?”

“They say”—the local agent lowered his voice—“their kids are starving here, and they can find better jobs elsewhere. Naturally, the mills don’t want to lose many of their workers, especially the women, because they’re the cheapest. I can’t say I blame them for that. But this whole thing of hiring a bunch of ex-cons and—Hey! Where are you going?”

Banneker was beyond the door before the query was completed. Looking out of the window, the agent saw a fat and fussy young mother, who had contrived to get through the line, waddling at her best speed across the open toward the station, and dragging a small boy by the hand. A lank giant from the guards’ ranks was after her. Screaming, she turned the corner out of his vision. There were sounds which suggested a row at the station-door, but the agent, called at that moment to the wire, could not investigate. The train came and went, and he saw nothing more of the ex-railroader from the West.

Banneker was out the door before the question was finished. Looking out the window, the agent saw a chubby and fussy young mom, who had managed to get through the line, waddling as fast as she could across the open space toward the station, dragging a little boy by the hand. A tall guard was chasing after her. Screaming, she turned the corner and disappeared from his sight. There were noises that suggested a commotion at the station door, but the agent, called to the wire at that moment, couldn't check it out. The train came and went, and he saw nothing more of the former railroad worker from the West.

Although Mr. Horace Vanney smiled pleasantly enough when Banneker presented himself at the office to make his report, the nature of the smile suggested a background more uncertain.

Although Mr. Horace Vanney smiled pleasantly when Banneker showed up at the office to make his report, the kind of smile hinted at something more uncertain behind it.

“Well, what have you found, my boy?” the financier began.

“Well, what have you found, kid?” the financier started.

“A good many things that ought to be changed,” answered Banneker bluntly.

“A lot of things that need to be changed,” Banneker replied straightforwardly.

“Quite probably. No institution is perfect.”

"Probably. No organization is perfect."

“The mills are pretty rotten. You pay your people too little—”

“The mills are in pretty bad shape. You pay your workers too little—”

“Where do you get that idea?”

“Where did you come up with that idea?”

“From the way they live.”

"By how they live."

“My dear boy; if we paid them twice as much, they’d live the same way. The surplus would go to the saloons.”

“My dear boy, even if we paid them twice as much, they’d still live the same way. The extra money would just go to the bars.”

“Then why not wipe out the saloons?”

“Then why not get rid of the bars?”

“I am not the Common Council of Sippiac,” returned Mr. Vanney dryly.

“I am not the Common Council of Sippiac,” Mr. Vanney replied dryly.

“Aren’t you?” retorted Banneker even more dryly.

“Aren’t you?” Banneker replied even more dryly.

The other frowned. “What else?”

The other frowned. “Anything else?”

“Well; the housing. You own a good many of the tenements, don’t you?”

“Well, about the housing. You own quite a few of the apartments, don’t you?”

“The company owns some.”

"The company owns some."

“They’re filthy holes.”

"They're dirty holes."

“They are what the tenants make them.”

“They are what the renters make them.”

“The tenants didn’t build them with lightless hallways, did they?”

“The tenants didn’t create them with dark hallways, did they?”

“They needn’t live there if they don’t like them. Have you spent all your time, for which I am paying, nosing about like a cheap magazine muckraker?” It was clear that Mr. Vanney was annoyed.

“They don’t have to live there if they don’t like it. Have you spent all your time, for which I’m paying, snooping around like a tabloid gossip columnist?” It was obvious that Mr. Vanney was irritated.

“I’ve been trying to find out what is wrong with Sippiac. I thought you wanted facts.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on with Sippiac. I thought you wanted information.”

“Precisely. Facts. Not sentimental gushings.”

"Exactly. Facts. Not emotional nonsense."

“Well, there are your guards. There isn’t much sentiment about them. I saw one of them smash a woman in the face, and knock her down, while she was trying to catch a train and get out of town.”

“Well, there are your guards. There’s not much compassion from them. I saw one of them hit a woman in the face and knock her down while she was trying to catch a train to get out of town.”

“And what did you do?”

"What did you do?"

“I don’t know exactly how much. But I hope enough to land him in the hospital. They pulled me off too soon.”

“I’m not sure how much they gave him. But I really hope it’s enough to put him in the hospital. They took me off too soon.”

“Do you know that you would have been killed if it hadn’t been for some of the factory staff who saved you from the other guards—as you deserved, for your foolhardiness?”

“Do you realize that you would have been killed if it weren’t for some of the factory staff who rescued you from the other guards—as you deserved, for your recklessness?”

The young man’s eyebrows went up a bit. “Don’t bank too much on my foolhardiness. I had a wall back of me. And there would have been material for several funerals before they got me.” He touched his hip-pocket. “By the way, you seem to be well informed.”

The young man's eyebrows raised slightly. "Don't rely too much on my recklessness. I had a wall behind me. And there would have been enough for several funerals before they got me." He tapped his hip pocket. "By the way, you seem pretty well-informed."

“I’ve been in ‘phone communication with Sippiac since the regrettable occurrence. It perhaps didn’t occur to you to find out that the woman, who is now under arrest, bit the guard very severely.”

“I’ve been in touch with Sippiac since the unfortunate incident. It might not have crossed your mind to check that the woman, who is now in custody, bit the guard quite badly.”

“Of course! Just like the rabbit bit the bulldog. You’ve got a lot of thugs and strong-arm men doing your dirty work, that ought to be in jail. If the newspapers here ever get onto the situation, it would make pretty rough reading for you, Mr. Vanney.”

“Of course! Just like the rabbit bit the bulldog. You’ve got a lot of thugs and enforcers doing your dirty work, who should really be in jail. If the newspapers here ever catch wind of this situation, it would make for some pretty tough reading for you, Mr. Vanney.”

The magnate looked at him with contemptuous amusement. “No newspaper of decent standing prints that kind of socialistic stuff, my young friend.”

The magnate looked at him with disdainful amusement. “No reputable newspaper publishes that kind of socialist nonsense, my young friend.”

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“Why not! Because of my position. Because the International Cloth Company is a powerful institution of the most reputable standing, with many lines of influence.”

“Why not! It’s because of my position. The International Cloth Company is a strong organization with a great reputation and a lot of influence.”

“And that is enough to keep the newspapers from printing an article about conditions in Sippiac?” asked Banneker, deeply interested in this phase of the question. “Is that the fact?”

“And that’s enough to stop the newspapers from printing an article about conditions in Sippiac?” Banneker asked, really intrigued by this aspect of the issue. “Is that true?”

It was not the fact; The Sphere, for one, would have handled the strike on the basis of news interest, as Mr. Vanney well knew; wherefore he hated and pretended to despise The Sphere. But for his own purposes he answered:

It wasn't the fact; The Sphere, for one, would have dealt with the strike based on news interest, as Mr. Vanney certainly knew; that's why he hated and acted like he looked down on The Sphere. But for his own reasons, he responded:

“Not a paper in New York would touch it. Except,” he added negligently, “perhaps some lying, Socialist sheet. And let me warn you, Mr. Banneker,” he pursued in his suavest tone, “that you will find no place for your peculiar ideas on The Ledger. In fact, I doubt whether you will be doing well either by them or by yourself in going on their staff, holding such views as you do.”

“Not a newspaper in New York would publish it. Except,” he added casually, “maybe some dishonest, Socialist rag. And let me warn you, Mr. Banneker,” he continued in his smoothest tone, “that you won’t find a place for your unusual ideas at The Ledger. In fact, I doubt you’ll do well for yourself or for them if you join their staff, given your views.”

“Do you? Then I’ll tell them beforehand.”

“Do you? Then I’ll let them know in advance.”

Mr. Vanney privately reflected that there was no need of this: he intended to call up the editor-in-chief and suggest the unsuitability of the candidate for a place, however humble, on the staff of a highly respectable and suitably respectful daily.

Mr. Vanney privately thought that this wasn’t necessary: he intended to call the editor-in-chief and recommend that the candidate wasn’t right for any position, no matter how minor, on the staff of a very reputable and appropriately respectful daily newspaper.

Which he did. The message was passed on to Mr. Gordon, and, in his large and tolerant soul, decently interred. One thing of which the managing editor of The Ledger was not tolerant was interference from without in his department.

Which he did. The message was passed on to Mr. Gordon, and, in his broad and accepting nature, decently put to rest. One thing that the managing editor of The Ledger was not accepting of was interference from outside his department.

Before allowing his man to leave, Mr. Vanney read him a long and well-meant homily, full of warning and wisdom, and was both annoyed and disheartened when, at the end of it, Banneker remarked:

Before letting his man go, Mr. Vanney delivered a lengthy and sincere lecture, packed with warnings and insights, and felt both irritated and disheartened when Banneker replied at the end:

“I’ll dare you to take a car and spend twenty-four hours going about Sippiac with me. If you stand for your system after that, I’ll pay for the car.”

“I dare you to take a car and spend twenty-four hours driving around Sippiac with me. If you still support your system after that, I’ll cover the cost of the car.”

To which the other replied sadly that Banneker had in some manner acquired a false and distorted view of industrial relations.

To which the other sadly replied that Banneker had somehow developed a false and twisted perspective on industrial relations.

Therein, for once in an existence guided almost exclusively by prejudice, Horace Vanney was right. At the outset of a new career to which he was attuning his mind, Banneker had been injected into a situation typical of all that is worst in American industrial life, a local manufacturing enterprise grown rich upon the labor of underpaid foreigners, through the practice of all the vicious, lawless, and insidious methods of an ingrown autocracy, and had believed it to be fairly representative. Had not Horace Vanney, doubtless genuine in his belief, told him as much?

There, for the first time in a life mostly driven by bias, Horace Vanney was correct. As Banneker was starting a new career and getting his mind ready, he found himself in a situation that exemplified the worst aspects of American industrial life: a local manufacturing company that had gotten rich off the work of underpaid immigrants, using all the corrupt, illegal, and sneaky tactics of an entrenched autocracy, and he thought it was fairly typical. Hadn't Horace Vanney, surely sincere in his opinion, told him so?

“We’re as fair and careful with our employees as any of our competitors.”

“We treat our employees as fairly and carefully as any of our competitors.”

As a matter of fact there were, even then, scores of manufacturing plants within easy distance of New York, representing broad and generous policies and conducted on a progressive and humanistic labor system. Had Banneker had his first insight into local industrial conditions through one of these, he might readily have been prejudiced in favor of capital. As it was, swallowing Vanney’s statement as true, he mistook an evil example as a fair indication of the general status. Then and there he became a zealous protagonist of labor.

Actually, there were even back then, plenty of manufacturing plants close to New York, showcasing fair and generous policies and run on a progressive and humane labor system. If Banneker had initially learned about the local industrial conditions through one of these, he might have easily developed a bias in favor of capital. Instead, by taking Vanney’s statement at face value, he wrongly viewed a bad example as a true reflection of the overall situation. At that moment, he became a passionate advocate for labor.

It had been Mr. Horace Vanney’s shrewd design to show a budding journalist of promise on which side his self-interest lay. The weak spot in the plan was that Banneker did not seem to care!

It was Mr. Horace Vanney's clever plan to demonstrate to a promising young journalist where his self-interest really was. The flaw in the plan was that Banneker didn't seem to care!

CHAPTER V

Banneker’s induction into journalism was unimpressive. They gave him a desk, an outfit of writing materials, a mail-box with his name on it, and eventually an assignment. Mr. Mallory presented him to several of the other “cubs” and two or three of the older and more important reporters. They were all quite amiable, obviously willing to be helpful, and they impressed the observant neophyte with that quiet and solid esprit de corps which is based upon respect for work well performed in a common cause. He apprehended that The Ledger office was in some sort an institution.

Banneker’s entry into journalism was pretty underwhelming. They gave him a desk, some writing supplies, a mailbox with his name on it, and eventually an assignment. Mr. Mallory introduced him to a few of the other “cubs” and two or three of the older, more important reporters. They were all friendly and eager to help, and they made a strong impression on the attentive newcomer with that quiet, strong sense of teamwork that comes from respecting a job well done for a shared purpose. He realized that The Ledger office was, in some way, an institution.

None of his new acquaintances volunteered information as to the mechanism of his new job. Apparently he was expected to figure that out for himself. By nature reticent, and trained in an environment which still retained enough of frontier etiquette to make a scrupulous incuriosity the touchstone of good manners and perhaps the essence of self-preservation, Banneker asked no questions. He sat and waited.

None of his new acquaintances offered any details about how his new job worked. It seemed he was expected to figure that out on his own. By nature quiet and raised in a setting that still valued frontier etiquette, which made it a rule of good manners—and maybe even a matter of self-preservation—to avoid curiosity, Banneker didn’t ask any questions. He just sat and waited.

One by one the other reporters were summoned by name to the city desk, and dispatched with a few brief words upon the various items of the news. Presently Banneker found himself alone, in the long files of desks. For an hour he sat there and for a second hour. It seemed a curious way in which to be earning fifteen dollars a week. He wondered whether he was expected to sit tight at his desk. Or had he the freedom of the office? Characteristically choosing the more active assumption, he found his way to the current newspaper files. They were like old friends.

One by one, the other reporters were called by name to the city desk and sent off with a few quick words about the various news items. Before long, Banneker found himself alone in the long rows of desks. He sat there for an hour and then for another hour. It seemed like a strange way to be earning fifteen dollars a week. He wondered if he was supposed to just stay at his desk or if he had the freedom to move around the office. Naturally opting for the more active choice, he made his way to the current newspaper files. They felt like old friends.

“Mr. Banneker.” An office boy was at his elbow. “Mr. Greenough wants you.”

“Mr. Banneker.” An office boy was next to him. “Mr. Greenough needs you.”

Conscious of a quickened pulse, and annoyed at himself because of it, the tyro advanced to receive his maiden assignment. The epochal event was embodied in the form of a small clipping from an evening paper, stating that a six-year-old boy had been fatally burned at a bonfire near the North River. Banneker, Mr. Greenough instructed him mildly, was to make inquiries of the police, of the boy’s family, of the hospital, and of such witnesses as he could find.

Conscious of his racing heart and irritated with himself for it, the rookie moved forward to take on his first assignment. This significant event came in the shape of a small article from an evening newspaper, reporting that a six-year-old boy had died from severe burns at a bonfire near the North River. Mr. Greenough gently instructed Banneker to ask questions of the police, the boy’s family, the hospital, and any witnesses he could locate.

Quick with interest he caught up his hat and hurried out. Death, in the sparsely populated country wherefrom he hailed, was a matter of inclusive local importance; he assumed the same of New York. Three intense hours he devoted to an item which any police reporter of six months’ standing would have rounded up in a brace of formal inquiries, and hastened back, brimful of details for Mr. Greenough.

Quickly grabbing his hat, he rushed outside. Death, in the sparsely populated area he came from, was a big deal locally; he assumed it was the same in New York. He spent three exhausting hours on a story that any police reporter with six months of experience could have wrapped up with just a couple of formal inquiries and hurried back, filled with details for Mr. Greenough.

“Good! Good!” interpolated that blandly approving gentleman from time to time in the course of the narrative. “Write it, Mr. Banneker! write it.”

“Good! Good!” chimed in that mildly approving guy now and then during the story. “Write it, Mr. Banneker! Write it.”

“How much shall I write?”

"How much should I write?"

“Just what is necessary to tell the news.”

“Just what is needed to share the news.”

Behind the amiable smile which broadened without lighting up the sub-Mongol physiognomy of the city editor, Banneker suspected something. As he sat writing page after page, conscientiously setting forth every germane fact, the recollection of that speculative, estimating smile began to play over the sentences with a dire and blighting beam. Three fourths of the way through, the writer rose, went to the file-board and ran through a dozen newspapers. He was seeking a ratio, a perspective. He wished to determine how much, in a news sense, the death of the son of an obscure East-Side plasterer was worth. On his return he tore up all that he had written, and substituted a curt paragraph, without character or color, which he turned in. He had gauged the value of the tragedy accurately, in the light of his study of news files.

Behind the friendly smile that widened without brightening the plain features of the city editor, Banneker sensed something was off. As he sat writing page after page, carefully laying out every relevant fact, the memory of that calculating, judgmental smile began to hover over his sentences with a harsh and stifling glare. Three-quarters of the way through, the writer got up, went to the file board, and flipped through a dozen newspapers. He was looking for a ratio, a perspective. He wanted to figure out how much, in terms of news value, the death of the son of an unknown East-Side plasterer was worth. When he returned, he crumpled up everything he had written and replaced it with a brief paragraph, lacking any personality or detail, which he submitted. He had accurately assessed the value of the tragedy based on his review of the news files.

Greenough showed the paragraph (which failed to appear at all in the overcrowded paper of next morning) to Mr. Gordon.

Greenough showed the paragraph (which didn't appear at all in the crowded paper the next morning) to Mr. Gordon.

“The new man doesn’t start well,” he remarked. “Too little imaginative interest.”

“The new guy doesn’t start off strong,” he said. “Not enough creativity.”

“Isn’t it knowledge rather than lack of interest?” suggested the managing editor.

“Isn’t it knowledge instead of a lack of interest?” suggested the managing editor.

“It may come to the same thing. If he knows too much to get really interested, he’ll be a dull reporter.”

“It could end up being the same. If he knows too much to be genuinely interested, he’ll be a boring reporter.”

“I doubt whether you’ll find him dull,” smiled Mr. Gordon. “But he may find his job dull. In that case, of course he’d better find another.”

“I doubt you'll find him boring,” smiled Mr. Gordon. “But he might think his job is boring. If that's the case, he should definitely look for another one.”

Indeed, that was the danger which, for weeks to follow, Banneker skirted. Police news, petty and formal, made up his day’s work. Had he sought beneath the surface of it the underlying elements, and striven to express these, his matter as it came to the desk, however slight the technical news value might have been, would have afforded the watchful copy-readers, trained to that special selectiveness as only The Ledger could train its men, opportunity of judging what potentialities might lurk beneath the crudities of the “cub.” But Banneker was not crude. He was careful. His sense of the relative importance of news, acquired by those weeks of intensive analysis before applying for his job, was too just to let him give free play to his pen. What was the use? The “story” wasn’t worth the space.

Indeed, that was the danger that Banneker avoided for weeks to come. Police news, trivial and routine, filled his workday. If he had looked deeper into it and tried to express the underlying elements, his pieces, no matter how minor their technical news value might have been, would have given the attentive copy-readers—trained in that special selectiveness that only The Ledger could provide—an opportunity to evaluate what potential issues might lie beneath the surface of the novice. But Banneker was not inexperienced. He was meticulous. His understanding of the importance of news, developed through those weeks of intense analysis before he applied for his job, was too refined to let him write freely. What was the point? The "story" wasn't worth the space.

Nevertheless, 3 T 9901, which Banneker was already too cognoscent to employ in his formal newsgathering (the notebook is anathema to the metropolitan reporter), was filling up with odd bits, which were being transferred, in the weary hours when the new man sat at his desk with nothing to do, to paper in the form of sketches for Miss Westlake’s trustful and waiting typewriter. Nobody could say that Banneker was not industrious. Among his fellow reporters he soon acquired the melancholy reputation of one who was forever writing “special stuff,” none of which ever “landed.” It was chiefly because of his industry and reliability, rather than any fulfillment of the earlier promise of brilliant worth as shown in the Sunday Sphere articles, that he got his first raise to twenty dollars. It surprised rather than gratified him.

Nevertheless, 3 T 9901, which Banneker was already too aware to use in his formal reporting (the notebook is a no-go for the city reporter), was filling up with random notes, which were being transferred during the long hours when the new guy sat at his desk with nothing to do, to paper in the form of sketches for Miss Westlake’s eager and waiting typewriter. Nobody could say that Banneker wasn't hardworking. Among his fellow reporters, he soon gained the gloomy reputation of someone who was always writing “special stuff,” none of which ever got published. It was mainly because of his hard work and reliability, rather than any realization of the earlier promise of exceptional talent shown in the Sunday Sphere articles, that he received his first raise to twenty dollars. It surprised him more than it pleased him.

He went to Mr. Gordon about it. The managing editor was the kind of man with whom it is easy to talk straight talk.

He went to Mr. Gordon about it. The managing editor was the type of guy you could have an honest conversation with.

“What’s the matter with me?” asked Banneker.

“What’s wrong with me?” asked Banneker.

Mr. Gordon played a thoughtful tattoo upon his fleshy knuckles with the letter-opener. “Nothing. Aren’t you satisfied?”

Mr. Gordon drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the fleshy part of his knuckles with the letter opener. “Nothing. Aren’t you happy?”

“No. Are you?”

“You’ve had your raise, and fairly early. Unless you had been worth it, you wouldn’t have had it.”

“You’ve received your raise, and quite early too. If you weren’t deserving of it, you wouldn’t have gotten it.”

“Am I doing what you expected of me?”

"Am I meeting your standards?"

“Not exactly. But you’re developing into a sure, reliable reporter.”

“Not really. But you’re becoming a confident, dependable reporter.”

“A routine man,” commented Banneker.

“A regular guy,” commented Banneker.

“After all, the routine man is the backbone of the office.” Mr. Gordon executed a fantasia on his thumb. “Would you care to try a desk job?” he asked, peering at Banneker over his glasses.

“After all, the everyday worker is the backbone of the office.” Mr. Gordon played with his thumb. “Would you like to consider a desk job?” he asked, looking at Banneker over his glasses.

“I’d rather run a trolley car. There’s more life in it.”

“I’d rather drive a streetcar. There’s more excitement in it.”

“Do you see life, in your work, Mr. Banneker?”

“Do you see life in your work, Mr. Banneker?”

“See it? I feel it. Sometimes I think it’s going to flatten me out like a steam-roller.”

“See it? I feel it. Sometimes I think it’s going to flatten me like a steamroller.”

“Then why not write it?”

“Then why not just write it?”

“It isn’t news: not what I see.”

“It’s not news: not what I see.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps it’s something else. But if it’s there and we can get a gleam of it into the paper, we’ll crowd news out to make a place for it. You haven’t been reading The Ledger I’m afraid.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it's something different. But if it's there and we can catch a glimpse of it in the paper, we’ll push news aside to make space for it. I'm afraid you haven’t been reading The Ledger.”

“Like a Bible.”

“Like a scripture.”

“Not to good purpose, then. What do you think of Tommy Burt’s stuff?”

“Not for a good reason, then. What do you think of Tommy Burt’s work?”

“It’s funny; some of it. But I couldn’t do it to save my job.”

“It’s kind of funny; some of it. But I wouldn’t do it to keep my job.”

“Nobody can do it but Burt, himself. Possibly you could learn something from it, though.”

“Nobody can do it except Burt himself. You might be able to learn something from it, though.”

“Burt doesn’t like it, himself. He told me it was all formula; that you could always get a laugh out of people about something they’d been taught to consider funny, like a red nose or a smashed hat. He’s got a list of Sign Posts on the Road to Humor.”

“Burt doesn’t like it either. He told me it was all formula; that you could always get a laugh from people about something they’ve been taught to find funny, like a red nose or a crushed hat. He’s got a list of Sign Posts on the Road to Humor.”

“The cynicism of twenty-eight,” smiled the tolerant Mr. Gordon. “Don’t let yourself be inoculated.”

“The cynicism of twenty-eight,” smiled the understanding Mr. Gordon. “Don’t let yourself get infected.”

“Mr. Gordon,” said Banneker doggedly; “I’m not doing the kind of work I expected to do here.”

“Mr. Gordon,” Banneker said insistently, “I’m not doing the kind of work I thought I would be doing here.”

“You can hardly expect the star jobs until you’ve made yourself a star man.”

“You can’t really expect to land the top jobs until you’ve made yourself a standout.”

Banneker flushed. “I’m not complaining of the way I’ve been treated. I’ve had a square enough deal. The trouble is with me. I want to know whether I ought to stick or quit.”

Banneker turned red. “I’m not complaining about how I’ve been treated. I’ve had a fair enough deal. The issue is with me. I want to know if I should stay or leave.”

“If you quit, what would you do?”

“I haven’t a notion,” replied the other with an indifference which testified to a superb, instinctive self-confidence. “Something.”

“I have no idea,” the other replied with a casualness that showed off a remarkable, natural self-assurance. “Something.”

“Do it here. I think you’ll come along all right.”

“Do it here. I think you’ll be fine.”

“But what’s wrong with me?” persisted Banneker.

“But what’s wrong with me?” Banneker kept asking.

“Too much restraint. A rare fault. You haven’t let yourself out.” For a space he drummed and mused. Suddenly a knuckle cracked loudly. Mr. Gordon flinched and glared at it, startled as if it had offended him by interrupting a train of thought. “Here!” said he brusquely. “There’s a Sewer-Cleaners’ Association picnic to-morrow. They’re going to put in half their day inspecting the Stimson Tunnel under the North River. Pretty idea; isn’t it? Suppose I ask Mr. Greenough to send you out on the story. And I’d like a look at it when you turn it in.”

“Too much holding back. A rare flaw. You haven’t let yourself go.” For a moment, he drummed his fingers and thought. Suddenly, a knuckle cracked loudly. Mr. Gordon flinched and glared at it, startled as if it had offended him by interrupting his thoughts. “Listen!” he said sharply. “There’s a Sewer-Cleaners’ Association picnic tomorrow. They’re going to spend half their day inspecting the Stimson Tunnel under the North River. Pretty interesting, right? How about I ask Mr. Greenough to send you out on this story? And I’d like to see it when you finish it.”

Banneker worked hard on his report of the picnic; hard and self-consciously. Tommy Burt would, he knew, have made a “scream” of it, for tired business men to chuckle over on their way downtown. Pursuant to what he believed Mr. Gordon wanted, Banneker strove conscientiously to be funny with these human moles, who, having twelve hours of freedom for sunshine and air, elected to spend half of it in a hole bigger, deeper, and more oppressive than any to which their noisome job called them. The result was five painfully mangled sheets which presently went to the floor, torn in strips. After that Banneker reported the picnic as he saw, felt, and smelt it. It was a somber bit of writing, not without its subtleties and shrewd perceptions; quite unsuitable to the columns of The Ledger, in which it failed to appear. But Mr. Gordon read it twice. He advised Banneker not to be discouraged.

Banneker worked hard on his report about the picnic; really hard and awkwardly. He knew Tommy Burt would have turned it into a big hit that tired businessmen could laugh at on their way downtown. Aiming to meet what he thought Mr. Gordon wanted, Banneker tried carefully to be funny with these people, who, with twelve hours of freedom to enjoy sunshine and fresh air, chose to spend half of it in a hole that was bigger, deeper, and more suffocating than any place their unpleasant job required them to be. The result was five painfully jumbled pages that ended up on the floor, ripped into strips. After that, Banneker reported the picnic as he experienced it—the sights, the feelings, and the smells. It turned out to be a dark piece of writing, not lacking in depth and keen observations; completely unsuitable for the columns of The Ledger, where it wasn’t published. But Mr. Gordon read it twice. He encouraged Banneker not to lose hope.

Banneker was deeply discouraged. He wanted to resign.

Banneker was feeling really discouraged. He wanted to quit.

Perhaps he would nave resigned, if old Mynderse Verschoyle had not died at eight o’clock on the morning of the day when Banneker was the earliest man to report at the office. A picturesque character, old Mynderse, who had lived for forty-five years with his childless wife in the ancient house on West 10th Street, and for the final fifteen years had not addressed so much as a word to her. She had died three months before; and now he had followed, apparently, from what Banneker learned in an interview with the upset and therefore voluble secretary of the dead man, because, having no hatred left on which to center his life, he had nothing else to live for. Banneker wrote the story of that hatred, rigid, ceremonious, cherished like a rare virtue until it filled two lives; and he threw about it the atmosphere of the drear and divided old house. At the end, the sound of the laughter of children at play in the street.

Perhaps he would have quit if old Mynderse Verschoyle hadn't died at eight o'clock on the morning of the day Banneker was the first to report to the office. Old Mynderse was quite a character, having lived for forty-five years with his childless wife in the old house on West 10th Street, and for the last fifteen years, he hadn't spoken a word to her. She had passed away three months earlier, and now he had seemingly followed her, as Banneker learned during an interview with the distraught and thus talkative secretary of the deceased man's, because with no hatred left to focus his life on, he had nothing else to live for. Banneker wrote about that hatred, strict and formal, held dear like a rare virtue until it consumed two lives, and he surrounded it with the atmosphere of the bleak and divided old house. In the end, he included the sound of children laughing and playing in the street.

The article appeared word for word as he had written it. That noon Tommy Burt, the funny man, drawing down his hundred-plus a week on space, came over and sat on Banneker’s desk, and swung his legs and looked at him mournfully and said:

The article was published exactly as he had written it. That afternoon, Tommy Burt, the comedian, who earned over a hundred a week for his spot, came over, sat on Banneker’s desk, swung his legs, looked at him sadly, and said:

“You’ve broken through your shell at last.”

“You've finally broken out of your shell.”

“Did you like it?” asked Banneker.

“Did you enjoy it?” asked Banneker.

“Like it! My God, if I could write like that! But what’s the use! Never in the world.”

“Like it! Wow, if I could write like that! But what’s the point! Never gonna happen.”

“Oh, that’s nonsense,” returned Banneker, pleased. “Of course you can. But what’s the rest of your ‘if’?”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Banneker replied, pleased. “Of course you can. But what’s the rest of your ‘if’?”

“I wouldn’t be wasting my time here. The magazines for me.”

“I wouldn’t be wasting my time here. The magazines are for me.”

“Is that better?”

"Is that an improvement?"

“Depends on what you’re after. For a man who wants to write, it’s better, of course.”

“Depends on what you’re looking for. For a guy who wants to write, it’s definitely better, of course.”

“Why?”

“Gives him a larger audience. No newspaper story is remembered overnight except by newspaper men. And they don’t matter.”

"Gives him a bigger audience. No newspaper story is remembered overnight except by journalists. And they don’t matter."

“Why don’t they matter?” Banneker was surprised again, this time rather disagreeably.

“Why don’t they matter?” Banneker was surprised again, this time more unpleasantly.

“It’s a little world. There isn’t much substance to it. Take that Verschoyle stuff of yours; that’s literature, that is! But you’ll never hear of it again after next week. A few people here will remember it, and it’ll help you to your next raise. But after you’ve got that, and, after that, your lift onto space, where are you?”

“It’s a small world. There's not much to it. Take that Verschoyle stuff of yours; that’s real literature! But you won’t hear about it again after next week. A few people here will remember it, and it’ll help you get your next promotion. But once you’ve got that, and then your move up into space, where do you go from there?”

The abruptly confidential approach of Tommy Burt flattered Banneker with the sense that by that one achievement of the Verschoyle story he had attained a new status in the office. Later there came out from the inner sanctum where sat the Big Chief, distilling venom and wit in equal parts for the editorial page, a special word of approval. But this pleased the recipient less than the praise of his peers in the city room.

The sudden, secretive way Tommy Burt handled things made Banneker feel flattered, as if he had gained a new status in the office just from his success with the Verschoyle story. Later, a special word of approval came out from the inner office where the Big Chief sat, mixing sharp criticism and humor for the editorial page. But Banneker was less pleased by this than he was by the praise from his colleagues in the city room.

After that first talk, Burt came back to Banneker’s desk from time to time, and once took him to dinner at “Katie’s,” the little German restaurant around the corner. Burt was given over to a restless and inoffensively egoistic pessimism.

After that first conversation, Burt visited Banneker’s desk occasionally, and once took him to dinner at “Katie’s,” the small German restaurant around the corner. Burt had a tendency toward a restless and harmlessly self-centered pessimism.

“Look at me. I’m twenty-eight and making a good income. When I was twenty-three, I was making nearly as much. When I’m thirty-eight, where shall I be?”

“Look at me. I’m twenty-eight and earning a decent income. When I was twenty-three, I was making almost as much. When I’m thirty-eight, where will I be?”

“Can’t you keep on making it?” asked Banneker.

“Can’t you keep making it?” asked Banneker.

“Doubtful. A fellow goes stale on the kind of stuff I do. And if I do keep on? Five to six thousand is fine now. It won’t be so much ten years from now. That’s the hell of this game; there’s no real chance in it.”

“Not sure. A person gets tired of the kind of stuff I do. And if I keep going? Five to six thousand is good now. It won’t be as much ten years from now. That’s the tough part of this game; there’s no real opportunity in it.”

“What about the editing jobs?”

"What about the editing gigs?"

“Desk-work? Chain yourself by the leg, with a blue pencil in your hand to butcher better men’s stuff? A managing editor, now, I’ll grant you. He gets his twenty or twenty-five thousand if he doesn’t die of overstrain, first. But there’s only a few managing editors.”

“Desk work? Bind yourself by the leg, with a blue pencil in your hand to edit the work of better writers? A managing editor, I’ll give you that. He gets his twenty or twenty-five thousand, if he doesn’t burn out first. But there are only a few managing editors.”

“There are more editorial writers.”

“There are more opinion writers.”

“Hired pens. Dishing up other fellows’ policies, whether you believe in em or not. No; I’m not of that profession, anyway.” He specified the profession, a highly ancient and dishonorable one. Mr. Burt, in his gray moods, was neither discriminating nor quite just.

“Hired writers. Serving up other people's ideas, whether you agree with them or not. No; I’m not in that line of work, anyway.” He mentioned the profession, a very old and disreputable one. Mr. Burt, in his gloomy state, was neither discerning nor truly fair.

Banneker voiced the question which, at some point in his progress, every thoughtful follower of journalism must meet and solve as best he can. “When a man goes on a newspaper I suppose he more or less accepts that paper’s standards, doesn’t he?”

Banneker raised the question that every serious follower of journalism eventually has to confront and tackle as best they can. “When a person joins a newspaper, I assume they somewhat agree to that paper’s standards, right?”

“More or less? To what extent?” countered the expert.

“More or less? How much?” replied the expert.

“I haven’t figured that out, yet.”

“I haven't figured that out yet.”

“Don’t be in a hurry about it,” advised the other with a gleam of malice. “The fellows that do figure it out to the end, and are honest enough about it, usually quit.”

“Don’t rush it,” the other one suggested with a hint of malice. “The guys who manage to figure it out completely, and are honest about it, typically end up walking away.”

“You haven’t quit.”

"You haven't given up."

“Perhaps I’m not honest enough or perhaps I’m too cowardly,” retorted the gloomy Burt.

“Maybe I’m not honest enough, or maybe I’m just too cowardly,” replied the gloomy Burt.

Banneker smiled. Though the other was nearly two years his senior, he felt immeasurably the elder. There is about the true reporter type an infinitely youthful quality; attractive and touching; the eternal juvenile, which, being once outgrown with its facile and evanescent enthusiasms, leaves the expert declining into the hack. Beside this prematurely weary example of a swift and precarious success, Banneker was mature of character and standard. Nevertheless, the seasoned journalist was steeped in knowledge which the tyro craved.

Banneker smiled. Even though the other guy was nearly two years older, he felt much older in comparison. There’s something incredibly youthful about true reporters; it’s appealing and heartwarming. They have this eternal youthfulness that, once lost with their fleeting passions, often leads the expert to become just another routine writer. Next to this worn-out example of quick and uncertain success, Banneker showed maturity in character and standards. Still, the experienced journalist had a wealth of knowledge that the newcomer yearned for.

“What would you do,” Banneker asked, “if you were sent out to write a story absolutely opposed to something you believed right; political, for instance?”

“What would you do,” Banneker asked, “if you were sent out to write a story completely against something you believed was right; like politically, for example?”

“I don’t write politics. That’s a specialty.”

“I don’t write about politics. That’s a specialty.”

“Who does?”

"Who cares?"

“‘Parson’ Gale.”

“Pastor” Gale.

“Does he believe in everything The Ledger stands for?”

“Does he believe in everything The Ledger represents?”

“Certainly. In office hours. For and in consideration of one hundred and twenty-five dollars weekly, duly and regularly paid.”

“Sure. During office hours. In exchange for one hundred and twenty-five dollars a week, paid consistently and on time.”

“Outside of office hours, then.”

“After work hours, then.”

“Ah; that’s different. In Harlem where he lives, the Parson is quite a figure among the reform Democrats. The Ledger, as you know, is Republican; and anything in the way of reform is its favorite butt. So Gale spends his working day poking fun at his political friends and associates.”

“Ah, that's different. In Harlem, where he lives, the Parson is quite a prominent figure among the reform Democrats. The Ledger, as you know, is Republican, and it loves to criticize anything related to reform. So Gale spends his workday making fun of his political friends and associates.”

“Out West we’d call that kind of fellow a yellow pup.”

"Out West, we’d call that kind of guy a coward."

“Well, don’t call the Parson that; not to me,” warned the other indignantly. “He’s as square a man as you’ll find on Park Row. Why, you were just saying, yourself, that a reporter is bound to accept his paper’s standards when he takes the job.”

“Well, don’t refer to the Parson like that; not to me,” the other replied indignantly. “He’s as honest a man as you’ll find on Park Row. Besides, you were just saying yourself that a reporter has to accept his paper’s standards when he takes the job.”

“Then I suppose the answer is that a man ought to work only on a newspaper in whose policies he believes.”

“Then I guess the answer is that a man should only work for a newspaper whose policies he believes in.”

“Which policies? A newspaper has a hundred different ones about a hundred different things. Here in this office we’re dead against the split infinitive and the Honest Laboring Man. We don’t believe he’s honest and we’ve got our grave doubts as to his laboring. Yet one of our editorial writers is an out-and-out Socialist and makes fiery speeches advising the proletariat to rise and grab the reins of government. But he’d rather split his own head than an infinitive.”

“Which policies? A newspaper has a hundred different ones about a hundred different things. Here in this office, we’re totally against split infinitives and the Honest Working Man. We don’t believe he’s honest, and we seriously question his work ethic. Yet one of our editorial writers is a full-on Socialist and gives passionate speeches urging the working class to rise up and take control of the government. But he’d rather hit his own head than split an infinitive.”

“Does he write anti-labor editorials?” asked the bewildered Banneker.

“Does he write anti-labor editorials?” asked the confused Banneker.

“Not as bad as that. He confines himself to European politics and popular scientific matters. But, of course, wherever there is necessity for an expression of opinion, he’s anti-socialist in his writing, as he’s bound to be.”

“Not that bad. He focuses on European politics and popular science. But, of course, whenever there’s a need to express an opinion, he’s anti-socialist in his writing, as he has to be.”

“Just a moment ago you were talking of hired pens. Now you seem to be defending that sort of thing. I don’t understand your point of view.”

“Just a moment ago, you were talking about hired writers. Now you seem to be defending that kind of thing. I don’t understand your perspective.”

“Don’t you? Neither do I, I guess,” admitted the expositor with great candor. “I can argue it either way and convince myself, so far as the other fellow’s work is concerned. But not for my own.”

“Don’t you? Me neither, I guess,” admitted the expositor with total honesty. “I can argue it both ways and convince myself when it comes to someone else’s work. But not for my own.”

“How do you figure it out for yourself, then?”

“How do you figure it out on your own, then?”

“I don’t. I dodge. It’s a kind of tacit arrangement between the desk and me. In minor matters I go with the paper. That’s easy, because I agree with it in most questions of taste and the way of doing things. After all The Ledger has got certain standards of professional conduct and of decent manners; it’s a gentleman’s paper. The other things, the things where my beliefs conflict with the paper’s standards, political or ethical, don’t come my way. You see, I’m a specialist; I do mostly the fluffy stuff.”

“I don’t. I avoid it. It’s a sort of unspoken agreement between the desk and me. For smaller issues, I go along with the paper. That’s easy because I mostly agree with it on questions of taste and how things should be done. After all, The Ledger has certain standards for professional behavior and good manners; it’s a gentleman’s publication. The other issues, the ones where my beliefs clash with the paper’s standards, whether political or ethical, don’t come my way. You see, I’m a specialist; I mostly handle the light stuff.”

“If that’s the way to keep out of embarrassing decisions, I’d like to become a specialist myself.”

“If that's the way to avoid embarrassing choices, I’d like to become an expert myself.”

“You can do it, all right,” the other assured him earnestly. “That story of yours shows it. You’ve got The Ledger touch—no, it’s more individual than that. But you’ve got something that’s going to stick out even here. Just the same, there’ll come a time when you’ll have to face the other issue of your job or your—well, your conscience.”

“You can totally do it,” the other person assured him sincerely. “That story of yours proves it. You’ve got The Ledger style—no, it’s even more unique than that. But you have something that’s really going to stand out, even here. Still, there will come a time when you’ll have to confront the other side of your job or your—well, your conscience.”

What Tommy Burt did not say in continuation, and had no need to say, since his expressive and ingenuous face said it for him, was, “And I wonder what you’ll do with that!”

What Tommy Burt didn't say next, and didn't need to say, since his open and honest face said it for him, was, “And I wonder what you'll do with that!”

A far more influential friend than Tommy Burt had been wondering, too, and had, not without difficulty, expressed her doubts in writing. Camilla Van Arsdale had written to Banneker:

A much more influential friend than Tommy Burt had also been wondering and had, not without challenges, shared her concerns in writing. Camilla Van Arsdale had written to Banneker:

... I know so little of journalism, but there are things about it that I distrust instinctively. Do you remember what that wrangler from the Jon Cal told Old Bill Speed when Bill wanted to hire him: “I wouldn’t take any job that I couldn’t look in the eye and tell it to go to hell on five minutes’ notice.” I have a notion that you’ve got to take that attitude toward a reporting job. There must be so much that a man cannot do without loss of self-respect. Yet, I can’t imagine why I should worry about you as to that. Unless it is that, in a strange environment one gets one’s values confused.... Have you had to do any “Society” reporting yet? I hope not. The society reporters of my day were either obsequious little flunkeys and parasites, or women of good connections but no money who capitalized their acquaintanceship to make a poor living, and whom one was sorry for, but would rather not see. Going to places where one is not asked, scavenging for bits of news from butlers and housekeepers, sniffing after scandals—perhaps that is part of the necessary apprenticeship of newspaper work. But it’s not a proper work for a gentleman. And, in any case, Ban, you are that, by the grace of your ancestral gods.

... I know very little about journalism, but there are aspects of it that I instinctively distrust. Do you remember what that handler from the Jon Cal told Old Bill Speed when Bill wanted to hire him? “I wouldn’t take any job that I couldn’t look in the eye and tell it to go to hell on five minutes’ notice.” I believe you need to have that attitude toward a reporting job. There has to be a limit to what a person can do without losing self-respect. Still, I can’t imagine why I should worry about you regarding that. Unless it's because, in an unfamiliar environment, one might get their values mixed up.... Have you had to do any "Society" reporting yet? I hope not. The society reporters in my time were either sycophantic little yes-men and freeloaders or well-connected women without money who exploited their connections to scrape by, and while I felt sorry for them, I’d rather not have to see them. Going to places where you’re not invited, digging for bits of gossip from butlers and housekeepers, sniffing after scandals—maybe that’s part of the necessary training in newspaper work. But it’s not a respectable job for a gentleman. And, in any case, Ban, you are one, by the blessing of your ancestral gods.

Little enough did Banneker care for his ancestral gods: but he did greatly care for the maintenance of those standards which seemed to have grown, indigenously within him, since he had never consciously formulated them. As for reporting, of whatever kind, he deemed Miss Van Arsdale prejudiced. Furthermore, he had met the society reporter of The Ledger, an elderly, mild, inoffensive man, neat and industrious, and discerned in him no stigma of the lickspittle. Nevertheless, he hoped that he would not be assigned to such “society news” as Remington did not cover in his routine. It might, he conceived, lead him into false situations where he could be painfully snubbed. And he had never yet been in a position where any one could snub him without instant reprisals. In such circumstances he did not know exactly what he would do. However, that bridge could be crossed or refused when he came to it.

Little did Banneker care about his ancestral gods; what mattered to him was upholding the standards that seemed to have developed naturally within him, since he had never consciously defined them. When it came to reporting, he thought Miss Van Arsdale was biased. He had also met the society reporter from The Ledger, an older, mild-mannered, unobtrusive man who was neat and hardworking, and he saw no sign of sycophancy in him. Still, he hoped he wouldn’t be assigned to any of the “society news” that Remington didn’t cover regularly. He feared it might put him in awkward situations where he could be humiliated. Until now, he had never been in a position where someone could undermine him without immediate retaliation. In such cases, he wasn’t sure what he would do. However, he figured he could deal with that problem when it arose.

CHAPTER VI

Such members of the Brashear household as chose to accommodate themselves strictly to the hour could have eight o’clock breakfast in the basement dining-room for the modest consideration of thirty cents; thirty-five with special cream-jug. At these gatherings, usually attended by half a dozen of the lodgers, matters of local interest were weightily discussed; such as the progress of the subway excavations, the establishment of a new Italian restaurant in 11th Street, or the calling away of the fourth-floor-rear by the death of an uncle who would perhaps leave him money. To this sedate assemblage descended one crisp December morning young Wickert, clad in the natty outline of a new Bernholz suit, and obviously swollen with tidings.

Members of the Brashear household who decided to stick to the schedule could enjoy an eight o'clock breakfast in the basement dining room for just thirty cents; thirty-five if they wanted special cream. These get-togethers, typically attended by about six of the lodgers, featured serious discussions on local topics like the progress of subway construction, the opening of a new Italian restaurant on 11th Street, or the recent passing of a resident from the fourth-floor-rear, who might have left him money. One crisp December morning, young Wickert descended to this calm gathering, dressed sharply in a new Bernholz suit and clearly excited to share some news.

“Whaddya know about the latest?” he flung forth upon the coffee-scented air.

“Did you hear about the latest?” he said, breaking the coffee-scented air.

“The latest” in young Wickert’s compendium of speech might be the garments adorning his trim person, the current song-hit of a vaudeville to which he had recently contributed his critical attention, or some tidbit of purely local gossip. Hainer, the plump and elderly accountant, opined that Wickert had received an augmentation of salary, and got an austere frown for his sally. Evidently Wickert deemed his news to be of special import; he was quite bloated, conversationally. He now dallied with it.

“The latest” in young Wickert’s collection of conversations might be the clothes he was wearing, the popular song from a vaudeville show he had recently critiqued, or some piece of local gossip. Hainer, the chubby and older accountant, suggested that Wickert had gotten a pay raise, which earned him a serious look from Wickert. Clearly, Wickert thought his news was important; he seemed quite full of himself in the conversation. He was now toying with it.

“Since when have you been taking in disguised millionaires, Mrs. Brashear?”

The presiding genius of the house, divided between professional resentment at even so remotely slurring an implication (for was not the Grove Street house good enough for any millionaire, undisguised!) and human curiosity, requested an explanation.

The main force in the house, torn between professional annoyance at even a slight hint of disrespect (after all, wasn't the Grove Street house good enough for any millionaire, no question about it!) and natural curiosity, asked for an explanation.

“I was in Sherry’s restaurant last night,” said the offhand Wickert.

“I was at Sherry’s restaurant last night,” said Wickert casually.

“I didn’t read about any fire there,” said the jocose Hainer, pointing his sally with a wink at Lambert, the art-student.

“I didn’t read about any fire there,” said the witty Hainer, giving a wink to Lambert, the art student.

Wickert ignored the gibe. Such was the greatness of his tidings that he could afford to.

Wickert ignored the jab. His news was so significant that he could let it slide.

“Our firm was giving a banquet to some buyers and big folks in the trade. Private room upstairs; music, flowers, champagne by the case. We do things in style when we do ’em. They sent me up after hours with an important message to our Mr. Webler; he was in charge of arrangements.”

“Our company was hosting a banquet for some buyers and important people in the industry. Private room upstairs; music, flowers, champagne by the case. We do things in style when we do them. They sent me up after hours with an important message for Mr. Webler; he was in charge of the arrangements.”

“Been promoted to be messenger, ay?” put in Mr. Hainer, chuckling.

“Got promoted to be the messenger, huh?” said Mr. Hainer, chuckling.

“When I came downstairs,” continued the other with only a venomous glance toward the seat of the scorner, “I thought to myself what’s the matter with taking a look at the swells feeding in the big restaurant. You may not know it, people, but Sherry’s is the ree-churchiest place in Nuh Yawk to eat dinner. It’s got ’em all beat. So I stopped at the door and took ’em in. Swell? Oh, you dolls! I stood there trying to work up the nerve to go in and siddown and order a plate of stew or something that wouldn’t stick me more’n a dollar, just to say I’d been dining at Sherry’s, when I looked across the room, and whadda you think?” He paused, leaned forward, and shot out the climactic word, “Banneker!”

“When I came downstairs,” continued the other with a venomous glance toward the seat of the scorner, “I thought to myself, what’s the harm in checking out the rich people eating in the big restaurant? You might not know this, folks, but Sherry’s is the fanciest place in New York to have dinner. It beats everything else. So I stopped at the door and took it all in. Fancy? Oh, you ladies! I stood there trying to gather the courage to go in, sit down, and order a plate of stew or something that wouldn’t cost me more than a dollar, just to say I’d dined at Sherry’s, when I looked across the room, and guess what?” He paused, leaned forward, and shot out the climactic word, “Banneker!”

“Having his dinner there?” asked the incredulous but fascinated Mrs. Brashear.

“Is he having dinner there?” asked the amazed but intrigued Mrs. Brashear.

“Like he owned the place. Table to himself, against the wall. Waiter fussin’ over him like he loved him. And dressed! Oh, Gee!”

“Like he owned the place. Table to himself, against the wall. Waiter fussing over him like he was his biggest fan. And his outfit! Oh, wow!”

“Did you speak to him?” asked Lambert.

“Did you talk to him?” asked Lambert.

“He spoke to me,” answered Wickert, dealing in subtle distinctions. “He was just finishing his coffee when I sighted him. Gave the waiter haffa dollar. I could see it on the plate. There I was at the door, and he said, ‘Why, hello, Wickert. Come and have a liquor.’ He pronounced it a queer, Frenchy way. So I said thanks, I’d have a highball.”

“He talked to me,” Wickert replied, making fine distinctions. “He was just finishing his coffee when I spotted him. Gave the waiter fifty cents. I could see it on the plate. I was standing by the door, and he said, ‘Hey, Wickert. Come have a drink.’ He said it in a weird, Frenchy way. So I replied thanks, and I’d have a highball.”

“Didn’t he seem surprised to see you there?” asked Hainer.

“Didn’t he look surprised to see you there?” asked Hainer.

Wickert paid an unconscious tribute to good-breeding. “Banneker’s the kind of feller that wouldn’t show it if he was surprised. He couldn’t have been as surprised as I was, at that. We went to the bar and had a drink, and then I ast him what’d he, have on me, and all the time I was sizing him up. I’m telling you, he looked like he’d grown up in Sherry’s.”

Wickert unconsciously acknowledged good manners. “Banneker’s the type of guy who wouldn’t show if he was surprised. He couldn’t have been as shocked as I was, though. We went to the bar and had a drink, and then I asked him what he had on me, all while I was sizing him up. I’m telling you, he looked like he’d grown up in Sherry’s.”

The rest of the conversation, it appeared from Mr. Wickert’s spirited sketch, had consisted mainly in eager queries from himself, and good-humored replies by the other.

The rest of the conversation, as depicted in Mr. Wickert’s lively summary, mainly involved his enthusiastic questions and the other person's cheerful responses.

Did Banneker eat there every night?

Oh, no! He wasn’t up to that much of a strain on his finances.

Oh, no! He couldn't afford that much strain on his finances.

But the waiters seemed to know him, as if he was one of the regulars.

But the waiters seemed to recognize him, as if he were one of the regulars.

In a sense he was. Every Monday he dined there. Monday was his day off.

In a way, he was. He ate there every Monday. Monday was his day off.

Well, Mr. Wickert (awed and groping) would be damned! All alone?

Well, Mr. Wickert (amazed and confused) would be damned! All by himself?

Banneker, smiling, admitted the solitude. He rather liked dining alone.

Banneker smiled and acknowledged being alone. He actually enjoyed eating by himself.

Oh, Wickert couldn’t see that at all! Give him a pal and a coupla lively girls, say from the Ladies’ Tailor-Made Department, good-lookers and real dressers; that was his idea of a dinner, though he’d never tried it at Sherry’s. Not that he couldn’t if he felt like it. How much did they stick you for a good feed-out with a cocktail and maybe a bottle of Italian Red?

Oh, Wickert couldn’t see that at all! Give him a buddy and a couple of lively girls, like those from the Ladies’ Tailor-Made Department, good-looking and stylish; that was his idea of a dinner, even though he’d never done it at Sherry’s. Not that he couldn’t if he wanted to. How much did they charge you for a decent meal with a cocktail and maybe a bottle of Italian Red?

Well, of course, that depended on which way was Wickert going? Could Banneker set him on his way? He was taking a taxi to the Avon Theater, where there was an opening.

Well, of course, that depended on which way Wickert was going. Could Banneker help him out? He was taking a taxi to the Avon Theater, where there was an opening.

Did Mr. Banneker (Wickert had by this time attained the “Mr.” stage) always follow up his dinner at Sherry’s with a theater?

Did Mr. Banneker (Wickert had by this time reached the “Mr.” stage) always go to a theater after his dinner at Sherry’s?

Usually, if there were an opening. If not he went to the opera or a concert.

Usually, if there was an opportunity. If not, he went to the opera or a concert.

For his part, Wickert liked a little more spice in life. Still, every feller to his tastes. And Mr. Banneker was sure dressed for the part. Say—if he didn’t mind—who made that full-dress suit?

For his part, Wickert preferred a bit more excitement in life. Still, everyone has their own preferences. And Mr. Banneker was definitely dressed for the occasion. By the way—if you don’t mind me asking—who made that formal suit?

No; of course he didn’t mind. Mertoun made it.

After which Mr. Banneker had been deftly enshrouded in a fur-lined coat, worthy of a bank president, had crowned these glories with an impeccable silk hat, and had set forth. Wickert had only to add that he wore in his coat lapel one of those fancy tuberoses, which he, Wickert, had gone to the pains of pricing at the nearest flower shop immediately after leaving Banneker. A dollar apiece! No, he had not accepted the offer of a lift, being doubtful upon the point of honor as to whether he would be expected to pay a pro rata of the taxi charge. They, the assembled breakfast company, had his permission to call him, Mr. Wickert, a goat if Mr. Banneker wasn’t the swellest-looking guy he had anywhere seen on that memorable evening.

After Mr. Banneker had been skillfully wrapped in a fur-lined coat, fit for a bank president, topped off with a perfect silk hat, he set out. Wickert just needed to add that he wore one of those fancy tuberoses in his coat lapel, which he, Wickert, priced at the nearest flower shop right after leaving Banneker. A dollar each! No, he hadn’t accepted the offer for a ride, feeling uncertain about honor whether he would be expected to split the taxi fare. The group at breakfast had his permission to call him, Mr. Wickert, a goat if Mr. Banneker wasn’t the best-looking guy he had seen anywhere that memorable evening.

Nobody called Mr. Wickert a goat. But Mr. Hainer sniffed and said:

“And him a twenty-five-dollar-a-week reporter!”

“And he was a $25-a-week reporter!”

“Perhaps he has private means,” suggested little Miss Westlake, who had her own reasons for suspecting this: reasons bolstered by many and frequent manuscripts, turned over to her for typing, recast, returned for retyping, and again, in many instances, re-recast and re-retyped, the result of the sweating process being advantageous to their literary quality. Simultaneous advantage had accrued to the typist, also, in a practical way. Though the total of her bills was modest, it constituted an important extra; and Miss Westlake no longer sought to find solace for her woes through the prescription of the ambulant school of philosophic thought, and to solve her dental difficulties by walking the floor of nights. Philosophy never yet cured a toothache. Happily the sufferer was now able to pay a dentist. Hence Banneker could work, untroubled of her painful footsteps in the adjoining room, and considered the outcome cheap at the price. He deemed himself an exponent of enlightened selfishness. Perhaps he was. But the dim and worn spinster would have given half a dozen of her best and painless teeth to be of service to him. Now she came to his defense with a pretty dignity:

“Maybe he has his own money,” suggested little Miss Westlake, who had her own reasons for thinking this: reasons supported by many and frequent manuscripts she typed, which were edited, sent back for more typing, and often re-edited and re-typed again, with the process enhancing their literary quality. The typist also gained practical benefits. While her total bills were modest, they provided important extra income; and Miss Westlake no longer looked for comfort for her troubles through the teachings of traveling philosophers or tried to deal with her dental issues by pacing the floor at night. Philosophy had never cured a toothache. Fortunately, she could now afford to see a dentist. This allowed Banneker to work without being disturbed by her painful steps in the next room, and he thought the outcome was worth it. He considered himself a champion of enlightened selfishness. Maybe he was. But the tired and worn-out spinster would have gladly given up several of her best and pain-free teeth to help him. Now she stepped up to defend him with a graceful dignity:

“I am sure that Mr. Banneker would not be out of place in any company.”

“I’m sure Mr. Banneker would fit in perfectly anywhere.”

“Maybe not,” answered the cynical Lambert. “But where does he get it? I ask you!”

“Maybe not,” replied the cynical Lambert. “But where does he get it? I’m asking you!”

“Wherever he gets it, no gentleman could be more forehanded in his obligations,” declared Mrs. Brashear.

“Wherever he gets it, no gentleman could be more upfront about his obligations,” declared Mrs. Brashear.

“But what’s he want to blow it for in a shirty place like Sherry’s?” marveled young Wickert.

“But why does he want to blow it in a shabby place like Sherry’s?” young Wickert wondered.

“Wyncha ask him?” brutally demanded Hainer.

“Why don't you ask him?” Hainer demanded aggressively.

Wickert examined his mind hastily, and was fain to admit inwardly that he had wanted to ask him, but somehow felt “skittish” about it. Outwardly he retorted, being displeased at his own weakness, “Ask him yourself.”

Wickert quickly checked his thoughts and reluctantly admitted to himself that he had wanted to ask him, but for some reason felt “nervous” about it. Outwardly, he snapped back, frustrated with his own insecurity, “Ask him yourself.”

Had any one questioned the subject of the discussion at Mrs. Brashear’s on this point, even if he were willing to reply to impertinent interrogations (a high improbability of which even the hardy Wickert seems to have had some timely premonition), he would perhaps have explained the glorified routine of his day-off, by saying that he went to Sherry’s and the opening nights for the same reason that he prowled about the water-front and ate in polyglot restaurants on obscure street-corners east of Tompkins Square; to observe men and women and the manner of their lives. It would not have been a sufficient answer; Banneker must have admitted that to himself. Too much a man of the world in many strata not to be adjustable to any of them, nevertheless he felt more attuned to and at one with his environment amidst the suave formalism of Sherry’s than in the more uneasy and precarious elegancies of an East-Side Tammany Association promenade and ball.

Had anyone asked about the topic of conversation at Mrs. Brashear’s on this point, even if he was inclined to answer rude questions (which even the bold Wickert seemed to have sensed in advance), he might have said that his ideal day off consisted of visiting Sherry’s and attending opening nights for the same reason he wandered the waterfront and dined in diverse restaurants on less-traveled corners east of Tompkins Square: to observe people and their lifestyles. That wouldn’t have been a satisfactory answer; Banneker must have recognized that. As someone well-acquainted with many different social circles, he could adapt to any of them, yet he felt more at home and connected to his surroundings amid the polished formality of Sherry’s than in the more uneasy and uncertain elegance of an East-Side Tammany Association gathering and dance.

Some of the youngsters of The Ledger said that he was climbing.

Some of the kids from The Ledger said that he was climbing.

He was not climbing. To climb one must be conscious of an ascent to be surmounted. Banneker was serenely unaware of anything above him, in that sense. Eminent psychiatrists were, about that time, working upon the beginning of a theory of the soul, later to be imposed upon an impressionable and faddish world, which dealt with a profound psychical deficit known as a “complex of inferiority.” In Banneker they would have found sterile soil. He had no complex of inferiority, nor, for that matter, of superiority; mental attitudes which, applied to social status, breed respectively the toady and the snob. He had no complex at all. He had, or would have had, if the soul-analysts had invented such a thing, a simplex. Relative status was a matter to which he gave little thought. He maintained personal standards not because of what others might think of him, but because he chose to think well of himself.

He wasn't climbing. To climb, you have to be aware of an ascent to overcome. Banneker was calmly oblivious to anything above him in that way. During that time, prominent psychiatrists were developing the beginnings of a theory about the soul, which would later be thrust upon an easily influenced and trend-driven world, focusing on a deep psychological shortcoming known as a “complex of inferiority.” In Banneker, they would have found barren ground. He had no complex of inferiority, or for that matter, superiority; mental attitudes that, when related to social status, create the sycophant and the snob. He didn't have any complex at all. He had, or would have had if the soul-analysts had come up with such a thing, a simplex. He paid little attention to relative status. He upheld his personal standards not because of what others might think of him, but because he chose to have a good opinion of himself.

Sherry’s and a fifth-row-center seat at opening nights meant to him something more than refreshment and amusement; they were an assertion of his right to certain things, a right of which, whether others recognized or ignored it, he felt absolutely assured. These were the readily attainable places where successful people resorted. Serenely determined upon success, he felt himself in place amidst the outward and visible symbols of it. Let the price be high for his modest means; this was an investment which he could not afford to defer. He was but anticipating his position a little, and in such wise that nobody could take exception to it, because his self-promotion demanded no aid or favor from any other living person. His interest was in the environment, not in the people, as such, who were hardly more than, “walking ladies and gentlemen” in a mise-en-scène. Indeed, where minor opportunities offered by chance of making acquaintances, he coolly rejected them. Banneker did not desire to know people—yet. When he should arrive at the point of knowing them, it must be upon his terms, not theirs.

Sherry’s and a fifth-row center seat at opening nights meant something more to him than just refreshment and entertainment; they were a statement of his right to certain things, a right he felt completely sure of, regardless of whether others recognized it or not. These were the easily accessible places where successful people gathered. Calmly determined to succeed, he felt at home among the clear symbols of achievement. Let the cost be high for his modest income; this was an investment he couldn’t afford to put off. He was merely anticipating his future position a bit, and in a way that no one could object to, because his self-promotion required no help or favor from anyone else. He was interested in the environment, not the people, who were hardly more than “walking ladies and gentlemen” in a mise-en-scène. In fact, when minor chances to make acquaintances arose, he coolly turned them down. Banneker didn’t want to know people—yet. When he reached the point of wanting to know them, it would be on his terms, not theirs.

It was on one of his Monday evenings of splendor that a misadventure of the sort which he had long foreboded, befell him. Sherry’s was crowded, and a few tables away Banneker caught sight of Herbert Cressey, dining with a mixed party of a dozen. Presently Cressey came over.

It was on one of his splendid Monday evenings that a mishap, which he had long anticipated, happened to him. Sherry’s was packed, and a few tables away, Banneker noticed Herbert Cressey dining with a mixed group of a dozen people. Soon, Cressey came over.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” he asked, shaking hands. “Haven’t seen you for months.”

“What have you been up to?” he asked, shaking hands. “I haven't seen you in months.”

“Working,” replied Banneker. “Sit down and have a cocktail. Two, Jules,” he added to the attentive waiter.

“Busy,” Banneker replied. “Take a seat and grab a cocktail. Make it two, Jules,” he added to the attentive waiter.

“I guess they can spare me for five minutes,” agreed Cressey, glancing back at his forsaken place. “This isn’t what you call work, though, is it?”

“I guess they can spare me for five minutes,” Cressey replied, looking back at his abandoned spot. “But this isn’t exactly what you’d call work, is it?”

“Hardly. This is my day off.”

“Not really. Today is my day off.”

“Oh! And how goes the job?”

“Oh! How’s work going?”

“Well enough.”

"Good enough."

“I’d think so,” commented the other, taking in the general effect of Banneker’s easy habituation to the standards of the restaurant. “You don’t own this place, do you?” he added.

“I’d think so,” replied the other, observing how comfortably Banneker adapted to the restaurant's vibe. “You don’t own this place, do you?” he added.

From another member of the world which had inherited or captured Sherry’s as part of the spoils of life, the question might have been offensive. But Banneker genuinely liked Cressey.

From another member of the world who had inherited or taken Sherry’s as part of life’s rewards, the question might have been taken poorly. But Banneker truly liked Cressey.

“Not exactly,” he returned lightly. “Do I give that unfortunate impression?”

“Not quite,” he replied casually. “Do I give off that unfortunate vibe?”

“You give very much the impression of owning old Jules—or he does—and having a proprietary share in the new head waiter. Are you here much?”

“You really seem to have a hold on old Jules—or he does—and you seem to have a stake in the new head waiter. Do you come here often?”

“Monday evenings, only.”

"Only on Monday evenings."

“This is a good cocktail,” observed Cressey, savoring it expertly. “Better than they serve to me. And, say, Banneker, did Mertoun make you that outfit?”

“This is a great cocktail,” Cressey noted, enjoying it skillfully. “Better than what they serve me. And, hey, Banneker, did Mertoun make you that outfit?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Then I quit him,” declared the gilded youth.

“Then I broke up with him,” declared the wealthy young man.

“Why? Isn’t it all right?”

"Why? Isn't that okay?"

“All right! Dammit, it’s a better job than ever I got out of him,” returned his companion indignantly. “Some change from the catalogue suit you sported when you landed here! You know how to wear ’em; I’ve got to say that for you.... I’ve got to get back. When’ll you dine with me? I want to hear all about it.”

“All right! Damn it, it’s a better job than anything I ever got from him,” his companion replied angrily. “What a change from the catalog suit you wore when you got here! You really know how to pull it off; I’ll give you that.... I need to head back. When will you have dinner with me? I want to hear all about it.”

“Any Monday,” answered Banneker.

“Any Monday,” Banneker replied.

Cressey returned to his waiting potage, and was immediately bombarded with queries, mainly from the girl on his left.

Cressey went back to his waiting soup and was immediately hit with questions, mostly from the girl sitting on his left.

“Who’s the wonderful-looking foreigner?”

“Who’s that attractive foreigner?”

“He isn’t a foreigner. At least not very much.”

“He's not really a foreigner. At least, not by much.”

“He looks like a North Italian princeling I used to know,” said one of the women. “One of that warm-complexioned out-of-door type, that preserves the Roman mould. Isn’t he an Italian?”

“He looks like a Northern Italian prince I used to know,” said one of the women. “One of those warm-complexioned, outdoor types that keeps that Roman look. Isn’t he Italian?”

“He’s an American. I ran across him out in the desert country.”

“He's an American. I came across him out in the desert.”

“Hence that burned-in brown. What was he doing out there?”

“Hence that burned-in brown. What was he up to out there?”

Cressey hesitated. Innocent of any taint of snobbery himself, he yet did not know whether Banneker would care to have his humble position tacked onto the tails of that work of art, his new coat. “He was in the railroad business,” he returned cautiously. “His name is Banneker.”

Cressey hesitated. While he wasn't snobbish at all, he still wasn't sure if Banneker would want his modest job associated with that masterpiece, his new coat. “He was in the railroad business,” he replied carefully. “His name is Banneker.”

“I’ve been seeing him for months,” remarked another of the company. “He’s always alone and always at that table. Nobody knows him. He’s a mystery.”

“I’ve been seeing him for months,” said another person in the group. “He’s always by himself and always at that table. Nobody knows him. He’s a mystery.”

“He’s a beauty,” said Cressey’s left-hand neighbor.

"He's a real catch," said Cressey's neighbor on the left.

Miss Esther Forbes had been quite openly staring, with her large, gray, and childlike eyes, at Banneker, eating his oysters in peaceful unconsciousness of being made a subject for discussion. Miss Forbes was a Greuze portrait come to life and adjusted to the extremes of fashion. Behind an expression of the sweetest candor and wistfulness, as behind a safe bulwark, she preserved an effrontery which balked at no defiance of conventions in public, though essentially she was quite sufficiently discreet for self-preservation. Also she had a keen little brain, a reckless but good-humored heart and a memory retentive of important trifles.

Miss Esther Forbes had been openly staring, with her large, gray, childlike eyes, at Banneker, who was eating his oysters completely unaware that he was the topic of discussion. Miss Forbes looked like a living Greuze portrait, but with a modern twist. Behind her sweetly innocent and wistful expression, she maintained a boldness that didn't shy away from defying public conventions, though she was discreet enough to protect herself. She also had a sharp mind, a carefree but good-natured spirit, and an excellent memory for important little details.

“In the West, Bertie?” she inquired of Cressey. “You were in that big wreck there, weren’t you?”

“In the West, Bertie?” she asked Cressey. “You were in that big crash there, right?”

“Devil of a wreck,” said Cressey uneasily. You never could tell what Esther might know or might not say.

“Total disaster,” said Cressey nervously. You could never tell what Esther might know or what she might reveal.

“Ask him over here,” directed that young lady blandly, “for coffee and liqueurs.”

“Ask him to come over here,” the young lady said casually, “for coffee and liqueurs.”

“Oh, I say!” protested one of the men. “Nobody knows anything about him—”

“Oh, come on!” one of the men protested. “Nobody knows anything about him—”

“He’s a friend of mine,” put in Cressey, in a tone which ended that particular objection. “But I don’t think he’d come.”

“He's a friend of mine,” Cressey interjected, in a tone that shut down that particular objection. “But I don't think he’d come.”

Instantly there was a chorus of demand for him.

Immediately, there was a loud call for him.

“All right, I’ll try,” yielded Cressey, rising.

“All right, I’ll try,” Cressey said, getting up.

“Put him next to me,” directed Miss Forbes.

“Put him next to me,” said Miss Forbes.

The emissary visited Banneker’s table, was observed to be in brief colloquy with him, and returned, alone.

The messenger stopped by Banneker’s table, chatted with him briefly, and came back alone.

“Wouldn’t he come?” interrogated the chorus.

“Is he not coming?” asked the group.

“He’s awfully sorry, but he says he isn’t fit for decent human associations.”

“He's really sorry, but he says he's not good enough for normal human connections.”

“More and more interesting!”—“Why?”—“What awful thing has he been doing?”

“More and more interesting!”—“Why?”—“What terrible thing has he been doing?”

“Eating onions,” answered Cressey. “Raw.”

"Raw onions," replied Cressey.

“I don’t believe it,” cried the indignant Miss Forbes. “One doesn’t eat raw onions at Sherry’s. It’s a subterfuge.”

“I can’t believe it,” exclaimed the upset Miss Forbes. “You don’t eat raw onions at Sherry’s. That’s a trick.”

“Very likely.”

"Most likely."

“If I went over there myself, who’ll bet a dozen silk stockings that I can’t—”

“If I went over there myself, who would bet a dozen silk stockings that I can’t—”

“Come off it, Ess,” protested her brother-in-law across the table. “That’s too high a jump, even for you.”

“Come on, Ess,” her brother-in-law argued from across the table. “That’s too big of a leap, even for you.”

She let herself be dissuaded, but her dovelike eyes were vagrant during the rest of the dinner.

She allowed herself to be persuaded, but her dove-like eyes wandered throughout the rest of the dinner.

Pleasantly musing over the last glass of a good but moderate-priced Rosemont-Geneste, Banneker became aware of Cressey’s dinner party filing past him: then of Jules, the waiter, discreetly murmuring something, from across the table. A faint and provocative scent came to his nostrils, and as he followed Jules’s eyes he saw a feminine figure standing at his elbow. He rose promptly and looked down into a face which might have been modeled for a type of appealing innocence.

Pleasantly reflecting over the last sip of a good but reasonably priced Rosemont-Geneste, Banneker noticed Cressey’s dinner party passing by him. Then he caught Jules, the waiter, quietly saying something from across the table. A faint and enticing scent wafted to his nose, and as he followed Jules’s gaze, he saw a woman standing next to him. He got up quickly and looked down at a face that seemed to have been crafted to represent a charming innocence.

“You’re Mr. Banneker, aren’t you?”

“Are you Mr. Banneker?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“I’m Esther Forbes, and I think I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“I’m Esther Forbes, and I feel like I’ve heard so much about you.”

“It doesn’t seem probable,” he replied gravely.

“It doesn’t seem likely,” he replied seriously.

“From a cousin of mine,” pursued the girl. “She was Io Welland. Haven’t I?”

“From a cousin of mine,” the girl continued. “She was Io Welland. Haven’t I?”

A shock went through Banneker at the mention of the name. But he steadied himself to say: “I don’t think so.”

A jolt ran through Banneker at the mention of the name. But he composed himself and said, “I don’t think so.”

Herein he was speaking by the letter. Knowing Io Welland as he had, he deemed it very improbable that she had even so much as mentioned him to any of her friends. In that measure, at least, he believed, she would have respected the memory of the romance which she had so ruthlessly blasted. This girl, with the daring and wistful eyes, was simply fishing, so he guessed.

Here, he was speaking literally. Knowing Io Welland as he did, he thought it was very unlikely that she had even mentioned him to any of her friends. At least in that regard, he believed she would have respected the memory of the romance that she had so carelessly destroyed. This girl, with her bold and yearning eyes, was just fishing for something, he figured.

His guess was correct. Mendacity was not outside of Miss Forbes’s easy code when enlisted in a good cause, such as appeasing her own impish curiosity. Never had Io so much as mentioned that quaint and lively romance with which vague gossip had credited her, after her return from the West; Esther Forbes had gathered it in, gossamer thread by gossamer thread, and was now hoping to identify Banneker in its uncertain pattern. Her little plan of startling him into some betrayal had proven abortive. Not by so much as the quiver of a muscle or the minutest shifting of an eye had he given sign. Still convinced that he was the mysterious knight of the desert, she was moved to admiration for his self-command and to a sub-thrill of pleasurable fear as before an unknown and formidable species. The man who had transformed self-controlled and invincible Io Welland into the creature of moods and nerves and revulsions which she had been for the fortnight preceding her marriage, must be something out of the ordinary. Instinct of womankind told Miss Forbes that this and no other was the type of man to work such a miracle.

His guess was right. Dishonesty was not beyond Miss Forbes’s usual behavior when it came to satisfying her own playful curiosity. Io had never even hinted at that quirky and lively romance that vague rumors had assigned to her after returning from the West; Esther Forbes had pieced it together, thread by thread, and was now trying to figure out Banneker in its unclear pattern. Her little plan to catch him off guard into revealing something had failed. Not even a twitch of a muscle or the slightest movement of an eye had given anything away. Still convinced that he was the mysterious knight from the desert, she felt a mix of admiration for his self-control and a tingle of thrilling fear, like facing an unknown and formidable creature. The man who had turned the composed and unbeatable Io Welland into the restless and emotional person she had been for the two weeks leading up to her marriage must be someone extraordinary. Women’s intuition told Miss Forbes that this was exactly the type of man capable of such a transformation.

“But you did know Io?” she persisted, feeling, as she afterward confessed, that she was putting her head into the mouth of a lion concerning whose habits her knowledge was regrettably insufficient.

“But you did know Io?” she pressed, feeling, as she later admitted, that she was putting her head into the mouth of a lion about which her knowledge was unfortunately lacking.

The lion did not bite her head off. He did not even roar. He merely said, “Yes.”

The lion didn’t bite her head off. He didn’t even roar. He simply said, “Yes.”

“In a railroad wreck or something of that sort?”

“In a train accident or something like that?”

“Something of that sort.”

“Something like that.”

“Are you awfully bored and wishing I’d go away and let you alone?” she said, on a note that pleaded for forbearance. “Because if you are, don’t make such heroic efforts to conceal it.”

“Are you super bored and hoping I’d just leave you alone?” she said, her tone begging for patience. “Because if you are, don’t try so hard to hide it.”

At this an almost imperceptible twist at the corners of his lips manifested itself to the watchful eye and cheered the enterprising soul of Miss Forbes. “No,” he said equably, “I’m interested to discover how far you’ll go.”

At this, an almost unnoticed twist at the corners of his lips appeared to the observant eye and delighted the spirited Miss Forbes. “No,” he said calmly, “I’m curious to see how far you’ll take this.”

The snub left Miss Forbes unembarrassed.

The snub didn't embarrass Miss Forbes at all.

“Oh, as far as you’ll let me,” she answered. “Did you ride in from your ranch and drag Io out of the tangled wreckage at the end of your lasso?”

“Oh, as far as you’ll let me,” she replied. “Did you ride in from your ranch and pull Io out of the tangled mess at the end of your lasso?”

“My ranch? I wasn’t on a ranch.”

“My ranch? I wasn't on a ranch.”

“Please, sir,” she smiled up at him like a beseeching angel, “what did you do that kept us all talking and speculating about you for a whole week, though we didn’t know your name?”

“Please, sir,” she smiled up at him like a pleading angel, “what did you do that made us all talk and wonder about you for a whole week, even though we didn’t know your name?”

“I sat right on my job as station-agent at Manzanita and made up lists of the killed and injured,” answered Banneker dryly.

“I sat right at my job as the station agent at Manzanita and created lists of the dead and injured,” Banneker replied flatly.

“Station-agent!” The girl was taken aback, for this was not at all in consonance with the Io myth as it had drifted back, from sources never determined, to New York. “Were you the station-agent?”

“Station agent!” The girl was surprised, because this was completely different from the Io myth as it had been passed down, from unknown sources, to New York. “Were you the station agent?”

“I was.”

"I am."

She bestowed a glance at once appraising and flattering, less upon himself than upon his apparel. “And what are you now? President of the road?”

She gave him a look that was both assessing and complimenting, focusing more on his outfit than on him. “So what are you now? President of the road?”

“A reporter on The Ledger.”

“A reporter for The Ledger.”

“Really!” This seemed to astonish her even more than the previous information. “What are you reporting here?”

“Really!” This seemed to shock her even more than the last piece of information. “What are you saying here?”

“I’m off duty to-night.”

“I’m off duty tonight.”

“I see. Could you get off duty some afternoon and come to tea, if I’ll promise to have Io there to meet you?”

“I get it. Could you take some time off one afternoon and come for tea, if I promise to have Io there to meet you?”

“Your party seems to be making signals of distress, Miss Forbes.”

“Your group appears to be sending out signals of trouble, Miss Forbes.”

“That’s the normal attitude of my friends and family toward me. You’ll come, won’t you, Mr. Banneker?”

“That’s how my friends and family usually feel about me. You’ll come, right, Mr. Banneker?”

“Thank you: but reporting keeps one rather too busy for amusement.”

"Thanks, but reporting keeps you too busy for fun."

“You won’t come,” she murmured, aggrieved. “Then it is true about you and Io.”

“You’re not coming,” she whispered, upset. “So it is true about you and Io.”

This time she achieved a result. Banneker flushed angrily, though he said, coolly enough: “I think perhaps you would make an enterprising reporter, yourself, Miss Forbes.”

This time she got a result. Banneker turned red with anger, but he said, coolly enough: “I think you’d make a pretty good reporter yourself, Miss Forbes.”

“I’m sure I should. Well, I’ll apologize. And if you won’t come for Io—she’s still abroad, by the way and won’t be back for a month—perhaps you’ll come for me. Just to show that you forgive my impertinences. Everybody does. I’m going to tell Bertie Cressey he must bring you.... All right, Bertie! I wish you wouldn’t follow me up like—like a paper-chase. Good-night, Mr. Banneker.”

“I’m sure I should. Well, I’ll apologize. And if you won’t come for Io—she’s still overseas, by the way, and won’t be back for a month—maybe you’ll come for me. Just to show that you forgive my rudeness. Everyone does. I’m going to tell Bertie Cressey he has to bring you.... All right, Bertie! I wish you wouldn’t follow me around like—like a paper chase. Goodnight, Mr. Banneker.”

To her indignant escort she declared that it couldn’t have hurt them to wait a jiffy; that she had had a most amusing conversation; that Mr. Banneker was as charming as he was good to look at; and that (in answer to sundry questions) she had found out little or nothing, though she hoped for better results in future.

To her frustrated companion, she said that it wouldn’t have been a big deal to wait a moment; that she had a really fun conversation; that Mr. Banneker was as delightful as he was good-looking; and that (in response to various questions) she hadn’t learned much at all, though she was optimistic about getting better information next time.

“But he’s Io’s passion-in-the-desert right enough,” said the irreverent Miss Forbes.

“But he’s definitely Io’s passion-in-the-desert,” said the irreverent Miss Forbes.

Banneker sat long over his cooling coffee. Through haunted nights he had fought maddening memories of Io’s shadowed eyes, of the exhalant, irresistible femininity of her, of the pulses of her heart against his on that wild and wonderful night in the flood; and he had won to an armed peace, in which the outposts of his spirit were ever on guard against the recurrent thoughts of her.

Banneker sat for a long time with his cooling coffee. Throughout sleepless nights, he battled frustrating memories of Io's dark eyes, the alluring femininity she possessed, and the rhythm of her heart against his on that wild, unforgettable night in the flood. He had achieved a sort of protected calm, where the boundaries of his spirit were always vigilant against her recurring thoughts.

Now, at the bitter music of her name on the lips of a gossiping and frivolous girl, the barriers had given away. In eagerness and self-contempt he surrendered to the vision. Go to an afternoon tea to see and speak with her again? He would, in that awakened mood, have walked across the continent, only to be in her presence, to feel himself once more within the radius of that inexorable charm.

Now, at the harsh sound of her name from the lips of a gossiping and silly girl, the walls had come down. Filled with eagerness and self-loathing, he gave in to the vision. Go to an afternoon tea to see and talk to her again? In that heightened state, he would have walked across the country just to be near her, to feel himself once again within the reach of that undeniable charm.

CHAPTER VII

“Katie’s” sits, sedate and serviceable, on a narrow side street so near to Park Row that the big table in the rear rattles its dishes when the presses begin their seismic rumblings, in the daily effort to shake the world. Here gather the pick and choice of New York journalism, while still on duty, to eat and drink and discuss the inner news of things which is so often much more significant than the published version; haply to win or lose a few swiftly earned dollars at pass-three hearts. It is the unofficial press club of Newspaper Row.

“Katie’s” sits quietly and practically on a narrow side street just off Park Row, where the large table in the back rattles its dishes when the presses start their loud rumbling in the daily mission to shake up the world. Here, the top people in New York journalism gather while still on duty to eat, drink, and discuss the real stories behind the scenes, which are often much more important than what makes it to print; sometimes they might win or lose a few quickly earned dollars at pass-three hearts. It’s the unofficial press club of Newspaper Row.

Said McHale of The Sphere, who, having been stuck with the queen of spades—that most unlucky thirteener—twice in succession, was retiring on his losses, to Mallory of The Ledger who had just come in:

Said McHale of The Sphere, who, having drawn the queen of spades—that most unlucky thirteen—twice in a row, was stepping away from his losses, to Mallory of The Ledger who had just arrived:

“I hear you’ve got a sucking genius at your shop.”

“I hear you’ve got a really talented employee at your shop.”

“If you mean Banneker, he’s weaned,” replied the assistant city editor of The Ledger. “He goes on space next week.”

“If you’re talking about Banneker, he’s ready to go,” replied the assistant city editor of The Ledger. “He’s heading into space next week.”

“Does he, though! Quick work, eh?”

“Does he, though! Fast work, right?”

“A record for the office. He’s been on the staff less than a year.”

“A record for the office. He’s been part of the team for less than a year.”

“Is he really such a wonder?” asked Glidden of The Monitor.

“Is he really that amazing?” Glidden asked The Monitor.

Three or four Ledger men answered at once, citing various stories which had stirred the interest of Park Row.

Three or four Ledger guys responded simultaneously, referring to different stories that had caught the attention of Park Row.

“Oh, you Ledger fellows are always giving the college yell for each other,” said McHale, impatiently voicing the local jealousy of The Ledger’s recognized esprit de corps. “I’ve seen bigger rockets than him come down in the ash-heap.”

“Oh, you Ledger guys are always cheering each other on,” McHale said, impatiently expressing the local jealousy of The Ledger’s well-known team spirit. “I’ve seen bigger losers than him end up in the trash.”

“He won’t,” prophesied Tommy Burt, The Ledger’s humorous specialist. “He’ll go up and stay up. High! He’s got the stuff.”

“He won’t,” predicted Tommy Burt, The Ledger’s humor expert. “He’ll rise and stay up. High! He’s got what it takes.”

“They say,” observed Fowler, the star man of The Patriot, “he covers his assignment in taxicabs.”

“They say,” noted Fowler, the top guy at The Patriot, “he handles his assignments in taxis.”

“He gets the news,” murmured Mallory, summing up in that phrase all the encomiums which go to the perfect praise of the natural-born reporter.

“He gets the news,” murmured Mallory, capturing in that phrase all the compliments that highlight the skill of a natural-born reporter.

“And he writes it,” put in Van Cleve of The Courier. “Lord, how that boy can write! Why, a Banneker two-sticks stands out as if it were printed in black-face.”

“And he writes it,” added Van Cleve of The Courier. “Wow, that kid can really write! Seriously, a Banneker two-sticks looks like it's printed in bold.”

“I’ve never seen him around,” remarked Glidden. “What does he do with himself besides work?”

“I've never seen him around,” said Glidden. “What does he do besides work?”

“Nothing, I imagine,” answered Mallory. “One of the cubs reports finding him at the Public Library, before ten o’clock in the morning, surrounded by books on journalism. He’s a serious young owl.”

“Nothing, I guess,” replied Mallory. “One of the cubs said they found him at the Public Library before ten in the morning, surrounded by books on journalism. He’s a serious young owl.”

“It doesn’t get into his copy, then,” asserted “Parson” Gale, political expert for The Ledger.

“It doesn’t make it into his version, then,” stated “Parson” Gale, political expert for The Ledger.

“Nor into his appearance. He certainly dresses like a flower of the field. Even the wrinkles in his clothes have the touch of high-priced Fifth Avenue.”

“Not into his appearance. He definitely dresses like a flower in the field. Even the wrinkles in his clothes have the look of luxury from Fifth Avenue.”

“Must be rich,” surmised Fowler. “Taxis for assignments and Fifth-Avenue raiment sound like real money.”

“Must be rich,” guessed Fowler. “Taxis for work and Fifth Avenue clothes sound like serious cash.”

“Nobody knows where he got it, then,” said Tommy Burt. “Used to be a freight brakeman or something out in the wild-and-woolly. When he arrived, he was dressed very proud and stiff like a Baptist elder going to make a social call, all but the made-up bow tie and the oil on the hair. Some change and sudden!”

“Nobody knows where he got it, then,” said Tommy Burt. “He used to be a freight brakeman or something out in the wild and crazy West. When he showed up, he was dressed really fancy and stiff like a Baptist elder getting ready for a social visit, except he didn’t have the fancy bow tie or the oil in his hair. What a change, so sudden!”

“Got a touch of the swelled head, though, hasn’t he?” asked Van Cleve. “I hear he’s beginning to pick his assignments already. Refuses to take society stuff and that sort of thing.”

“Got a bit of a big head, hasn’t he?” asked Van Cleve. “I hear he’s starting to choose his assignments already. Refuses to take social events and that kind of thing.”

“Oh,” said Mallory, “I suppose that comes from his being assigned to a tea given by the Thatcher Forbes for some foreign celebrity, and asking to be let off because he’d already been invited there and declined.”

“Oh,” Mallory said, “I guess that comes from him being assigned to a tea thrown by the Thatcher Forbes for some foreign celebrity, and asking to be excused because he’d already been invited and turned it down.”

“Hello!” exclaimed McHale. “Where does our young bird come in to fly as high as the Thatcher Forbes? He may look like a million dollars, but is he?”

“Hello!” McHale exclaimed. “How does our young guy manage to soar as high as Thatcher Forbes? He might look amazing, but is he really?”

“All I know,” said Tommy Burt, “is that every Monday, which is his day off, he dines at Sherry’s, and goes in lonely glory to a first-night, if there is one, afterward. It must have been costing him half of his week’s salary.”

“All I know,” said Tommy Burt, “is that every Monday, which is his day off, he eats at Sherry’s and then heads off to a first-night show if there is one. It must be costing him half of his weekly salary.”

“Swelled head, sure,” diagnosed Decker, the financial reporter of The Ledger. “Well, watch the great Chinese joss, Greenough, pull the props from under him when the time comes.”

“Swelled head, for sure,” diagnosed Decker, the financial reporter of The Ledger. “Well, just wait for the great Chinese joss, Greenough, to pull the support right out from under him when the time comes.”

“As how?” inquired Glidden.

“How so?” Glidden asked.

“By handing him a nawsty one out of the assignment book, just to show him where his hat fits too tight.”

“By giving him a nasty one from the assignment book, just to show him where his hat fits too tight.”

“A run of four-line obits,” suggested Van Cleve, who had passed a painful apprenticeship of death-notices in which is neither profitable space nor hopeful opportunity, “for a few days, will do it.”

“A run of four-line obits,” suggested Van Cleve, who had endured a tough apprenticeship of death notices where there’s neither profitable space nor hopeful opportunity, “for a few days, will do it.”

“Or the job of asking an indignant millionaire papa why his pet daughter ran away with the second footman and where.”

“Or the task of asking an angry millionaire dad why his spoiled daughter ran off with the second footman and where.”

“Or interviewing old frozen-faced Willis Enderby on his political intentions, honorable or dishonorable.”

“Or interviewing the cold, expressionless Willis Enderby about his political intentions, whether they're honorable or not.”

“If I know Banneker,” said Mallory, “he’s game. He’ll take what’s handed him and put it over.”

“If I know Banneker,” said Mallory, “he’s up for it. He’ll handle whatever comes his way and make the most of it.”

“Once, maybe,” contributed Tommy Burt. “Twice, perhaps. But I wouldn’t want to crowd too much on him.”

“Once, maybe,” added Tommy Burt. “Twice, perhaps. But I wouldn’t want to overwhelm him too much.”

“Greenough won’t. He’s wise in the ways of marvelous and unlicked cubs,” said Decker.

“Greenough won’t. He knows the ins and outs of amazing and untouched cubs,” said Decker.

“Why? What do you think Banneker would do?” asked Mallory curiously, addressing Burt.

“Why? What do you think Banneker would do?” Mallory asked curiously, looking at Burt.

“If he got an assignment too rich for his stomach? Well, speaking unofficially and without special knowledge, I’d guess that he’d handle it to a finish, and then take his very smart and up-to-date hat and perform a polite adieu to Mr. Greenough and all the works of The Ledger city room.”

“If he got an assignment too difficult for him? Well, unofficially and without any inside knowledge, I’d say he’d see it through to the end, and then take his stylish and modern hat and politely say goodbye to Mr. Greenough and all the work from The Ledger city room.”

A thin, gray, somnolent elder at the end of the table, whose nobly cut face was seared with lines of physical pain endured and outlived, withdrew a very small pipe from his mouth and grunted.

A thin, gray, sleepy old man at the end of the table, whose dignified face was marked by lines from the physical pain he had suffered and survived, took a small pipe out of his mouth and grunted.

“The Venerable Russell Edmonds has the floor,” said Tommy Burt in a voice whose open raillery subtly suggested an underlying affection and respect. “He snorts, and in that snort is sublimated the wisdom and experience of a ripe ninety years on Park Row. Speak, O Compendium of all the—”

“The Venerable Russell Edmonds has the floor,” said Tommy Burt in a tone that playfully hinted at a deep fondness and respect. “He snorts, and in that snort is the accumulated wisdom and experience of a rich ninety years on Park Row. Speak, O Compendium of all the—”

“Shut up, Tommy,” interrupted Edmonds. He resumed his pipe, gave it two anxious puffs, and, satisfied of its continued vitality, said:

“Shut up, Tommy,” interrupted Edmonds. He picked up his pipe again, took two quick puffs, and, pleased that it was still drawing well, said:

“Banneker, uh? Resign, uh? You think he would?”

“Banneker, huh? Resign, huh? Do you think he would?”

“I think so.”

"I believe so."

“Does he think so?”

“That’s my belief.”

"That's what I believe."

“He won’t,” pronounced the veteran with finality. “They never do. They chafe. They strain. They curse out the job and themselves. They say it isn’t fit for any white man. So it isn’t, the worst of it. But they stick. If they’re marked for it, they stick.”

“He won’t,” said the veteran decisively. “They never do. They get frustrated. They struggle. They complain about the job and about themselves. They say it’s not suitable for any white man. And it really isn’t, that’s the worst part. But they stay. If they’re meant for it, they stay.”

“Marked for it?” murmured Glidden.

"Marked for that?" whispered Glidden.

“The ink-spot. The mark of the beast. I’ve got it. You’ve got it, Glidden, and you, McHale. Mallory’s smudged with it. Tommy thinks it’s all over him, but it isn’t. He’ll end between covers. Fiction, like as not,” he added with a mildly contemptuous smile. “But this young Banneker; it’s eaten into him like acid.”

“The ink stain. The mark of the beast. I have it. You have it, Glidden, and you, McHale. Mallory’s smudged with it. Tommy thinks it’s all over him, but it isn’t. He’ll end up in print. Fiction, most likely,” he said with a slightly disdainful smile. “But this young Banneker; it’s consumed him like acid.”

“Do you know him, Pop?” inquired McHale.

“Do you know him, Dad?” McHale asked.

“Never saw him. Don’t have to. I’ve read his stuff.”

"Never met him. Not necessary. I've read his work."

“And you see it there?”

“And you see it?”

“Plain as Brooklyn Bridge. He’ll eat mud like the rest of us.”

“Simple as the Brooklyn Bridge. He'll go through tough times just like the rest of us.”

“Come off, Pop! Where do you come in to eat mud? You’ve got the creamiest job on Park Row. You never have to do anything that a railroad president need shy at.”

“Come on, Dad! What’s your deal with eating mud? You’ve got the cushiest job on Park Row. You never have to do anything a railroad president would be embarrassed about.”

This was nearly true. Edmonds, who in his thirty years of service had filled almost every conceivable position from police headquarters reporter to managing editor, had now reverted to the phase for which the ink-spot had marked him, and was again a reporter; a sort of super-reporter, spending much of his time out around the country on important projects either of news, or of that special information necessary to a great daily, which does not always appear as news, but which may define, determine, or alter news and editorial policies.

This was almost accurate. Edmonds, who in his thirty years of service had held nearly every imaginable position from police headquarters reporter to managing editor, had now returned to the role that the ink-spot had labeled him, and was once again a reporter; a sort of super-reporter, spending a lot of his time traveling around the country on significant projects either related to news or that particular information essential for a major daily, which doesn't always show up as news but can define, determine, or change news and editorial policies.

Of him it was said on Park Row, and not without reason, that he was bigger than his paper, which screened him behind a traditional principle of anonymity, for The Courier was of the second rank in metropolitan journalism and wavered between an indigenous Bourbonism and a desire to be thought progressive. The veteran’s own creed was frankly socialistic; but in the Fabian phase. His was a patient philosophy, content with slow progress; but upon one point he was a passionate enthusiast. He believed in the widest possible scope of education, and in the fundamental duty of the press to stimulate it.

People on Park Row said, and not without good reason, that he was bigger than his newspaper, which kept him hidden behind a traditional principle of anonymity. The Courier ranked second in metropolitan journalism and fluctuated between a local old-school mentality and a wish to be seen as progressive. The veteran's personal beliefs were openly socialistic, but in a Fabian way. He had a patient philosophy, satisfied with slow progress; however, he was a passionate advocate for one cause. He believed in providing the broadest possible access to education and in the essential responsibility of the press to promote it.

“We’ll get the Social Revolution just as soon as we’re educated up to it,” he was wont to declare. “If we get it before then, it’ll be a worse hash than capitalism. So let’s go slow and learn.”

“We’ll have the Social Revolution as soon as we’re educated enough for it,” he often said. “If we get it before then, it’ll be more chaotic than capitalism. So let’s take our time and learn.”

For such a mind to be contributing to an organ of The Courier type might seem anomalous. Often Edmonds accused himself of shameful compromise; the kind of compromise constantly necessary to hold his place. Yet it was not any consideration of self-interest that bound him. He could have commanded higher pay in half a dozen open positions. Or, he could have afforded to retire, and write as he chose, for he had been a shrewd investor with wide opportunities. What really held him was his ability to forward almost imperceptibly through the kind of news political and industrial, which he, above all other journalists of his day, was able to determine and analyze, the radical projects dear to his heart. Nothing could have had a more titillating appeal to his sardonic humor than the furious editorial refutations in The Courier, of facts and tendencies plainly enunciated by him in the news columns.

For someone with such a sharp mind to be working for a publication like The Courier might seem out of place. Edmonds often felt ashamed of his compromises; the kind of compromises he constantly had to make to keep his position. But it wasn't self-interest that kept him there. He could have earned a higher salary in several available jobs. Or, he could have chosen to retire and write freely since he was a savvy investor with plenty of opportunities. What truly motivated him was his ability to subtly promote the political and industrial news that he, more than any other journalist of his time, could analyze and understand, along with the radical ideas he cared about deeply. Nothing could have amused his dry sense of humor more than the angry editorials in The Courier that refuted facts and trends he had clearly outlined in his news articles.

Nevertheless, his impotency to speak out openly and individually the faith that was in him, left always a bitter residue in his mind. It now informed his answer to Van Cleve’s characterization of his job.

Nevertheless, his inability to express openly and personally the faith he held left a lingering bitterness in his mind. It now shaped his response to Van Cleve’s description of his job.

“If I can sneak a tenth of the truth past the copy-desk,” he said, “I’m doing well. And what sort of man am I when I go up against these big-bugs of industry at their conventions, and conferences, appearing as representative of The Courier which represents their interests? A damned hypocrite, I’d say! If they had brains enough to read between the lines of my stuff, they’d see it.”

“If I can get just a bit of the truth through the editing process,” he said, “I’m doing alright. And what kind of person am I when I face these big shots of the industry at their conventions and conferences, representing The Courier, which supports their interests? A complete hypocrite, I’d say! If they were smart enough to read between the lines of my work, they’d realize it.”

“Why don’t you tell ’em?” asked Mallory lazily.

“Why don’t you tell them?” Mallory asked lazily.

“I did, once. I told the President of the United Manufacturers’ Association what I really thought of their attitude toward labor.”

“I did, once. I told the President of the United Manufacturers’ Association what I truly thought about their attitude towards workers.”

“With what result?”

“With what outcome?”

“He ordered The Courier to fire me.”

“He told The Courier to fire me.”

“You’re still there.”

"You're still here."

“Yes. But he isn’t. I went after him on his record.”

“Yes. But he isn't. I went after him for his track record.”

“All of which doesn’t sound much like mud-eating, Pop.”

“All of that doesn’t really sound like eating mud, Pop.”

“I’ve done my bit of that in my time, too. I’ve had jobs to do that a self-respecting swill-hustler wouldn’t touch. I’ve sworn I wouldn’t do em. And I’ve done ’em, rather than lose my job. Just as young Banneker will, when the test comes.”

“I’ve done my share of that in my time, too. I’ve had jobs to do that a self-respecting swill-hustler wouldn’t go near. I swore I wouldn’t do them. And I’ve done them, rather than lose my job. Just like young Banneker will, when the time comes.”

“I’ll bet he won’t,” said Tommy Burt.

“I bet he won’t,” said Tommy Burt.

Mallory, who had been called away, returned in time to hear this. “You might ask him to settle the bet,” he suggested. “I’ve just had him on the ‘phone. He’s coming around.”

Mallory, who had been called away, came back just in time to hear this. “You might ask him to settle the bet,” he suggested. “I just spoke to him on the phone. He’s on his way over.”

“I will,” said Edmonds.

"I will," Edmonds said.

On his arrival Banneker was introduced to those of the men whom he did not know, and seated next to Edmonds.

On his arrival, Banneker was introduced to the men he didn’t know and was seated next to Edmonds.

“We’ve been talking about you, young fellow,” said the veteran.

“We’ve been talking about you, young man,” said the veteran.

From most men Banneker would have found the form of address patronizing. But the thin, knotty face of Edmonds was turned upon him with so kindly a regard in the hollow eyes that he felt an innate stir of knowledge that here was a man who might be a friend. He made no answer, however, merely glancing at the speaker. To learn that the denizens of Park Row were discussing him, caused him neither surprise nor elation. While he knew that he had made hit after hit with his work, he was not inclined to over-value the easily won reputation. Edmonds’s next remark did not please him.

From most guys, Banneker would have found the way they spoke to him condescending. But the thin, wrinkled face of Edmonds looked at him with such a warm expression in his hollow eyes that Banneker felt a spark of understanding that this might be a person who could be a friend. He didn’t respond, just giving a quick glance at the speaker. The fact that the people on Park Row were talking about him didn’t surprise or excite him. Although he knew he had consistently succeeded with his work, he wasn’t inclined to overvalue the easily gained reputation. Edmonds’s next comment didn’t sit well with him.

“We were discussing how much dirt you’d eat to hold your job on The Ledger.”

“We were talking about how much dirt you’d take to keep your job at The Ledger.”

“The Ledger doesn’t ask its men to eat dirt, Edmonds,” put in Mallory sharply.

“The Ledger doesn’t expect its people to put up with nonsense, Edmonds,” Mallory said sharply.

“Chop, fried potatoes, coffee, and a stein of Nicklas-brau,” Banneker specified across the table to the waiter. He studied the mimeographed bill-of-fare with selective attention. “And a slice of apple pie,” he decided. Without change of tone, he looked up over the top of the menu at Edmonds slowly puffing his insignificant pipe and said: “I don’t like your assumption, Mr. Edmonds.”

“Chop, fried potatoes, coffee, and a stein of Nicklas-brau,” Banneker ordered, looking across the table at the waiter. He scanned the printed menu with focused interest. “And a slice of apple pie,” he added. Without altering his tone, he glanced up over the menu at Edmonds, who was slowly puffing on his unremarkable pipe, and said: “I don’t like your assumption, Mr. Edmonds.”

“It’s ugly,” admitted the other, “but you have to answer it. Oh, not to me!” he added, smiling. “To yourself.”

“It’s ugly,” the other admitted, “but you need to answer it. Oh, not to me!” he added with a smile. “To yourself.”

“It hasn’t come my way yet.”

“It will. Ask any of these fellows. We’ve all had to meet it. Yes; you, too, Mallory. We’ve all had to eat our peck of dirt in the sacred name of news. Some are too squeamish. They quit.”

“It will. Ask any of these guys. We’ve all had to deal with it. Yes; you, too, Mallory. We’ve all had to eat our share of crap in the honorable name of news. Some are too sensitive. They bail.”

“If they’re too squeamish, they’d never make real newspaper men,” pronounced McHale. “You can’t be too good for your business.”

“If they’re too squeamish, they’ll never be real newspaper guys,” McHale said. “You can’t be too good for your job.”

“Just so,” said Tommy Burt acidly, “but your business can be too bad for you.”

“Exactly,” Tommy Burt replied sharply, “but your situation can be too problematic for you.”

“There’s got to be news. And if there’s got to be news there have got to be men willing to do hard, unpleasant work, to get it,” argued Mallory.

“There’s got to be news. And if there’s got to be news, there have to be people willing to do tough, unpleasant work to find it,” argued Mallory.

“Hard? All right,” retorted Edmonds. “Unpleasant? Who cares! I’m talking about the dirty work. Wait a minute, Mallory. Didn’t you ever have an assignment that was an outrage on some decent man’s privacy? Or, maybe woman’s? Something that made you sick at your stomach to have to do? Did you ever have to take a couple of drinks to give you nerve to ask some question that ought to have got you kicked downstairs for asking?”

“Hard? Fine,” Edmonds shot back. “Unpleasant? Who cares! I’m talking about the dirty work. Hold on a second, Mallory. Didn’t you ever have a task that invaded some decent person’s privacy? Or maybe a woman’s? Something that made you feel sick just thinking about doing it? Did you ever have to down a couple of drinks to muster the guts to ask a question that should have gotten you kicked out for even bringing it up?”

Mallory, flushing angrily, was silent. But McHale spoke up. “Hell! Every business has its stinks, I guess. What about being a lawyer and serving papers? Or a manufacturer and having to bootlick the buyers? I tell you, if the public wants a certain kind of news, it’s the newspaper’s business to serve it to ’em; and it’s the newspaper man’s business to get it for his paper. I say it’s up to the public.”

Mallory, bright red with anger, stayed quiet. But McHale chimed in. “Look! Every job has its downsides, I guess. What about being a lawyer and delivering legal papers? Or a manufacturer having to kiss up to the buyers? I’m telling you, if people want a certain type of news, it’s the newspaper's job to provide it; and it’s the journalist's job to get it for their paper. I say it’s up to the public.”

“The public,” murmured Edmonds. “Swill-eaters.”

"The public," whispered Edmonds. "Swill eaters."

“All right! Then give ’em the kind of swill they want,” cried McHale.

“All right! Then give them the kind of garbage they want,” yelled McHale.

Edmonds so manipulated his little pipe that it pointed directly at Banneker. “Would you?” he asked.

Edmonds angled his small pipe so it was aimed right at Banneker. “Would you?” he asked.

“Would I what?”

"Would I do what?"

“Give ’em the kind of swill they want? You seem to like to keep your hands clean.”

“Give them the kind of junk they want? You sure like to keep your hands clean.”

“Aren’t you asking me your original question in another form?” smiled the young man.

“Aren’t you just rephrasing your original question?” the young man smiled.

“You objected to it before.”

“You protested it before.”

“I’ll answer it now. A friend of mine wrote to me when I went on The Ledger, advising me always to be ready on a moment’s notice to look my job between the eyes and tell it to go to hell.”

“I'll respond to it now. A friend of mine reached out to me when I appeared in The Ledger, advising me to always be prepared at a moment's notice to face my job head-on and tell it to screw off.”

“Yes; I’ve known that done, too,” interpolated Mallory. “But in those cases it isn’t the job that goes.” He pushed back his chair. “Don’t let Pop Edmonds corrupt you with his pessimism, Banneker,” he warned. “He doesn’t mean half of it.”

“Yes; I’ve seen that happen, too,” Mallory said. “But in those cases, it’s not the job that disappears.” He pushed back his chair. “Don’t let Pop Edmonds pollute your mind with his negativity, Banneker,” he warned. “He doesn’t mean half of it.”

“Under the seal of the profession,” said the veteran. “If there were outsiders present, it would be different. I’d have to admit that ours is the greatest, noblest, most high-minded and inspired business in the world. Free and enlightened press. Fearless defender of the right. Incorruptible agent of the people’s will. Did I say ‘people’s will’ or people’s swill’? Don’t ask me!”

The others paid their accounts and followed Mallory out, leaving Banneker alone at the table with the saturnine elder. Edmonds put a thumbful of tobacco in his pipe, and puffed silently.

The others settled their bills and followed Mallory out, leaving Banneker alone at the table with the moody elder. Edmonds packed his pipe with a thumbful of tobacco and puffed quietly.

“What will it get a man?” asked Banneker, setting down his coffee-cup.

“What will it get a man?” asked Banneker, putting down his coffee cup.

“This game?” queried the other.

“Is this game?” asked the other.

“Yes.”

"Yes."

“‘What shall it profit a man,’” quoted the veteran ruminatively. “You know the rest.”

“‘What does it benefit a person,’” quoted the veteran, thinking it over. “You know the rest.”

“No,” returned Banneker decidedly. “That won’t do. These fellows here haven’t sold their souls.”

“No,” Banneker replied firmly. “That won’t work. These guys here haven’t sold their souls.”

“Or lost ’em. Maybe not,” admitted the elder. “Though I wouldn’t gamble strong on some of ’em. But they’ve lost something.”

“Or lost them. Maybe not,” admitted the older man. “But I wouldn’t stake too much on some of them. They’ve lost something.”

“Well, what is it? That’s what I’m trying to get at.”

“Well, what is it? That’s what I’m trying to understand.”

“Independence. They’re merged in the paper they write for.”

“Independence. They’re combined in the paper they write for.”

“Every man’s got to subordinate himself to his business, if he’s to do justice to it and himself, hasn’t he?”

“Every guy has to put his job first if he wants to do right by it and himself, right?”

“Yes. If you’re buying or selling stocks or socks, it doesn’t matter. The principles you live by aren’t involved. In the newspaper game they are.”

“Yes. Whether you’re buying or selling stocks or socks, it doesn’t matter. The principles you live by aren’t involved. In the newspaper business, they are.”

“Not in reporting, though.”

“Not in the report, though.”

“If reporting were just gathering facts and presenting them, it wouldn’t be so. But you’re deep enough in by now to see that reporting of a lot of things is a matter of coloring your version to the general policy of your paper. Politics, for instance, or the liquor question, or labor troubles. The best reporters get to doing it unconsciously. Chameleons.”

“If reporting were simply about gathering facts and sharing them, it wouldn’t be the case. But you’ve gotten deep enough into it to realize that reporting on many issues is about shaping your story to fit the overall stance of your publication. Take politics, for example, or the drinking debate, or labor issues. The best reporters do this without even thinking about it. They’re like chameleons.”

“And you think it affects them?”

“And you think it has an impact on them?”

“How can it help? There’s a slow poison in writing one way when you believe another.”

“And that’s part of the dirt-eating?”

“Well, yes. Not so obvious as some of the other kinds. Those hurt your pride, mostly. This kind hurts your self-respect.”

“Well, yes. It’s not as obvious as some of the other types. Those mostly hurt your pride. This one, though, affects your self-respect.”

“But where does it get you, all this business?” asked Banneker reverting to his first query.

“But where does all this get you?” Banneker asked, returning to his original question.

“I’m fifty-two years old,” replied Edmonds quietly.

“I’m fifty-two years old,” Edmonds replied quietly.

Banneker stared. “Oh, I see!” he said presently. “And you’re considered a success. Of course you are a success.”

Banneker stared. “Oh, I get it!” he said after a moment. “And you’re seen as successful. Of course you are successful.”

“On Park Row. Would you like to be me? At fifty-two?”

“On Park Row. Would you want to be me? At fifty-two?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Banneker with a frankness which brought a faint smile to the other man’s tired face. “Yet you’ve got where you started for, haven’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Banneker said honestly, causing a faint smile to appear on the other man’s tired face. “But you’ve reached your destination, haven’t you?”

“Perhaps I could answer that if I knew where I started for or where I’ve got to.”

“Maybe I could answer that if I knew where I was coming from or where I need to go.”

“Put it that you’ve got what you were after, then.”

“Let’s say you got what you wanted, then.”

“No’s the answer. Upper-case No. I want to get certain things over to the public intelligence. Maybe I’ve got one per cent of them over. Not more.”

“Absolutely not. A big No. I want to communicate some important things to the public. Maybe I’ve managed to get one percent of them through. No more.”

“That’s something. To have a public that will follow you even part way—”

"That’s impressive. To have an audience that will follow you even part of the way—"

“Follow me? Bless you; they don’t know me except as a lot of print that they occasionally read. I’m as anonymous as an editorial writer. And that’s the most anonymous thing there is.”

“Follow me? Thank you; they don’t know me except as a bunch of text that they sometimes read. I’m as unknown as an editorial writer. And that’s about as anonymous as it gets.”

“That doesn’t suit me at all,” declared Banneker. “If I have got anything in me—and I think I have—I don’t want it to make a noise like a part of a big machine. I’d rather make a small noise of my own.”

“That's not for me at all,” Banneker said. “If there's anything inside me—and I believe there is—I don’t want it to sound like a cog in a big machine. I’d rather make a small sound of my own.”

“Buy a paper, then. Or write fluffy criticisms about art or theaters. Or get into the magazine field. You can write; O Lord! yes, you can write. But unless you’ve got the devotion of a fanatic like McHale, or a born servant of the machine like ‘Parson’ Gale, or an old fool like me, willing to sink your identity in your work, you’ll never be content as a reporter.”

“Buy a newspaper, then. Or write some light critiques about art or theaters. Or get into the magazine industry. You can write; oh yes, you can write. But unless you have the dedication of a fanatic like McHale, or a natural servant of the system like ‘Parson’ Gale, or someone like me, who’s willing to lose their identity in their work, you’ll never be happy as a reporter.”

“Tell me something. Why do none of the men, talking among themselves, ever refer to themselves as reporters. It’s always ‘newspaper men.’”

“Tell me something. Why do none of the men, chatting among themselves, ever call themselves reporters? It's always ‘newspaper men.’”

Edmonds shot a swift glance at him. “What do you think?”

Edmonds gave him a quick look. “What do you think?”

“I think,” he decided slowly, “it’s because there is a sort of stigma attached to reporting.”

“I think,” he said slowly, “it’s because there’s a kind of stigma attached to reporting.”

“Damn you, you’re right!” snapped the veteran. “Though it’s the rankest heresy to admit it. There’s a taint about it. There’s a touch of the pariah. We try to fool ourselves into thinking there isn’t. But it’s there, and we admit it when we use a clumsy, misfit term like ‘newspaper man.’”

“Damn you, you’re right!” the veteran snapped. “Though it’s a serious heresy to admit it. There’s a stain on it. There’s a hint of being an outcast. We try to convince ourselves that there isn’t. But it’s there, and we acknowledge it when we use a clumsy, mismatched term like ‘newspaper man.’”

“Whose fault is it?”

"Who’s to blame?"

“The public’s. The public is a snob. It likes to look down on brains. Particularly the business man. That’s why I’m a Socialist. I’m ag’in the bourgeoisie.”

“The public. The public is snobby. It enjoys looking down on intelligence. Especially when it comes to business people. That’s why I’m a Socialist. I’m against the bourgeoisie.”

“Aren’t the newspapers to blame, in the kind of stuff they print?”

“Aren’t the newspapers to blame for the kind of stuff they print?”

“And why do they print it?” demanded the other fiercely. “Because the public wants all the filth and scandal and invasion of privacy that it can get and still feel respectable.”

“And why do they print it?” the other asked angrily. “Because the public craves all the gossip, scandal, and invasion of privacy it can get while still feeling respectable.”

“The Ledger doesn’t go in for that sort of thing.”

“The Ledger doesn’t deal with that kind of stuff.”

“Not as much as some of the others. But a little more each year. It follows the trend.” He got up, quenched his pipe, and reached for his hat. “Drop in here about seven-thirty when you feel like hearing the old man maunder,” he said with his slight, friendly smile.

“Not as much as some of the others. But a little more each year. It follows the trend.” He stood up, put out his pipe, and grabbed his hat. “Stop by here around seven-thirty if you feel like listening to the old man ramble,” he said with his small, friendly smile.

Rising, Banneker leaned over to him. “Who’s the man at the next table?” he asked in a low voice, indicating a tall, broad, glossily dressed diner who was sipping his third demi-tasse, in apparent detachment from the outside world.

Rising, Banneker leaned over to him. “Who’s the guy at the next table?” he asked in a low voice, pointing to a tall, broad, sharply dressed diner who was sipping his third demi-tasse, seemingly disconnected from the outside world.

“His name is Marrineal,” replied the veteran. “He dines here occasionally alone. Don’t know what he does.”

“His name is Marrineal,” the veteran replied. “He eats here alone every so often. I’m not sure what he does.”

“He’s been listening in.”

“He’s been eavesdropping.”

“Curious thing; he often does.”

"Funny thing; he often does."

As they parted at the door, Edmonds said paternally:

As they separated at the door, Edmonds said in a fatherly manner:

“Remember, young fellow, a Park Row reputation is written on glass with a wet finger. It doesn’t last during the writing.”

“Remember, young man, a Park Row reputation is like writing on glass with a wet finger. It doesn’t last as long as you’re writing it.”

“And only dims the glass,” said Banneker reflectively.

“And it only dims the glass,” Banneker said thoughtfully.

CHAPTER VIII

Heat, sudden, savage, and oppressive, bore down upon the city early that spring, smiting men in their offices, women in their homes, the horses between the shafts of their toil, so that the city was in danger of becoming disorganized. The visitation developed into the big story of successive days. It was the sort of generalized, picturesque “fluff-stuff” matter which Banneker could handle better than his compeers by sheer imaginative grasp and deftness of presentation. Being now a writer on space, paid at the rate of eight dollars a column of from thirteen to nineteen hundred words, he found the assignment profitable and the test of skill quite to his taste. Soft job though it was in a way, however, the unrelenting pressure of the heat and the task of finding, day after day, new phases and fresh phrases in which to deal with it, made inroads upon his nerves.

Heat, sudden, fierce, and stifling, descended on the city early that spring, striking down men in their offices, women in their homes, and the horses pulling their loads, putting the city at risk of falling apart. The situation turned into the major story over the following days. It was the kind of broad, colorful fluff piece that Banneker could handle better than his competitors thanks to his imaginative skill and talent for presentation. Now a writer on assignment, earning eight dollars per column of thirteen to nineteen hundred words, he found the job financially rewarding, and the challenge suited him. Even though it was somewhat of an easy job, the relentless heat and the constant task of finding new angles and fresh ways to address it were starting to wear on his nerves.

He took to sleeping ill again. Io Welland had come back in all the glamorous panoply of waking dreams to command and torment his loneliness of spirit. At night he dreaded the return to the draughtless room on Grove Street. In the morning, rising sticky-eyed and unrested, he shrank from the thought of the humid, dusty, unkempt hurly-burly of the office. Yet his work was never more brilliant and individual.

He started having trouble sleeping again. Io Welland had returned in all the dazzling glory of his daydreams to both command and torture his lonely spirit. At night, he dreaded going back to the stuffy room on Grove Street. In the morning, waking up with sticky eyes and feeling unrested, he recoiled at the thought of the hot, dusty, chaotic office. Still, his work was never more brilliant and unique.

Having finished his writing, one reeking midnight, he sat, spent, at his desk, hating the thought of the shut-in place that he called home. Better to spend the night on a bench in some square, as he had done often enough in the earlier days. He rose, took his hat, and had reached the first landing when the steps wavered and faded in front of him and he found himself clutching for the rail. A pair of hands gripped his shoulders and held him up.

Having wrapped up his writing one late, smelly night, he sat, exhausted, at his desk, dreading the idea of the cramped place he called home. It would be better to spend the night on a park bench, as he had often done in the past. He stood up, grabbed his hat, and had just reached the first landing when his legs wobbled and the steps seemed to disappear beneath him, causing him to reach for the railing. A pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and supported him.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Banneker?” asked a voice.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Banneker?” asked a voice.

“God!” muttered Banneker. “I wish I were back on the desert.”

“God!” Banneker muttered. “I wish I was back in the desert.”

“You want a drink,” prescribed his volunteer prop.

“You want a drink,” said his volunteer.

As his vision and control reestablished themselves, Banneker found himself being led downstairs and to the nearest bar by young Fentriss Smith, who ordered two soda cocktails.

As his vision and control came back, Banneker noticed that young Fentriss Smith was leading him downstairs to the nearest bar, where he ordered two soda cocktails.

Of Smith he knew little except that the office called him “the permanent twenty-five-dollar man.” He was one of those earnest, faithful, totally uninspired reporters, who can be relied upon implicitly for routine news, but are constitutionally impotent to impart color and life to any subject whatsoever. Patiently he had seen younger and newer men overtake and pass him; but he worked on inexorably, asking for nothing, wearing the air of a scholar with some distant and abstruse determination in view. Like Banneker he had no intimates in the office.

Of Smith, he knew very little except that the office referred to him as “the permanent twenty-five-dollar man.” He was one of those dedicated, loyal, and completely uninspired reporters who could always be counted on for routine news but were fundamentally incapable of adding color and life to any topic. He had patiently watched younger and newer reporters surpass him, yet he kept working tirelessly, wanting nothing, projecting the vibe of a scholar with some far-off and complex goal in mind. Like Banneker, he had no close friends in the office.

“The desert,” echoed Smith in his quiet, well-bred voice. “Isn’t it pretty hot, there, too?”

“The desert,” Smith echoed in his soft, refined voice. “Isn’t it pretty hot there, too?”

“It’s open,” said Banneker. “I’m smothering here.”

“It’s open,” Banneker said. “I can’t breathe here.”

“You look frazzled out, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You look really stressed out, if you don't mind me saying.”

“I feel frazzled out; that’s what I mind.”

“I feel totally overwhelmed; that’s what bothers me.”

“Suppose you come out with me to-night as soon as I report to the desk,” suggested the other.

“Why don’t you come out with me tonight as soon as I check in at the desk?” suggested the other.

Banneker, refreshed by the tingling drink, looked down at him in surprise. “Where?” he asked.

Banneker, feeling energized by the refreshing drink, looked down at him in surprise. “Where?” he asked.

“I’ve got a little boat out here in the East River.”

“I have a small boat out here in the East River.”

“A boat? Lord, that sounds good!” sighed Banneker.

“A boat? Wow, that sounds amazing!” sighed Banneker.

“Does it? Then see here! Why couldn’t you put in a few days with me, and cool off? I’ve often wanted to talk to you about the newspaper business, and get your ideas.”

“Does it? Then look here! Why can’t you spend a few days with me and relax? I’ve really wanted to talk to you about the newspaper business and hear your thoughts.”

“But I’m newer at it than you are.”

“But I’m newer to this than you are.”

“For a fact! Just the same you’ve got the trick of it and I haven’t. I’ll go around to your place while you pack a suitcase, and we’re off.”

“For sure! Anyway, you’ve got the hang of it and I don’t. I’ll come over to your place while you pack a suitcase, and then we’ll be on our way.”

“That’s very good of you.” Accustomed though he was to the swift and ready comradeship of a newspaper office, Banneker was puzzled by this advance from the shy and remote Smith. “All right: if you’ll let me share expenses,” he said presently.

"That’s really kind of you." Even though he was used to the quick and easy camaraderie of a newspaper office, Banneker was confused by this gesture from the shy and distant Smith. "Okay: if you'll let me cover some of the costs," he said after a moment.

Smith seemed taken aback at this. “Just as you like,” he assented. “Though I don’t quite know—We’ll talk of that later.”

Smith looked surprised by this. “Whatever you prefer,” he agreed. “But I’m not really sure—We’ll discuss that later.”

While Banneker was packing in his room, Smith, seated on the window-sill, remarked:

While Banneker was packing in his room, Smith, sitting on the window sill, commented:

“I ought to tell you that we have to go through a bad district to get there.”

“I should let you know that we have to pass through a rough area to get there.”

“The Tunnel Gang?” asked Banneker, wise in the plague spots of the city.

“The Tunnel Gang?” asked Banneker, knowledgeable about the rough areas of the city.

“Just this side of their stamping ground. It’s a gang of wharf rats. There have been a number of hold-ups, and last week a dead woman was found under the pier.”

“Just this side of their territory. It’s a group of troublemakers. There have been several robberies, and last week a dead woman was discovered under the pier.”

Banneker made an unobtrusive addition to his packing. “They’ll have to move fast to catch me,” he observed.

Banneker made a subtle addition to his packing. “They’ll have to move quickly to catch me,” he noted.

“Two of us together won’t be molested. But if you’re alone, be careful. The police in that precinct are no good. They’re either afraid or they stand in with the gang.”

“Two of us together won’t be bothered. But if you’re alone, be careful. The police in that area aren’t reliable. They’re either scared or they’re working with the gang.”

On Fifth Avenue the pair got a late-cruising taxicab whose driver, however, declined to take them nearer than one block short of the pier. “The night air in that place ain’t good fer weak constitutions,” he explained. “One o’ my pals got a headache last week down on the pier from bein’ beaned with a sandbag.”

On Fifth Avenue, the two caught a late-night taxi, but the driver refused to take them any closer than one block from the pier. “The air down there isn’t good for weak stomachs,” he explained. “One of my friends got a headache last week at the pier from getting hit with a sandbag.”

No one interfered with the two reporters, however. A whistle from the end of the pier evolved from the watery dimness a dinghy, which, in a hundred yards of rowing, delivered them into a small but perfectly appointed yacht. Banneker, looking about the luxurious cabin, laughed a little.

No one bothered the two reporters, though. A whistle from the end of the pier turned into a dinghy that took them, after a hundred yards of rowing, to a small but beautifully equipped yacht. Banneker, glancing around the plush cabin, chuckled softly.

“That was a bad guess of mine about half expenses,” he said good-humoredly. “I’d have to mortgage my future for a year. Do you own this craft?”

"That was a terrible guess about the expenses," he said with a laugh. "I'd have to mortgage my future for a year. Do you own this boat?"

“My father does. He’s been called back West.”

“My dad does. He’s been called back to the West.”

Bells rang, the wheel began to churn, and Banneker, falling asleep in his berth with a vivifying breeze blowing across him, awoke in broad daylight to a view of sparkling little waves which danced across his vision to smack impudently the flanks of the speeding craft.

Bells rang, the wheel started to turn, and Banneker, dozing off in his bunk with a refreshing breeze blowing over him, woke up in bright daylight to see sparkling little waves dancing in front of him that playfully splashed against the sides of the speeding boat.

“We’ll be in by noon,” was Smith’s greeting as they met on the companionway for a swim.

“We’ll be in by noon,” was Smith’s greeting as they met on the walkway for a swim.

“What do you do it for?” asked Banneker, seated at the breakfast table, with an appetite such as he had not known for weeks.

“What do you do it for?” Banneker asked, sitting at the breakfast table, with an appetite he hadn't felt in weeks.

“Do what?”

"Do what?"

“Two men’s work at twenty-five per for The Ledger?”

“Two men’s work at twenty-five each for The Ledger?”

“Training.”

“Are you going to stick to the business?”

“Are you going to stay in the business?”

“The family,” explained Smith, “own a newspaper in Toledo. It fell to them by accident. Our real business is manufacturing farm machinery, and none of us has ever tried or thought of manufacturing newspapers. So they wished on me the job of learning how.”

“The family,” Smith explained, “owns a newspaper in Toledo. They ended up with it by chance. Our main business is making farm machinery, and none of us has ever tried or thought about running a newspaper. So they put the task of learning how to do it on me.”

“Do you like it?”

"Do you like it?"

“Not particularly. But I’m going through with it.”

“Not really. But I’m going to do it anyway.”

Banneker felt a new and surprised respect for his host. He could forecast the kind of small city newspaper that Smith would make; careful, conscientious, regular in politics, loyal to what it deemed the best interests of the community, single-minded in its devotion to the Smith family and its properties; colorless, characterless, and without vision or leadership in all that a newspaper should, according to Banneker’s opinion, stand for. So he talked with the fervor of an enthusiast, a missionary, a devotee, who saw in that daily chronicle of the news an agency to stir men’s minds and spur their thoughts, if need be, to action; at the same time the mechanism and instrument of power, of achievement, of success. Fentriss Smith listened and was troubled in spirit by these unknown fires. He had supposed respectability to be the final aim and end of a sound newspaper tradition.

Banneker felt a new and unexpected respect for his host. He could predict the kind of small-town newspaper that Smith would create; it would be careful, conscientious, consistent in politics, loyal to what it believed were the best interests of the community, and devoted solely to the Smith family and their businesses. It would be bland, lacking personality, and without the vision or leadership that, in Banneker’s view, a newspaper should embody. So he spoke with the passion of an enthusiast, a missionary, a devotee, who saw in that daily news report a means to stimulate people’s minds and motivate their thoughts, if necessary, to take action; while also serving as a mechanism and tool of power, achievement, and success. Fentriss Smith listened and felt troubled by these unfamiliar ideas. He had thought that respectability was the ultimate goal of a solid newspaper tradition.

The apparent intimacy which had sprung up between twenty-five-dollar Smith and the reserved, almost hermit-like Banneker was the subject of curious and amused commentary in The Ledger office. Mallory hazarded a humorous guess that Banneker was tutoring Smith in the finer arts of journalism, which was not so far amiss as its proponent might have supposed.

The unexpected friendship that had developed between twenty-five-dollar Smith and the quiet, almost reclusive Banneker was the topic of intrigued and amused discussions in The Ledger office. Mallory jokingly speculated that Banneker was teaching Smith the nuances of journalism, which was not as far off the mark as he might have thought.

The Great Heat broke several evenings later in a drench of rain and wind. This, being in itself important news, kept Banneker late at his writing, and he had told his host not to wait, that he would join him on the yacht sometime about midnight. So Smith had gone on alone.

The Great Heat ended several evenings later with a heavy downpour and strong winds. This significant news kept Banneker busy with his writing, and he told his host not to wait for him, that he would meet him on the yacht around midnight. So, Smith went on his own.

The next morning Tommy Burt, lounging into the office from an early assignment, approached the City Desk with a twinkle far back in his lively eyes.

The next morning, Tommy Burt strolled into the office after an early assignment, heading towards the City Desk with a sparkle deep in his lively eyes.

“Hear anything of a shoot-fest up in the Bad Lands last night?” he asked.

"Hear anything about a shootout in the Bad Lands last night?" he asked.

“Not yet,” replied Mr. Greenough. “They’re getting to be everyday occurrences up there. Is it on the police slips, Mr. Mallory?”

“Not yet,” replied Mr. Greenough. “They’re becoming regular occurrences up there. Is it on the police reports, Mr. Mallory?”

“No. Nothing in that line,” answered the assistant, looking over his assortment.

“No. Nothing in that category,” replied the assistant, scanning his selection.

“Police are probably suppressing it,” opined Burt.

“Police are probably covering it up,” Burt said.

“Have you got the story?” queried Mr. Greenough.

“Do you have the story?” asked Mr. Greenough.

“In outline. It isn’t really my story.”

“In summary. It’s not really my story.”

“Whose is it, then?”

"Whose is it now?"

“That’s part of it.” Tommy Burt leaned against Mallory’s desk and appeared to be revolving some delectable thought in his mind.

"That's part of it." Tommy Burt leaned against Mallory's desk, looking like he was mulling over some tempting idea in his head.

“Tommy,” said Mallory, “they didn’t open that committee meeting you’ve been attending with a corkscrew, did they?”

“Tommy,” Mallory said, “they didn’t start that committee meeting you’ve been going to with a corkscrew, did they?”

“I’m intoxicated with the chaste beauties of my story, which isn’t mine,” returned the dreamily smiling Mr. Burt. “Here it is, boiled down. Guest on an anchored yacht returning late, sober, through the mist. Wharf-gang shooting craps in a pier-shed. They size him up and go to it; six of ’em. Knives and one gun: maybe more. The old game: one asks for the time. Another sneaks up behind and gives the victim the elbow-garrote. The rest rush him. Well, they got as far as the garrote. Everything lovely and easy. Then Mr. Victim introduces a few specialties. Picks a gun from somewhere around his shirt-front, shoots the garroter over his shoulder; kills the man in front, who is at him with a stiletto, ducks a couple of shots from the gang, and lays out two more of ’em. The rest take to the briny. Tally: two dead, one dying, one wounded, Mr. Guest walks to the shore end, meets two patrolmen, and turns in his gun. ‘I’ve done a job for you,’ says he. So they pinch him. He’s in the police station, incomunicado.”

“I’m captivated by the pure beauty of my story, which isn’t really mine,” replied Mr. Burt with a dreamy smile. “Here’s the gist. A guest on an anchored yacht is coming back late, sober, through the fog. A group by the wharf is shooting dice in a shed. They size him up and get to it; there are six of them. Knives and one gun: maybe more. The same old routine: one asks for the time. Another sneaks up behind and tries to choke the victim. The rest rush him. Well, they got as far as the choke. Everything was going smoothly. Then Mr. Victim pulls a few tricks. He somehow pulls a gun from his shirt, shoots the guy choking him over his shoulder, kills the guy in front who’s coming at him with a stiletto, dodges a couple of shots from the gang, and takes out two more of them. The rest run for it. Final tally: two dead, one dying, one wounded, and Mr. Guest walks to the shore, meets two patrol officers, and gives them his gun. ‘I’ve done a job for you,’ he says. So they arrest him. Now he’s in the police station, incomunicado.”

Throughout the narrative, Mr. Greenough had thrown in little, purring interjections of “Good! Good!”—“Yes.”—“Ah! good!” At the conclusion Mallory exclaimed!

Throughout the story, Mr. Greenough had added little, purring comments of "Good! Good!"—"Yes."—"Ah! good!" At the end, Mallory exclaimed!

“Moses! That is a story! You say it isn’t yours? Why not?”

“Moses! That’s quite a story! You claim it isn’t yours? Why not?”

“Because it’s Banneker’s.”

"Because it's Banneker's."

“Why?”

"Why?"

“He’s the guest with the gun.”

“He's the guest with the gun.”

Mallory jumped in his chair. “Banneker!” he exclaimed. “Oh, hell!” he added disconsolately.

Mallory jumped in his chair. “Banneker!” he shouted. “Oh, man!” he added, feeling down.

“Takes the shine out of the story, doesn’t it?” observed Burt with a malicious smile.

“Takes the fun out of the story, doesn’t it?” Burt remarked with a wicked grin.

One of the anomalous superstitions of newspaperdom is that nothing which happens to a reporter in the line of his work is or can be “big news.” The mere fact that he is a reporter is enough to blight the story.

One of the strange superstitions in journalism is that anything that happens to a reporter while they’re working isn't or can’t be considered “big news.” The simple fact that they're a reporter is enough to ruin the story.

“What was Banneker doing down there?” queried Mr. Greenough.

“What was Banneker doing down there?” asked Mr. Greenough.

“Visiting on a yacht.”

“Yachting trip.”

“Is that so?” There was a ray of hope in the other’s face. The glamour of yachting association might be made to cast a radiance about the event, in which the damnatory fact that the principal figure was a mere reporter could be thrown into low relief. Such is the view which journalistic snobbery takes of the general public’s snobbery. “Whose yacht?”

“Really?” A glimmer of hope appeared on the other person’s face. The allure of the yachting community could help make the event seem more glamorous, overshadowing the unfortunate truth that the main person involved was just a reporter. This reflects how journalistic elitism perceives the snobbery of the general public. “Whose yacht?”

Again the spiteful little smile appealed on Burt’s lips as he dashed the rising hope. “Fentriss Smith’s.”

Again the spiteful little smile appeared on Burt’s lips as he crushed the rising hope. “Fentriss Smith’s.”

And again the expletive of disillusion burst from between Mallory’s teeth as he saw the front-page double-column spread, a type-specialty of the usually conservative Ledger upon which it prided itself, dwindle to a carefully handled inside-page three-quarter of a column.

And once more, a curse of disappointment escaped Mallory’s lips when he saw the front-page double-column spread, a specialty of the typically conservative Ledger that took pride in it, shrink down to a carefully placed inside-page three-quarter column.

“You say that Mr. Banneker is in the police station?” asked the city editor.

“You're saying Mr. Banneker is at the police station?” asked the city editor.

“Or at headquarters. They’re probably working the third degree on him.”

“Or at headquarters. They’re probably interrogating him hard.”

“That won’t do,” declared the city desk incumbent, with conviction. He caught up the telephone, got the paper’s City Hall reporter, and was presently engaged in some polite but pointed suggestions to His Honor the Mayor. Shortly after, Police Headquarters called; the Chief himself was on the wire.

“That won't work,” declared the city desk person, with confidence. They picked up the phone, reached the paper's City Hall reporter, and was soon making some polite but direct suggestions to the Mayor. Shortly after, Police Headquarters called; the Chief himself was on the line.

“The Ledger is behind Mr. Banneker, Chief,” said Mr. Greenough crisply. “Carrying concealed weapons? If your men in that precinct were fit to be on the force, there would be no need for private citizens to go armed. You get the point, I see. Good-bye.”

“The Ledger is backing Mr. Banneker, Chief,” Mr. Greenough said sharply. “Carrying hidden weapons? If your officers in that area were competent, private citizens wouldn’t need to carry guns. You understand what I mean, I can tell. Goodbye.”

“Unless I am a bad guesser we’ll have Banneker back here by evening. And there’ll be no manhandling in his case,” Mallory said to Burt.

“Unless I'm a bad guesser, we’ll have Banneker back here by evening. And there won’t be any rough treatment in his case,” Mallory told Burt.

Counsel was taken of Mr. Gordon, as soon as that astute managing editor arrived, as to the handling of the difficult situation. The Ledger, always cynically intolerant of any effort to better the city government, as savoring of “goo-gooism,” which was its special bête noire, could not well make the shooting a basis for a general attack upon police laxity, though it was in this that lay the special news possibility of the event. On the other hand, the thing was far too sensational to be ignored or too much slurred.

Counsel was sought from Mr. Gordon as soon as the sharp managing editor arrived, regarding how to deal with the challenging situation. The Ledger, always cynically opposed to any efforts to improve the city government, viewing them as “goo-gooism,” which it particularly hated, couldn’t really use the shooting as a basis for a broad attack on police negligence, even though that was where the real news angle lay. On the other hand, the incident was way too sensational to be overlooked or glossed over.

Andreas, the assistant managing editor, in charge of the paper’s make-up, a true news-hound with an untainted delight in the unusual and striking, no matter what its setting might be, who had been called into the conference, advocated “smearing it all over the front page, with Banneker’s first-hand statement for the lead—pictures too.”

Andreas, the assistant managing editor responsible for the layout of the paper, was a passionate news enthusiast who found genuine joy in the unusual and eye-catching, regardless of the context. He had been invited to the meeting and suggested, “Let’s splash it all across the front page, featuring Banneker’s firsthand account as the lead—also include pictures.”

Him, Mr. Greenough, impassive joss of the city desk, regarded with a chill eye. “One reporter visiting another gets into a muss and shoots up some riverside toughs,” he remarked contemptuously. “You can hardly expect our public to get greatly excited over that. Are we going into the business of exploiting our own cubs?”

Him, Mr. Greenough, the unemotional figure at the city desk, looked on with a cold gaze. “One reporter visiting another gets into trouble and shoots some tough guys by the river,” he said with disdain. “You can't really expect the public to get all worked up about that. Are we going to start exploiting our own rookies?”

Thereupon there was sharp discussion to which Mr. Gordon put an end by remarking that the evening papers would doubtless give them a lead; meantime they could get Banneker’s version.

There was a heated debate, which Mr. Gordon ended by saying that the evening papers would probably provide guidance; in the meantime, they could get Banneker’s take.

First to come in was The Evening New Yorker, the most vapid of all the local prints, catering chiefly to the uptown and shopping element. Its heading half-crossed the page proclaiming “Guest of Yachtsman Shoots Down Thugs.” Nowhere in the article did it appear that Banneker had any connection with the newspaper world. He was made to appear as a young Westerner on a visit to the yacht of a millionaire business man, having come on from his ranch in the desert, and presumptively—to add the touch of godhead—a millionaire himself.

First in was The Evening New Yorker, the most shallow of all the local papers, mainly appealing to the uptown shopping crowd. Its headline stretched across the page declaring “Guest of Yachtsman Shoots Down Thugs.” Nowhere in the article did it mention that Banneker had any ties to the newspaper industry. He was portrayed as a young Westerner visiting a millionaire businessman’s yacht, having come from his desert ranch, and presumably—just to add a touch of divinity—a millionaire himself.

“The stinking liars!” said Andreas.

“The lying jerks!” said Andreas.

“That settles it,” declared Mr. Gordon. “We’ll give the facts plainly and without sensationalism; but all the facts.”

“That settles it,” Mr. Gordon announced. “We’ll present the facts clearly and without exaggeration; but we’ll include all the facts.”

“Including Mr. Banneker’s connection here?” inquired Mr. Greenough.

“Including Mr. Banneker’s connection here?” asked Mr. Greenough.

“Certainly.”

“Of course.”

The other evening papers, more honest than The Evening New Yorker, admitted, though, as it were, regretfully and in an inconspicuous finale to their accounts that the central figure of the sensation was only a reporter. But the fact of his being guest on a yacht was magnified and glorified.

The other evening papers, more honest than The Evening New Yorker, admitted, though somewhat regretfully and in a subtle conclusion to their stories, that the central figure of the sensation was just a reporter. However, the fact that he was a guest on a yacht was made much more significant and glorified.

At five o’clock Banneker arrived, having been bailed out after some difficulty, for the police were frightened and ugly, foreseeing that this swift vengeance upon the notorious gang, meted out by a private hand, would throw a vivid light upon their own inefficiency and complaisance. Happily the District Attorney’s office was engaged in one of its periodical feuds with the Police Department over some matter of graft gone astray, and was more inclined to make a cat’s-paw than a victim out of Banneker.

At five o’clock, Banneker showed up, having been bailed out after some trouble, since the police were scared and aggressive. They realized that this quick revenge against the infamous gang, carried out by a private individual, would highlight their own incompetence and complacency. Fortunately, the District Attorney’s office was caught up in one of its regular conflicts with the Police Department about some corrupt deal gone wrong, and they preferred to use Banneker as a pawn rather than making him a target.

Though inwardly strung to a high pitch, for the police officials had kept him sleepless through the night by their habitual inquisition, Banneker held himself well in hand as he went to the City Desk to report gravely that he had been unable to come earlier.

Though internally tense, since the police had kept him awake all night with their usual questioning, Banneker managed to keep his composure as he approached the City Desk to seriously explain that he hadn't been able to come earlier.

“So we understand, Mr. Banneker,” said Mr. Greenough, his placid features for once enlivened. “That was a good job you did. I congratulate you.”

“So we get it, Mr. Banneker,” said Mr. Greenough, his usual calm expression momentarily brightened. “That was a great job you did. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Mr. Greenough,” returned Banneker. “I had to do it or get done. And, at that, it wasn’t much of a trick. They were a yellow lot.”

“Thank you, Mr. Greenough,” Banneker replied. “I had to do it or be done for. And honestly, it wasn’t that impressive. They were an easy bunch.”

“Very likely: very likely. You’ve handled a gun before.”

“Very likely: very likely. You've used a gun before.”

“Only in practice.”

"Only through practice."

“Ever shot anybody before?”

“Have you ever shot anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“Nope.”

“How does it feel?” inquired the city editor, turning his pale eyes on the other and fussing nervously with his fingers.

“How does it feel?” asked the city editor, turning his pale eyes towards the other and nervously fidgeting with his fingers.

“At first you want to go on killing,” answered Banneker. “Then, when it’s over, there’s a big let-down. It doesn’t seem as if it were you.” He paused and added boyishly: “The evening papers are making an awful fuss over it.”

“At first, you feel like you want to keep killing,” Banneker replied. “Then, once it’s done, there’s this huge let-down. It doesn’t even feel like it was you.” He paused and added with a childlike innocence, “The evening papers are making a huge deal out of it.”

“What do you expect? It isn’t every day that a Wild West Show with real bullets and blood is staged in this effete town.”

“What do you expect? It’s not every day that a Wild West Show with real bullets and blood happens in this fancy town.”

“Of course I knew there’d be a kick-up about it,” admitted Banneker. “But, some way—well, in the West, if a gang gets shot up, there’s quite a bit of talk for a while, and the boys want to buy the drinks for the fellow that does it, but it doesn’t spread all over the front pages. I suppose I still have something of the Western view.... How much did you want of this, Mr. Greenough?” he concluded in a business-like tone.

“Of course I knew there’d be a fuss about it,” admitted Banneker. “But, somehow—well, out West, if a gang gets taken down, people talk about it for a while, and the guys want to buy drinks for the one who did it, but it doesn’t make it to the front pages. I guess I still have a bit of that Western perspective.... How much of this did you need, Mr. Greenough?” he ended in a professional tone.

“You are not doing the story, Mr. Banneker. Tommy Burt is.”

“You're not telling the story, Mr. Banneker. Tommy Burt is.”

“I’m not writing it? Not any of it?”

“I’m not writing it? Not at all?”

“Certainly not. You’re the hero”—there was a hint of elongation of the first syllable which might have a sardonic connotation from those pale and placid lips—“not the historian. Burt will interview you.”

“Definitely not. You’re the hero”—there was a slight emphasis on the first syllable that might have a sarcastic touch from those pale and calm lips—“not the historian. Burt will interview you.”

“A Patriot reporter has already. I gave him a statement.”

“A Patriot reporter has already been here. I gave him a statement.”

Mr. Greenough frowned. “It would have been as well to have waited. However.”

Mr. Greenough frowned. “It would have been better to wait. Anyway.”

“Oh, Banneker,” put in Mallory, “Judge Enderby wants you to call at his office.”

“Oh, Banneker,” Mallory chimed in, “Judge Enderby wants you to stop by his office.”

“Who’s Judge Enderby?”

"Who's Judge Enderby?"

“Chief Googler of the Goo-Goos; the Law Enforcement Society lot. They call him the ablest honest lawyer in New York. He’s an old crab. Hates the newspapers, particularly us.”

“Chief Googler of the Goo-Goos; the Law Enforcement Society crew. They say he’s the most capable honest lawyer in New York. He’s a grumpy guy. He despises the newspapers, especially ours.”

“Why?”

“He cherishes some theory,” said Mr. Greenough in his most toneless voice, “that a newspaper ought to be conducted solely in the interests of people like himself.”

“He has this idea,” Mr. Greenough said in his flat voice, “that a newspaper should only serve the interests of people like him.”

“Is there any reason why I should go chasing around to see him?”

“Is there any reason for me to go running around to see him?”

“That’s as you choose. He doesn’t see reporters often. Perhaps it would be as well.”

"That's totally up to you. He doesn't meet with reporters very often. Maybe that's for the best."

“His outfit are after the police,” explained Mallory. “That’s what he wants you for. It’s part of their political game. Always politics.”

“His outfit is after the cops,” Mallory explained. “That’s what he wants you for. It’s part of their political game. Always politics.”

“Well, he can wait until to-morrow, I suppose,” remarked Banneker indifferently.

“Well, I guess he can wait until tomorrow,” Banneker said casually.

Greenough examined him with impenetrable gaze. This was a very cavalier attitude toward Judge Willis Enderby. For Enderby was a man of real power. He might easily have been the most munificently paid corporation attorney in the country but for the various kinds of business which he would not, in his own homely phrase, “poke at with a burnt stick.” Notwithstanding his prejudices, he was confidential legal adviser, in personal and family affairs, to a considerable percentage of the important men and women of New York. He was supposed to be the only man who could handle that bull-elephant of finance, ruler of Wall Street, and, when he chose to give it his contemptuous attention, dictator, through his son and daughters, of the club and social world of New York, old Poultney Masters, in the apoplectic rages into which the slightest thwart to his will plunged him. To Enderby’s adroitness the financier (one of whose pet vanities was a profound and wholly baseless faith in himself as a connoisseur of art) owed it that he had not become a laughing-stock through his purchase of a pair of particularly flagrant Murillos, planted for his special behoof by a gang of clever Italian swindlers. Rumor had it that when Enderby had privately summed up his client’s case for his client’s benefit before his client as referee, in these words: “And, Mr. Masters, if you act again in these matters without consulting me, you must find another lawyer; I cannot afford fools for clients”—they had to call in a physician and resort to the ancient expedient of bleeding, to save the great man’s cerebral arteries from bursting.

Greenough looked at him with an unreadable stare. This was a very dismissive attitude toward Judge Willis Enderby. Enderby was a man of genuine influence. He could have easily been the highest-paid corporate lawyer in the country if it weren't for the types of business he refused to "poke at with a burnt stick," as he would say. Despite his biases, he was the trusted legal advisor for many of New York's most important men and women in both personal and family matters. He was believed to be the only person capable of managing the formidable financial giant, the ruler of Wall Street, and whenever he chose to pay attention to him, the controlling figure, through his son and daughters, of New York's club and social scene, was the irascible Poultney Masters, who would fly into an apoplectic rage at the slightest inconvenience to his desires. Thanks to Enderby’s skill, the financier—who had an unfounded and deep belief in himself as a connoisseur of art—escaped becoming a laughingstock after buying a pair of particularly gaudy Murillos, which were placed in his path by a group of clever Italian con artists. It was rumored that when Enderby had privately summarized his client’s situation for him as a referee, saying, “And, Mr. Masters, if you act on these matters again without consulting me, you need to find another lawyer; I can’t afford fools for clients”—they had to call a doctor and resort to the old method of bleeding to prevent the great man’s cerebral arteries from bursting.

Toward the public press, Enderby’s attitude was the exact reverse of Horace Vanney’s. For himself, he unaffectedly disliked and despised publicity; for the interests which he represented, he delegated it to others. He would rarely be interviewed; his attitude toward the newspapers was consistently repellent. Consequently his infrequent utterances were treasured as pearls, and given a prominence far above those of the too eager and over-friendly Mr. Vanney, who, incidentally, was his associate on the directorate of the Law Enforcement Society. The newspapers did not like Willis Enderby any more than he liked them. But they cherished for him an unrequited respect.

Toward the media, Enderby’s attitude was the complete opposite of Horace Vanney’s. He genuinely disliked and looked down on publicity, and he left it to others to handle for the interests he represented. He would seldom agree to interviews; his stance toward newspapers was consistently negative. As a result, his rare comments were valued like gems and received much more attention than those of the overly enthusiastic and friendly Mr. Vanney, who, by the way, served alongside him on the board of the Law Enforcement Society. The newspapers didn’t care for Willis Enderby any more than he cared for them. But they held a kind of unreturned respect for him.

That a reporter, a nobody of yesterday whose association with The Ledger constituted his only claim to any status whatever, should profess indifference to a summons from a man of Enderby’s position, suggested affectation to Mr. Greenough’s suspicions. Young Mr. Banneker’s head was already swelling, was it? Very well; in the course of time and his duties, Mr. Greenough would apply suitable remedies.

That a reporter, a nobody from yesterday whose connection to The Ledger was his only claim to any status at all, could act indifferent to a call from someone of Enderby’s stature seemed like a facade to Mr. Greenough. Young Mr. Banneker's ego was already inflating, was it? Fine; in due time and through his responsibilities, Mr. Greenough would find the right ways to handle it.

If Banneker were, indeed, taking a good conceit of himself from the conspicuous position achieved so unexpectedly, the morning papers did nothing to allay it. Most of them slurred over, as lightly as possible, the fact of his journalistic connection; as in the evening editions, the yacht feature was kept to the fore. There were two exceptions. The Ledger itself, in a colorless and straightforward article, frankly identified the hero of the episode, in the introductory sentence, as a member of its city staff, and his host of the yacht as another journalist. But there was one notable omission about which Banneker determined to ask Tommy Burt as soon as he could see him. The Patriot, most sensational of the morning issues, splurged wildly under the caption, “Yacht Guest Cleans Out Gang Which Cowed Police.” The Sphere, in an editorial, demanded a sweeping and honest investigation of the conditions which made life unsafe in the greatest of cities. The Sphere was always demanding sweeping and honest investigations, and not infrequently getting them. In Greenough’s opinion this undesirable result was likely to be achieved now. To Mr. Gordon he said:

If Banneker was indeed feeling pretty good about himself after unexpectedly achieving such a prominent position, the morning papers didn’t do anything to change that. Most of them brushed over his connection to journalism as lightly as they could, keeping the yacht feature as the main focus in the evening editions. There were two exceptions. The Ledger itself, in a bland and straightforward article, clearly identified the hero of the story as a member of its city staff in the opening sentence, and noted that his yacht host was another journalist. However, there was one significant detail that Banneker decided to ask Tommy Burt about as soon as he could see him. The Patriot, the most sensational of the morning papers, went overboard with the headline, “Yacht Guest Takes Down Gang That Terrorized Police.” The Sphere, in an editorial, called for a thorough and honest investigation into the conditions making life unsafe in the nation's largest city. The Sphere was always pushing for thorough and honest investigations, and often got them. Greenough believed that this undesired outcome was likely to happen now. To Mr. Gordon, he said:

“We ought to shut down all we can on the Banneker follow-up. An investigation with our man as prosecuting witness would put us in the position of trying to reform the police, and would play into the hands of the Enderby crowd.”

“We should close off everything we can on the Banneker follow-up. An investigation with our guy as the prosecuting witness would put us in a position of trying to reform the police, and it would benefit the Enderby group.”

The managing editor shook a wise and grizzled head. “If The Patriot keeps up its whooping and The Sphere its demanding, the administration will have to do something. After all, Mr. Greenough, things have become pretty unendurable in the Murder Precinct.”

The managing editor shook his experienced and gray-haired head. “If The Patriot keeps making a fuss and The Sphere keeps pushing for action, the administration will have to respond. After all, Mr. Greenough, things have gotten pretty unbearable in the Murder Precinct.”

“That’s true. But the signed statement of Banneker’s in The Patriot—it’s really an interview faked up as a statement—is a savage attack on the whole administration.”

"That's true. But Banneker's signed statement in The Patriot—it's actually an interview made to look like a statement—is a brutal attack on the entire administration."

“I understand,” remarked Mr. Gordon, “that they were going to beat him up scientifically in the station house when Smith came in and scared them out of it.”

“I get it,” said Mr. Gordon, “they were planning to beat him up in a methodical way at the station when Smith showed up and scared them off.”

“Yes. Banneker is pretty angry over it. You can’t blame him. But that’s no reason why we should alienate the city administration.... Then you think, Mr. Gordon, that we’ll have to keep the story running?”

“Yes. Banneker is really mad about it. You can't blame him. But that’s not a reason for us to push away the city administration.... So, Mr. Gordon, do you think we’ll have to keep the story going?”

“I think, Mr. Greenough, that we’ll have to give the news,” answered the managing editor austerely. “Where is Banneker now?”

“I think, Mr. Greenough, that we need to share the news,” answered the managing editor seriously. “Where is Banneker now?”

“With Judge Enderby, I believe. In case of an investigation he won’t be much use to us until it’s over.”

“With Judge Enderby, I think. If there’s an investigation, he won’t be much help to us until it’s done.”

“Can’t be helped,” returned Mr. Gordon serenely. “We’ll stand by our man.”

“Can’t be helped,” Mr. Gordon replied calmly. “We’ll support our guy.”

Banneker had gone to the old-fashioned offices of Enderby and Enderby, in a somewhat inimical frame of mind. Expectant of an invitation to aid the Law Enforcement Society in cleaning up a pest-hole of crime, he was half determined to have as little to do with it as possible. Overnight consideration had developed in him the theory that the function of a newspaper is informative, not reformative; that when a newspaper man has correctly adduced and frankly presented the facts, his social as well as his professional duty is done. Others might hew out the trail thus blazed; the reporter, bearing his searchlight, should pass on to other dark spots. All his theories evaporated as soon as he confronted Judge Enderby, forgotten in the interest inspired by the man.

Banneker had arrived at the old-fashioned offices of Enderby and Enderby feeling a bit hostile. Expecting an invitation to help the Law Enforcement Society clean up a crime-ridden area, he was somewhat set on having as little involvement as possible. After thinking it over, he came up with the idea that the role of a newspaper is to inform, not to change society; that when a journalist has accurately gathered and honestly presented the facts, his social and professional responsibilities are fulfilled. Others could take the lead from there; the reporter, with his flashlight, should move on to other dark areas. All his theories disappeared as soon as he faced Judge Enderby, forgotten in the admiration inspired by the man.

A portrait painter once said of Willis Enderby that his face was that of a saint, illumined, not by inspiration, but by shrewdness. With his sensitiveness to beauty of whatever kind, Banneker felt the extraordinary quality of the face, beneath its grim outline, interpreting it from the still depth of the quiet eyes rather than from the stern mouth and rather tyrannous nose. He was prepared for an abrupt and cold manner, and was surprised when the lawyer rose to shake hands, giving him a greeting of courtly congratulation upon his courage and readiness. If the purpose of this was to get Banneker to expand, as he suspected, it failed. The visitor sensed the cold reserve behind the smile.

A portrait artist once remarked about Willis Enderby that his face resembled that of a saint, lit up, not by inspiration, but by cleverness. With his sensitivity to beauty in all forms, Banneker recognized the remarkable quality of the face, below its harsh exterior, interpreting it from the calm depth of the quiet eyes rather than from the stern mouth and somewhat domineering nose. He expected an abrupt and distant manner and was taken aback when the lawyer rose to shake hands, offering him a courteous congratulations on his bravery and readiness. If this was meant to encourage Banneker to open up, as he suspected, it didn't work. The visitor felt the chilly reserve behind the smile.

“Would you be good enough to run through this document?” requested the lawyer, motioning Banneker to a seat opposite himself, and handing him a brief synopsis of what the Law Enforcement Society hoped to prove regarding police laxity.

“Could you take a look at this document?” the lawyer asked, gesturing for Banneker to sit across from him and handing him a brief summary of what the Law Enforcement Society aimed to demonstrate about police negligence.

Exercising that double faculty of mind which later became a part of the Banneker legend in New York journalism, the reader, whilst absorbing the main and quite simple points of the report, recalled an instance in which an Atkinson and St. Philip ticket agent had been maneuvered into a posture facing a dazzling sunset, and had adjusted his vision to find it focused upon the barrel of a 45. Without suspecting the Judge of hold-up designs, he nevertheless developed a parallel. Leaving his chair he walked over and sat by the window. Halfway through the document, he quietly laid it aside and returned the lawyer’s studious regard.

Exercising that unique ability of thought that later became part of the Banneker legend in New York journalism, the reader, while taking in the basic and straightforward points of the report, remembered a time when an Atkinson and St. Philip ticket agent had been placed in front of a stunning sunset and had adjusted his sight to focus on the barrel of a .45. Without suspecting the Judge of any criminal intentions, he nonetheless drew a comparison. Getting up from his chair, he moved over and sat by the window. Halfway through the document, he quietly set it aside and returned the lawyer’s focused gaze.

“Have you finished?” asked Judge Enderby.

“Have you finished?” Judge Enderby asked.

“No.”

"Nope."

“You do not find it interesting?”

"Are you not finding it interesting?"

“Less interesting than your idea in giving it to me.”

“Your idea of giving it to me is way more interesting.”

“What do you conceive that to have been?”

“What do you think that was?”

By way of reply, Banneker cited the case of Tim Lake, the robbed agent. “I think,” he added with a half smile, “that you and I will do better in the open.”

“I think so, too. Mr. Banneker, are you honest?”

“I think so, too. Mr. Banneker, are you for real?”

“Where I came from, that would be regarded as a trouble-hunter’s question.”

“Where I’m from, that would be seen as a troublemaker’s question.”

“I ask you to regard it as important and take it without offense.”

“I urge you to see this as significant and not take it the wrong way.”

“I don’t know about that,” returned Banneker gravely. “We’ll see. Honest, you say. Are you?”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Banneker replied seriously. “We’ll see. You say you’re honest. Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

“Then why do you begin by doubting the honesty of a stranger against whom you know nothing?”

“Then why do you start by doubting the honesty of a stranger you know nothing about?”

“Legal habit, I dare say. Fortified, in this case, by your association with The Ledger.”

“Legal habit, I would say. Strengthened, in this case, by your connection with The Ledger.”

“You haven’t a high opinion of my paper?”

“You don’t think highly of my paper?”

“The very highest, of its adroitness and expertness. It can make the better cause appear the worse with more skill than any other journal in America.”

“The very best, in its cleverness and expertise. It can make the better argument look worse with more skill than any other publication in America.”

“I thought that was the specialty of lawyers.”

“I thought that was what lawyers were good at.”

Judge Enderby accepted the touch with a smile.

“A lawyer is an avowed special pleader. He represents one side. A newspaper is supposed to be without bias and to present the facts for the information of its one client, the public. You will readily appreciate the difference.”

“A lawyer is a known advocate for one side. He represents just one party. A newspaper is expected to be unbiased and to present the facts for the benefit of its one client, the public. You can easily see the difference.”

“I do. Then you don’t consider The Ledger honest.”

“I do. So you think The Ledger isn't honest.”

Judge Enderby’s composed glance settled upon the morning’s issue, spread upon his desk. “I have, I assume, the same opinion of The Ledger’s honesty that you have.”

Judge Enderby’s calm gaze landed on that morning's edition, laid out on his desk. “I assume I share your view on The Ledger’s integrity.”

“Do you mind explaining that to me quite simply, so that I shall be sure to understand it?” invited Banneker.

“Can you explain that to me in simple terms, so I’ll be sure to understand it?” Banneker asked.

“You have read the article about your exploit?”

"You've read the article about your achievement?"

“Yes.”

"Yeah."

“Is that honest?”

"Is that for real?"

“It is as accurate a job as I’ve ever known done.”

“It’s the most precise work I’ve ever seen done.”

“Granted. Is it honest?”

"Granted. Is it genuine?"

“I don’t know,” answered the other after a pause. “I intend to find out.”

“I don’t know,” the other replied after a moment. “I plan to find out.”

“You intend to find out why it is so reticent on every point that might impugn the police, I take it. I could tell you; but yours is the better way. You gave the same interview to your own paper that you gave to The Patriot, I assume. By the way, what a commentary on journalism that the most scurrilous sheet in New York should have given the fullest and frankest treatment to the subject; a paper written by the dregs of Park Row for the reading of race-track touts and ignorant servant girls!”

“You want to figure out why it’s so tight-lipped about every issue that could criticize the police, right? I could explain it, but your approach is smarter. I assume you gave the same interview to your own paper that you gave to The Patriot. By the way, it’s interesting how the most outrageous tabloid in New York offered the most complete and honest coverage of the topic; a paper created by the lowest ranks of Park Row for the entertainment of race-track tipsters and clueless maids!”

“Yes; I gave them the same interview. It may have been crowded out—”

“Yes, I gave them the same interview. It might have been pushed out—”

“For lack of space,” supplied Enderby in a tone which the other heartily disliked. “Mr. Banneker, I thought that this was to be in the open.”

“For lack of space,” Enderby said in a tone that the other person really disliked. “Mr. Banneker, I thought this was supposed to be out in the open.”

“I’m wrong,” confessed the other. “I’ll know by this evening why the police part was handled that way, and if it was policy—” He stopped, considering.

“I’m wrong,” admitted the other. “I’ll find out by this evening why the police handled things that way, and if it was standard procedure—” He paused, thinking.

“Well?” prompted the other.

"Well?" the other prompted.

“I’ll go through to the finish with your committee.”

“I’ll see it through to the end with your committee.”

“You’re as good as pledged,” retorted the lawyer. “I shall expect to hear from you.”

“You're practically committed,” the lawyer shot back. “I'll be waiting to hear from you.”

As soon as he could find Tommy Burt, Banneker put to him the direct question. “What is the matter with the story as I gave it to you?”

As soon as he found Tommy Burt, Banneker asked him directly, “What’s wrong with the story I gave you?”

Burt assumed an air of touching innocence. “The story had to be handled with great care,” he explained blandly.

Burt acted like he was really innocent. “We needed to handle the story carefully,” he said casually.

“Come off, Tommy. Didn’t you write the police part?”

“Come on, Tommy. Didn’t you write the part for the police?”

Tommy Burl’s eyes denoted the extreme of candor. “It was suggested to me that your views upon the police, while interesting and even important, might be misunderstood.”

Tommy Burl’s eyes showed complete honesty. “Someone mentioned to me that your opinions about the police, although interesting and even significant, could be misunderstood.”

“Is that so? And who made the suggestion?”

“Is that true? And who suggested it?”

“An all-wise city desk.”

"A super-smart city desk."

“Thank you. Tommy.”

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“The Morning Ledger,” volunteered Tommy Burt, “has a high and well-merited reputation for its fidelity to the principles of truth and fairness and to the best interests of the reading public. It never gives the public any news to play with that it thinks the dear little thing ought not to have. Did you say anything? No? Well; you meant it. You’re wrong. The Ledger is the highest-class newspaper in New York. We are the Elect!”

“The Morning Ledger,” Tommy Burt chimed in, “has a strong and well-deserved reputation for sticking to the principles of truth and fairness while keeping the reading public’s best interests in mind. It never shares any news with the public that it thinks they shouldn’t have. Did you say something? No? Well; you did. You’re mistaken. The Ledger is the top-tier newspaper in New York. We are the elite!”

In his first revulsion of anger, Banneker was for going to Mr. Greenough and having it out with him. If it meant his resignation, very good. He was ready to look his job in the eye and tell it to go to hell. Turning the matter over in his mind, however, he decided upon another course. So far as the sensational episode of which he was the central figure went, he would regard himself consistently as a private citizen with no responsibility whatsoever to The Ledger. Let the paper print or suppress what it chose; his attitude toward it would be identical with his attitude toward the other papers. Probably the office powers would heartily disapprove of his having any dealings with Enderby and his Law Enforcement Society. Let them! He telephoned a brief but final message to Enderby and Enderby. When, late that night, Mr. Gordon called him over and suggested that it was highly desirable to let the whole affair drop out of public notice as soon as the startling facts would permit, he replied that Judge Enderby had already arranged to push an investigation.

In his first wave of anger, Banneker felt like going to Mr. Greenough and sorting things out with him. If it meant resigning, so be it. He was ready to face his job and tell it to shove off. However, as he thought it over, he decided on a different approach. Regarding the dramatic situation he was at the center of, he would see himself purely as a private citizen with no obligation to The Ledger. Let the paper choose to print or hide whatever it wanted; his feelings toward it would be the same as his feelings toward other newspapers. The higher-ups would probably strongly disapprove of him dealing with Enderby and his Law Enforcement Society. Let them! He sent a brief but conclusive message to Enderby and Enderby. When, late that night, Mr. Gordon called him and recommended letting the whole situation fade from public attention as soon as the shocking details allowed, he replied that Judge Enderby had already made plans to initiate an investigation.

“Doubtless,” observed the managing editor. “It is his specialty. But without your evidence they can’t go far.”

“Sure,” the managing editor said. “That's his specialty. But without your proof, they can’t get very far.”

“They can have my evidence.”

“They can take my evidence.”

Mr. Gordon, who had been delicately balancing his letter-opener, now delivered a whack of such unthinking ferocity upon his fat knuckle as to produce a sharp pang. He gazed in surprise and reproach upon the aching thumb and something of those emotions informed the regard which he turned slowly upon Banneker.

Mr. Gordon, who had been carefully balancing his letter opener, now hit his thick knuckle with such force that it sent a sharp sting through his hand. He looked at his throbbing thumb in surprise and disappointment, and that mix of feelings was reflected in the slow way he turned to look at Banneker.

Mr. Gordon’s frame of mind was unenviable. The Inside Room, moved by esoteric considerations, political and, more remotely, financial, had issued to him a managerial ukase; no police investigation if it could be avoided. Now, news was the guise in which Mr. Gordon sincerely worshiped Truth, the God. But Mammon, in the Inside Room, held the purse-strings Mr. Gordon had arrived at his honorable and well-paid position, not by wisdom alone, but also by compromise. Here was a situation where news must give way to the more essential interests of the paper.

Mr. Gordon was in a tough spot. The Inside Room, influenced by complex factors—political and, to a lesser extent, financial—had issued him a directive: avoid a police investigation if possible. For Mr. Gordon, news was the way he genuinely honored Truth, the God. But the Inside Room, driven by wealth, controlled the funding that had secured Mr. Gordon's respected and well-paying job, which he achieved not just through intelligence but also through compromise. This was a situation where news had to take a backseat to the more critical interests of the paper.

“Mr. Banneker,” he said, “that investigation will take a great deal of your time; more, I fear, than the paper can afford to give you.”

“Mr. Banneker,” he said, “that investigation will take a lot of your time; more, I’m afraid, than the paper can afford to give you.”

“They will arrange to put me on the stand in the mornings.”

“They will schedule me to be on the stand in the mornings.”

“Further, any connection between a Ledger man and the Enderby Committee is undesirable and injudicious.”

“Furthermore, any relationship between a Ledger employee and the Enderby Committee is unwise and inadvisable.”

“I’m sorry,” answered Banneker simply. “I’ve said I’d go through with it.”

“I’m sorry,” Banneker replied straightforwardly. “I’ve already said I’d see it through.”

Mr. Gordon selected a fresh knuckle for his modified drumming. “Have you considered your duty to the paper, Mr. Banneker? If not, I advise you to do so.” The careful manner, more than the words, implied threat.

Mr. Gordon picked a fresh knuckle for his adjusted drumming. “Have you thought about your responsibility to the paper, Mr. Banneker? If not, I suggest you do.” The careful way he spoke, more than the words themselves, hinted at a threat.

Banneker leaned forward as if for a confidential communication, as he lapsed into a gross Westernism:

Banneker leaned in closer as if to share a secret, slipping into a blatant Western expression:

“Mr. Gordon, I am paying for this round of drinks.”

“Mr. Gordon, I got this round of drinks.”

Somehow the managing editor received the impression that this remark, delivered in just that tone of voice and in its own proper environment, was usually accompanied by a smooth motion of the hand toward the pistol holster.

Somehow, the managing editor got the impression that this comment, made in that specific tone of voice and in its right setting, was usually paired with a smooth gesture toward the pistol holster.

Banneker, after asking whether there was anything more, and receiving a displeased shake of the head, went away.

Banneker, after asking if there was anything else and getting a disapproving shake of the head, left.

“Now,” said he to the waiting Tommy Burt, “they’ll probably fire me.”

“Now,” he said to the waiting Tommy Burt, “they’ll probably fire me.”

“Let ’em! You can get plenty of other jobs. But I don’t think they will. Old Gordon is really with you. It makes him sick to have to doctor news.”

“Let them! You can find plenty of other jobs. But I don’t think they will. Old Gordon is really on your side. It makes him sick to have to manipulate the news.”

Sleepless until almost morning, Banneker reviewed in smallest detail his decision and the situation to which it had led. He thought that he had taken the right course. He felt that Miss Camilla would approve. Judge Enderby’s personality, he recognized, had exerted some influence upon his decision. He had conceived for the lawyer an instinctive respect and liking. There was about him a power of attraction, not readily definable, but seeming mysteriously to assert some hidden claim from the past.

Sleepless until nearly morning, Banneker went over every detail of his decision and the situation it had created. He believed he had made the right choice. He felt that Miss Camilla would be supportive. He recognized that Judge Enderby’s personality had influenced his decision. He had developed a natural respect and fondness for the lawyer. There was something about him that was attractively enigmatic, suggesting some unexplained connection to the past.

Where had he seen that fine and still face before?

Where had he seen that calm and beautiful face before?

CHAPTER IX

Sequels of a surprising and diverse character followed Banneker’s sudden fame. The first to manifest itself was disconcerting. On the Wednesday following the fight on the pier, Mrs. Brashear intercepted him in the hallway.

Sequels of a surprising and diverse character followed Banneker’s sudden fame. The first to show up was unsettling. On the Wednesday after the fight on the pier, Mrs. Brashear caught him in the hallway.

“I’m sure we all admire what you did, Mr. Banneker,” she began, in evident trepidation.

“I’m sure we all admire what you did, Mr. Banneker,” she started, clearly nervous.

The subject of this eulogy murmured something deprecatory.

The person being talked about in this eulogy said something dismissive.

“It was very brave of you. Most praiseworthy. We appreciate it, all of us. Yes, indeed. It’s very painful, Mr. Banneker. I never expected to—to—indeed, I couldn’t have believed—” Mrs. Brashear’s plump little hands made gestures so fluttery and helpless that her lodger was moved to come to her aid.

“It was really brave of you. Very commendable. We all appreciate it. Yes, definitely. It’s really hard, Mr. Banneker. I never expected to—to—honestly, I couldn’t have imagined—” Mrs. Brashear’s chubby little hands made such fluttery and helpless gestures that her lodger felt compelled to help her.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Brashear? What’s troubling you?”

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Brashear? What’s bothering you?”

“If you could make it convenient,” said she tremulously, “when your month is up. I shouldn’t think of asking you before.”

“If you could make it convenient,” she said nervously, “when your month is up. I wouldn’t dream of asking you before.”

“Are you giving me notice?” he inquired in amazement.

“Are you letting me know?” he asked in surprise.

“If you don’t mind, please. The notoriety, the—the—your being arrested. You were arrested, weren’t you?”

“If you don’t mind, please. The fame, the—your being arrested. You were arrested, right?”

“Oh, yes. But the coroner’s jury cleared—”

“Such a thing never happened to any of my guests before. To have my house in the police records,” wept Mrs. Brashear. “Really, Mr. Banneker, really! You can’t know how it hurts one’s pride.”

“Something like this has never happened to any of my guests before. Having my house in the police records,” Mrs. Brashear cried. “Honestly, Mr. Banneker, honestly! You can’t imagine how much this hurts my pride.”

“I’ll go next week,” said the evicted one, divided between amusement and annoyance, and retired to escape another outburst of grief.

“I’ll go next week,” said the person who got kicked out, torn between laughter and irritation, and left to avoid another wave of sadness.

Now that the matter was presented to him, he was rather glad to be leaving. Quarters somewhere in mid-town, more in consonance with his augmented income, suggested themselves as highly desirable. Since the affray he had been the object of irksome attentions from his fellow lodgers. It is difficult to say whether he found the more unendurable young Wickert’s curiosity regarding details, Hainer’s pompous adulation, or Lambert’s admiring but jocular attitude. The others deemed it their duty never to refrain from some reference to the subject wherever and whenever they encountered him. The one exception was Miss Westlake. She congratulated him once, quietly but with warm sincerity; and when next she came to his door, dealt with another topic.

Now that the issue was brought to him, he was pretty happy to be leaving. Finding a place somewhere in mid-town, more fitting for his higher income, seemed very appealing. Since the altercation, he'd been on the receiving end of annoying attention from his fellow lodgers. It’s hard to say what bothered him more: Wickert’s obsessive curiosity about details, Hainer’s pompous praise, or Lambert’s playful but admiring attitude. The others felt it was their duty to make some reference to the situation anytime they ran into him. The only exception was Miss Westlake. She congratulated him once, quietly but sincerely, and when she next came to his door, she talked about something else.

“Mrs. Brashear tells me that you are leaving, Mr. Banneker.”

“Mrs. Brashear told me you’re leaving, Mr. Banneker.”

“Did she tell you why? That she has fired me out?”

“Did she tell you why? That she has let me go?”

“No. She didn’t.”

Banneker, a little surprised and touched at the landlady’s reticence, explained.

Banneker, a bit surprised and moved by the landlady's silence, clarified.

“Ah, well,” commented Miss Westlake, “you would soon have outgrown us in any case.”

“Ah, well,” said Miss Westlake, “you would have outgrown us soon anyway.”

“I’m not so sure. Where one lives doesn’t so much matter. And I’m a creature of habit.”

“I’m not really sure. Where you live doesn’t matter that much. And I’m someone who likes to stick to my routines.”

“I think that you are going to be a very big man, Mr. Banneker.”

“I think you’re going to be a really important man, Mr. Banneker.”

“Do you?” He smiled down at her. “Now, why?”

“Do you?” He smiled at her. “Why's that?”

She did not answer his smile. “You’ve got power,” she replied. “And you have mastered your medium—or gone far toward it.”

She didn’t respond to his smile. “You have power,” she said. “And you’ve really mastered your craft—or are close to it.”

“I’m grateful for your good opinion,” he began courteously; but she broke in on him, shaking her head.

“I appreciate your kind words,” he started politely; but she interrupted him, shaking her head.

“If it were mine alone, it wouldn’t matter. It’s the opinion of those who know. Mr. Banneker, I’ve been taking a liberty.”

“If it were just mine, it wouldn’t be a big deal. It’s about what others think who are knowledgeable. Mr. Banneker, I’ve overstepped my bounds.”

“You’re the last person in the world to do that, I should think,” he replied smilingly.

“You’re the last person in the world to do that, I would think,” he replied with a smile.

“But I have. You may remember my asking you once when those little sketches that I retyped so often were to be published.”

“But I have. You might recall me asking you once when those little sketches that I retyped so often were going to be published.”

“Yes. I never did anything with them.”

“I did. I showed them to Violet Thornborough. She is an old friend.”

“I did. I showed them to Violet Thornborough. She's an old friend.”

Ignorant of the publication world outside of Park Row, Banneker did not recognize a name, unknown to the public, which in the inner literary world connoted all that was finest, most perceptive, most discriminating and helpful in selective criticism. Miss Thornborough had been the first to see and foster half of the glimmering and feeble radiances which had later grown to be the manifest lights of the magazine and book world, thanks largely to her aid and encouragement. The next name mentioned by Miss Westlake was well enough known to Banneker, however. The critic, it appears, had, with her own hands, borne the anonymous, typed copies to the editorial sanctum of the foremost of monthlies, and, claiming a prerogative, refused to move aside from the pathway of orderly business until the Great Gaines himself, editor and autocrat of the publication, had read at least one of them. So the Great Gaines indulged Miss Thornborough by reading one. He then indulged himself by reading three more.

Unaware of the publishing world beyond Park Row, Banneker didn’t recognize a name that, while unknown to the public, represented the best, most insightful, most discerning, and most helpful aspects of selective criticism in the inner literary scene. Miss Thornborough was the first to see and nurture many of the bright but faint sparks that later became the clear guiding lights of the magazine and book industry, primarily due to her support and encouragement. The next name mentioned by Miss Westlake was familiar to Banneker, however. The critic had personally delivered the anonymous, typed copies to the editorial office of the top monthly magazine and, asserting her right, refused to back down from the pathway of orderly business until the Great Gaines himself, the editor and leader of the publication, had read at least one of them. So, the Great Gaines indulged Miss Thornborough by reading one. He then treated himself to reading three more.

“Your goose,” he pronounced, “is not fledged; but there may be a fringe of swan feathers. Bring him to see me.”

“Your goose,” he said, “is not fully developed; but there might be a hint of swan feathers. Bring him to see me.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea of who, what, or where he is,” answered the insistent critic.

“I have no idea who he is, what he's about, or where he is,” replied the persistent critic.

“Then hire a detective at our expense,” smiled the editor. “And, please, as you go, can’t you lure away with you Mr. Harvey Wheelwright, our most popular novelist, now in the reception-room wishing us to publish his latest enormity? Us!” concluded the Great Gaines sufficiently.

“Then hire a detective on our tab,” the editor said with a smile. “And, while you’re at it, can you take Mr. Harvey Wheelwright with you? He’s our most popular novelist, and he’s in the reception room hoping we’ll publish his latest piece of work. Us!” the Great Gaines wrapped up emphatically.

Having related the episode to its subject, Miss Westlake said diffidently: “Do you think it was inexcusably impertinent of me?”

Having related the episode to its subject, Miss Westlake said shyly: “Do you think it was unforgivably rude of me?”

“No. I think it was very kind.”

“No. I think it was really nice.”

“Then you’ll go to see Mr. Gaines?”

“So, you’re going to see Mr. Gaines?”

“One of these days. When I get out of this present scrape. And I hope you’ll keep on copying my Sunday stuff after I leave. Nobody else would be so patient with my dreadful handwriting.”

“One of these days. When I get out of this current mess. And I hope you’ll continue copying my Sunday pieces after I’m gone. No one else would be so patient with my terrible handwriting.”

She gave him a glance and a little flush of thankfulness. Matters had begun to improve with Miss Westlake. But it was due to Banneker that she had won through her time of desperation. Now, through his suggestion, she was writing successfully, quarter and half column “general interest” articles for the Woman’s Page of the Sunday Ledger. If she could in turn help Banneker to recognition, part of her debt would be paid. As for him, he was interested in, but not greatly expectant of, the Gaines invitation. Still, if he were cast adrift from The Ledger because of activity in the coming police inquiry, there was a possible port in the magazine world.

She gave him a look and a slight blush of gratitude. Things had started to improve with Miss Westlake. But it was thanks to Banneker that she had made it through her tough times. Now, because of his suggestion, she was successfully writing quarter and half-column “general interest” articles for the Woman’s Page of the Sunday Ledger. If she could help Banneker gain recognition in return, part of her debt would be repaid. As for him, he was interested in the Gaines invitation but not overly hopeful about it. Still, if he ended up being let go from The Ledger due to the upcoming police inquiry, there was a potential opportunity in the magazine world.

Meantime there pressed the question of a home. Cressey ought to afford help on that. He called the gilded youth on the telephone.

Meantime, the question of a home was pressing. Cressey should be able to help with that. He called the wealthy young man on the phone.

“Hello, old fire-eater!” cried Cressey. “Some little hero, aren’t you! Bully work, my boy. I’m proud to know you.... What; quarters? Easiest thing you know. I’ve got the very thing—just like a real-estate agent. Let’s see; this is your Monday at Sherry’s, isn’t it? All right. I’ll meet you there.”

“Hey, old fire-eater!” shouted Cressey. “You’re quite the little hero, aren’t you! Great job, my dude. I’m proud to know you... What; quarters? That’s the easiest thing ever. I’ve got just the thing—just like a real estate agent. Let’s see; this is your Monday at Sherry’s, right? Cool. I’ll meet you there.”

Providentially, as it might appear, a friend of Cressey’s, having secured a diplomatic appointment, was giving up his bachelor apartment in the select and central Regalton.

Fortunately, it seems, a friend of Cressey's, who had landed a diplomatic position, was giving up his bachelor apartment in the exclusive and central Regalton.

“Cheap as dirt,” said the enthusiastic Cressey, beaming at Banneker over his cocktail that evening. “Two rooms and bath; fully furnished, and you can get it for eighteen hundred a year.”

“Dirt cheap,” said the excited Cressey, smiling at Banneker over his cocktail that evening. “Two rooms and a bath; fully furnished, and you can snag it for eighteen hundred a year.”

“Quite a raise from the five dollars a week I’ve been paying,” smiled Banneker.

“That's a big increase from the five bucks a week I've been paying,” smiled Banneker.

“Pshaw! You’ve got to live up to your new reputation. You’re somebody, now, Banneker. All New York is talking about you. Why, I’m afraid to say I know you for fear they’ll think I’m bragging.”

“Come on! You’ve got to live up to your new reputation. You’re someone now, Banneker. Everyone in New York is talking about you. Honestly, I’m afraid to say I know you because they might think I’m bragging.”

“All of which doesn’t increase my income,” pointed out the other.

"None of this boosts my income," the other pointed out.

“It will. Just wait. One way or another you’ll capitalize that reputation. That’s the way New York is.”

“It will. Just wait. One way or another, you’ll make the most of that reputation. That’s how New York works.”

“That isn’t the way I am, however. I’ll capitalize my brains and ability, if I’ve got ’em; not my gun-play.”

"That's not how I operate, though. I'll make the most of my brains and skills, if I have them; not my shooting."

“Your gun-play will advertise your brains and ability, then,” retorted Cressey. “Nobody expects you to make a princely income shooting up toughs on the water-front. But your having done it will put you in the lime-light where people will notice you. And being noticed is the beginning of success in this-man’s-town. I’m not sure it isn’t the end, too. Just see how the head waiter fell all over himself when you came in. I expect he’s telling that bunch at the long table yonder who you are now.”

“Your gun skills will show off your smarts and talent, then,” Cressey shot back. “No one expects you to make a fortune taking down thugs on the waterfront. But having done it will put you in the spotlight where people will see you. And being noticed is the start of success in this man’s town. I’m not sure it isn’t the end, too. Just look at how the head waiter practically tripped over himself when you walked in. I bet he’s telling that group at the long table over there who you are right now.”

“Let him,” returned Banneker comfortably, his long-bred habit of un-self-consciousness standing him in good stead. “They’ll all forget it soon enough.”

“Let him,” replied Banneker casually, his long-standing habit of being self-assured working to his advantage. “They’ll all forget about it before long.”

As he glanced over at the group around the table, the man who was apparently acting as host caught his eye and nodded in friendly fashion.

As he looked over at the group around the table, the man who seemed to be the host caught his eye and nodded in a friendly way.

“Oh, you know Marrineal, do you?” asked Cressey in surprise.

“Oh, you know Marrineal, huh?” Cressey asked, surprised.

“I’ve seen him, but I’ve never spoken to him. He dines sometimes in a queer little restaurant way downtown, just off the Swamp. Who is he, anyway?”

“I’ve seen him, but I’ve never talked to him. He occasionally eats at a strange little restaurant downtown, just off the Swamp. Who is he, anyway?”

“Puzzle. Nobody in the clubs knows him. He’s a spender. Bit of a rounder, too, I expect. Plays the Street, and beats it, too.”

“Puzzle. No one in the clubs knows him. He likes to spend money. I think he’s a bit of a gambler, too. He plays the Street and wins, as well.”

“Who’s the little beauty next him?”

“Who’s the cute girl next to him?”

“You a rising light of Park Row, and not know Betty Raleigh? She killed em dead in London in romantic comedy and now she’s come back here to repeat.”

“You're a rising star of Park Row, and you don't know Betty Raleigh? She was a sensation in London with romantic comedies, and now she's back here to do it again.”

“Oh, yes. Opening to-night, isn’t she? I’ve got a seat.” He looked over at Marrineal, who was apparently protesting against his neighbor’s reversed wine-glass. “So that’s Mr. Marrineal’s little style of game, is it?” He spoke crudely, for the apparition of the girl was quite touching in its youth, and delight, and candor of expression, whereas he had read into Marrineal’s long, handsome, and blandly mature face a touch of the satyr. He resented the association.

“Oh, definitely. It's opening tonight, right? I’ve got a seat.” He glanced at Marrineal, who seemed to be complaining about his neighbor's upside-down wine glass. “So that's Mr. Marrineal’s little trick, is it?” He spoke roughly, because the sight of the girl was really affecting with her youth, joy, and innocent expression, while he saw in Marrineal's long, attractive, and smoothly mature face a hint of something lecherous. He didn't like that connection.

“No; it isn’t,” replied Cressey promptly. “If it is, he’s in the wrong pew. Miss Raleigh is straight as they make ’em, from all I hear.”

“No; it isn’t,” Cressey replied right away. “If it is, he’s in the wrong place. Miss Raleigh is as honest as they come, from everything I've heard.”

“She looks it,” admitted Banneker.

"She looks it," Banneker admitted.

“At that, she’s in a rather sporty lot. Do you know that chap three seats to her left?”

“At that, she’s in a pretty sporty group. Do you know that guy three seats to her left?”

Banneker considered the diner, a round-faced, high-colored, youthful man of perhaps thirty-five, with a roving and merry eye. “No,” he answered. “I never saw him before.”

Banneker looked at the diner, a round-faced, light-skinned young man who was probably around thirty-five, with a wandering and cheerful gaze. “No,” he replied. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“That’s Del Eyre,” remarked Cressey casually, and appearing not to look at Banneker.

"That's Del Eyre," Cressey said casually, acting like he wasn't even looking at Banneker.

“A friend of yours?” The indifference of the tone indicated to his companion either that Banneker did not identify Delavan Eyre by his marriage, or that he maintained extraordinary control over himself, or that the queer, romantic stories of Io Welland’s “passion in the desert” were gross exaggerations. Cressey inclined to the latter belief.

“A friend of yours?” The indifferent tone suggested to his companion that Banneker either didn’t recognize Delavan Eyre by his marriage, or that he was exceptionally good at controlling his reactions, or that the strange romantic tales of Io Welland’s “passion in the desert” were serious overstatements. Cressey leaned toward the latter opinion.

“Not specially,” he answered the question. “He belongs to a couple of my clubs. Everybody likes Del; even Mrs. Del. But his pace is too swift for me. Just at present he is furnishing transportation, sixty horse-power, for Tarantina, the dancer who is featured in Betty Raleigh’s show.”

“Not really,” he replied to the question. “He’s a member of a couple of my clubs. Everyone likes Del; even Mrs. Del. But he moves too fast for me. Right now, he’s providing transportation, sixty horsepower, for Tarantina, the dancer featured in Betty Raleigh’s show.”

“Is she over there with them?”

“Oh, no. She wouldn’t be. It isn’t as sporty as all that.” He rose to shake hands with a short, angular young man, dressed to a perfection as accurate as Banneker’s own, and excelling him in one distinctive touch, a coat-flower of gold-and-white such as no other in New York could wear, since only in one conservatory was that special orchid successfully grown. By it Banneker recognized Poultney Masters, Jr., the son and heir of the tyrannous old financier who had for years bullied and browbeaten New York to his wayward old heart’s content. In his son there was nothing of the bully, but through the amiability of manner Banneker could feel a quiet force. Cressey introduced them.

“Oh, no. She wouldn’t be. It’s not that sporty.” He stood up to shake hands with a short, angular young man, dressed perfectly, matching Banneker’s own style, but adding a distinctive touch—a gold-and-white flower on his coat that no one else in New York could pull off since that special orchid could only be successfully grown in one conservatory. Because of it, Banneker recognized Poultney Masters, Jr., the son and heir of the overbearing old financier who had for years pushed and intimidated New York to satisfy his own whims. Unlike his father, the son didn’t show any signs of being a bully, but beneath his friendly demeanor, Banneker sensed a quiet strength. Cressey introduced them.

“We’re just having coffee,” said Banneker. “Will you join us?”

“We're just having coffee,” Banneker said. “Do you want to join us?”

“Thank you; I must go back to my party. I came over to express my personal obligation to you for cleaning out that gang of wharf-rats. My boat anchors off there. I hope to see you aboard her sometime.”

“Thanks; I need to get back to my party. I came over to personally thank you for getting rid of that group of troublemakers. My boat is anchored over there. I hope to see you on it sometime.”

“You owe me no thanks,” returned Banneker good-humoredly. “What I did was to save my own precious skin.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Banneker replied with a smile. “What I did was to save my own skin.”

“The effect was the same. After this the rats will suspect every man of being a Banneker in disguise, and we shall have no more trouble.”

“The result was the same. After this, the rats will suspect every guy of being a Banneker in disguise, and we won’t have any more trouble.”

“You see!” remarked Cressey triumphantly as Masters went away. “I told you you’d arrived.”

“You see!” Cressey said triumphantly as Masters walked away. “I told you that you’d made it.”

“Do you count a word of ordinary courtesy as so much?” inquired Banneker, surprised and amused.

“Do you really think a simple word of politeness means that much?” Banneker asked, surprised and amused.

“From Junior? I certainly do. No Masters ever does anything without having figured out its exact meaning in advance.”

“From Junior? I definitely do. No Master ever does anything without figuring out its exact meaning first.”

“And what does this mean?” asked the other, still unimpressed.

“And what does this mean?” asked the other, still not impressed.

“For one thing, that the Masters influence will be back of you, if the police try to put anything over. For another, that you’ve got the broadest door to society open to you, if Junior follows up his hint about the yacht.”

“For one thing, you’ll have the Masters' support if the police try to pull anything. For another, you’ll have the best access to society if Junior acts on his suggestion about the yacht.”

“I haven’t the time,” returned Banneker with honest indifference. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “Cressey,” he said, “if I had a newspaper of my own in New York, do you know what I’d do with it?”

“I don’t have the time,” Banneker replied with genuine indifference. He took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “Cressey,” he said, “if I owned a newspaper in New York, do you know what I’d do with it?”

“Make money.”

"Earn money."

“I hope so. But whether I did or not, I’d set out to puncture that bubble of the Masters power and supremacy. It isn’t right for any man to have that power just through money. It isn’t American.”

“I hope so. But whether I did or not, I’d set out to break that bubble of the Masters' power and dominance. It’s not right for any man to hold that kind of power just because he has money. It’s not American.”

“The old man would smash your paper in six months.”

“The old man would destroy your paper in six months.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Nobody has ever taken a shot at him yet. He may be more vulnerable than he looks.... Speaking of money, I suppose I’d better take that apartment. God knows how I’ll pay for it, especially if I lose my job.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. No one has ever tried to take him down yet. He might be more vulnerable than he seems.... Speaking of money, I guess I should go for that apartment. Who knows how I’ll afford it, especially if I lose my job.”

“If you lose your job I’ll get you a better one on Wall Street to-morrow.”

“If you lose your job, I’ll help you find a better one on Wall Street tomorrow.”

“On the strength of Poultney Masters, Jr., shaking hands with me, I suppose.”

“Based on the strength of Poultney Masters, Jr. shaking my hand, I guess.”

“Practically. It may not get into your newspapers, but the Street will know all about it to-morrow.”

“Basically. It might not make it into your newspapers, but the Street will be fully aware of it by tomorrow.”

“It’s a queer city. And it’s a queer way to get on in it, by being quick on the trigger. Well, I’m off for the theater.”

“It’s a strange city. And it's a strange way to navigate it, by being quick to act. Well, I'm heading to the theater.”

Between acts, Banneker, walking out to get air, was conscious of being the object of comment and demonstration. He heard his name spoken in half whispers; saw nods and jerks of the head; was an involuntary eavesdropper upon a heated discussion; “That’s the man.”—“No; it ain’t. The paper says he’s a big feller.”—“This guy ain’t a reporter. Pipe his clothes.”—“Well, he’s big if you size him right. Look at his shoulders.”—“I’ll betcha ten he ain’t the man.” And an apologetic young fellow ran after him to ask if he was not, in truth, Mr. Banneker of The Ledger. Being no more than human, he experienced a feeling of mild excitation over all this. But no sooner had the curtain risen on the second act than he quite forgot himself and his notoriety in the fresh charm of the comedy, and the delicious simplicity of Betty Raleigh as the heroine. That the piece was destined to success was plain, even so early. As the curtain fell again, and the star appeared, dragging after her a long, gaunt, exhausted, alarmed man in horn-rimmed spectacles, who had been lurking in a corner suffering from incipient nervous breakdown and illusions of catastrophe, he being the author, the body of the house rose and shouted. A hand fell on Banneker’s shoulder.

Between acts, Banneker stepped outside for some fresh air and realized he was the subject of gossip and curiosity. He heard his name whispered and noticed people nodding and gesturing. He became an unintentional eavesdropper on a heated debate: “That’s the guy.” — “No, it’s not. The paper says he’s a big guy.” — “This guy isn’t a reporter. Look at his clothes.” — “Well, he’s big if you think about it. Look at his shoulders.” — “I’ll bet ten bucks he’s not the guy.” Then a nervous young man ran after him, asking if he was really Mr. Banneker of The Ledger. Being only human, he felt a twinge of excitement about all this. But as soon as the curtain rose on the second act, he completely forgot about himself and his fame in the delightful charm of the comedy and the refreshing simplicity of Betty Raleigh as the heroine. It was clear from early on that the play was going to be a hit. As the curtain fell again, and the star appeared, dragging along a tall, skinny, exhausted, and anxious man in horn-rimmed glasses who had been hiding in a corner suffering from early signs of a nervous breakdown and visions of disaster—he was the author—the audience sprang to their feet and cheered. A hand landed on Banneker’s shoulder.

“Come behind at the finish?” said a voice.

“Come from behind at the finish?” said a voice.

Turning, Banneker met the cynical and near-sighted eyes of Gurney, The Ledger’s dramatic critic, with whom he had merely a nodding acquaintance, as Gurney seldom visited the office except at off-hours.

Turning, Banneker met the skeptical and near-sighted gaze of Gurney, The Ledger’s drama critic, with whom he only had a casual acquaintance, since Gurney rarely came to the office except during off-hours.

“Yes; I’d like to,” he answered.

“Yes; I’d like to,” he replied.

“Little Betty spotted you and has been demanding that the management bring you back for inspection.”

“Little Betty saw you and has been insisting that the management bring you back for a check-up.”

“The play is a big success, isn’t it?”

“The play is a huge success, right?”

“I give it a year’s run,” returned the critic authoritatively. “Laurence has written it to fit Raleigh like a glove. She’s all they said of her in London. And when she left here a year ago, she was just a fairly good ingénue. However, she’s got brains, which is the next best thing in the theatrical game to marriage with the manager—or near-marriage.”

“I give it a year,” the critic replied confidently. “Laurence wrote it perfectly for Raleigh. She’s everything they said about her in London. When she left here a year ago, she was just an okay ingénue. But she’s got smarts, which is the next best thing in theater to marrying the manager—or almost marrying him.”

Banneker, considering Gurney’s crow-footed and tired leer, decided that he did not like the critic much.

Banneker, looking at Gurney’s tired, crow-footed grin, decided that he wasn’t a big fan of the critic.

Back-of-curtain after a successful opening provides a hectic and scrambled scene to the unaccustomed eye. Hastily presented to a few people, Banneker drifted to one side and, seating himself on a wire chair, contentedly assumed the role of onlooker. The air was full of laughter and greetings and kisses; light-hearted, offhand, gratulatory kisses which appeared to be the natural currency of felicitation. Betty Raleigh, lovely, flushed, and athrill with nervous exaltation, flung him a smile as she passed, one hand hooked in the arm of her leading man.

Backstage after a successful opening is a hectic and chaotic scene for those who aren't used to it. Quickly introduced to a few people, Banneker moved to the side and settled into a wire chair, happily becoming a spectator. The air was filled with laughter, greetings, and kisses—casual, spontaneous congratulations that seemed to be the usual way of celebrating. Betty Raleigh, beautiful, flushed, and buzzing with nervous excitement, threw him a smile as she walked by, one hand linked in the arm of her leading man.

“You’re coming to supper with us later,” she called.

“You're joining us for dinner later,” she called.

“Am I?” said Banneker.

"Am I?" Banneker asked.

“Of course. I’ve got something to ask you.” She spoke as one expectant of unquestioning obedience: this was her night of glory and power.

“Of course. I have something to ask you.” She spoke as if expecting unquestioning obedience: this was her night of glory and power.

Whether he had been previously bidden in through Gurney, or whether this chance word constituted his invitation, he did not know. Seeking enlightenment upon the point, he discovered that the critic had disappeared, to furnish his half-column for the morning issue. La Tarantina, hearing his inquiry, gave him the news in her broken English. The dancer, lithe, powerful, with the hideous feet and knotty legs typical of her profession, turned her somber, questioning eyes on the stranger:

Whether he had been invited in through Gurney or if this random comment was his invitation, he wasn’t sure. Trying to figure it out, he realized the critic had vanished to write his half-column for the morning issue. La Tarantina, upon hearing his question, shared the news in her broken English. The dancer, agile and strong, with the ugly feet and bumpy legs common in her line of work, fixed her dark, inquisitive eyes on the stranger:

“You air Monsieur Ban-kerr, who shoot, n’est-ce-pas?” she inquired.

“You're Mr. Bankir, the one who shoots, right?” she asked.

“My name is Banneker,” he replied.

"My name is Banneker," he said.

“Weel you be ver’ good an’ shoot sahmbody for me?”

“Will you be really nice and shoot someone for me?”

“With pleasure,” he said, laughing; “if you’ll plead for me with the jury.”

“With pleasure,” he said, laughing; “if you’ll advocate for me with the jury.”

“Zen here he iss.” She stretched a long and, as it seemed, blatantly naked arm into a group near by and drew forth the roundish man whom Cressey had pointed out at Marrineal’s dinner party. “He would be unfaithful to me, ziss one.”

“Zen here he is.” She stretched out a long and, it seemed, completely exposed arm into a nearby group and pulled out the roundish man whom Cressey had pointed out at Marrineal’s dinner party. “He would be unfaithful to me, this one.”

“I? Never!” denied the accused. He set a kiss in the hollow of the dancer’s wrist. “How d’ye do, Mr. Banneker,” he added, holding out his hand. “My name is Eyre.”

“I? Never!” the accused denied. He placed a kiss in the hollow of the dancer’s wrist. “How do you do, Mr. Banneker,” he added, extending his hand. “My name is Eyre.”

“But yess!” cried the dancer. “He—what you say it?—he r-r-r-rave over Miss R-r-raleigh. He make me jealous. He shall be shoot at sunrice an’ I weel console me wiz his shooter.”

“But yes!” cried the dancer. “He—what do you call it?—he r-r-r-raves over Miss R-r-raleigh. He makes me jealous. He should be shot at sunrise and I will comfort myself with his shooter.”

“Charming programme!” commented the doomed man. It struck Banneker that he had probably been drinking a good deal, also that he was a very likeable person, indeed. “If you don’t mind my asking, where the devil did you learn to shoot like that?”

“Great show!” the doomed man said. Banneker realized that he had probably been drinking a lot, and that he was actually a really likable guy. “If you don't mind me asking, where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“Oh, out West where I came from. I used to practice on the pine trees at a little water-tank station called Manzanita”.

“Oh, out West where I’m from. I used to practice on the pine trees at a small water tank station called Manzanita.”

“Manzanita!” repeated the other. “By God!” He swore softly, and stared at the other.

“Manzanita!” the other repeated. “Oh my God!” He swore quietly and stared at the other.

Banneker was annoyed. Evidently the gossip of which Io’s girl friend had hinted that other night at Sherry’s had obtained wide currency. Before the conversation could go any further, even had it been likely to after that surprising check, one of the actors came over. He played the part of an ex-cowboy, who, in the bar-room scene, shot his way out of danger through a circle of gang-men, and he was now seeking from Banneker ostensibly pointers, actually praise.

Banneker was frustrated. Clearly, the gossip that Io’s girlfriend had hinted at the other night at Sherry’s had spread widely. Before the conversation could continue, even if it seemed possible after that unexpected interruption, one of the actors approached. He played the role of an ex-cowboy who, in the bar scene, shot his way out of danger through a group of gangsters, and he was now looking for tips from Banneker, but really seeking approval.

“Say, old man,” he began without introduction. “Gimme a tip or two. How do you get your hand over for your gun without giving yourself away?”

“Hey, man,” he started without a greeting. “Give me a tip or two. How do you get your hand ready for your gun without tipping anyone off?”

“Just dive for it, as you do in the play. You do it plenty quick enough. You’d get the drop on me ten times out of ten,” returned Banneker pleasantly, leaving the gratified actor with the conviction that he had been talking with the coming dramatic critic of the age.

“Just go for it, like you do in the play. You do it fast enough. You’d catch me off guard every time,” Banneker replied cheerfully, leaving the pleased actor with the belief that he had been speaking with the future top drama critic of the era.

For upwards of an hour there was carnival on the dismantling stage, mingled with the hurried toil of scene-shifters and the clean-up gang. Then the impromptu party began to disperse, Eyre going away with the dancer, after coming to bid Banneker good-night, with a look of veiled curiosity and interest which its object could not interpret. Banneker was gathered into the corps intime of Miss Raleigh’s supper party, including the author of the play, an elderly first-nighter, two or three dramatic critics, Marrineal, who had drifted in, late, and half a dozen of the company. The men outnumbered the women, as is usual in such affairs, and Banneker found himself seated between the playwright and a handsome, silent girl who played with distinction the part of an elderly woman. There was wine in profusion, but he noticed that the player-folk drank sparingly. Condition, he correctly surmised, was part of their stock in trade. As it should be part of his also.

For over an hour, there was a celebration on the dismantling stage, mixed with the frantic work of scene shifters and the cleanup crew. Then the spontaneous gathering started to break up, with Eyre leaving with the dancer after stopping to say goodnight to Banneker, who noticed a look of quiet curiosity and interest that he couldn't quite understand. Banneker was included in Miss Raleigh’s intimate supper party, which featured the playwright, an older first-night attendee, a couple of theater critics, Marrineal, who had arrived late, and about half a dozen cast members. There were more men than women, as usually happens in these situations, and Banneker found himself sitting between the playwright and a beautiful, quiet girl who played the part of an older woman with grace. There was plenty of wine, but he observed that the actors drank carefully. He correctly guessed that maintaining their condition was part of their profession. It should be part of his as well.

Late in the supper’s course, there was a shifting of seats, and he was landed next to the star.

Late in the dinner, people started shifting seats, and he ended up sitting next to the star.

“I suppose you’re bored stiff with talking about the shooting,” she said, at once.

“I guess you’re completely over talking about the shooting,” she said immediately.

“I am, rather. Wouldn’t you be?”

“I am, actually. Wouldn’t you be?”

“I? Publicity is the breath of life to us,” she laughed. “You deal in it, so you don’t care for it.”

“I? Publicity is essential to us,” she laughed. “You work in it, so you’re indifferent to it.”

“That’s rather shrewd in you. I’m not sure that the logic is sound.”

"That's pretty clever of you. I'm not sure the logic is right."

“Anyway, I’m not going to bore you with your fame. But I want you to do something for me.”

“Anyway, I’m not going to bore you with your fame. But I need you to do something for me.”

“It is done,” he said solemnly.

“It's finished,” he said seriously.

“How prettily you pay compliments! There is to be a police investigation, isn’t there?”

“How nicely you give compliments! There’s going to be a police investigation, right?”

“Probably.”

“Sure.”

“Could you get me in?”

"Can you get me in?"

“Yes, indeed!”

“Definitely!”

“Then I want to come when you’re on the stand.”

“Then I want to be there when you’re testifying.”

“Great goodness! Why?”

"Wow, why?"

“Why, if you want a reason,” she answered mischievously, “say that I want to bring good luck to your première, as you brought it to mine.”

“Why, if you want a reason,” she replied playfully, “just say that I want to bring good luck to your première, just like you brought it to mine.”

“I’ll probably make a sorry showing. Perhaps you would give me some training.”

“I’ll probably embarrass myself. Maybe you could give me some training.”

She answered in kind, and the acquaintanceship was progressing most favorably when a messenger of the theater manager’s office staff appeared with early editions of the morning papers. Instantly every other interest was submerged.

She replied similarly, and their friendship was developing quite well when a messenger from the theater manager's office showed up with the morning newspapers. Immediately, everything else became unimportant.

“Give me The Ledger,” demanded Betty. “I want to see what Gurney says.”

“Hand me The Ledger,” Betty insisted. “I want to check what Gurney says.”

“Something pleasant surely,” said Banneker. “He told me that the play was an assured success.”

“Something nice for sure,” said Banneker. “He told me that the play was a guaranteed success.”

As she read, Betty’s vivacious face sparkled. Presently her expression changed. She uttered a little cry of disgust and rage.

As she read, Betty’s lively face lit up. Suddenly her expression shifted. She let out a small cry of disgust and anger.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the author.

"What's wrong?" asked the author.

“Gurney is up to his smartnesses again,” she replied. “Listen. Isn’t this enraging!” She read:

“Gurney is being clever again,” she said. “Listen. Isn’t this infuriating!” She read:

“As for the play itself, it is formed, fashioned, and finished in the cleverest style of tailor-made, to Miss Raleigh’s charming personality. One must hail Mr. Laurence as chief of our sartorial playwrights. No actress ever boasted a neater fit. Can you not picture him, all nice little enthusiasms and dainty devices, bustling about his fair patroness, tape in hand, mouth bristling with pins, smoothing out a wrinkle here, adjusting a line there, achieving his little chef d’oeuvre of perfect tailoring? We have had playwrights who were blacksmiths, playwrights who were costumers, playwrights who were musical-boxes, playwrights who were, if I may be pardoned, garbage incinerators. It remained, for Mr. Laurence to show us what can be done with scissors, needle, and a nice taste in frills.

“As for the play itself, it’s crafted and completed in the most skillful way to match Miss Raleigh’s charming personality. We should recognize Mr. Laurence as the leading designer among our playwrights. No actress has ever had a better fit. Can you picture him, with his little bursts of enthusiasm and delicate ideas, busy around his lovely patron, tape in hand, mouth filled with pins, smoothing out a wrinkle here, adjusting a line there, creating his little chef d’oeuvre of perfect tailoring? We've had playwrights who were blacksmiths, playwrights who were costumers, playwrights who were musical-boxes, playwrights who were, if I may say, garbage incinerators. It was Mr. Laurence who showed us what can be done with scissors, a needle, and a good taste in frills.”

“I think it’s mean and shameful!” proclaimed the reader in generous rage.

“I think it’s cruel and disgraceful!” declared the reader in heartfelt anger.

“But he gives you a splendid send-off, Miss Raleigh,” said her leading man, who, reading over her shoulder, had discovered that he, too, was handsomely treated.

“But he gives you a great send-off, Miss Raleigh,” said her leading man, who, reading over her shoulder, found out that he was also well treated.

“I don’t care if he does!” cried Betty. “He’s a pig!”

“I don’t care if he does!” shouted Betty. “He’s a jerk!”

Her manager, possessed of a second copy of The Ledger, now made a weighty contribution to the discussion. “Just the same, this’ll help sell out the house. It’s full of stuff we can lift to paper the town with.”

Her manager, having a second copy of The Ledger, now made an important contribution to the discussion. “Still, this will help sell out the venue. It’s packed with things we can use to promote the town.”

He indicated several lines heartily praising Miss Raleigh and the cast, and one which, wrenched from its satirical context, was made to give an equally favorable opinion of the play. Something of Banneker’s astonishment at this cavalier procedure must have been reflected in his face, for Marrineal, opposite, turned to him with a look of amusement.

He pointed out several lines that genuinely praised Miss Raleigh and the cast, and one line, taken out of its sarcastic context, was used to express a similarly positive opinion about the play. Banneker’s surprise at this careless action must have shown on his face, because Marrineal, sitting across from him, turned to him with an amused expression.

“What’s your view of that, Mr. Banneker?”

“What do you think about that, Mr. Banneker?”

“Mine?” said Banneker promptly. “I think it’s crooked. What’s yours?”

“Mine?” Banneker replied quickly. “I think it’s crooked. What about yours?”

“Still quick on the trigger,” murmured the other, but did not answer the return query.

“Still quick on the trigger,” the other person murmured, but didn't respond to the follow-up question.

Replies in profusion came from the rest, however. “It isn’t any crookeder than the review.”—“D’you call that fair criticism!”—“Gurney! He hasn’t an honest hair in his head.”—“Every other critic is strong for it; this is the only knock.”—“What did Laurence ever do to Gurney?”

Replies flooded in from the others, though. “It’s not any more biased than the review.”—“Do you really think that’s fair criticism?”—“Gurney! He doesn’t have an honest bone in his body.”—“Every other critic supports it; this is the only negative review.”—“What did Laurence ever do to Gurney?”

Out of the welter of angry voices came Betty Raleigh’s clear speech, addressed to Banneker.

Out of the chaos of angry voices, Betty Raleigh's clear voice emerged, directed at Banneker.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Banneker; I’d forgotten that The Ledger is your paper.”

“Sorry, Mr. Banneker; I forgot that The Ledger is your paper.”

“Oh, The Ledger ain’t any worse than the rest of ’em, take it day in and day out,” the manager remarked, busily penciling apposite texts for advertising, on the margin of Gurney’s critique.

“Oh, The Ledger isn’t any worse than the others, just take it day by day,” the manager said, busy jotting down relevant texts for advertising in the margin of Gurney’s review.

“It isn’t fair,” continued the star. “A man spends a year working over a play—it was more than a year on this, wasn’t it, Denny?” she broke off to ask the author.

“It’s not fair,” the star continued. “A guy spends a year working on a play—it was more than a year on this, right, Denny?” She paused to ask the author.

Laurence nodded. He looked tired and a little bored, Banneker thought.

Laurence nodded. He looked worn out and a bit uninterested, Banneker thought.

“And a critic has a happy thought and five minutes to think it over, and writes something mean and cruel and facetious, and perhaps undoes a whole year’s work. Is that right?”

“And a critic has a lightbulb moment and five minutes to consider it, and writes something harsh, cruel, and sarcastic, and maybe destroys a whole year’s work. Is that fair?”

“They ought to bar him from the theater,” declared one of the women in the cast.

“They should ban him from the theater,” said one of the women in the cast.

“And what do you think of that?” inquired Marrineal, still addressing Banneker.

“And what do you think of that?” asked Marrineal, still talking to Banneker.

Banneker laughed. “Admit only those who wear the bright and burnished badge of the Booster,” he said. “Is that the idea?”

Banneker laughed. “Only let in those who wear the shiny and polished badge of the Booster,” he said. “Is that the plan?”

“Nobody objects to honest criticism,” began Betty Raleigh heatedly, and was interrupted by a mild but sardonic “Hear! Hear!” from one of the magazine reviewers.

“Nobody objects to honest criticism,” Betty Raleigh started passionately, but was cut off by a calm yet sarcastic “Hear! Hear!” from one of the magazine reviewers.

“Honest players don’t object to honest criticism, then,” she amended. “It’s the unfairness that hurts.”

“Honest players don’t mind honest criticism, then,” she revised. “It’s the unfairness that stings.”

“All of which appears to be based on the assumption that it is impossible for Mr. Gurney honestly to have disliked Mr. Laurence’s play,” pointed out Banneker. “Now, delightful as it seemed to me, I can conceive that to other minds—”

“All of this seems to be based on the assumption that Mr. Gurney could not honestly dislike Mr. Laurence’s play,” Banneker pointed out. “Now, as delightful as it seemed to me, I can imagine that to other people—”

“Of course he could honestly dislike it,” put in the playwright hastily. “It isn’t that.”

“Of course he could genuinely dislike it,” the playwright interjected quickly. “That's not the issue.”

“It’s the mean, slurring way he treated it,” said the star “Mr. Banneker, just what did he say to you about it?”

“It’s the rude, slurring way he handled it,” said the star. “Mr. Banneker, what exactly did he say to you about it?”

Swiftly there leapt to his recollection the critic’s words, at the close of the second act. “It’s a relief to listen for once to comedy that is sincere and direct.” ... Then why, why—“He said that you were all that the play required and the play was all that you required,” he answered, which was also true, but another part of the truth. He was not minded to betray his associate.

Swiftly, he remembered the critic's words at the end of the second act. “It's a breath of fresh air to hear comedy that is genuine and straightforward.” ... So why, why—“He said that you were everything the play needed and the play was everything you needed,” he replied, which was true but only part of the truth. He didn’t want to betray his partner.

“He’s rotten,” murmured the manager, now busy on the margin of another paper. “But I dunno as he’s any rottener than the rest.”

“He's terrible,” the manager muttered, focusing on the edge of another paper. “But I don't know if he's any worse than the others.”

“On behalf of the profession of journalism, we thank you, Bezdek,” said one of the critics.

“On behalf of the journalism profession, we thank you, Bezdek,” said one of the critics.

“Don’t mind old Bez,” put in the elderly first-nighter. “He always says what he thinks he means, but he usually doesn’t mean it.”

“Don’t pay attention to old Bez,” said the elderly guy who comes every time. “He always says what he thinks he means, but he usually doesn’t actually mean it.”

“That is perhaps just as well,” said Banneker quite quietly, “if he means that The Ledger is not straight.”

“That might be a good thing,” Banneker replied calmly, “if he’s suggesting that The Ledger isn’t honest.”

“I didn’t say The Ledger. I said Gurney. He’s crooked as a corkscrew’s hole.”

“I didn’t mention The Ledger. I said Gurney. He’s as crooked as a corkscrew.”

There was a murmur of protest and apprehension, for this was going rather too far, which Banneker’s voice stilled. “Just a minute. By that you mean that he takes bribes?”

There was a murmur of protest and concern, as this was going a bit too far, which Banneker's voice calmed. “Hold on. Are you saying that he takes bribes?”

“Naw!” snorted Bezdek.

“No way!” snorted Bezdek.

“That he’s influenced by favoritism, then?”

"Are you saying he's influenced by favoritism?"

“I didn’t say so, did I?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?”

“You’ve said either too little or too much.”

“You’ve either said too little or too much.”

“I can clear this up, I think,” proffered the elderly first-nighter, in his courteous voice. “Mr. Gurney is perhaps more the writer than the critic. He is carried away by the felicitous phrase.”

“I can clear this up, I think,” offered the elderly first-nighter, in his polite tone. “Mr. Gurney is probably more of a writer than a critic. He gets caught up in the charming phrase.”

“He’d rather be funny than fair,” said Miss Raleigh bluntly.

“The curse of dramatic criticism,” murmured a magazine representative.

“The problem with dramatic criticism,” murmured a magazine representative.

“Rotten,” said Bezdek doggedly. “Crooked. Tryin’ to be funny at other folks’ expense. I’ll give his tail a twist!” By which he meant Mr. Gurney’s printed words.

“Rotten,” Bezdek said insistently. “Crooked. Trying to be funny at other people's expense. I’ll give his tail a twist!” He was referring to Mr. Gurney’s printed words.

“Apropos of the high cult of honesty,” remarked Banneker.

“Apropos of the high cult of honesty,” said Banneker.

“The curse of all journalism,” put in Laurence. “The temptation to be effective at the expense of honesty.”

“The curse of all journalism,” Laurence said. “The temptation to be successful at the cost of honesty.”

“And what do you think of that?” inquired the cheerful Marrineal, still directing his query to Banneker.

“And what do you think of that?” asked the cheerful Marrineal, still addressing Banneker.

“I think it’s rather a large order. Why do you keep asking my opinion?”

“I think it’s quite a big request. Why do you keep asking for my opinion?”

“Because I suspect that you still bring a fresh mind to bear on these matters.”

“Because I think you still approach these issues with a fresh perspective.”

Banneker rose, and bade Betty Raleigh good-night. She retained his hand in hers, looking up at him with a glint of anxiety in her weary, childlike eyes. “Don’t mind what we’ve said,” she appealed to him. “We’re all a little above ourselves. It’s always so after an opening.”

Banneker got up and said goodnight to Betty Raleigh. She held onto his hand, looking up at him with a hint of worry in her tired, innocent eyes. “Don't take what we said too seriously,” she urged him. “We all get a bit carried away. It always happens after an opening.”

“I don’t mind at all,” he returned gravely: “unless it’s true.”

“I don’t mind at all,” he replied seriously, “unless it’s true.”

“Ah, it’s true right enough,” she answered dispiritedly. “Don’t forget about the investigation. And don’t let them dare to put you on on a matinée day.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely true,” she replied, feeling down. “Don’t forget about the investigation. And don’t let them even think about putting you on a matinée day.”

Betty Raleigh was a conspicuous figure, at not one but half a dozen sessions of the investigation, which wound through an accelerating and sensational course, with Banneker as the chief figure. He was an extraordinary witness, ready, self-possessed, good-humored under the heckling of the politician lawyer who had claimed and received the right to appear, on the ground that his police clients might be summoned later on a criminal charge.

Betty Raleigh stood out prominently at not just one but several sessions of the investigation, which unfolded in an increasingly dramatic way, with Banneker as the main participant. He was an impressive witness, composed, confident, and friendly despite the tough questioning from the political lawyer who had asserted his right to be there, claiming that his police clients might be called later for criminal charges.

Before the proceedings were over, a complete overturn in the city government was foreshadowed, and it became evident that Judge Enderby might either head the movement as its candidate, or control it as its leader. Nobody, however, knew what he wished or intended politically. Every now and again in the progress of the hearings, Banneker would surprise on the lawyer’s face an expression which sent his memory questing fruitlessly for determination of that elusive likeness, flickering dimly in the past.

Before the proceedings wrapped up, a total shake-up in the city government was anticipated, and it was clear that Judge Enderby could either lead the movement as a candidate or steer it as its leader. However, no one knew his political intentions or desires. Occasionally during the hearings, Banneker would catch an expression on the lawyer’s face that made him search his memory in vain for a clear recognition of that elusive resemblance, faintly flickering in his past.

Banneker’s own role in the investigation kept him in the headlines; at times put him on the front page. Even The Ledger could only minimize, not suppress, his dominating and picturesque part.

Banneker’s involvement in the investigation kept him in the news; at times, he was even on the front page. Even The Ledger could only downplay, not hide, his prominent and colorful role.

But there was another and less pleasant sequel to the shooting, in its effect upon the office status. Though he was a “space-man” now, dependent for his earnings upon the number of columns weekly which he had in the paper, and ostensibly equipped to handle matter of importance, a long succession of the pettiest kind of assignments was doled out to him by the city desk: obituary notices of insignificant people, small police items, tipsters’ yarns, routine jobs such as ship news, police headquarters substitution, even the minor courts usually relegated to the fifteen or twenty-dollar-a-week men. Or, worst and most grinding ordeal of a reporter’s life, he was kept idle at his desk, like a misbehaving boy after school, when all the other men had been sent out. One week his total space came to but twenty-eight dollars odd. What this meant was plain enough; he was being disciplined for his part in the investigation.

But there was another, less pleasant result of the shooting that affected his standing at the office. Even though he was now a “space-man,” relying on the number of columns he could produce each week for his pay and seemingly qualified to handle important matters, the city desk assigned him a long string of trivial tasks: obituaries for insignificant people, small police reports, stories from tipsters, routine jobs like ship news, police headquarters updates, and even minor court cases usually given to the lower-paid reporters. Or, the worst and most frustrating part of a reporter's life, he was kept at his desk doing nothing, like a misbehaving kid after school, while all the other reporters were sent out. One week, he only earned about twenty-eight dollars. It was clear what that meant; he was being punished for his involvement in the investigation.

Out of the open West which, under the rigor of the game, keeps its temper and its poise, Banneker had brought the knack of setting his teeth and smiling so serenely that one never even perceived the teeth to be set behind the smile. This ability stood him in good stead now. In his time of enforced leisure he bethought himself of the sketches which Miss Westlake had typed. With his just and keen perception, he judged them not to be magazine matter. But they might do as “Sunday stuff.” He turned in half a dozen of them to Mr. Homans. When next he saw them they were lying, in uncorrected proof, on the managing editor’s desk while Mr. Gordon gently rapped his knuckles over them.

Out of the open West, which manages to stay composed and balanced under pressure, Banneker had developed the skill of gritting his teeth and smiling so calmly that no one even noticed his tension behind that smile. This talent served him well now. During his unexpected free time, he remembered the sketches that Miss Westlake had typed up. With his sharp and fair judgment, he decided they weren’t suitable for magazines. However, they could work as “Sunday pieces.” He submitted about six of them to Mr. Homans. The next time he saw them, they were sitting in unedited proof on the managing editor’s desk while Mr. Gordon lightly tapped his knuckles against them.

“Where did you get the idea for these, Mr. Banneker?” he asked.

“Where did you come up with this idea, Mr. Banneker?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It came to me.”

“I don’t know. It just came to me.”

“Would you care to sign them?”

“Would you like to sign them?”

“Sign them?” repeated the reporter in surprise, for this was a distinction afforded to only a choice few on the conservative Ledger.

“Sign them?” the reporter repeated in surprise, since this was a privilege given to only a select few on the conservative Ledger.

“Yes. I’m going to run them on the editorial page. Do us some more and keep them within the three-quarters. What’s your full name?”

“Yes. I’m going to publish them on the editorial page. Please create some more and keep them to three-quarters. What’s your full name?”

“I’d like to sign them ‘Eban,’” answered the other, after some thought. “And thank you.”

“I’d like to sign them ‘Eban,’” the other replied after thinking for a moment. “And thank you.”

Assignments or no assignments, thereafter Banneker was able to fill his idle time. Made adventurous by the success of the “Vagrancies,” he next tried his hand at editorials on light or picturesque topics, and with satisfying though not equal results, for here he occasionally stumbled upon the hard-rooted prejudices of the Inside Office, and beheld his efforts vanish into the irreclaimable limbo of the scrap-basket. Nevertheless, at ten dollars per column for this kind of writing, he continued to make a decent space bill, and clear himself of the doldrums where the waning of the city desk’s favor had left him. All that he could now make he needed, for his change of domicile had brought about a corresponding change of habit and expenditure into which he slipped imperceptibly. To live on fifteen dollars a week, plus his own small income, which all went for “extras,” had been simple, at Mrs. Brashear’s. To live on fifty at the Regalton was much more of a problem. Banneker discovered that he was a natural spender. The discovery caused him neither displeasure nor uneasiness. He confidently purposed to have money to spend; plenty of it, as a mere, necessary concomitant to other things that he was after. Good reporters on space, working moderately, made from sixty to seventy-five dollars a week. Banneker set himself a mark of a hundred dollars. He intended to work very hard ... if Mr. Greenough would give him a chance.

Assignments or no assignments, after that Banneker was able to fill his free time. Encouraged by the success of the “Vagrancies,” he next tried his hand at writing editorials on light or picturesque topics, with satisfying though not equal results. Here, he sometimes ran into the deep-seated prejudices of the Inside Office, and saw his efforts disappear into the unclaimable void of the scrap-basket. Still, at ten dollars per column for this type of writing, he managed to earn a decent amount and pull himself out of the slump that the decline of the city desk’s favor had left him in. He needed every bit of what he could earn since his move had led to a change in habits and spending that he slipped into without noticing. Living on fifteen dollars a week, plus his small income for “extras,” had been easy at Mrs. Brashear’s. Living on fifty at the Regalton was a much bigger challenge. Banneker found that he was a natural spender. This realization didn’t upset him; he confidently aimed to have money to spend—plenty of it, as a necessary part of pursuing other goals. Good reporters on space, working moderately, earned between sixty and seventy-five dollars a week. Banneker set his goal at a hundred dollars. He planned to work very hard... if Mr. Greenough would give him the opportunity.

Mr. Greenough’s distribution of the day’s news continued to be distinctly unfavorable to the new space-man. The better men on the staff began to comment on the city desk’s discrimination. Banneker had, for a time, shone in heroic light: his feat had been honorable, not only to The Ledger office, but to the entire craft of reporting. In the investigation he had borne himself with unexceptionable modesty and equanimity. That he should be “picked on” offended that generous esprit de corps which was natural to the office. Tommy Burt was all for referring the matter to Mr. Gordon.

Mr. Greenough’s coverage of the day’s news continued to be largely negative for the new space-man. The better members of the team started to comment on the city desk’s bias. Banneker had, for a while, been viewed as a hero: his achievement had been commendable, not just for The Ledger office, but for the entire field of reporting. During the investigation, he had conducted himself with admirable modesty and composure. The fact that he should be “targeted” upset that generous esprit de corps which was typical in the office. Tommy Burt was all for bringing the issue to Mr. Gordon.

“You mind your own business, Tommy,” said Banneker placidly. “Our friend the Joss will stick his foot into a gopher hole yet.”

“You mind your own business, Tommy,” Banneker said calmly. “Our friend the Joss is going to step into a gopher hole eventually.”

The assignment that afforded Banneker his chance was of the most unpromising. An old builder, something of a local character over in the Corlears Hook vicinity, had died. The Ledger, Mr. Greenough informed Banneker, in his dry, polite manner, wanted “a sufficient obit” of the deceased. Banneker went to the queer, decrepit frame cottage at the address given, and there found a group of old Sam Corpenshire’s congeners, in solemn conclave over the dead. They welcomed the reporter, and gave him a ceremonial drink of whiskey, highly superior whiskey. They were glad that he had come to write of their dead friend. If ever a man deserved a good write-up, it was Sam Corpenshire. From one mouth to another they passed the word of his shrewd dealings, of his good-will to his neighbors, of his ripe judgment, of his friendliness to all sound things and sound men, of his shy, sly charities, of the thwarted romance, which, many years before, had left him lonely but unembittered; and out of it Banneker, with pen too slow for his eager will, wove not a two-stick obit, but a rounded column shot through with lights that played upon the little group of characters, the living around the dead, like sunshine upon an ancient garden.

The assignment that gave Banneker his opportunity was quite unpromising. An old builder, a bit of a local legend over in the Corlears Hook area, had passed away. Mr. Greenough informed Banneker, with his dry, polite demeanor, that the Ledger wanted “a decent obituary” for the deceased. Banneker went to the strange, rundown frame cottage at the address provided and found a group of Sam Corpenshire’s friends gathered solemnly over the dead man. They welcomed the reporter and offered him a ceremonial drink of whiskey, high-quality whiskey at that. They were pleased he had come to write about their dead friend. If there was ever a man who deserved a good obituary, it was Sam Corpenshire. One after another, they shared stories of his sharp business dealings, his kindness to neighbors, his sound judgment, his friendliness towards good people and good causes, his quiet but meaningful charitable acts, and the thwarted romance that had left him lonely but unbittered many years ago. From all of this, Banneker, with a pen that lagged behind his eager thoughts, crafted not just a simple obituary, but a vibrant piece that illuminated the small group of characters, the living surrounding the dead, like sunlight streaming over an ancient garden.

Even Mr. Greenough congratulated Banneker, the next morning. In the afternoon mail came a note from Mr. Gaines of The New Era monthly. That perspicuous editor had instantly identified the style of the article with that of the “Eban” series, part of which he had read in typograph. He wrote briefly but warmly of the work: and would the writer not call and see him soon?

Even Mr. Greenough congratulated Banneker the next morning. In the afternoon, a note arrived from Mr. Gaines of The New Era monthly. That keen editor had quickly recognized the article's style as similar to the “Eban” series, part of which he had seen in print. He wrote briefly but warmly about the work and invited the writer to come see him soon.

Perhaps the reporter might have accepted the significant invitation promptly, as he at first intended. But on the following morning he found in his box an envelope under French stamp, inscribed with writing which, though he had seen but two specimens of it, drove everything else out of his tumultuous thoughts. He took it, not to his desk, but to a side room of the art department, unoccupied at that hour, and opened it with chilled and fumbling hands.

Perhaps the reporter should have quickly accepted the important invitation, just like he initially planned. But the next morning, he discovered an envelope with a French stamp in his mailbox, marked with handwriting that, although he had only seen two examples of it, pushed everything else out of his chaotic mind. He took it, not to his desk, but to an empty side room in the art department, where he opened it with cold, shaky hands.

Within was a newspaper clipping, from a Paris edition of an American daily. It gave a brief outline of the battle on the pier. In pencil on the margin were these words:

Within was a newspaper clipping from a Paris edition of an American daily. It provided a brief summary of the battle on the pier. In pencil on the margin were these words:

“Do you remember practicing, that day, among the pines? I’m so proud! Io.”

“Do you remember practicing that day among the pines? I’m so proud! Io.”

He read it again. The last sentence affected him with a sensation of dizziness. Proud! Of his deed! It gave him the feeling that she had reclaimed, reappropriated him. No! That she had never for a moment released him. In a great surge, sweeping through his veins, he felt the pressure of her breast against his, the strong enfoldment of her arms, her breath upon his lips. He tore envelope and clipping into fragments.

He read it again. The last sentence hit him like a wave of dizziness. Proud! Of what he had done! It made him feel like she had taken him back, like she had never really let him go. In a rush, flowing through his veins, he felt the weight of her chest against his, the solid embrace of her arms, her breath on his lips. He ripped the envelope and clipping into pieces.

By one of those strange associations of linked memory, such as “clangs and flashes for a drowning man,” he sharply recalled where he had seen Willis Enderby before. His was the face in the photograph to which Camilla Van Arsdale had turned when death stretched out a hand toward her.

By one of those weird connections in memory, like “bangs and flashes for someone about to drown,” he suddenly remembered where he had seen Willis Enderby before. It was the face in the photo that Camilla Van Arsdale had looked at when death reached out for her.

CHAPTER X

While the police inquiry was afoot, Banneker was, perforce, often late in reporting for duty, the regular hour being twelve-thirty. Thus the idleness which the city desk had imposed upon him was, in a measure, justified. On a Thursday, when he had been held in conference with Judge Enderby, he did not reach The Ledger office until after two. Mr. Greenough was still out for luncheon. No sooner had Banneker entered the swinging gate than Mallory called to him. On the assistant city editor’s face was a peculiar expression, half humorous, half dubious, as he said:

While the police investigation was ongoing, Banneker often arrived late for work, with the usual start time being twelve-thirty. So, the downtime that the city desk had enforced on him was somewhat justified. On a Thursday, after being in a meeting with Judge Enderby, he didn’t get to The Ledger office until after two. Mr. Greenough was still out for lunch. As soon as Banneker walked through the swinging gate, Mallory called out to him. The assistant city editor had a strange look on his face, a mix of humorous and doubtful, as he said:

“Mr. Greenough has left an assignment for you.”

“Mr. Greenough has assigned you some work.”

“All right,” said Banneker, stretching out his hand for the clipping or slip. None was forthcoming.

“All right,” said Banneker, extending his hand for the clipping or slip. None was available.

“It’s a tip,” explained Mallory. “It’s from a pretty convincing source. The gist of it is that the Delavan Eyres have separated and a divorce is impending. You know, of course, who the Eyres are.”

“It’s a tip,” Mallory explained. “It’s from a pretty credible source. Basically, the Delavan Eyres have split up and a divorce is on the way. You know who the Eyres are, right?”

“I’ve met Eyre.”

“That so? Ever met his wife?”

"Is that so? Have you ever met his wife?"

“No,” replied Banneker, in good faith.

“No,” Banneker replied, sincerely.

“No; you wouldn’t have, probably. They travel different paths. Besides, she’s been practically living abroad. She’s a stunner. It’s big society stuff, of course. The best chance of landing the story is from Archie Densmore, her half-brother. The international polo-player, you know. You’ll find him at The Retreat, down on the Jersey coast.”

“No; you probably wouldn’t have. They’re on different paths. Plus, she’s been almost living overseas. She’s a knockout. It’s definitely high society stuff. Your best bet for getting the story is through Archie Densmore, her half-brother. The international polo player, you know. You’ll find him at The Retreat, down on the Jersey coast.”

The Retreat Banneker had heard of as being a bachelor country club whose distinguishing marks were a rather Spartan athleticism, and a more stiffly hedged exclusiveness than any other social institution known to the élite of New York and Philadelphia, between which it stood midway.

The Retreat Banneker was known as a bachelor country club marked by a somewhat minimalist athleticism and a more rigid exclusivity than any other social institution recognized by the élite of New York and Philadelphia, which it was situated between.

“Then I’m to go and ask him,” said Banneker slowly, “whether his sister is suing for divorce?”

“Then I’m supposed to go ask him,” said Banneker slowly, “if his sister is filing for divorce?”

“Yes,” confirmed Mallory, a trifle nervously. “Find out who’s to be named, of course. I suppose it’s that new dancer, though there have been others. And there was a quaint story about some previous attachment of Mrs. Eyre’s: that might have some bearing.”

“Yes,” confirmed Mallory, a bit nervously. “Find out who’s going to be named, of course. I think it's that new dancer, although there have been others. And there was an interesting story about some past relationship of Mrs. Eyre’s: that might be relevant.”

“I’m to ask her brother about that, too?”

“I should ask her brother about that, too?”

“We want the story,” answered Mallory, almost petulantly.

“We want the story,” Mallory replied, sounding a bit whiny.

On the trip down into Jersey the reporter had plenty of time to consider his unsavory task. Some one had to do this kind of thing, so long as the public snooped and peeped and eavesdropped through the keyhole of print at the pageant of the socially great: this he appreciated and accepted. But he felt that it ought to be some one other than himself—and, at the same time, was sufficiently just to smile at himself for his illogical attitude.

On the ride down to Jersey, the reporter had plenty of time to think about his unpleasant task. Someone had to do this kind of work, as long as the public was prying and listening through the pages of print to catch a glimpse of the socially elite; he understood and accepted that. But he felt it should be someone else instead of him—and at the same time, was fair enough to chuckle at himself for his contradictory feelings.

A surprisingly good auto was found in the town of his destination, to speed him to the stone gateway of The Retreat. The guardian, always on duty there, passed him with a civil word, and a sober-liveried flunkey at the clubhouse door, after a swift, unobtrusive consideration of his clothes and bearing, took him readily for granted, and said that Mr. Densmore would be just about going on the polo field for practice. Did the gentleman know his way to the field? Seeing the flag on the stable, Banneker nodded, and walked over. A groom pointed out a spare, powerful looking young man with a pink face, startlingly defined by a straight black mustache and straighter black eyebrows, mounting a light-built roan, a few rods away. Banneker accosted him.

A surprisingly nice car was found in the town he was heading to, ready to take him to the stone entrance of The Retreat. The caretaker, always on duty there, greeted him politely, and a soberly dressed valet at the clubhouse door, after a quick, discreet assessment of his clothes and demeanor, accepted him without question, saying that Mr. Densmore would be just about heading to the polo field for practice. Did the gentleman know how to get to the field? Noticing the flag on the stable, Banneker nodded and made his way over. A groom pointed out a spare, strong-looking young man with a pink face, sharply contrasted by a straight black mustache and equally straight black eyebrows, getting on a light-colored roan a short distance away. Banneker approached him.

“Yes, my name is Densmore,” he answered the visitor’s accost.

“Yes, my name is Densmore,” he replied to the visitor's approach.

“I’m a reporter from The Ledger,” explained Banneker.

“I’m a reporter for The Ledger,” Banneker explained.

“A reporter?” Mr. Densmore frowned. “Reporters aren’t allowed here, except on match days. How did you get in?”

“Nobody stopped me,” answered the visitor in an expressionless tone.

“Everyone just let me through,” replied the visitor with a blank expression.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the other, “since you’re here. What is it; the international challenge?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the other, “since you’re here. What’s up; the international challenge?”

“A rumor has come to us—There’s a tip come in at the office—We understood that there is—” Banneker pulled himself together and put the direct question. “Is Mrs. Delavan Eyre bringing a divorce suit against her husband?”

“A rumor has reached us—There’s a lead come in at the office—We heard that there is—” Banneker gathered himself and asked directly. “Is Mrs. Delavan Eyre filing for divorce from her husband?”

For a time there was a measured silence. Mr. Densmore’s heavy brows seemed to jut outward and downward toward the questioner.

For a while, there was a deliberate silence. Mr. Densmore’s thick eyebrows looked like they were pushing outward and downward toward the person asking the question.

“You came out here from New York to ask me that?” he said presently.

“You came all the way out here from New York to ask me that?” he said after a moment.

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Anything else?”

"Anything more?"

“Yes. Who is named as co-respondent? And will there be a defense, or a counter-suit?”

“Yes. Who is listed as the co-respondent? And will there be a defense or a counter-suit?”

“A counter-suit,” repeated the man in the saddle quietly. “I wonder if you realize what you’re asking?”

“A counter-suit,” the man in the saddle said quietly. “I wonder if you understand what you're asking for?”

“I’m trying to get the news,” said Banneker doggedly striving to hold to an ideal which momentarily grew more sordid and tawdry.

“I’m trying to get the news,” said Banneker determinedly, striving to hold onto an ideal that momentarily became more grimy and cheap.

“And I wonder if you realize how you ought to be answered.”

“And I wonder if you realize how you should be answered.”

Yes; Banneker realized, with a sick realization. But he was not going to admit it. He kept silence.

Yes; Banneker understood, with a painful awareness. But he wasn't going to acknowledge it. He stayed silent.

“If this polo mallet were a whip, now,” observed Mr. Densmore meditatively. “A dog-whip, for preference.”

“If this polo mallet were a whip, though,” Mr. Densmore said thoughtfully. “A dog whip, preferably.”

Under the shameful threat Banneker’s eyes lightened. Here at least was something he could face like a man. His undermining nausea mitigated.

Under the shameful threat, Banneker's eyes brightened. Here was something he could confront like a man. His overwhelming nausea lessened.

“What then?” he inquired in tones as level as those of his opponent.

“What then?” he asked in a tone as even as that of his opponent.

“Why, then I’d put a mark on you. A reporter’s mark.”

“Then I’d put a mark on you. A reporter’s mark.”

“I think not.”

"I don't think so."

“Oh; you think not?” The horseman studied him negligently. Trained to the fineness of steel in the school of gymnasium, field, and tennis court, he failed to recognize in the man before him a type as formidable, in its rugged power, as his own. “Or perhaps I’d have the grooms do it for me, before they threw you over the fence.”

“Oh, you don’t think so?” The horseman examined him casually. Trained to be as sharp as steel in the gym, on the field, and on the tennis court, he didn’t see in the man in front of him a type as tough and powerful as himself. “Or maybe I’d just have the grooms handle it for me before they toss you over the fence.”

“It would be safer,” allowed the other, with a smile that surprised the athlete.

“It would be safer,” said the other, smiling in a way that surprised the athlete.

“Safer?” he repeated. “I wasn’t thinking of safety.”

“Safer?” he repeated. “I wasn’t thinking about safety.”

“Think of it,” advised the visitor; “for if you set your grooms on me, they could perhaps throw me out. But as sure as they did I’d kill you the next time we met.”

“Think about it,” the visitor advised; “if you send your grooms after me, they might be able to throw me out. But just know that if they do, I’d make sure to kill you the next time we meet.”

Densmore smiled. “You!” he said contemptuously. “Kill, eh? Did you ever kill any one?”

Densmore smirked. “You!” he said with disdain. “Kill, huh? Have you ever actually killed someone?”

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

Under their jet brows Densmore’s eyes took on a peculiar look of intensity. “A Ledger reporter,” he murmured. “See here! Is your name Banneker, by any chance?”

Under his dark brows, Densmore's eyes had a strange look of intensity. "A Ledger reporter," he murmured. "Hey! Is your name Banneker, by any chance?"

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“You’re the man who cleared out the wharf-gang.”

“You're the guy who took out the wharf gang.”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

Densmore had been born and brought up in a cult to which courage is the basic, inclusive virtue for mankind, as chastity is for womankind. To his inground prejudice a man who was simply and unaffectedly brave must by that very fact be fine and admirable. And this man had not only shown an iron nerve, but afterward, in the investigation, which Densmore had followed, he had borne himself with the modesty, discretion, and good taste of the instinctive gentleman. The poloist was almost pathetically at a loss. When he spoke again his whole tone and manner had undergone a vital transformation.

Densmore had been born and raised in a cult where courage was the fundamental virtue for men, just as chastity was for women. To him, a man who was simply and genuinely brave was automatically admirable. This man hadn’t just shown incredible nerve; later, during the investigation that Densmore had followed, he had conducted himself with the modesty, discretion, and good taste of a natural gentleman. The polo player was almost humorously at a loss. When he spoke again, his entire tone and demeanor had changed dramatically.

“But, good God!” he cried in real distress and bewilderment, “a fellow who could do what you did, stand up to those gun-men in the dark and alone, to be garbaging around asking rotten, prying questions about a man’s sister! No! I don’t get it.”

“But, good God!” he exclaimed in genuine distress and confusion, “someone who could do what you did, face those armed men in the dark and by yourself, to be rummaging around asking disgusting, nosy questions about a guy’s sister! No way! I don’t understand.”

Banneker felt the blood run up into his face, under the sting of the other’s puzzled protest, as it would never have done under open contempt or threat. A miserable, dull hopelessness possessed him. “It’s part of the business,” he muttered.

Banneker felt his face flush with heat from the sting of the other’s confused protest, something he wouldn’t have felt under open scorn or threat. A heavy, dull hopelessness washed over him. “It’s part of the job,” he muttered.

“Then it’s a rotten business,” retorted the horseman. “Do you have to do this?”

“Then it’s a terrible situation,” replied the horseman. “Do you really have to do this?”

“Somebody has to get the news.”

“Someone needs to get the news.”

“News! Scavenger’s filth. See here, Banneker, I’m sorry I roughed you about the whip. But, to ask a man questions about the women of his own family—No: I’m damned if I get it.” He lost himself in thought, and when he spoke again it was as much to himself as to the man on the ground. “Suppose I did make a frank statement: you can never trust the papers to get it straight, even if they mean to, which is doubtful. And there’s Io’s name smeared all over—Hel-lo! What’s the matter, now?” For his horse had shied away from an involuntary jerk of Banneker’s muscles, responsive to electrified nerves, so sharply as to disturb the rider’s balance.

“News! Scavenger’s mess. Look, Banneker, I’m sorry I gave you a hard time about the whip. But asking a man questions about the women in his own family—no way: I’m damned if I get that.” He got lost in his thoughts, and when he spoke again, it was as much to himself as to the guy on the ground. “What if I made a straightforward statement: you can never rely on the papers to get it right, even if they intend to, which is questionable. And Io’s name is all over the place—Hel-lo! What’s going on now?” His horse had suddenly shied away from an involuntary jerk of Banneker’s muscles, reacting to electrified nerves, so sharply that it threw off the rider’s balance.

“What name did you say?” muttered Banneker, involuntarily.

“What name did you say?” Banneker muttered, almost without thinking.

“Io. My foster-sister’s nickname. Irene Welland, she was. You’re a queer sort of society reporter if you don’t know that.”

“Io. My foster sister’s nickname. Irene Welland, that was her name. You’re a strange kind of society reporter if you don’t know that.”

“I’m not a society reporter.”

"I'm not a lifestyle reporter."

“But you know Mrs. Eyre?”

“Yes; in a way,” returned Banneker, gaining command of himself. “Officially, you might say. She was in a railroad wreck that I stage-managed out West. I was the local agent.”

“Yes, in a way,” Banneker replied, regaining his composure. “Officially, you could say. She was in a train accident that I managed out West. I was the local agent.”

“Then I’ve heard about you,” replied Densmore with interest, though he had heard only what little Io had deemed it advisable that he should know. “You helped my sister when she was hurt. We owe you something for that.”

“Then I’ve heard about you,” replied Densmore with interest, though he had only heard what little Io thought he should know. “You helped my sister when she was hurt. We owe you for that.”

“Official duty.”

“Work obligation.”

“That’s all right. But it was more than that. I recall your name now.” Densmore’s bearing had become that of a man to his equal. “I’ll tell you, let’s go up to the clubhouse and have a drink, shan’t we? D’ you mind just waiting here while I give this nag a little run to supple him up?”

"That's cool. But it was more than that. I remember your name now." Densmore stood like someone who saw his companion as an equal. "How about we head up to the clubhouse and grab a drink? Would you mind waiting here while I take this horse for a quick run to loosen him up?"

He was off, leaving Banneker with brain awhirl. To steady himself against this sudden flood of memory and circumstance, Banneker strove to focus his attention upon the technique of the horse and his rider. When they returned he said at once:

He left, leaving Banneker's head spinning. To calm himself against this sudden rush of memories and situations, Banneker tried to concentrate on the horse and its rider. When they came back, he immediately said:

“Are you going to play that pony?”

“Are you going to ride that pony?”

The horseman looked mildly surprised. “After he’s learned a bit more. Shapes up well, don’t you think?”

The horseman looked a bit surprised. “After he’s learned a little more. He’s shaping up nicely, don’t you think?”

“Speed him up to me and give him a sharp twist to the right, will you?”

“Can you speed him up to me and give him a quick turn to the right?”

Accepting the suggestion without comment, Densmore cantered away and brought the roan down at speed. To the rider, his mount seemed to make the sudden turn perfectly. But Banneker stepped out and examined the off forefoot with a dubious face.

Accepting the suggestion without a word, Densmore rode off and sped down on the roan. To the rider, his horse made the sudden turn flawlessly. But Banneker stepped out and checked the off forefoot with a skeptical expression.

“Breaks a little there,” he stated seriously.

“Breaks a little there,” he said seriously.

The horseman tried the turn again, throwing his weight over. This time he did feel a slightly perceptible “give.” “What’s the remedy?” he asked.

The horseman tried the turn again, shifting his weight. This time he did feel a slight "give." "What's the solution?" he asked.

“Build up the outer flange of the shoe. That may do it. But I shouldn’t trust him without a thorough test. A good pony’ll always overplay his safety a little in a close match.”

“Build up the outer edge of the shoe. That might do it. But I shouldn’t trust him without a proper test. A good pony will always be a bit extra cautious in a tight match.”

The implication of this expert view aroused Densmore’s curiosity. “You’ve played,” he said.

The implication of this expert opinion sparked Densmore’s curiosity. “You’ve played,” he said.

“No: I’ve never played. I’ve knocked the ball about a little.”

“No: I’ve never played. I’ve hit the ball around a bit.”

“Where?”

“Where at?”

“Out in Santa Barbara. With the stable-boys.”

“Out in Santa Barbara. With the stable guys.”

So simply was it said that Densmore returned, quite as simply: “Were you a stable-boy?”

So simply was it said that Densmore replied just as simply: “Were you a stable boy?”

“No such luck, then. Just a kid, out of a job.”

“No such luck, then. Just a kid, unemployed.”

Densmore dismounted, handed reins and mallet to the visitor and said, “Try a shot or two.”

Densmore got off his horse, handed the reins and mallet to the visitor, and said, “Give it a try, take a shot or two.”

Slipping his coat and waistcoat, Banneker mounted and urged the pony after the ball which the other sent spinning out across the field. He made a fairly creditable cut away to the left, following down and playing back moderately. While his mallet work was, naturally, uncertain, he played with a full, easy swing and in good form. But it was his horsemanship which specially commended itself to the critical eye of the connoisseur.

Slipping off his coat and waistcoat, Banneker got on and urged the pony after the ball that the other player sent rolling across the field. He made a decent cut to the left, following the ball and playing back moderately. Although his mallet skills were understandably a bit uncertain, he swung with confidence and maintained good form. However, it was his riding skills that really impressed the keen observer.

“Ridden range, haven’t you?” inquired the poloist when the other came in.

“Been out on the range, haven't you?” asked the polo player when the other person walked in.

“Quite a bit of it, in my time.”

“Now, I’ll tell you,” said Densmore, employing his favorite formula. “There’ll be practice later. It’s an off day and we probably won’t have two full teams. Let me rig you out, and you try it.”

“Now, let me tell you,” Densmore said, using his favorite line. “We’ll have practice later. It’s a day off, and we probably won’t have two complete teams. Let me set you up, and you give it a try.”

Banneker shook his head. “I’m here on business. I’m a reporter with a story to get.”

Banneker shook his head. “I’m here for work. I’m a reporter with a story to cover.”

“All right; it’s up to a reporter to stick until he gets his news,” agreed the other. “You dismiss your taxi, and stay out here and dine, and I’ll run you back to town myself. And at nine o’clock I’ll answer your question and answer it straight.”

“All right; it’s up to a reporter to stick around until he gets his news,” agreed the other. “You can cancel your taxi, stay out here and eat, and I’ll take you back to town myself. And at nine o'clock, I’ll answer your question and I’ll be straightforward about it.”

Banneker, gazing longingly at the bright turf of the field, accepted.

Banneker, staring wistfully at the bright grass of the field, agreed.

Polo is to The Retreat what golf is to the average country club. The news that Archie Densmore had a new player down for a try-out brought to the side-lines a number of the old-time followers of the game, including Poultney Masters, the autocrat of Wall Street and even more of The Retreat, whose stables he, in large measure, supported. In the third period, the stranger went in at Number Three on the pink team. He played rather poorly, but there was that in his style which encouraged the enthusiasts.

Polo is to The Retreat what golf is to a typical country club. The news that Archie Densmore had a new player coming in for a try-out attracted several of the long-time fans of the sport to the sidelines, including Poultney Masters, the boss of Wall Street and even more so of The Retreat, whose stables he largely funded. In the third period, the newcomer took the Number Three position on the pink team. He played somewhat poorly, but there was something about his style that motivated the fans.

“He’s material,” grunted old Masters, blinking his pendulous eyelids, as Banneker, accepting the challenge of Jim Maitland, captain of the opposing team and roughest of players, for a ride-off, carried his own horse through by sheer adroitness and daring, and left the other rolling on the turf. “Anybody know who he is?”

“He's tough,” grunted old Masters, blinking his droopy eyelids, as Banneker, taking on the challenge from Jim Maitland, the captain of the rival team and the roughest player, managed to maneuver his horse through with skill and guts, leaving the other one tumbling on the grass. “Anyone know who he is?”

“Heard Archie call him Banker, I think,” answered one of the great man’s hangers-on.

“Heard Archie call him Banker, I think,” replied one of the influential man’s associates.

Later, Banneker having changed, sat in an angled window of the clubhouse, waiting for his host, who had returned from the stables. A group of members entering the room, and concealed from him by an L, approached the fireplace talking briskly.

Later, Banneker having changed, sat in an angled window of the clubhouse, waiting for his host, who had returned from the stables. A group of members entered the room and, hidden from him by an L-shape, approached the fireplace chatting energetically.

“Dick says the feller’s a reporter,” declared one of them, a middle-aged man named Kirke. “Says he saw him tryin’ to interview somebody on the Street, one day.”

“Dick says the guy’s a reporter,” claimed one of them, a middle-aged man named Kirke. “He says he saw him trying to interview someone on the street, one day.”

“Well, I don’t believe it,” announced an elderly member. “This chap of Densmore’s looks like a gentleman and dresses like one. I don’t believe he’s a reporter. And he rides like a devil.”

“Well, I can’t believe it,” said an older member. “This guy Densmore brought looks like a gentleman and dresses the part. I doubt he’s a reporter. And he rides like a maniac.”

“I say there’s ridin’ and ridin’,” proclaimed Kirke. “Some fellers ride like jockeys; some fellers ride like cowboys; some fellers ride like gentlemen. I say this reporter feller don’t ride like a gentleman.”

I say there’s riding and riding,” Kirke declared. “Some guys ride like jockeys; some guys ride like cowboys; some guys ride like gentlemen. I say this reporter guy doesn’t ride like a gentleman.”

“Oh, slush!” said another discourteously. “What is riding like a gentleman?”

“Oh, come on!” said another rudely. “What does it mean to ride like a gentleman?”

Kirke reverted to the set argument of his type. “I’ll betcha a hundred he don’t!”

Kirke went back to his usual argument. “I’ll bet you a hundred he won’t!”

“Who’s to settle such a bet?”

“Who’s going to decide such a bet?”

“Leave it to Maitland,” said somebody.

“Leave it to Maitland,” someone said.

“I’ll leave it to Archie Densmore if you like,” offered the bettor belligerently.

“I’ll let Archie Densmore handle it if that works for you,” the bettor said angrily.

“Leave it to Mr. Masters,” suggested Kirke.

“Let Mr. Masters handle it,” suggested Kirke.

“Why not leave it to the horse?”

“Why not let the horse handle it?”

The suggestion, coming in a level and unconcerned tone from the depths of the chair in which Banneker was seated, produced an electrical effect. Banneker spoke only because the elderly member had walked over to the window, and he saw that he must be discovered in another moment. Out of the astonished silence came the elderly member’s voice, gentle and firm.

The suggestion, delivered in a calm and indifferent tone from deep within the chair where Banneker was seated, had an electrifying impact. Banneker only spoke because the older member had moved to the window, and he realized he would soon be found out. Breaking the shocked silence, the older member's voice emerged, both gentle and steady.

“Are you the visitor we have been so frankly discussing?”

“Are you the guest we’ve been talking about so openly?”

“I assume so.”

"I guess so."

“Isn’t it rather unfortunate that you did not make your presence known sooner?”

“Isn’t it a bit unfortunate that you didn’t make yourself known earlier?”

“I hoped that I might have a chance to slip out unseen and save you embarrassment.”

“I hoped I could sneak out without anyone noticing and save you from feeling embarrassed.”

The other came forward at once with hand outstretched. “My name is Forster,” he said. “You’re Mr. Banker, aren’t you?”

The other person stepped up immediately with his hand extended. “I’m Forster,” he said. “You’re Mr. Banker, right?”

“Yes,” said Banneker, shaking hands. For various reasons it did not seem worth while to correct the slight error.

“Yes,” said Banneker, shaking hands. For various reasons, it didn’t seem worth it to correct the slight mistake.

“Look out! Here’s the old man,” said some one.

“Watch out! Here comes the old man,” someone said.

Poultney Masters plodded in, his broad paunch shaking with chuckles. “‘Leave it to the horse,’” he mumbled appreciatively. “‘Leave it to the horse.’ It’s good. It’s damned good. The right answer. Who but the horse should know whether a man rides like a gentleman! Where’s young Banneker?”

Poultney Masters walked in, his big belly jiggling from laughter. “‘Leave it to the horse,’” he said with a grin. “‘Leave it to the horse.’ It’s great. It’s really great. The perfect answer. Who better than the horse to know if a man rides like a gentleman! Where’s young Banneker?”

Forster introduced the two. “You’ve got the makings of a polo-man in you,” decreed the great man. “Where are you playing?”

Forster introduced the two. “You have the potential to be a polo player,” said the great man. “Where are you playing?”

“I’ve never really played. Just practiced.”

“I've never actually played. I just practiced.”

“Then you ought to be with us. Where’s Densmore? We’ll put you up and have you in by the next meeting.”

“Then you should join us. Where’s Densmore? We’ll take you in and have you ready for the next meeting.”

“A reporter in The Retreat!” protested Kirke who had proffered the bet.

“A reporter in The Retreat!” protested Kirke, who had made the bet.

“Why not?” snapped old Poultney Masters. “Got any objections?”

“Why not?” snapped old Poultney Masters. “Got any problems with that?”

Since the making or marring of his fortunes, like those of hundreds of other men, lay in the pudgy hollow of the financier’s hand, poor Kirke had no objections which he could not and did not at once swallow. The subject of the flattering offer had, however.

Since the rise or fall of his fortunes, like those of countless other men, rested in the chubby grip of the financier’s hand, poor Kirke had no objections that he couldn't and didn’t immediately swallow. The topic of the flattering offer had, however.

“I’m much obliged,” said he. “But I couldn’t join this club. Can’t afford it.”

“I really appreciate it,” he said. “But I can’t join this club. I can’t afford it.”

“You can’t afford not to. It’s a chance not many young fellows from nowhere get.”

“You can’t afford to pass this up. It’s an opportunity not many young guys from nowhere get.”

“Perhaps you don’t know what a reporter’s earnings are, Mr. Masters.”

“Maybe you’re not aware of what a reporter makes, Mr. Masters.”

The rest of the group had drifted away, in obedience, Banneker suspected, to some indication given by Masters which he had not perceived.

The rest of the group had moved away, likely in response to some signal from Masters that Banneker hadn't noticed.

“You won’t be a reporter long. Opportunities will open out for a young fellow of your kind.”

“You won’t be a reporter for long. Opportunities will come your way for a young guy like you.”

“What sort of opportunities?” inquired Banneker curiously.

“What kind of opportunities?” Banneker asked with curiosity.

“Wall Street, for example.”

“Wall Street, for instance.”

“I don’t think I’d like the game. Writing is my line. I’m going to stick to it.”

“I don’t think I’d enjoy the game. Writing is my thing. I’m going to stick with it.”

“You’re a fool,” barked Masters.

"You're a fool," shouted Masters.

“That is a word I don’t take from anybody,” stated Banneker.

“That is a word I won’t accept from anyone,” Banneker stated.

“You don’t take? Who the—” The raucous snarl broke into laughter, as the other leaned abruptly forward. “Banneker,” he said, “have you got me covered?”

“You don’t take? Who the—” The loud snarl turned into laughter as the other leaned in suddenly. “Banneker,” he said, “do you have me covered?”

Banneker laughed, too. Despite his brutal assumption of autocracy, it was impossible not to like this man. “No,” he answered. “I didn’t expect to be held up here. So I left my gun.”

Banneker laughed as well. Even with his harsh take on power, it was hard not to like this guy. “No,” he replied. “I didn’t think I’d be stopped here. So I left my gun.”

“You did a job on that pier,” affirmed the other. “But you’re a fool just the same—if you’ll take it with a smile.”

“You did great work on that pier,” the other person said. “But you’re still a fool—if you can take that with a smile.”

“I’ll think it over,” answered Banneker, as Densmore entered.

“I’ll think it over,” Banneker replied as Densmore walked in.

“Come and see me at the office,” invited Masters as he shambled pursily away.

“Come and see me at the office,” Masters invited as he awkwardly walked away.

Across the dining-table Densmore said to his guest: “So the Old Boy wants to put you up here.”

Across the dining table, Densmore said to his guest, “So the Old Boy wants to host you here.”

“Yes.”

"Yes."

“That means a sure election.”

“That means a guaranteed election.”

“But even if I could afford it, I’d get very little use of the club. You see, I have only one day off a week.”

“But even if I could afford it, I wouldn’t get much use out of the club. You see, I only have one day off each week.”

“It is a rotten business, for sure!” said Densmore sympathetically. “Couldn’t you get on night work, so you could play afternoons?”

“It’s a terrible situation, for sure!” said Densmore sympathetically. “Can’t you find a night job, so you can have afternoons free?”

“Play polo?” Banneker laughed. “My means would hardly support one pony.”

“Play polo?” Banneker chuckled. “I can barely afford one pony.”

“That’ll be all right,” returned the other nonchalantly. “There are always fellows glad to lend a mount to a good player. And you’re going to be that.”

“That’ll be fine,” the other replied casually. “There are always guys happy to lend a ride to a good player. And you’re going to be that.”

The high lust of the game took and shook Banneker for a dim moment. Then he recovered himself. “No. I couldn’t do that.”

The intense excitement of the game overwhelmed Banneker for a brief moment. Then he got a grip on himself. “No. I couldn’t do that.”

“Let’s leave it this way, then. Whether you join now or not, come down once in a while as my guest, and fill in for the scratch matches. Later you may be able to pick up a few nags, cheap.”

“Let’s keep it like this, then. Whether you join now or not, come down once in a while as my guest, and help out with the practice matches. Later you might be able to pick up a few cheap horses.”

“I’ll think it over,” said Banneker, as he had said to old Poultney Masters.

"I'll think about it," Banneker said, just like he had told old Poultney Masters.

Not until after the dinner did Banneker remind his host of their understanding. “You haven’t forgotten that I’m here on business?”

Not until after dinner did Banneker remind his host of their agreement. “You haven’t forgotten that I’m here for business, right?”

“No; I haven’t. I’m going to answer your question for publication. Mrs. Eyre has not the slightest intention of suing for divorce.”

“No; I haven’t. I’m going to answer your question for publication. Mrs. Eyre has no intention of suing for divorce.”

“About the separation?”

“Regarding the separation?”

“No. No separation, either. Io is traveling with friends and will be back in a few months.”

“That is authoritative?”

"Is that authoritative?"

“You can quote me, if you like, though I’d rather nothing were published, of course. And I give you my personal word that it’s true.”

“You can quote me if you want, but I’d prefer nothing gets published, of course. And I promise you that it’s true.”

“That’s quite enough.”

"That's plenty."

“So much for publication. What follows is private: just between you and me.”

“So much for publication. What comes next is personal: just between you and me.”

Banneker nodded. After a ruminative pause Densmore asked an abrupt question.

Banneker nodded. After a thoughtful pause, Densmore asked a sudden question.

“You found my sister after the wreck, didn’t you?”

“You found my sister after the accident, right?”

“Well; she found me.”

"Well, she found me."

“Was she hurt?”

"Did she get hurt?"

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Badly?”

"Poorly?"

“I think not. There was some concussion of the brain, I suppose. She was quite dazed.”

“I don't think so. There was some kind of concussion, I guess. She was really out of it.”

“Did you call a doctor?”

“Did you call the doctor?”

“No. She wouldn’t have one.”

"No. She wouldn't have one."

“You know Miss Van Arsdale, don’t you?”

“You know Miss Van Arsdale, right?”

“She’s the best friend I’ve got in the world,” returned Banneker, so impulsively that his interrogator looked at him curiously before continuing:

“She’s the best friend I have in the world,” Banneker responded impulsively, causing his interrogator to look at him with curiosity before proceeding:

“Did you see Io at her house?”

“Did you see Io at her place?”

“Yes; frequently,” replied Banneker, wondering to what this all tended, but resolved to be as frank as was compatible with discretion.

“Yes; often,” replied Banneker, curious about where this was all leading but determined to be as open as was appropriate.

“How did she seem?”

"How did she look?"

“She was as well off there as she could be anywhere.”

“Yes. But how did she seem? Mentally, I mean.”

“Yes. But how did she seem? I mean mentally.”

“Oh, that! The dazed condition cleared up at once.”

“Oh, that! The confusion went away right away.”

“I wish I were sure that it had ever cleared up,” muttered Densmore.

“I wish I could be sure that it ever cleared up,” Densmore muttered.

“Why shouldn’t you be sure?”

"Why shouldn't you be confident?"

“I’m going to be frank with you because I think you may be able to help me with a clue. Since she came back from the West, Io has been unlike herself. The family has never understood her marriage with Del Eyre. She didn’t really care for Del. [To his dismay, Banneker here beheld the glowing tip of his cigar perform sundry involuntary dips and curves. He hoped that his face was under better control.] The marriage was a fizzle. I don’t believe it lasted a month, really. Eyre had always been a chaser, though he did straighten out when he married Io. He really was crazy about her; but when she chucked him, he went back to his old hunting grounds. One can understand that. But Io; that’s different. She’s always played the game before. With Del, I don’t think she quite did. She quit: that’s the plain fact of it. Just tired of him. No other cause that I can find. Won’t get a divorce. Doesn’t want it. So there’s no one else in the case. It’s queer. It’s mighty queer. And I can’t help thinking that the old jar to her brain—”

“I’m going to be honest with you because I think you might help me with a clue. Since she came back from the West, Io hasn't been herself. The family has never understood her marriage to Del Eyre. She didn’t really care for Del. [To his dismay, Banneker saw the glowing tip of his cigar make a few involuntary dips and curves. He hoped his expression was under better control.] The marriage was a bust. I don’t think it lasted a month, honestly. Eyre had always been a player, but he settled down when he married Io. He really loved her; but when she dumped him, he went back to his old ways. One can understand that. But Io; that’s different. She’s always played the field before. With Del, I don’t think she really did. She quit: that’s the plain fact. Just got tired of him. No other reason that I can see. Won’t get a divorce. Doesn’t want one. So there’s no one else involved. It’s strange. It’s really strange. And I can’t help thinking that the old jar to her brain—”

“Have you suggested that to her?” asked Banneker as the other broke off to ruminate mournfully.

“Did you suggest that to her?” Banneker asked as the other person stopped to think sadly.

“Yes. She only laughed. Then she said that poor old Del wasn’t at fault except for marrying her in the face of a warning. I don’t know what she meant by it; hanged if I do. But, you see, it’s quite true: there’ll be no divorce or separation.... You’re sure she was quite normal when you last saw her at Miss Van Arsdale’s?”

“Yes. She just laughed. Then she said that poor old Del wasn’t to blame except for marrying her despite a warning. I have no idea what she meant by that; beats me. But, you see, it's completely true: there won't be any divorce or separation.... Are you sure she was completely fine when you last saw her at Miss Van Arsdale’s?”

“Absolutely. If you want confirmation, why not write Miss Van Arsdale yourself?”

“Definitely. If you need confirmation, why not just write to Miss Van Arsdale yourself?”

“No; I hardly think I’ll do that.... Now as to that gray you rode, I’ve got a chance to trade him.” And the talk became all of horse, which is exclusive and rejective of other interests, even of women.

“No; I really don’t think I’ll do that.... Now about that gray you rode, I’ve got a chance to trade him.” And the conversation turned entirely to horses, which excluded and dismissed other interests, even women.

Going back in the train, Banneker reviewed the crowding events of the day. At the bottom of his thoughts lay a residue, acid and stinging, the shame of the errand which had taken him to The Retreat, and which the memory of what was no less than a personal triumph could not submerge. That he, Errol Banneker, whose dealings with all men had been on the straight and level status of self-respect, should have taken upon him the ignoble task of prying into intimate affairs, of meekly soliciting the most private information in order that he might make his living out of it—not different in kind from the mendicancy which, even as a hobo, he had scorned—and that, at the end, he should have discerned Io Welland as the object of his scandal-chase; that fermented within him like something turned to foulness.

On the way back on the train, Banneker reflected on the chaotic events of the day. At the core of his thoughts was a lingering, bitter feeling—the shame of the mission that had led him to The Retreat, which the memory of what was undeniably a personal victory couldn't erase. That he, Errol Banneker, who had always treated everyone with respect and integrity, would take on the disgraceful job of prying into private matters, humbly asking for the most intimate details to make a living from it—not much different from the begging he had looked down upon even as a drifter—and that, in the end, he would uncover Io Welland as the target of his scandal-seeking; that festered within him like something gone putrid.

At the office he reported “no story.” Before going home he wrote a note to the city desk.

At the office, he reported "no story." Before heading home, he wrote a note to the city desk.

CHAPTER XI

Impenetrability of expression is doubtless a valuable attribute to a joss. Otherwise so many josses would not display it. Upon the stony and placid visage of Mr. Greenough, never more joss-like than when, on the morning after Banneker went to The Retreat, he received the resultant note, the perusal thereof produced no effect. Nor was there anything which might justly be called an expression, discernible between Mr. Greenough’s cloven chin-tip and Mr. Greenough’s pale fringe of hair, when, as Banneker entered the office at noon, he called the reporter to him. Banneker’s face, on the contrary, displayed a quite different impression; that of amiability.

The inability to express emotions is definitely a useful trait for a joss. Otherwise, so many josses wouldn’t show it. On the cold and calm face of Mr. Greenough, who looked the most joss-like when he received the note the morning after Banneker went to The Retreat, reading it had no impact at all. There wasn’t even a hint of an expression visible between Mr. Greenough’s split chin and his pale fringe of hair when Banneker walked into the office at noon, and he called the reporter over. In contrast, Banneker’s face showed a completely different mood; it was friendly.

“Nothing in the Eyre story, Mr. Banneker!”

“Not a thing.”

“Nothing at all.”

“You saw Mr. Densmore?”

"Did you see Mr. Densmore?"

“Yes, sir.”

"Yes, sir."

“Would he talk?”

"Will he talk?"

“Yes; he made a statement.”

“Yes, he made a statement.”

“It didn’t appear in the paper.”

“It didn’t show up in the newspaper.”

“There was nothing to it but unqualified denial.”

“There was nothing to it but a flat-out denial.”

“I see; I see. That’s all, Mr. Banneker.... Oh, by the way.”

“I understand; I understand. That’s it, Mr. Banneker.... Oh, by the way.”

Banneker, who had set out for his desk, turned back.

Banneker, who was on his way to his desk, turned around.

“I had a note from you this morning.”

“I got your note this morning.”

As this statement required no confirmation, Banneker gave it none.

As this statement didn’t need any confirmation, Banneker didn’t provide any.

“Containing your resignation.”

"Accepting your resignation."

“Conditional upon my being assigned to pry into society or private scandals or rumors of them.”

“Provided that I'm given the task of digging into social or personal scandals or the rumors surrounding them.”

“The Ledger does not recognize conditional resignation.”

“The Ledger does not acknowledge conditional resignation.”

“Very well.” Banneker’s smile was as sunny and untroubled as a baby’s.

“Very well.” Banneker’s smile was as bright and carefree as a baby’s.

“I suppose you appreciate that some one must cover this kind of news.”

"I guess you understand that someone has to report on this kind of news."

“Yes. It will have to be some one else.”

“Yes. It will have to be someone else.”

The faintest, fleeting suspicion of a frown troubled the Brahminical calm of Mr. Greenough’s brow, only to pass into unwrinkled blandness.

The slightest hint of a frown briefly disturbed the serene expression of Mr. Greenough, only to fade back into smooth composure.

“Further, you will recognize that, for the protection of the paper, I must have at call reporters ready to perform any emergency duty.”

“Additionally, you will understand that to protect the document, I need to have reporters on standby to handle any urgent tasks.”

“Perfectly,” agreed Banneker.

"Absolutely," agreed Banneker.

“Mr. Banneker,” queried Mr. Greenough in a semi-purr, “are you too good for your job?”

“Mr. Banneker,” asked Mr. Greenough in a somewhat smooth tone, “are you too good for your job?”

“Certainly.”

“Of course.”

For once the personification of city-deskness, secure though he was in the justice of his position, was discomfited. “Too good for The Ledger?” he demanded in protest and rebuke.

For once, the embodiment of city newsroom vibes, confident in the fairness of his role, was thrown off. “Too good for The Ledger?” he questioned, both in challenge and reprimand.

“Let me put it this way; I’m too good for any job that won’t let me look a man square between the eyes when I meet him on it.”

“Let me put it this way; I’m too good for any job that won’t let me look a man straight in the eyes when I meet him on it.”

“A dull lot of newspapers we’d have if all reporters took that view,” muttered Mr. Greenough.

“A boring bunch of newspapers we’d have if all reporters thought that way,” muttered Mr. Greenough.

“It strikes me that what you’ve just said is the severest kind of an indictment of the whole business, then,” retorted Banneker.

“It seems to me that what you just said is the harshest kind of criticism of the entire situation, then,” Banneker shot back.

“A business that is good enough for a good many first-class men, even though you may not consider it so for you. Possibly being for the time—for a brief time—a sort of public figure, yourself, has—”

“A business that works for a lot of top-notch guys, even if you don’t see it that way for yourself. Maybe being, for now—just for a short while—a kind of public figure, you have—”

“Nothing at all to do with it,” interrupted the urbane reporter. “I’ve always been this way. It was born in me.”

“Not at all related,” interrupted the suave reporter. “I’ve always been like this. It’s just who I am.”

“I shall consult with Mr. Gordon about this,” said Mr. Greenough, becoming joss-like again. “I hardly think—” But what it was that he hardly thought, the subject of his animadversions did not then or subsequently ascertain, for he was dismissed in the middle of the sentence with a slow, complacent nod.

“I’ll talk to Mr. Gordon about this,” Mr. Greenough said, becoming joss-like again. “I don’t really think—” But what he wasn’t really thinking about, the subject of his comments never found out, as he was interrupted in the middle of his sentence with a slow, satisfied nod.

Loss of his place, had it promptly followed, would not have dismayed the rebel. It did not follow. Nothing followed. Nothing, that is, out of the ordinary run. Mr. Gordon said no word. Mr. Greenough made no reference to the resignation. Tommy Burt, to whom Banneker had confided his action, was of opinion that the city desk was merely waiting “to hand you something so raw that you’ll have to buck it; something that not even Joe Bullen would take.” Joe Bullen, an undertaker’s assistant who had drifted into journalism through being a tipster, was The Ledger’s “keyhole reporter” (unofficial).

Loss of his position, if it had happened quickly, wouldn’t have upset the rebel. It didn’t happen. Nothing happened. Nothing, that is, out of the ordinary. Mr. Gordon didn’t say a word. Mr. Greenough didn’t mention the resignation. Tommy Burt, to whom Banneker had shared his decision, believed that the city desk was just waiting “to throw you something so outrageous that you’ll have to deal with it; something that not even Joe Bullen would touch.” Joe Bullen, an undertaker's assistant who had wandered into journalism by being a tipster, was The Ledger’s unofficial “keyhole reporter.”

“The joss is just tricky enough for that,” said Tommy. “He’ll want to put you in the wrong with Gordon. You’re a pet of the boss’s.”

“The joss is just tricky enough for that,” said Tommy. “He’ll want to make you look bad with Gordon. You’re one of the boss’s favorites.”

“Don’t blame Greenough,” said Banneker. “If you were on the desk you wouldn’t want reporters that wouldn’t take orders.”

“Don’t blame Greenough,” said Banneker. “If you were at the desk, you wouldn’t want reporters who wouldn’t follow instructions.”

Van Cleve, oldest in standing of any of the staff, approached Banneker with a grave face and solemn warnings. To leave The Ledger was to depart forever from the odor of journalistic sanctity. No other office in town was endurable for a gentleman. Other editors treated their men like muckers. The worst assignment given out from The Ledger desk was a perfumed cinch in comparison with what the average city room dealt out. And he gave a formidable sketch of the careers (invariably downhill) of reckless souls who had forsaken the true light of The Ledger for the false lures which led into outer and unfathomable darkness. By this system of subtly threatened excommunication had The Ledger saved to itself many a good man who might otherwise have gone farther and not necessarily fared worse. Banneker was not frightened. But he did give more than a thought to the considerate standards and generous comradeship of the office. Only—was it worth the price in occasional humiliation?

Van Cleve, the most senior staff member, approached Banneker with a serious expression and stern warnings. Leaving The Ledger meant permanently saying goodbye to the integrity of journalism. No other office in town could be tolerable for a gentleman. Other editors treated their staff like dirt. The worst assignment from The Ledger’s desk was a walk in the park compared to what the average city newsroom dished out. He painted a grim picture of the careers (always on the decline) of reckless individuals who abandoned the true light of The Ledger for the misleading temptations that led them into outer and unfathomable darkness. Through this subtle threat of being excommunicated, The Ledger had kept many good men from straying too far when they might have otherwise gone further and not necessarily fared worse. Banneker wasn’t scared. But he did reflect on the considerate standards and supportive camaraderie of the office. The only question was—was it worth the occasional humiliation?

Sitting, idle at his desk in one of the subsequent periods of penance, he bethought him of the note on the stationery of The New Era Magazine, signed, “Yours very truly, Richard W. Gaines.” Perhaps this was opportunity beckoning. He would go to see the Great Gaines.

Sitting at his desk during one of his later periods of reflection, he remembered the note on The New Era Magazine stationery, signed, “Yours very truly, Richard W. Gaines.” Maybe this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He decided to go see the Great Gaines.

The Great Gaines received him with quiet courtesy. He was a stubby, thick, bearded man who produced an instant effect of entire candor. So peculiar and exotic was this quality that it seemed to set him apart from the genus of humankind in an aura of alien and daunting honesty. Banneker recalled hearing of outrageous franknesses from his lips, directed upon small and great, and, most amazingly, accepted without offense, because of the translucent purity of the medium through which, as it were, the inner prophet had spoken. Besides, he was usually right.

The Great Gaines welcomed him with understated politeness. He was a short, stocky man with a thick beard who instantly gave off an air of total honesty. This unique and unusual quality made him stand out from other people, giving him an almost alien and intimidating sense of sincerity. Banneker remembered hearing about his brutally honest remarks, aimed at both minor and major topics, which were surprisingly accepted without offense due to the clear authenticity of the way the inner truth-teller expressed himself. Plus, he was usually right.

His first words to Banneker, after his greeting, were: “You are exceedingly well tailored.”

His first words to Banneker, after his greeting, were: “You look really well put together.”

“Does it matter?” asked Banneker, smiling.

“Does it matter?” Banneker asked with a smile.

“I’m disappointed. I had read into your writing midnight toil and respectable, if seedy, self-support.”

“I’m disappointed. I had seen the hard work in your writing late at night and a respectable, though shabby, self-reliance.”

“After the best Grub Street tradition? Park Row has outlived that.”

“After the best Grub Street tradition? Park Row has survived that.”

“I know your tailor, but what’s your college?” inquired this surprising man.

“I know your tailor, but which college did you go to?” asked this surprising man.

Banneker shook his head.

“At least I was right in that. I surmised individual education. Who taught you to think for yourself?”

“At least I was right about that. I figured out personal education. Who taught you to think for yourself?”

“My father.”

"My dad."

“It’s an uncommon name. You’re not a son of Christian Banneker, perhaps?”

“It’s a rare name. You’re not the son of Christian Banneker, are you?”

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“A mistaken man. Whoring after strange gods. Strange, sterile, and disappointing. But a brave soul, nevertheless. Yes; I knew him well. What did he teach you?”

“A confused man. Chasing after false gods. Odd, unfulfilling, and disappointing. But a courageous soul, nonetheless. Yes; I knew him well. What did he teach you?”

“He tried to teach me to stand on my own feet and see with my own eyes and think for myself.”

“He tried to teach me to stand on my own two feet, see with my own eyes, and think for myself.”

“Ah, yes! With one’s own eyes. So much depends upon whither one turns them. What have you seen in daily journalism?”

“Ah, yes! With your own eyes. So much depends on where you look. What have you seen in everyday journalism?”

“A chance. Possibly a great chance.”

“A chance. Maybe even a great chance.”

“To think for yourself?”

"Think for yourself?"

Banneker started, at this ready application of his words to the problem which was already outlining itself by small, daily limnings in his mind.

Banneker began to apply his thoughts to the problem that was already taking shape in his mind through small, daily sketches.

“To write for others what you think for yourself?” pursued the editor, giving sharpness and definition to the outline.

“To write for others what you think for yourself?” the editor pressed, sharpening the focus and clarity of the idea.

“Or,” concluded Mr. Gaines, as his hearer preserved silence, “eventually to write for others what they think for themselves?” He smiled luminously. “It’s a problem in stress: x = the breaking-point of honesty. Your father was an absurdly honest man. Those of us who knew him best honored him.”

“Or,” concluded Mr. Gaines, as his listener stayed quiet, “eventually to write for others what they think for themselves?” He smiled brightly. “It’s a problem in stress: x = the breaking point of honesty. Your father was incredibly honest. Those of us who knew him best respected him.”

“Are you doubting my honesty?” inquired Banneker, without resentment or challenge.

“Are you questioning my honesty?” Banneker asked, without resentment or challenge.

“Why, yes. Anybody’s. But hopefully, you understand.”

“Sure, anyone’s. But I hope you get it.”

“Or the honesty of the newspaper business?”

“Or is the newspaper business honest?”

A sigh ruffled the closer tendrils of Mr. Gaines’s beard. “I have never been a journalist in the Park Row sense,” he said regretfully. “Therefore I am conscious of solutions of continuity in my views. Park Row amazes me. It also appalls me. The daily stench that arises from the printing-presses. Two clouds; morning and evening.... Perhaps it is only the odor of the fertilizing agent, stimulating the growth of ideas. Or is it sheer corruption?”

A sigh stirred the nearby strands of Mr. Gaines’s beard. “I’ve never been a journalist in the Park Row way,” he said with regret. “So, I’m aware of the gaps in my perspective. Park Row fascinates me. It also horrifies me. The daily smell that comes from the printing presses. Two waves; morning and evening.... Maybe it’s just the scent of the fertilizer, encouraging the growth of ideas. Or is it just pure corruption?”

“Two stages of the same process, aren’t they?” suggested Banneker.

“Two stages of the same process, right?” suggested Banneker.

“Encouraging to think so. Yet labor in a fertilizing plant, though perhaps essential, is hardly conducive to higher thinking. You like it?”

“It's nice to think that way. But working in a fertilizer plant, while maybe necessary, doesn’t really help with deep thinking. Do you enjoy it?”

“I don’t accept your definition at all,” replied Banneker. “The newspapers are only a medium. If there is a stench, they do not originate it. They simply report the events of the day.”

“I don’t accept your definition at all,” replied Banneker. “The newspapers are just a medium. If there’s a stench, they don’t create it. They simply report what happens each day.”

“Exactly. They simply disseminate it.”

“Exactly. They just spread it.”

Banneker was annoyed at himself for flushing. “They disseminate news. We’ve got to have news, to carry on the world. Only a small fraction of it is—well, malodorous. Would you destroy the whole system because of one flaw? You’re not fair.”

Banneker was frustrated with himself for blushing. “They spread information. We need news to keep the world going. Only a tiny part of it is—well, bad. Would you ruin the entire system just because of one mistake? That’s not fair.”

“Fair? Of course I’m not. How should I be? No; I would not destroy the system. Merely deodorize it a bit. But I suppose the public likes the odors. It sniffs ’em up like—like Cyrano in the bake-shop. A marvelous institution, the public which you and I serve. Have you ever thought of magazine work, Mr. Banneker?”

“Fair? Of course I’m not. How could I be? No, I wouldn't destroy the system. Just freshen it up a bit. But I guess the public enjoys the smells. They sniff them up like—like Cyrano in the bakery. A remarkable institution, the public that you and I serve. Have you ever considered magazine work, Mr. Banneker?”

“A little.”

"A bit."

“There might be a considerable future there for you. I say ‘might.’ Nothing is more uncertain. But you have certain—er—stigmata of the writer—That article, now, about the funereal eulogies over the old builder; did you report that talk as it was?”

“There could be a significant future ahead for you. I say ‘could.’ Nothing is more uncertain. But you have some—um—traits of a writer. That article you wrote about the funeral speeches for the old builder; did you report that conversation accurately?”

“Approximately.”

"About."

“How approximately?”

"How about?"

“Well; the basic idea was there. The old fellows gave me that, and I fitted it up with talk. Surely there’s nothing dishonest in that,” protested Banneker.

“Well, the basic idea was there. The old guys came up with that, and I built on it with conversation. There’s nothing dishonest about that,” protested Banneker.

“Surely not,” agreed the other. “You gave the essence of the thing. That is a higher veracity than any literal reporting which would be dull and unreadable. I thought I recognized the fictional quality in the dialogue.”

“Of course not,” the other person agreed. “You captured the essence of it. That’s a higher truth than any literal reporting that would be boring and hard to read. I thought I noticed the fictional quality in the dialogue.”

“But it wasn’t fiction,” denied Banneker eagerly.

“But it wasn’t made up,” Banneker insisted eagerly.

The Great Gaines gave forth one of his oracles. “But it was. Good dialogue is talk as it should be talked, just as good fiction is life as it should be lived—logically and consecutively. Why don’t you try something for The New Era?”

The Great Gaines shared one of his insights. “But it was. Good dialogue is conversation that flows naturally, just like good fiction reflects life as it should be lived—logically and in a sequence. Why don’t you try something for The New Era?”

“I have.”

"I've."

“When?”

"When?"

“Before I got your note.”

“Before I received your note.”

“It never reached me.”

"It never got to me."

“It never reached anybody. It’s in my desk, ripening.”

“It never reached anyone. It’s in my desk, getting ready.”

“Send it along, green, won’t you? It may give more indications that way. And first work is likely to be valuable chiefly as indication.”

“Could you please send it over, green? It might provide more insights that way. And the initial work will probably be valuable mainly as a reference.”

“I’ll mail it to you. Before I go, would you mind telling me more definitely why you advise me against the newspaper business?”

“I'll send it to you. Before I leave, could you please tell me more specifically why you think I shouldn't go into the newspaper business?”

“I advise? I never advise as to questions of morals or ethics. I have too much concern with keeping my own straight.”

“I give advice? I never give advice about morals or ethics. I’m too focused on keeping my own in line.”

“Then it is a question of morals?”

“Then it is a moral question?”

“Or ethics. I think so. For example, have you tried your hand at editorials?”

“Or ethics. I think so. For example, have you tried writing editorials?”

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

“Successfully?”

"Did it work?"

“As far as I’ve gone.”

“As far as I’ve come.”

“Then you are in accord with the editorial policy of The Ledger?”

“Then you're in agreement with the editorial policy of The Ledger?”

“Not in everything.”

“Not in all things.”

“In its underlying, unexpressed, and immanent theory that this country can best be managed by an aristocracy, a chosen few, working under the guise of democracy?”

“In its underlying, unspoken, and inherent belief that this country can best be run by an elite group, a select few, operating under the appearance of democracy?”

“No; I don’t believe that, of course.”

“No; I don’t believe that, obviously.”

“I do, as it happens. But I fail to see how Christian Banneker’s son and élève could. Yet you write editorials for The Ledger.”

“I do, actually. But I don't see how Christian Banneker’s son and élève could. Yet you write editorials for The Ledger.”

“Not on those topics.”

“Not on those subjects.”

“Have you never had your editorials altered or cut or amended, in such manner as to give a side-slant toward the paper’s editorial fetiches?”

“Have you ever had your editorials changed, cut, or adjusted in a way that skews towards the paper's editorial biases?”

Again and most uncomfortably Banneker felt his color change. “Yes; I have,” he admitted.

Again and, most awkwardly, Banneker felt his face flush. “Yeah; I have,” he admitted.

“What did you do?”

"What have you done?"

“What could I do? The Chief controls the editorial page.”

“What can I do? The Chief controls the editorial page.”

“You might have stopped writing for it.”

“You might have quit writing for it.”

“I needed the money. No; that isn’t true. More than the money, I wanted the practice and the knowledge that I could write editorials if I wished to.”

“I needed the money. No; that’s not true. More than the money, I wanted the experience and the knowledge that I could write editorials if I wanted to.”

“Are you thinking of going on the editorial side?”

“Are you thinking about going to the editorial side?”

“God forbid!” cried Banneker.

“God forbid!” exclaimed Banneker.

“Unwilling to deal in other men’s ideas, eh? Well, Mr. Banneker, you have plenty of troubles before you. Interesting ones, however.”

“Not willing to engage with other people's ideas, huh? Well, Mr. Banneker, you've got a lot of challenges ahead of you. But they're interesting ones, for sure.”

“How much could I make by magazine writing?” asked Banneker abruptly.

“How much could I earn by writing for magazines?” Banneker asked suddenly.

“Heaven alone knows. Less than you need, I should say, at first. How much do you need?”

“Heaven knows. I’d say less than you need, at first. How much do you need?”

“My space bill last week was one hundred and twenty-one dollars. I filled ’em up on Sunday specials.”

“My space bill last week was $121. I filled them up on Sunday specials.”

“And you need that?”

"Do you really need that?"

“It’s all gone,” grinned Banneker boyishly.

“It’s all gone,” Banneker said with a boyish grin.

“As between a safe one hundred dollars-plus, and a highly speculative nothing-and-upwards, how could any prudent person waver?” queried Mr. Gaines as he shook hands in farewell.

“As between a secure one hundred dollars and a highly risky nothing or more, how could any sensible person hesitate?” Mr. Gaines asked as he shook hands to say goodbye.

For the first time in the whole unusual interview, Banneker found himself misliking the other’s tone, particularly in the light emphasis placed upon the word prudent. Banneker did not conceive kindly of himself as a prudent person.

For the first time during the strange interview, Banneker realized he didn't like the other person's tone, especially the way they stressed the word prudent. Banneker didn't see himself as a prudent person.

Back at the office, Banneker got out the story of which he had spoken to Mr. Gaines, and read it over. It seemed to him good, and quite in the tradition of The New Era. It was polite, polished, discreet, and, if not precisely subtle, it dealt with interests and motives lying below the obvious surfaces of life. It had amused Banneker to write it; which is not to say that he spared laborious and conscientious effort. The New Era itself amused him, with its air of well-bred aloofness from the flatulent romanticism which filled the more popular magazines of the day with duke-like drummers or drummer-like dukes, amiable criminals and brisk young business geniuses, possessed of rather less moral sense than the criminals, for its heroes, and for its heroines a welter of adjectives exhaling an essence of sex. Banneker could imagine one of these females straying into Mr. Gaines’s editorial ken, and that gentleman’s bland greeting as to his own sprightly second maid arrayed and perfumed, unexpectedly encountered at a charity bazar. Too rarefied for Banneker’s healthy and virile young tastes, the atmosphere in which The New Era lived and moved and had its consistently successful editorial being! He preferred a freer air to the mild scents of lavender and rose-ash, even though it might blow roughly at times. Nevertheless, that which was fine and fastidious in his mind recognized and admired the restraint, the dignity, the high and honorably maintained standards of the monthly. It had distinction. It stood apart from and consciously above the reading mob. In some respects it was the antithesis of that success for which Park Row strove and sweated.

Back at the office, Banneker pulled out the story he had discussed with Mr. Gaines and read it over. He thought it was good and very much in line with The New Era's style. It was polite, polished, and discreet, and while it wasn’t exactly subtle, it explored the interests and motivations that lay beneath the surface of everyday life. Banneker had enjoyed writing it; that’s not to say he didn’t put in a lot of hard work and careful thought. The New Era itself entertained him with its air of well-mannered detachment from the overly dramatic romanticism that filled the more popular magazines of the time, which featured characters like dashing drummers or rich nobles, cheerful criminals, and ambitious young business moguls who had less moral compass than the actual criminals, along with heroines described with an excess of adjectives that radiated sexuality. Banneker could easily picture one of these women wandering into Mr. Gaines's editorial purview and getting a cheerful greeting from him, similar to how one might react to a lively staff member unexpectedly met at a charity fair. The atmosphere in which The New Era thrived felt too refined for Banneker's robust and youthful tastes; he preferred a more open atmosphere to the mild scents of lavender and rose, even if it could be a bit rough at times. Still, his appreciation for the fine and refined aspects of his mind recognized and admired the restraint, dignity, and high standards that the magazine consistently upheld. It had a sense of distinction. It set itself apart from and consciously above the average reader. In some ways, it was the complete opposite of the kind of success that was pursued so fervently on Park Row.

Banneker felt that he, too, could claim a place on those heights. Yes; he liked his story. He thought that Mr. Gaines would like it. Having mailed it, he went to Katie’s to dinner. There he found Russell Edmonds discussing his absurdly insufficient pipe with his customary air of careworn watchfulness lest it go out and leave him forlorn and unsolaced in a harsh world. The veteran turned upon the newcomer a grim twinkle.

Banneker believed he could also earn a spot among those greats. Yeah, he was proud of his story. He thought Mr. Gaines would appreciate it. After sending it off, he headed over to Katie's for dinner. There, he found Russell Edmonds talking about his ridiculously inadequate pipe, always looking anxious that it might go out and leave him lost and alone in a tough world. The veteran glanced at the newcomer with a wry smile.

“Don’t you do it,” he advised positively.

“Don’t do it,” he said firmly.

“Do what?”

"What do you mean?"

“Quit.”

“Stop.”

“Who told you I was considering it?”

“Who let you know I was thinking about it?”

“Nobody. I knew it was about time for you to reach that point. We all do—at certain times.”

“Nobody. I knew you were about to get there. We all do—eventually.”

“Why?”

“Disenchantment. Disillusionment. Besides, I hear the city desk has been horsing you.”

“Disenchantment. Disillusionment. Plus, I hear the city desk has been giving you a hard time.”

“Then some one has been blabbing.”

"Then someone has been blabbing."

“Oh, those things ooze out. Can’t keep ’em in. Besides, all city desks do that to cubs who come up too fast. It’s part of the discipline. Like hazing.”

“Oh, those things just spill out. Can’t hold them in. Plus, all city desks do that to rookies who rise up too quickly. It’s part of the discipline. Like hazing.”

“There are some things a man can’t do,” said Banneker with a sort of appeal in his voice.

“There are some things a man can’t do,” Banneker said, his voice carrying a hint of desperation.

“Nothing,” returned Edmonds positively. “Nothing he can’t do to get the news.”

“Nothing,” Edmonds replied confidently. “Nothing he can’t do to get the news.”

“Did you ever peep through a keyhole?”

“Have you ever looked through a keyhole?”

“Figuratively speaking?”

"Are you speaking figuratively?"

“If you like. Either way.”

"Your choice. Either way."

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Would you do it to-day?”

“Would you do it today?”

“No.”

“Then it’s a phase a reporter has to go through?”

“Then it’s a phase that a reporter has to experience?”

“Or quit.”

"Or just leave."

“You haven’t quit?”

"You still haven't quit?"

“I did. For a time. In a way. I went to jail.”

“I did. For a while. Sort of. I went to jail.”

“Jail? You?” Banneker had a flash of intuition. “I’ll bet it was for something you were proud of.”

“Jail? You?” Banneker had a sudden realization. “I’ll bet it was for something you were proud of.”

“I wasn’t ashamed of the jail sentence, at any rate. Youngster, I’m going to tell you about this.” Edmonds’s fine eyes seemed to have receded into their hollows as he sat thinking with his pipe neglected on the table. “D’you know who Marna Corcoran was?”

“I wasn't embarrassed about the jail sentence, anyway. Kid, I'm going to tell you about this.” Edmonds’s bright eyes appeared to have sunk into their sockets as he sat lost in thought with his pipe left untouched on the table. “Do you know who Marna Corcoran was?”

“An actress, wasn’t she?”

"She was an actress, right?"

“Leading lady at the old Coliseum Theater. A good actress and a good woman. I was a cub then on The Sphere under Red McGraw, the worst gutter-pup that ever sat at a city desk, and a damned good newspaper man. In those days The Sphere specialized on scandals; the rottener, the better; stuff that it wouldn’t touch to-day. Well, a hell-cat of a society woman sued her husband for divorce and named Miss Corcoran. Pure viciousness, it was. There wasn’t a shadow of proof, or even suspicion.”

“Lead actress at the old Coliseum Theater. A talented actress and a great person. I was a rookie back then at The Sphere under Red McGraw, the worst lowlife ever to work at a city desk, but a damn good journalist. Back then, The Sphere thrived on scandals; the more scandalous, the better; things it wouldn't even consider today. So, a wild society woman filed for divorce and accused Miss Corcoran. It was pure malice. There wasn't a shred of evidence, or even a hint of suspicion.”

“I remember something about that case. The woman withdrew the charge, didn’t she?”

"I remember something about that case. The woman dropped the charges, right?"

“When it was too late. Red McGraw had an early tip and sent me to interview Marna Corcoran. He let me know pretty plainly that my job depended on my landing the story. That was his style; a bully. Well, I got the interview; never mind how. When I left her home Miss Corcoran was in a nervous collapse. I reported to McGraw. ‘Keno!’ says he. ‘Give us a column and a half of it. Spice it.’ I spiced it—I guess. They tell me it was a good job. I got lost in the excitement of writing and forgot what I was dealing with, a woman. We had a beat on that interview. They raised my salary, I remember. A week later Red called me to the desk. Got another story for you, Edmonds. A hummer. Marna Corcoran is in a private sanitarium up in Connecticut; hopelessly insane. I wouldn’t wonder if our story did it.’ He grinned like an ape. ‘Go up there and get it. Buy your way in, if necessary. You can always get to some of the attendants with a ten-spot. Find out what she raves about; whether it’s about Allison. Perhaps she’s given herself away. Give us another red-hot one on it. Here’s the address.’

“When it was too late. Red McGraw had an early tip and sent me to interview Marna Corcoran. He made it pretty clear that my job depended on getting the story. That was his style; a bully. Well, I got the interview; never mind how. When I left her house, Miss Corcoran was in a nervous breakdown. I reported back to McGraw. ‘Keno!’ he said. ‘Give us a column and a half of it. Spice it up.’ I added the spice—I guess. They told me it was a good job. I got caught up in the excitement of writing and forgot I was dealing with a woman. We had a lead on that interview. They raised my salary, I remember. A week later, Red called me to the desk. ‘Got another story for you, Edmonds. A big one. Marna Corcoran is in a private sanitarium up in Connecticut; hopelessly insane. I wouldn’t be surprised if our story did it.’ He grinned like an ape. ‘Go up there and get it. Buy your way in if you need to. You can always bribe some of the staff with a ten-dollar bill. Find out what she’s raving about; whether it’s about Allison. Maybe she’s let something slip. Give us another hot one on it. Here’s the address.’”

“I wadded up the paper and stuffed it in his mouth. His lips felt pulpy. He hit me with a lead paper-weight and cut my head open. I don’t know that I even hit him; I didn’t specially want to hit him. I wanted to mark him. There was an extra-size open ink-well on his desk. I poured that over him and rubbed it into his face. Some of it got into his eyes. How he yelled! Of course he had me arrested. I didn’t make any defense; I couldn’t without bringing in Marna Corcoran’s name. The Judge thought I was crazy. I was, pretty near. Three months, he gave me. When I came out Marna Corcoran was dead. I went to find Red McGraw and kill him. He was gone. I think he suspected what I would do. I’ve never set eyes on him since. Two local newspapers sent for me as soon as my term was up and offered me jobs. I thought it was because of what I had done to McGraw. It wasn’t. It was on the strength of the Marna Corcoran interview.”

"I crumpled up the paper and shoved it in his mouth. His lips felt soft. He hit me with a heavy paperweight and split my head open. I don’t even know if I hit him; I didn’t really want to hit him. I wanted to make a mark on him. There was a large open ink well on his desk. I poured it over him and rubbed it into his face. Some got in his eyes. You should have heard him scream! Naturally, he had me arrested. I didn’t defend myself; I couldn’t without bringing up Marna Corcoran’s name. The judge thought I was crazy. I pretty much was. He gave me three months. When I got out, Marna Corcoran was dead. I went to find Red McGraw and kill him. He was gone. I think he figured out what I was planning. I haven’t seen him since. Two local newspapers contacted me as soon as my sentence was up and offered me jobs. I thought it was because of what I did to McGraw. It wasn’t. It was because of the Marna Corcoran interview."

“Good God!”

“Oh my God!”

“I needed a job, too. But I didn’t take either of those. Later I got a better one with a decent newspaper. The managing editor said when he took me on: ‘Mr. Edmonds, we don’t approve of assaults on the city desk. But if you ever receive in this office an assignment of the kind that caused your outbreak, you may take it out on me.’ There are pretty fine people in the newspaper business, too.”

“I needed a job, too. But I didn’t take either of those. Later, I got a better one with a decent newspaper. The managing editor said when he hired me: ‘Mr. Edmonds, we don’t condone outbursts at the city desk. But if you ever get an assignment in this office that triggers your outburst, you can take it out on me.’ There are some really good people in the newspaper business, too.”

Edmonds retrieved his pipe, discovering with a look of reproach and dismay that it was out. He wiped away some tiny drops of sweat which had come out upon the grayish skin beneath his eyes, while he was recounting his tragedy.

Edmonds picked up his pipe, realizing with a look of disappointment and irritation that it was empty. He wiped away a few small drops of sweat that had formed on the gray skin beneath his eyes as he recounted his tragedy.

“That makes my troubles seem petty,” said Banneker, under his breath. “I wonder—”

“That makes my problems seem small,” Banneker muttered. “I wonder—”

“You wonder why I told you all this,” supplemented the veteran. “Since I have, I’ll tell you the rest; how I made atonement in a way. Ten years ago I was on a city desk myself. Not very long; but long enough to find I didn’t like it. A story came to me through peculiar channels. It was a scandal story; one of those things that New York society whispers about all over the place, yet it’s almost impossible to get anything to go on. When I tell you that even The Searchlight, which lives on scandal, kept off it, you can judge how dangerous it was. Well; I had it pat. It was really big stuff of its kind. The woman was brilliant, a daughter of one of the oldest and most noted New York families; and noted in her own right. She had never married: preferred to follow her career. The man was eminent in his line: not a society figure, except by marriage—his wife was active in the Four Hundred—because he had no tastes in that direction. He was nearly twenty years senior to the girl. The affair was desperate from the first. How far it went is doubtful; my informant gave it the worst complexion. Certainly there must have been compromising circumstances, for the wife left him, holding over him the threat of exposure. He cared nothing for himself; and the girl would have given up everything for him. But he was then engaged on a public work of importance; exposure meant the ruin of that. The wife made conditions; that the man should neither speak to, see, nor communicate with the girl. He refused. The girl went into exile and forced him to make the agreement. My informant had a copy of the letter of agreement; you can see how close she was to the family. She said that, if we printed it, the man would instantly break barriers, seek out the girl, and they would go away together. A front-page story, and exclusive.”

“You're probably wondering why I shared all of this,” the veteran added. “Now that I have, let me tell you the rest; how I made amends in a way. Ten years ago, I worked on a city desk myself. Not for long, but long enough to realize it wasn’t for me. I got a story from unusual sources. It was a scandal piece; one of those whispers that circulate throughout New York society, yet it’s almost impossible to find solid information. When I say that even The Searchlight, which thrives on scandal, avoided it, you can imagine how dangerous it was. Well, I had the details down. It was truly significant stuff for its kind. The woman was brilliant, a daughter from one of the oldest and most notable families in New York; and notable in her own right. She had never married; she chose to pursue her career. The man was distinguished in his field; not a society figure, except by marriage—his wife was well-connected with the Four Hundred—because he had no interest in that world. He was nearly twenty years older than the girl. The affair was serious from the beginning. How far it went is unclear; my source gave it the worst twist. There must have been compromising situations, as the wife left him, using the threat of exposure against him. He didn’t care about himself, and the girl would have sacrificed everything for him. But he was involved in an important public project at that time; exposure would mean ruining that. The wife set conditions; that he should not talk to, see, or communicate with the girl. He refused. The girl went into hiding and forced him to agree. My informant had a copy of the agreement letter; you can see how close she was to the family. She claimed that if we published it, the man would immediately break down barriers, find the girl, and they would leave together. A front-page exclusive.”

“So it was a woman who held the key!” exclaimed Banneker.

“So it was a woman who had the key!” Banneker exclaimed.

Edmonds turned on him. “What does that mean? Do you know anything of the story?”

Edmonds confronted him. “What does that mean? Do you know anything about the story?”

“Not all that you’ve told me. I know the people.”

“Not everything you’ve told me. I know the people.”

“Then why did you let me go on?”

“Then why did you let me continue?”

“Because they—one of them—is my friend. There is no harm to her in my knowing. It might even be helpful.”

“Because one of them is my friend. It won't hurt her for me to know. It might even be helpful.”

“Nevertheless, I think you should have told me at once,” grumbled the veteran. “Well, I didn’t take the story. The informer said that she would place it elsewhere. I told her that if she did I would publish the whole circumstances of her visit and offer, and make New York too hot to hold her. She retired, bulging with venom like a mad snake. But she dares not tell.”

“Still, I think you should have told me right away,” the veteran complained. “Look, I didn’t take the story. The informer said she would put it somewhere else. I told her that if she did, I would publish the whole details of her visit and offer, and make New York unbearable for her. She backed off, fuming like a crazy snake. But she doesn’t dare to say anything.”

“The man’s wife, was it not?”

“Is it the man's wife?”

“Some one representing her, I suspect. A bad woman, that wife. But I saved the girl in memory of Marna Corcoran. Think what the story would be worth, now that the man is coming forward politically!” Edmonds smiled wanly. “It was worth a lot even then, and I threw my paper down on it. Of course I resigned from the city desk at once.”

“Someone was representing her, I think. That wife is a bad woman. But I saved the girl in memory of Marna Corcoran. Just imagine what the story would be worth now that the man is stepping into politics!” Edmonds smiled faintly. “It was valuable even back then, and I dropped my report on it. Of course, I immediately quit the city desk.”

“It’s a fascinating game, being on the inside of the big things,” ruminated Banneker. “But when it comes to a man’s enslaving himself to his paper, I—don’t—know.”

“It’s a fascinating game, being involved in the big things,” Banneker thought. “But when it comes to a man making himself a slave to his paper, I—don’t—know.”

“No: you won’t quit,” prophesied the other.

“No: you’re not going to quit,” predicted the other.

“I have. That is, I’ve resigned.”

“I have. That is, I’ve quit.”

“Of course. They all do, of your type. It was the peck of dirt, wasn’t it?”

“Of course. They all do, your kind. It was the bit of dirt, wasn’t it?”

Banneker nodded.

Banneker agreed.

“Gordon won’t let you go. And you won’t have any more dirt thrown at you—probably. If you do, it’ll be time enough then.”

“Gordon won’t let you leave. And you won’t have any more dirt thrown at you—most likely. If you do, it’ll be time enough then.”

“There’s more than that.”

"There's more to it."

“Is there? What?”

"Is there? What’s going on?"

“We’re a pariah caste, Edmonds, we reporters. People look down on us.”

“We’re a rejected group, Edmonds, we reporters. People look down on us.”

“Oh, that be damned! You can’t afford to be swayed by the ignorance or snobbery of outsiders. Play the game straight, and let the rest go.”

“Oh, that's just ridiculous! You can't let the ignorance or snobbery of outsiders influence you. Play the game fairly, and let everything else go.”

“But we are, aren’t we?” persisted Banneker.

"But we are, right?" Banneker pressed on.

“What! Pariahs?” The look which the old-timer bent upon the rising star of the business had in it a quality of brooding and affection. “Son, you’re too young to have come properly to that frame of mind. That comes later. With the dregs of disillusion after the sparkle has died out.”

“What! Pariahs?” The expression the old-timer directed at the up-and-coming star of the business was a mix of deep thought and fondness. “Son, you’re too young to think that way just yet. That perspective comes later, after you’ve gone through the disappointment that follows the initial excitement.”

“But it’s true. You admit it.”

“If an outsider said that we were pariahs I’d call him a liar. But, what’s the use, with you? It isn’t reporting alone. It’s the whole business of news-getting and news-presenting; of journalism. We’re under suspicion. They’re afraid of us. And at the same time they’re contemptuous of us.”

“If someone from outside called us outcasts, I’d call them a liar. But what’s the point with you? It’s not just about reporting. It’s the entire process of gathering and presenting news; it’s journalism. We're viewed with suspicion. They’re afraid of us, yet at the same time, they look down on us.”

“Why?”

“Because people are mostly fools and fools are afraid or contemptuous of what they don’t understand.”

“Because people are mostly clueless, and clueless people are either afraid of or look down on what they don’t get.”

Banneker thought it over. “No. That won’t do,” he decided. “Men that aren’t fools and aren’t afraid distrust us and despise the business. Edmonds, there’s nothing wrong, essentially, in furnishing news for the public. It’s part of the spread of truth. It’s the handing on of the light. It’s—it’s as big a thing as religion, isn’t it?”

Banneker thought about it. “No. That won’t work,” he decided. “Smart people who aren’t scared don’t trust us and look down on this whole thing. Edmonds, there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with providing news for the public. It’s part of spreading the truth. It’s passing on knowledge. It’s—it’s just as important as religion, isn’t it?”

“Bigger. Religion, seven days a week.”

“Bigger. Religion, every day of the week.”

“Well, then—”

“Well then—”

“I know, son,” said Edmonds gently. “You’re thirsting for the clear and restoring doctrine of journalism. And I’m going to give you hell’s own heresy. You’ll come to it anyway, in time.” His fierce little pipe glowed upward upon his knotted brows. “You talk about truth, news: news and truth as one and the same thing. So they are. But newspapers aren’t after news: not primarily. Can’t you see that?”

“I know, son,” Edmonds said softly. “You’re craving the clear and refreshing principles of journalism. But I’m going to give you a tough truth. You’ll understand it eventually, in time.” His intense little pipe glowed above his furrowed brow. “You talk about truth and news: news and truth as if they’re the same thing. In a way, they are. But newspapers aren’t really chasing news: not primarily. Can't you see that?”

“No. What are they after?”

"No. What do they want?"

“Sensation.”

“Feeling.”

Banneker turned the word over in his mind, evoking confirmation in the remembered headlines even of the reputable Ledger.

Banneker reflected on the word, recalling the headlines he remembered from the respected Ledger.

“Sensation,” repeated the other. “We’ve got the speed-up motto in industry. Our newspaper version of it is ‘spice-up.’ A conference that may change the map of Europe will be crowded off any front page any day by young Mrs. Poultney Masters making a speech in favor of giving girls night-keys, or of some empty-headed society dame being caught in a roadhouse with another lady’s hubby. Spice: that’s what we’re looking for. Something to tickle their jaded palates. And they despise us when we break our necks or our hearts to get it for ’em.”

“Sensation,” the other person repeated. “We’ve got the speed-up motto in business. Our newspaper version of it is ‘spice-up.’ A conference that could change the map of Europe will be pushed off any front page at any time by young Mrs. Poultney Masters giving a speech in favor of letting girls have night-keys, or some shallow society lady getting caught in a roadhouse with another woman’s husband. Spice: that’s what we’re after. Something to excite their tired interest. And they look down on us when we break our backs or our hearts to deliver it to them.”

“But if it’s what they want, the fault lies with the public, not with us,” argued Banneker.

“But if it’s what they want, the blame is on the public, not us,” Banneker argued.

“I used to know a white-stuff man—a cocaine-seller—who had the same argument down pat,” retorted Edmonds quietly.

“I used to know a guy who sold cocaine—he had that same argument down perfectly,” Edmonds replied quietly.

Banneker digested that for a time before continuing.

Banneker thought about that for a while before moving on.

“Besides, you imply that because news is sensational, it must be unworthy. That isn’t fair. Big news is always sensational. And of course the public wants sensation. After all, sensation of one sort or another is the proof of life.”

“Besides, you suggest that because news is sensational, it must be unworthy. That’s not fair. Major news is always sensational. And of course, the public craves sensation. After all, some form of sensation is proof of life.”

“Hence the noble profession of the pander,” observed Edmonds through a coil of minute and ascending smoke-rings. “He also serves the public.”

“Thus, the noble profession of the pander,” noted Edmonds through a swirl of small, rising smoke rings. “He also serves the public.”

“You’re not drawing a parallel—”

“You’re not making a comparison—”

“Oh, no! It isn’t the same thing, quite. But it’s the same public. Let me tell you something to remember, youngster. The men who go to the top in journalism, the big men of power and success and grasp, come through with a contempt for the public which they serve, compared to which the contempt of the public for the newspaper is as skim milk to corrosive sublimate.”

“Oh, no! It’s not the same at all. But it’s the same audience. Let me give you something to keep in mind, young one. The guys who make it big in journalism, the influential figures with power and success, often have a disdain for the public they serve that makes the public's disdain for the newspaper look like child’s play.”

“Perhaps that’s what is wrong with the business, then.”

“Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the business, then.”

“Have you any idea,” inquired Edmonds softly, “what the philosophy of the Most Ancient Profession is?”

“Do you have any idea,” Edmonds asked gently, “what the philosophy of the Most Ancient Profession is?”

Banneker shook his head.

“I once heard a street-walker on the verge of D.T.‘s—she was intelligent; most of ’em are fools—express her analytical opinion of the men who patronized her. The men who make our news system have much the same notion of their public. How much poison they scatter abroad we won’t know until a later diagnosis.”

“I once heard a sex worker on the brink of a breakdown—she was smart; most of them are just clueless—share her thoughtful opinions about the men who frequented her. The guys who run our news media have a similar view of their audience. We won't know how much harm they spread around until we take a closer look later.”

“Yet you advise me to stick in the business.”

“Yet you suggest I stay in the business.”

“You’ve got to. You are marked for it.”

“You have to. You’re destined for it.”

“And help scatter the poison!”

“And help spread the poison!”

“God forbid! I’ve been pointing out the disease of the business. There’s a lot of health in it yet. But it’s got to have new blood. I’m too old to do more than help a little. Son, you’ve got the stuff in you to do the trick. Some one is going to make a newspaper here in this rotten, stink-breathing, sensation-sniffing town that’ll be based on news. Truth! There’s your religion for you. Go to it.”

“God forbid! I’ve been highlighting the issues in the business. There’s still a lot of potential in it. But it needs new energy. I’m too old to do more than offer a bit of support. Son, you have what it takes to make it happen. Someone is going to create a newspaper in this terrible, gossip-driven, sensationalist town that focuses on real news. Truth! That’s your guiding principle. Go for it.”

“And serve a public that I’ll despise as soon as I get strong enough to disregard it’s contempt for me,” smiled Banneker.

“And serve a public that I’ll hate as soon as I’m strong enough to ignore its contempt for me,” smiled Banneker.

“You’ll find a public that you can’t afford to despise,” retorted the veteran. “There is such a public. It’s waiting.”

“You’ll find an audience that you can’t afford to look down on,” retorted the veteran. “There really is an audience like that. It’s out there, waiting.”

“Well; I’ll know in a couple of weeks,” said Banneker. “But I think I’m about through.”

“Well, I’ll know in a couple of weeks,” said Banneker. “But I think I’m almost done.”

For Edmonds’s bitter wisdom had gone far toward confirming his resolution to follow up his first incursion into the magazine field if it met with the success which he confidently expected of it.

For Edmonds’s hard-earned wisdom had greatly reinforced his determination to pursue his initial venture into the magazine industry if it achieved the success he strongly anticipated.

As if to hold him to his first allegiance, the ruling spirits of The Ledger now began to make things easy for him. Fat assignments came his way again. Events which seemed almost made to order for his pen were turned over to him by the city desk. Even though he found little time for Sunday “specials,” his space ran from fifteen to twenty-five dollars a day, and the “Eban” skits on the editorial page, now paid at double rates because of their popularity, added a pleasant surplus. To put a point to his mysteriously restored favor, Mr. Greenough called up one hot morning and asked Banneker to make what speed he could to Sippiac, New Jersey. Rioting had broken out between mill-guards and the strikers of the International Cloth Company factories, with a number of resulting fatalities. It was a “big story.” That Banneker was specially fitted, through his familiarity with the ground, to handle it, the city editor was not, of course, aware.

As if to hold him to his original loyalty, the powerful people at The Ledger started making things easier for him. He started getting significant assignments again. Events that seemed almost tailor-made for his writing were handed to him by the city desk. Even though he had little time for Sunday “specials,” he made between fifteen to twenty-five dollars a day, and the “Eban” skits on the editorial page, now paying double rates due to their popularity, brought in a nice extra income. To emphasize his unexpectedly restored favor, Mr. Greenough called one hot morning and asked Banneker to get to Sippiac, New Jersey, as quickly as possible. Riots had broken out between the mill guards and the strikers of the International Cloth Company factories, resulting in several fatalities. It was a “big story.” The city editor, of course, wasn’t aware that Banneker was particularly well-suited to cover it due to his familiarity with the area.

At Sippiac, Banneker found the typical industrial tragedy of that time and condition, worked out to its logical conclusion. On the one side a small army of hired gun-men, assured of full protection and endorsement in whatever they might do: on the other a mob of assorted foreigners, ignorant, resentful of the law, which seemed only a huge mechanism of injustice manipulated by their oppressors, inflamed by the heavy potations of a festal night carried over into the next day, and, because of the criminally lax enforcement of the law, tacitly permitted to go armed. Who had started the clash was uncertain and, perhaps in essentials, immaterial; so perfectly and fatefully had the stage been set for mutual murder. At the close of the fray there were ten dead. One was a guard: the rest, strikers or their dependents, including a woman and a six-year-old child, both shot down while running away.

At Sippiac, Banneker witnessed the typical industrial tragedy of that time, played out to its logical end. On one side was a small army of hired gunmen, guaranteed full protection and approval for whatever they did; on the other was a crowd of various foreigners, unaware of the law, which seemed merely a massive tool of injustice controlled by their oppressors, fueled by heavy drinking from a festive night that spilled into the next day, and, due to the criminally weak enforcement of the law, allowed to carry weapons. It was unclear who initiated the clash, and in the grand scheme, it probably didn't matter; the stage had been set perfectly and ominously for mutual destruction. By the end of the conflict, there were ten dead. One was a guard; the others were strikers or their family members, including a woman and a six-year-old child, both shot while trying to escape.

By five o’clock that afternoon Banneker was in the train returning to the city with a board across his knees, writing. Five hours later his account was finished. At the end of his work, he had one of those ideas for “pointing” a story, mere commonplaces of journalism nowadays, which later were to give him his editorial reputation. In the pride of his publicity-loving soul, Mr. Horace Vanney, chief owner of the International Cloth Mills, had given to Banneker a reprint of an address by himself, before some philosophical and inquiring society, wherein he had set forth some of his simpler economic theories. A quotation, admirably apropos to Banneker’s present purposes, flashed forth clear and pregnant, to his journalistic memory. From the Ledger “morgue” he selected one of several cuts of Mr. Vanney, and turned it in to the night desk for publication, with this descriptive note:

By five o’clock that afternoon, Banneker was on the train heading back to the city with a board across his knees, writing. Five hours later, he had finished his piece. At the end of his work, he came up with one of those catchy ideas for “pointing” a story, simple journalism staples today, which would later earn him his editorial reputation. Proud of his love for publicity, Mr. Horace Vanney, the major owner of the International Cloth Mills, had given Banneker a reprint of a speech he made to a philosophical and inquisitive society, where he laid out some of his basic economic theories. A quote, perfectly suited for Banneker’s current needs, popped into his mind and stuck with him. From the Ledger “morgue,” he picked one of several images of Mr. Vanney and submitted it to the night desk for publication, along with this descriptive note:

Horace Vanney, Chairman of the Board of the International Cloth Company, Who declares that if working-women are paid more than a bare living wage, The surplus goes into finery and vanities which tempt them to ruin, Mr. Vanney’s mills pay girls four dollars a week.

Horace Vanney, Chairman of the Board of the International Cloth Company, claims that if working women earn more than just a basic living wage, the extra money will be spent on luxuries and frivolities that lead them to disaster. Mr. Vanney’s mills pay girls four dollars a week.

Ravenously hungry, Banneker went out to order a long-delayed dinner at Katie’s. Hardly had he swallowed his first mouthful of soup, when an office boy appeared.

Ravenously hungry, Banneker went out to order a long-delayed dinner at Katie’s. Hardly had he swallowed his first mouthful of soup when an office boy appeared.

“Mr. Gordon wants to know if you can come back to the office at once.”

“Mr. Gordon wants to know if you can come back to the office right away.”

On the theory that two minutes, while important to his stomach, would not greatly matter to the managing editor, Banneker consumed the rest of his soup and returned. He found Mr. Gordon visibly disturbed.

On the idea that two minutes, though important for his stomach, wouldn’t be a big deal to the managing editor, Banneker finished his soup and went back. He found Mr. Gordon clearly upset.

“Sit down, Mr. Banneker,” he said.

“Have a seat, Mr. Banneker,” he said.

Banneker compiled.

Banneker created.

“We can’t use that Sippiac story.”

Banneker sat silent and attentive.

Banneker sat quietly and focused.

“Why did you write it that way?”

“Why did you write it like that?”

“I wrote it as I got it.”

“I wrote it down as I received it.”

“It is not a fair story.”

"It's an unfair story."

“Every fact—”

“It is a most unfair story.”

"It’s an unfair story."

“Do you know Sippiac, Mr. Gordon?” inquired Banneker equably.

“Do you know Sippiac, Mr. Gordon?” Banneker asked calmly.

“I do not. Nor can I believe it possible that you could acquire the knowledge of it implied in your article, in a few hours.”

“I don’t. And I can’t believe it’s possible that you could gain the knowledge implied in your article in just a few hours.”

“I spent some time investigating conditions there before I came on the paper.”

“I spent some time looking into the conditions there before I joined the paper.”

Mr. Gordon was taken aback. Shifting his stylus to his left hand, he assailed severally the knuckles of his right therewith before he spoke. “You know the principles of The Ledger, Mr. Banneker.”

Mr. Gordon was shocked. He moved his stylus to his left hand and hit his right knuckles with it before he spoke. “You know the principles of The Ledger, Mr. Banneker.”

“To get the facts and print them, so I have understood.”

“To get the facts and publish them, as I understand.”

“These are not facts.” The managing editor rapped sharply upon the proof. “This is editorial matter, hardly disguised.”

“These aren’t facts.” The managing editor tapped sharply on the proof. “This is editorial content, barely concealed.”

“Descriptive, I should call it,” returned the writer amiably.

“Descriptive, I’d say,” the writer replied cheerfully.

“Editorial. You have pictured Sippiac as a hell on earth.”

“Editorial. You’ve portrayed Sippiac as a nightmare on earth.”

“It is.”

"Yeah, it is."

“Sentimentalism!” snapped the other. His heavy visage wore a disturbed and peevish expression that rendered it quite plaintive. “You have been with us long enough, Mr. Banneker, to know that we do not cater to the uplift-social trade, nor are we after the labor vote.”

“Sentimentalism!” the other snapped. His heavy face showed a disturbed and irritable look that made it seem quite pitiful. “You’ve been with us long enough, Mr. Banneker, to know that we don’t cater to the uplift-social crowd, nor are we after the labor vote.”

“Yes, sir. I understand that.”

"Yes, I understand."

“Yet you present here, what is, in effect, a damning indictment of the Sippiac Mills.”

“Yet you are here presenting, what is basically, a serious accusation against the Sippiac Mills.”

“The facts do that; not I.”

“The facts do that; not me.”

“But you have selected your facts, cleverly—oh, very cleverly—to produce that effect, while ignoring facts on the other side.”

“But you’ve chosen your facts very cleverly to create that impression, while ignoring the facts on the other side.”

“Such as?”

"Like what?"

“Such as the presence and influence of agitators. The evening editions have the names, and some of the speeches.”

“Such as the presence and influence of activists. The evening editions have the names and some of the speeches.”

“That is merely clouding the main issue. Conditions are such there that no outside agitation is necessary to make trouble.”

“That is just obscuring the main issue. The situation is such that no outside provocation is needed to create trouble.”

“But the agitators are there. They’re an element and you have ignored it. Mr. Banneker, do you consider that you are dealing fairly with this paper, in attempting to commit it to an inflammatory, pro-strike course?”

“But the troublemakers are right there. They’re a factor and you’ve overlooked it. Mr. Banneker, do you think you’re treating this paper fairly by trying to push it towards an inflammatory, pro-strike agenda?”

“Certainly, if the facts constitute that kind of an argument.”

“Sure, if the facts make that kind of argument.”

“What of that picture of Horace Vanney? Is that news?”

“What about that picture of Horace Vanney? Is that news?”

“Why not? It goes to the root of the whole trouble.”

“Why not? It gets to the heart of the entire issue.”

“To print that kind of stuff,” said Mr. Gordon forcibly, “would make The Ledger a betrayer of its own cause. What you personally believe is not the point.”

“To print that kind of stuff,” Mr. Gordon said firmly, “would make The Ledger a traitor to its own cause. What you believe personally doesn’t matter.”

“I believe in facts.”

"I believe in facts."

“It is what The Ledger believes that is important here. You must appreciate that, as long as you remain on the staff, your only honorable course is to conform to the standards of the paper. When you write an article, it appears to our public, not as what Mr. Banneker says, but as what The Ledger says.”

“It’s what The Ledger thinks that matters here. You need to understand that as long as you’re part of the staff, your only honorable path is to follow the paper’s standards. When you write an article, it’s presented to our audience, not as Mr. Banneker’s opinion, but as The Ledger’s statement.”

“In other words,” said Banneker thoughtfully, “where the facts conflict with The Ledger’s theories, I’m expected to adjust the facts. Is that it?”

“In other words,” said Banneker thoughtfully, “where the facts contradict The Ledger’s theories, I’m supposed to change the facts. Is that it?”

“Certainly not! You are expected to present the news fairly and without editorial emphasis.”

“Definitely not! You need to report the news honestly and without your own bias.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon, but I don’t believe I could rewrite that story so as to give a favorable slant to the International’s side. Shooting down women and kids, you know—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon, but I don’t think I can rewrite that story to make the International's side look good. Shooting down women and kids, you know—”

Mr. Gordon’s voice was crisp as he cut in. “There is no question of your rewriting it. That has been turned over to a man we can trust.”

Mr. Gordon’s voice was clear as he interrupted. “There’s no way you’re rewriting it. That’s been assigned to someone we can trust.”

“To handle facts tactfully,” put in Banneker in his mildest voice.

“To handle facts sensitively,” Banneker said in his gentlest tone.

Considerably to his surprise, he saw a smile spread over Mr. Gordon’s face. “You’re an obstinate young animal, Banneker,” he said. “Take this proof home, put it under your pillow and dream over it. Tell me a week from now what you think of it.”

Considerably to his surprise, he saw a smile spread over Mr. Gordon’s face. “You’re a stubborn young person, Banneker,” he said. “Take this proof home, put it under your pillow and think about it. Tell me a week from now what you think of it.”

Banneker rose. “Then, I’m not fired?” he said.

Banneker stood up. “So, I’m not getting fired?” he asked.

“Not by me.”

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“Because I’m trusting in your essential honesty to bring you around.”

“Because I’m relying on your basic honesty to get you to see things differently.”

“To be quite frank,” returned Banneker after a moment’s thought, “I’m afraid I’ve got to be convinced of The Ledger’s essential honesty to come around.”

“To be honest,” Banneker replied after a moment of thought, “I’m afraid I need to be convinced of The Ledger’s fundamental honesty to change my mind.”

“Go home and think it over,” suggested the managing editor.

“Go home and think about it,” suggested the managing editor.

To his associate, Andreas, he said, looking at Banneker’s retreating back: “We’re going to lose that young man, Andy. And we can’t afford to lose him.”

To his colleague, Andreas, he remarked, watching Banneker walk away: “We’re going to lose that young guy, Andy. And we can’t afford to lose him.”

“What’s the matter?” inquired Andreas, the fanatical devotee of the creed of news for news’ sake.

“What’s wrong?” asked Andreas, the obsessed follower of the idea that news is valuable just for being news.

“Quixotism. Did you read his story?”

"Quixotism. Did you read his story?"

“Yes.”

"Yep."

Mr. Gordon looked up from his inflamed knuckles for an opinion.

Mr. Gordon glanced up from his swollen knuckles for a second opinion.

“A great job,” pronounced Andreas, almost reverently.

“A great job,” said Andreas, almost with awe.

“But not for us.”

“No; no. Not for us.”

“No, not for us.”

“It wasn’t a fair story,” alleged the managing editor with a hint of the defensive in his voice.

“It wasn’t a fair story,” claimed the managing editor, his tone revealing a hint of defensiveness.

“Too hot for that,” the assistant supported his chief. “And yet perhaps—”

“It's too hot for that,” the assistant agreed with his boss. “But maybe—”

“Perhaps what?” inquired Mr. Gordon with roving and anxious eye.

“Perhaps what?” Mr. Gordon asked, looking around nervously.

“Nothing,” said Andreas.

“Nothing,” Andreas said.

As well as if he had finished, Mr. Gordon supplied the conclusion. “Perhaps it is quite as fair as our recast article will be.”

As if he had wrapped everything up, Mr. Gordon provided the ending. “Maybe it's just as fair as our revised article will be.”

It was, on the whole, fairer.

It was overall fairer.

CHAPTER XII

Sound though Mr. Gordon’s suggestion was, Banneker after the interview did not go home to think it over. He went to a telephone booth and called up the Avon Theater. Was the curtain down? It was, just. Could he speak to Miss Raleigh? The affair was managed.

Sound as Mr. Gordon’s suggestion was, Banneker didn’t go home to think it over after the interview. He went to a phone booth and called the Avon Theater. Was the curtain down? It was, just barely. Could he speak to Miss Raleigh? The situation was handled.

“Hello, Bettina.”

"Hi, Bettina."

“Hello, Ban.”

“Hey, Ban.”

“How nearly dressed are you?”

“How dressed are you?”

“Oh—half an hour or so.”

“Oh—about half an hour.”

“Go out for a bite, if I come up there?”

“Shall we grab a bite if I come up there?”

The telephone receiver gave a transferred effect of conscientious consideration. “No: I don’t think so. I’m tired. This is my night for sleep.”

The phone receiver felt like it was giving off a vibe of careful thought. “No, I don’t think so. I’m tired. Tonight is my night to sleep.”

To such a basis had the two young people come in the course of the police investigation and afterward, that an agreement had been formulated whereby Banneker was privileged to call up the youthful star at any reasonable hour and for any reasonable project, which she might accept or reject without the burden of excuse.

To this point, the two young people had reached during the police investigation and afterward, that they had established an agreement allowing Banneker to contact the young star at any reasonable hour and for any reasonable purpose, which she could accept or decline without having to provide an excuse.

“Oh, all right!” returned Banneker amiably.

“Oh, fine!” replied Banneker happily.

The receiver produced, in some occult manner, the manner of not being precisely pleased with this. “You don’t seem much disappointed,” it said.

The receiver somehow showed that they weren't exactly pleased with this. “You don’t seem very disappointed,” it said.

“I’m stricken but philosophical. Don’t you see me, pierced to the heart, but—”

“I’m hurt but thoughtful. Can’t you see me, wounded to the core, but—”

“Ban,” interrupted the instrument: “you’re flippant. Have you been drinking?”

“Ban,” interrupted the instrument, “you’re being flippant. Have you been drinking?”

“No. Nor eating either, now that you remind me.”

“No. And I haven’t eaten either, now that you mention it.”

“Has something happened?”

"Did something happen?"

“Something is always happening in this restless world.”

“Something is always going on in this restless world.”

“It has. And you want to tell me about it.”

“It has. And you want to talk to me about it.”

“No. I just want to forget it, in your company.”

“No. I just want to forget it while I'm with you.”

“Is it a decent night out?”

“Is it a nice night out?”

“Most respectable.”

"Most respectable."

“Then you may come and walk me home. I think the air will do me good.”

“Then you can come and walk me home. I think some fresh air will help me feel better.”

“It’s very light diet, though,” observed Banneker.

“It’s a really light diet, though,” Banneker noted.

“Oh, very well,” responded the telephone in tones of patient resignation. “I’ll watch you eat. Good-bye.”

“Oh, fine,” the telephone replied in a tone of patient resignation. “I’ll watch you eat. Goodbye.”

Seated at a quiet table in the restaurant, Betty Raleigh leaned back in her chair, turning expectant eyes upon her companion.

Seated at a quiet table in the restaurant, Betty Raleigh leaned back in her chair, looking at her companion with eager eyes.

“Now tell your aged maiden auntie all about it.”

“Now tell your elderly aunt everything about it.”

“Did I say I was going to tell you about it?”

“Did I say I was going to talk to you about it?”

“You said you weren’t. Therefore I wish to know.”

“You said you weren’t. So I want to know.”

“I think I’m fired.”

“I think I’m getting fired.”

“Fired? From The Ledger? Do you care?”

“Fired? From The Ledger? Do you even care?”

“For the loss of the job? Not a hoot. Otherwise I wouldn’t be going to fire myself.”

“For losing the job? Not a big deal. Otherwise, I wouldn't be planning to fire myself.”

“Oh: that’s it, is it?”

"Oh, is that it?"

“Yes. You see, it’s a question of my doing my work my way or The Ledger’s way. I prefer my way.”

“Yes. You see, it’s a matter of doing my work my way or The Ledger’s way. I prefer my way.”

“And The Ledger prefers its way, I suppose. That’s because what you call your work, The Ledger considers its work.”

“And The Ledger has its own preferences, I guess. That’s because what you refer to as your work, The Ledger sees as its work.”

“In other words, as a working entity, I belong to The Ledger.”

“In other words, in terms of my job, I’m part of The Ledger.”

“Well, don’t you?”

“It isn’t a flattering thought. And if the paper wants me to falsify or suppress or distort, I have to do it. Is that the idea?”

“It’s not a flattering thought. And if the paper wants me to falsify, hide, or twist the truth, I have to go along with it. Is that the plan?”

“Unless you’re big enough not to.”

“Unless you’re too big to care.”

“Being big enough means getting out, doesn’t it?”

“Being big enough means getting out, right?”

“Or making yourself so indispensable that you can do things your own way.”

“Or making yourself so essential that you can do things your own way.”

“You’re a wise child, Betty,” said he. “What do you really think of the newspaper business?”

“You're a smart kid, Betty,” he said. “What do you really think about the newspaper business?”

“It’s a rotten business.”

“It’s a terrible business.”

“That’s frank, anyway.”

"That's pretty straightforward, anyway."

“Now I’ve hurt your feelings. Haven’t I?”

“Now I’ve hurt your feelings, haven’t I?”

“Not a bit. Roused my curiosity: that’s all. Why do you think it a rotten business?”

“Not at all. It just sparked my curiosity, that’s all. Why do you think it’s a bad deal?”

“It’s so—so mean. It’s petty.”

“It’s so mean. It’s petty.”

“As for example?” he pressed.

"What do you mean?" he pressed.

“See what Gurney did to me—to the play,” she replied naïvely. “Just to be smart.”

“Look at what Gurney did to me—to the play,” she replied innocently. “Just to show off.”

“Whew! Talk about the feminine propensity for proving a generalization by a specific instance! Gurney is an old man reared in an old tradition. He isn’t metropolitan journalism.”

“Whew! Talk about how women tend to validate a general idea with a specific example! Gurney is an old man raised in an old tradition. He isn’t city journalism.”

“He’s dramatic criticism,” she retorted.

“He's being dramatic,” she retorted.

“No. Only one phase of it.”

“No. Just one part of it.”

“Anyway, a successful phase.”

“Anyway, a successful period.”

“He wants to produce his little sensation,” ruminated Banneker, recalling Edmonds’s bitter diagnosis. “He does it by being clever. There are worse ways, I suppose.”

“He wants to create his own little buzz,” Banneker thought, remembering Edmonds’s harsh assessment. “He does it by being smart. I guess there are worse methods.”

“He’d always rather say a clever thing than a true one.”

“He’d always prefer to say something clever rather than something true.”

Banneker gave her a quick look. “Is that the disease from which the newspaper business is suffering?”

Banneker shot her a quick glance. “Is that the illness affecting the newspaper industry?”

“I suppose so. Anyway, it’s no good for you, Ban, if it won’t let you be yourself. And write as you think. This isn’t new to me. I’ve known newspaper men before, a lot of them, and all kinds.”

“I guess so. Anyway, it’s not good for you, Ban, if it doesn’t let you be yourself. And write your thoughts. This isn’t new to me. I’ve known a lot of newspaper guys before, all kinds.”

“Weren’t any of them honest?”

"Weren't any of them truthful?"

“Lots. But very few of them independent. They can’t be. Not even the owners, though they think they are.”

“Many. But very few of them are independent. They can’t be. Not even the owners, even though they believe they are.”

“I’d like to try that.”

“I want to try that.”

“You’d only have a hundred thousand bosses instead of one,” said she wisely.

“You’d just have a hundred thousand bosses instead of one,” she said wisely.

“You’re talking about the public. They’re your bosses, too, aren’t they?”

“You're talking about the public. They’re your bosses, too, right?”

“Oh, I’m only a woman. It doesn’t matter. Besides, they’re not. I lead em by the ear—the big, red, floppy ear. Poor dears! They think I love em all.”

“Oh, I’m just a woman. It doesn’t matter. Besides, they’re not. I lead them by the ear—the big, red, floppy ear. Poor things! They think I love them all.”

“Whereas what you really love is the power within yourself to please them. You call it art, I suppose.”

“Honestly, what you truly love is the ability within yourself to make them happy. You call it art, I guess.”

“Ban! What a repulsive way to put it. You’re revenging yourself for what I said about the newspapers.”

"Ban! What a gross way to say that. You're getting back at me for what I said about the newspapers."

“Not exactly. I’m drawing the deadly parallel.”

“Not exactly. I’m making the dangerous comparison.”

She drew down her pretty brows in thought. “I see. But, at worst, I’m interpreting in my own way. Not somebody else’s.”

She furrowed her pretty brows in thought. “I get it. But, at worst, I’m interpreting it my own way. Not someone else’s.”

“Not your author’s?”

"Not your author?"

“Certainly not,” she returned mutinously. “I know how to put a line over better than he possibly could. That’s my business.”

“Definitely not,” she replied defiantly. “I know how to cast a line better than he ever could. That’s my thing.”

“I’d hate to write a play for you, Bettina.”

“I'd really dislike writing a play for you, Bettina.”

“Try it,” she challenged. “But don’t try to teach me how to play it after it’s written.”

“Go ahead,” she dared. “But don’t try to show me how to play it once it’s written.”

“I begin to see the effect of the bill-board’s printing the star’s name in letters two feet high and the playwright’s in one-inch type.”

“I’m starting to notice how the billboard prints the star's name in two-foot-high letters and the playwright's in one-inch type.”

“The newspapers don’t print yours at all, do they? Unless you shoot some one,” she added maliciously.

“The newspapers don’t print yours at all, do they? Unless you shoot someone,” she added with a wicked grin.

“True enough. But I don’t think I’d shine as a playwright.”

“That's true. But I don’t think I’d be great as a playwright.”

“What will you do, then, if you fire yourself?”

“What will you do if you get yourself fired?”

“Fiction, perhaps. It’s slow but glorious, I understand. When I’m starving in a garret, awaiting fame with the pious and cocksure confidence of genius, will you guarantee to invite me to a square meal once a fortnight? Think what it would give me to look forward to!”

“Fiction, maybe. It’s slow but amazing, I get it. When I’m broke in a small, cramped space, waiting for fame with the holy and overly confident attitude of a genius, will you promise to invite me for a good meal once every two weeks? Just think about how much that would mean to me!”

She was looking him in the face with an expression of frank curiosity. “Ban, does money never trouble you?”

She was looking him in the face with a look of genuine curiosity. “Ban, does money never bother you?”

“Not very much,” he confessed. “It comes somehow and goes every way.”

“Not a lot,” he admitted. “It comes and goes in all directions.”

“You give the effect of spending it with graceful ease. Have you got much?”

“You make it seem like you spend it effortlessly. Do you have a lot?”

“A little dribble of an income of my own. I make, I suppose, about a quarter of what your salary is.”

“A little trickle of income of my own. I think I make about a quarter of what your salary is.”

“One doesn’t readily imagine you ever being scrimped. You give the effect of pros—no, not of prosperity; of—well—absolute ease. It’s quite different.”

“One doesn't easily picture you ever being short on anything. You come across as someone who has it all together—no, not in a wealthy way; more like in a state of complete comfort. It's a whole different vibe.”

“Much nicer.”

"Way nicer."

“Do you know what they call you, around town?”

“Do you know what people are saying about you in town?”

“Didn’t know I had attained the pinnacle of being called anything, around town.”

“Didn’t know I had reached the top of being called anything around town.”

“They call you the best-dressed first-nighter in New York.”

“They say you’re the best-dressed person at the opening nights in New York.”

“Oh, damn!” said Banneker fervently.

“Oh, damn!” Banneker exclaimed.

“That’s fame, though. I know plenty of men who would give half of their remaining hairs for it.”

“That’s fame, though. I know a lot of guys who would give up half of their hair for it.”

“I don’t need the hairs, but they can have it.”

“I don’t need the hair, but they can have it.”

“Then, too, you know, I’m an asset.”

“Also, you know, I’m an asset.”

“An asset?”

“Yes. To you, I mean.” She pursed her fingers upon the tip of her firm little chin and leaned forward. “Our being seen so much together. Of course, that’s a brashly shameless thing to say. But I never have to wear a mask for you. In that way you’re a comfortable person.”

“Yes. I mean to you.” She pressed her fingers against the tip of her strong little chin and leaned in closer. “The fact that we’re seen together so often. I know that sounds really bold of me to say. But I never have to put on a facade around you. In that sense, you’re really easy to be around.”

“You do have to furnish a diagram, though.”

“You do need to provide a diagram, though.”

“Yes? You’re not usually stupid. Whether you try for it or not—and I think there’s a dash of the theatrical in your make-up—you’re a picturesque sort of animal. And I—well, I help out the picture; make you the more conspicuous. It isn’t your good looks alone—you’re handsome as the devil, you know, Ban,” she twinkled at him—“nor the super-tailored effect which you pretend to despise, nor your fame as a gun-man, though that helps a lot.... I’ll give you a bit of tea-talk: two flappers at The Plaza. ‘Who’s that wonderful-looking man over by the palm?’—‘Don’t you know him? Why, that’s Mr. Banneker.’—‘Who’s he; and what does he do? Have I seen him on the stage?’—‘No, indeed! I don’t know what he does; but he’s an ex-ranchman and he held off a gang of river-pirates on a yacht, all alone, and killed eight or ten of them. Doesn’t he look it!’”

“Yes? You’re not usually foolish. Whether you intend to or not—and I think there’s a bit of drama in your personality—you’re quite a striking character. And I—well, I enhance the scene; I make you stand out more. It’s not just your good looks—you’re as handsome as the devil, you know, Ban,” she smiled at him—“nor is it the impeccably tailored style that you pretend to dislike, nor your reputation as a sharpshooter, though that certainly helps.... Let me give you some gossip: two socialites at The Plaza. ‘Who’s that amazing-looking guy by the palm tree?’—‘You don’t know him? That’s Mr. Banneker.’—‘Who’s he, and what does he do? Have I seen him on stage?’—‘No way! I don’t even know what he does; but he used to be a rancher and he fought off a group of river pirates on a yacht all by himself, taking out eight or ten of them. Doesn’t he look the part!’”

“I don’t go to afternoon teas,” said the subject of this sprightly sketch, sulkily.

“I don’t go to afternoon teas,” the subject of this lively sketch said, sulkily.

“You will! If you don’t look out. Now the same scene several years hence. Same flapper, answering same question: ‘Who’s Banneker? Oh, a reporter or something, on one of the papers.’ Et voilà tout!”

“You will! If you’re not careful. Now picture the same scene a few years later. The same flapper, answering the same question: ‘Who’s Banneker? Oh, just a reporter or something, from one of the papers.’ Et voilà tout!”

“Suppose you were with me at the Plaza, as an asset, several years hence?”

“Imagine you were with me at the Plaza, as a resource, several years from now?”

“I shouldn’t be—several years hence.”

"I shouldn't be—several years later."

Banneker smiled radiantly. “Which I am to take as fair warning that, unless I rise above my present lowly estate, that waxing young star, Miss Raleigh, will no longer—”

Banneker smiled brightly. “So I should take that as a fair warning that, unless I elevate myself from my current humble position, that rising young star, Miss Raleigh, will no longer—”

“Ban! What right have you to think me a wretched little snob?”

“Ban! What right do you have to think I’m a pathetic little snob?”

“None in the world. It’s I that am the snob, for even thinking about it. Just the same, what you said about ‘only a reporter or something’ struck in.”

“None in the world. I’m the snob for even thinking about it. Still, what you said about ‘only a reporter or something’ really hit home.”

“But in a few years from now you won’t be a reporter.”

“But in a few years, you won’t be a reporter anymore.”

“Shall I still be privileged to invite Miss Raleigh to supper—or was it tea?”

“Can I still invite Miss Raleigh to supper—or was it for tea?”

“You’re still angry. That isn’t fair of you when I’m being so frank. I’m going to be even franker. I’m feeling that way to-night. Comes of being tired, I suppose. Relaxing of the what-you-callems of inhibition. Do you know there’s a lot of gossip about us, back of stage?”

“You’re still upset. That’s not fair when I’m being so honest. I’m going to be even more honest. I’m feeling that way tonight. I guess it’s from being tired. It relaxes the what-you-call-it of inhibition. Did you know there’s a lot of gossip about us backstage?”

“Is there? Do you mind it?”

"Is there? Do you care?"

“No. It doesn’t matter. They think I’m crazy about you.” Her clear, steady eyes did not change expression or direction.

“No. It doesn’t matter. They think I’m obsessed with you.” Her clear, steady eyes didn’t change in expression or focus.

“You’re not; are you?”

"You aren't; are you?"

“No; I’m not. That’s the strange part of it.”

“No, I’m not. That’s the weird part of it.”

“Thanks for the flattering implication. But you couldn’t take any serious interest in a mere reporter, could you?” he said wickedly.

“Thanks for the compliment. But you wouldn’t actually be interested in a simple reporter, would you?” he said playfully.

This time Betty laughed. “Couldn’t I! I could take serious interest in a tumblebug, at times. Other times I wouldn’t care if the whole race of men were extinct—and that’s most times. I feel your charm. And I like to be with you. You rest me. You’re an asset, too, in a way, Ban; because you’re never seen with any woman. You’re supposed not to care for them.... You’ve never tried to make love to me even the least little bit, Ban. I wonder why.”

This time, Betty laughed. “Couldn’t I! I can get really interested in a beetle sometimes. Other times, I couldn't care less if the entire male species vanished—and that’s most of the time. I feel your charm. And I enjoy being with you. You relax me. You’re also an advantage in a way, Ban, because you’re never seen with any woman. People think you don’t care about them... You’ve never tried to flirt with me even a little bit, Ban. I wonder why.”

“That sounds like an invitation, but—”

“But you know it isn’t. That’s the delightful part of you; you do know things like that.”

“But you know it’s not. That’s the wonderful thing about you; you really do know stuff like that.”

“Also I know better than to risk my peace of mind.”

“Also, I know better than to jeopardize my peace of mind.”

“Don’t lie to me, my dear,” she said softly. “There’s some one else.”

“Don’t lie to me, my dear,” she said gently. “There’s someone else.”

He made no reply.

He didn't respond.

“You see, you don’t deny it.” Had he denied it, she would have said: “Of course you’d deny it!” the methods of feminine detective logic being so devised.

“You see, you can’t deny it.” If he had denied it, she would have said, “Of course you’d deny it!” because that’s how feminine detective logic works.

“No; I don’t deny it.”

"No, I won't deny it."

“But you don’t want to talk about her.”

“But you don't want to talk about her.”

“No.”

“Nope.”

“It’s as bad as that?” she commiserated gently. “Poor Ban! But you’re young. You’ll get over it.” Her brooding eyes suddenly widened. “Or perhaps you won’t,” she amended with deeper perceptiveness. “Have you been trying me as an anodyne?” she demanded sternly.

“It’s really that bad?” she said sympathetically. “Poor Ban! But you’re young. You’ll bounce back.” Her thoughtful eyes suddenly widened. “Or maybe you won’t,” she corrected with a deeper understanding. “Have you been using me as a remedy?” she asked firmly.

Banneker had the grace to blush. Instantly she rippled into laughter.

Banneker had the grace to blush. Immediately, she burst into laughter.

“I’ve never seen you at a loss before. You look as sheepish as a stage-door Johnnie when his inamorata gets into the other fellow’s car. Ban, you never hung about stage-doors, did you? I think it would be good for you; tame your proud spirit and all that. Why don’t you write one of your ‘Eban’ sketches on John H. Stage-Door?”

“I’ve never seen you at a loss before. You look as awkward as a backstage fan when their crush gets into someone else’s car. Ban, you never hung out by the stage doors, did you? I think it would be good for you; it could humble your proud spirit and all that. Why don’t you write one of your ‘Eban’ sketches about John H. Stage-Door?”

“I’ll do better than that. Give me of your wisdom on the subject and I’ll write an interview with you for Tittle-Tattle.”

“I’ll do better than that. Share your insights on the topic, and I’ll write an interview with you for Tittle-Tattle.”

“Do! And make me awfully clever, please. Our press-agent hasn’t put anything over for weeks. He’s got a starving wife and seven drunken children, or something like that, and, as he’ll take all the credit for the interview and even claim that he wrote it unless you sign it, perhaps it’ll get him a raise and he can then buy the girl who plays the manicure part a bunch of orchids. He’d have been a stage-door Johnnie if he hadn’t stubbed his toe and become a press-agent.”

“Do! And please make me really smart. Our press agent hasn't pulled off anything in weeks. He's got a starving wife and seven rowdy kids or something like that, and since he’ll take all the credit for the interview and even claim he wrote it unless you sign it, maybe this will help him get a raise so he can buy the girl who plays the manicurist a bunch of orchids. He would have been a stage-door fan if he hadn’t stubbed his toe and become a press agent.”

“All right,” said Banneker. “Now: I’ll ask the stupid questions and you give the cutie answers.”

"Okay," said Banneker. "So, I'll ask the dumb questions and you give the charming answers."

It was two o’clock when Miss Betty Raleigh, having seen the gist of all her witty and profound observations upon a strange species embodied in three or four scrawled notes on the back of a menu, rose and observed that, whereas acting was her favorite pastime, her real and serious business was sleep. At her door she held her face up to him as straightforwardly as a child. “Good luck to you, dear boy,” she said softly. “If I ever were a fortune-teller, I would say that your star was for happiness and success.”

It was two o’clock when Miss Betty Raleigh, after summarizing her witty and insightful thoughts on an unusual type of person in three or four scribbled notes on the back of a menu, stood up and pointed out that while acting was her favorite hobby, her true and serious focus was sleep. At her door, she looked up at him with the openness of a child. “Good luck to you, dear boy,” she said gently. “If I were ever a fortune-teller, I would say that your future holds happiness and success.”

He bent and kissed her cheek lightly. “I’ll have my try at success,” he said. “But the other isn’t so easy.”

He leaned down and kissed her cheek gently. “I’ll give it my shot at success,” he said. “But the other one isn’t so simple.”

“You’ll find them one and the same,” was her parting prophecy.

"You'll find they're one and the same," was her final prediction.

Inured to work at all hours, Banneker went to the small, bare room in his apartment which he kept as a study, and sat down to write the interview. Angles of dawn-light had begun to irradiate the steep canyon of the street by the time he had finished. He read it over and found it good, for its purposes. Every line of it sparkled. It had the effervescent quality which the reading public loves to associate with stage life and stage people. Beyond that, nothing. Banneker mailed it to Miss Westlake for typing, had a bath, and went to bed. At noon he was at The Ledger office, fresh, alert, and dispassionately curious to ascertain the next resolution of the mix-up between the paper and himself.

Used to working at all hours, Banneker went to the small, bare room in his apartment that he used as a study and sat down to write the interview. By the time he finished, the dawn light was starting to illuminate the steep canyon of the street. He read it over and found it good for its intended purpose. Every line sparkled. It had the lively quality that the public loves to associate with theater life and performers. Beyond that, nothing more. Banneker sent it to Miss Westlake for typing, took a bath, and went to bed. At noon, he was at The Ledger office, feeling fresh, alert, and calmly curious to figure out the next steps in the mix-up between the paper and himself.

Nothing happened; at least, nothing indicative. Mr. Greenough’s expression was as flat and neutral as the desk over which he presided as he called Banneker’s name and said to him:

Nothing happened; at least, nothing significant. Mr. Greenough’s expression was as flat and neutral as the desk he was sitting at when he called Banneker’s name and said to him:

“Mr. Horace Vanney wishes to relieve his soul of some priceless information. Will you call at his office at two-thirty?”

“Mr. Horace Vanney wants to share some valuable information. Can you stop by his office at two-thirty?”

It was Mr. Vanney’s practice, whenever any of his enterprises appeared in a dubious or unfavorable aspect, immediately to materialize in print on some subject entirely unrelated, preferably an announcement on behalf of one of the charitable or civic organizations which he officially headed. Thus he shone forth as a useful, serviceable, and public-spirited citizen, against whom (such was the inference which the newspaper reader was expected to draw) only malignancy could allege anything injurious. In this instance his offering upon the altar of publicity, carefully typed and mimeographed, had just enough importance to entitle it to a paragraph of courtesy. After it was given out to those who called, Mr. Vanney detained Banneker.

It was Mr. Vanney’s habit, whenever any of his businesses seemed questionable or problematic, to quickly shift the focus to something completely unrelated, ideally an announcement for one of the charitable or civic organizations he officially led. This way, he presented himself as a helpful, reliable, and community-minded citizen, from whom (or so the newspaper reader was meant to infer) only malice could claim anything harmful. In this case, his contribution to the public eye, neatly typed and duplicated, had just enough significance to warrant a brief mention. After it was distributed to those who came by, Mr. Vanney held back Banneker.

“Have you read the morning papers, Mr. Banneker?”

"Have you read the morning papers, Mr. Banneker?"

“Yes. That’s my business, Mr. Vanney.”

“Then you can see, by the outbreak in Sippiac, to what disastrous results anarchism and fomented discontent lead.”

“Then you can see, from the outbreak in Sippiac, what disastrous results come from anarchism and stirred-up discontent.”

“Depends on the point of view. I believe that, after my visit to the mills for you, I told you that unless conditions were bettered you’d have another and worse strike. You’ve got it.”

“Depends on how you look at it. I think that after I visited the mills for you, I mentioned that unless things improved, you’d face another strike, and a worse one at that. Well, here it is.”

“Fortunately it is under control. The trouble-makers and thugs have been taught a needed lesson.”

"Luckily, it's under control. The troublemakers and thugs have learned a much-needed lesson."

“Especially the six-year-old trouble-making thug who was shot through the lungs from behind.”

“Especially the six-year-old troublemaker who was shot in the lungs from behind.”

Mr. Vanney scowled. “Unfortunate. And the papers laid unnecessary stress upon that. Wholly unnecessary. Most unfair.”

Mr. Vanney frowned. “That's unfortunate. And the media put too much emphasis on that. Completely unnecessary. Totally unfair.”

“You would hardly accuse The Ledger, at least, of being unfair to the mill interests.”

"You probably wouldn’t say that The Ledger was being unfair to the mill interests."

“Yes. The Ledger’s handling, while less objectionable than some of the others, was decidedly unfortunate.”

“Yes. The way the Ledger was handled, while not as bad as some of the others, was definitely unfortunate.”

Banneker gazed at him in stupefaction. “Mr. Vanney, The Ledger minimized every detail unfavorable to the mills and magnified every one which told against the strikers. It was only its skill that concealed the bias in every paragraph.”

Banneker stared at him in shock. “Mr. Vanney, The Ledger downplayed every detail that was bad for the mills and exaggerated every detail that harmed the strikers. It was only its cleverness that hid the bias in every paragraph.”

“You are not over-loyal to your employer, sir,” commented the other severely.

“You're not too loyal to your boss, sir,” the other person remarked sternly.

“At least I’m defending the paper against your aspersions,” returned Banneker.

“At least I’m standing up for the paper against your accusations,” Banneker replied.

“Most unfair,” pursued Mr. Vanney. “Why publish such matter at all? It merely stirs up more discontent and excites hostility against the whole industrial system which has made this country great. And I give more copy to the newspaper men than any other public man in New York. It’s rank ingratitude, that’s what it is.” He meditated upon the injurious matter. “I suppose we ought to have advertised,” he added pensively. “Then they’d let us alone as they do the big stores.”

“Most unfair,” continued Mr. Vanney. “Why even publish something like this? It just creates more discontent and fuels hostility toward the entire industrial system that has made this country great. And I provide more material to the journalists than any other public figure in New York. It’s pure ingratitude, that’s what it is.” He thought about the harmful content. “I guess we should have advertised,” he added thoughtfully. “Then they’d leave us alone like they do with the big stores.”

Banneker left the Vanney offices with a great truth illuminating his brain; to wit, that news, whether presented ingenuously or disingenuously, will always and inevitably be unpopular with those most nearly affected. For while we all read avidly what we can find about the other man’s sins and errors, we all hope, for our own, the kindly mantle of silence. And because news always must and will stir hostility, the attitude of a public, any part of which may be its next innocent (or guilty) victim, is instinctively inimical. Another angle of the pariahdom of those who deal in day-to-day history, for Banneker to ponder.

Banneker left the Vanney offices with a profound realization in his mind: that news, whether shared honestly or deceitfully, will always and inevitably be unpopular with those most affected. While we eagerly read about the sins and mistakes of others, we wish for a cloak of silence over our own. Since news tends to provoke hostility, the public's reaction is often instinctively negative, especially since any of them could be the next innocent (or guilty) target. This gave Banneker another perspective on the outcast status of those who handle daily news to consider.

Feeling a strong desire to get away from the troublous environment of print, Banneker was glad to avail himself of Densmore’s invitation to come to The Retreat on the following Monday and try his hand at polo again. This time he played much better, his mallet work in particular being more reliable.

Feeling a strong urge to escape the stressful atmosphere of print, Banneker was happy to accept Densmore’s invitation to come to The Retreat the following Monday and give polo another shot. This time he played much better, with his mallet work being especially more dependable.

“You ride like an Indian,” said Densmore to him after the scratch game, “and you’ve got no nerves. But I don’t see where you got your wrist, except by practice.”

“You ride like a pro,” Densmore said to him after the practice match, “and you’ve got nerves of steel. But I can’t figure out how you got your wrist skills, except through practice.”

“I’ve had the practice, some time since.”

“I practiced earlier.”

“But if you’ve only knocked about the field with stable-boys—”

“But if you’ve only hung out with stableboys—”

“That’s the only play I’ve ever had. But when I was riding range in the desert, I picked up an old stick and a ball of the owner’s, and I’ve chased that ball over more miles of sand and rubble than you’d care to walk. Cactus plants make very fair goal posts, too; but the sand is tricky going for the ball.”

"That's the only game I've ever played. But when I was out on the range in the desert, I picked up an old stick and a ball belonging to the owner, and I've chased that ball over more miles of sand and debris than you'd want to walk. Cactus plants make pretty good goal posts, but the sand makes it tricky for the ball."

Densmore whistled. “That explains it. Maitland says you’ll make the club team in two years. Let us get together and fix you up some ponies,” invited Densmore.

Densmore whistled. “That makes sense. Maitland says you’ll make the club team in two years. Let’s get together and set you up with some ponies,” Densmore suggested.

Banneker shook his head, but wistfully.

Banneker shook his head, but with a hint of longing.

“Until you’re making enough to carry your own.”

“Until you’re earning enough to support yourself.”

“That might be ten years, in the newspaper business. Or never.

"That could be ten years in the newspaper business. Or maybe never."

“Then get out of it. Let Old Man Masters find you something in the Street. You could get away with it,” persuaded Densmore. “And he’ll do anything for a polo-man.”

“Then just leave it. Let Old Man Masters find you something on the Street. You could pull it off,” Densmore urged. “And he’ll do anything for a polo player.”

“No, thank you. No paid-athlete job for mine. I’d rather stay a reporter.”

“No, thank you. I’m not interested in a paid athlete job. I’d prefer to stay a reporter.”

“Come into the club, anyway. You can afford that. And at least you can take a mount on your day off.”

“Come into the club, anyway. You can afford it. And at least you can take a ride on your day off.”

“I’m thinking of another job where I’ll have more time to myself than one day a week,” confessed Banneker, having in mind possible magazine work. He thought of the pleasant remoteness of The Retreat. It was expensive; it would involve frequent taxi charges. But, as ever, Banneker had an unreasoning faith in a financial providence of supply. “Yes: I’ll come in,” he said. “That is, if I can get in.”

“I’m thinking about getting another job that gives me more free time than just one day a week,” Banneker admitted, considering potential magazine work. He reflected on the nice seclusion of The Retreat. It was pricey; it would mean regular taxi fares. But, as always, Banneker had an irrational belief in a financial safety net. “Yeah, I’ll come in,” he said. “That is, if I can get in.”

“You’ll get in, with Poultney Masters for a backer. Otherwise, I’ll tell you frankly, I think your business would keep you out, in spite of your polo.”

“You’ll get in with Poultney Masters backing you. Otherwise, I’ll be honest, I think your situation would exclude you, despite your polo skills.”

“Densmore, there’s something I’ve been wanting to put up to you.”

“Densmore, there’s something I’ve been wanting to bring up with you.”

Densmore’s heavy brows came to attention. “Fire ahead.”

Densmore raised his heavy brows. “Fire ahead.”

“You were ready to beat me up when I came here to ask you certain questions.”

“You were ready to fight me when I came here to ask you some questions.”

“I was. Any fellow would be. You would.”

“I was. Anyone would be. You would.”

“Perhaps. But suppose, through the work of some other reporter, a divorce story involving the sister and brother-in-law of some chap in your set had appeared in the papers.”

"Maybe. But what if, through another reporter's work, a divorce story about the sister and brother-in-law of someone in your circle showed up in the newspapers?"

“No concern of mine.”

"Not my problem."

“But you’d read it, wouldn’t you?”

“But you’d read it, right?”

“Probably.”

"Most likely."

“And if your paper didn’t have it in and another paper did, you’d buy the other paper to find out about it.”

“And if your newspaper didn’t have it but another one did, you’d buy the other paper to find out about it.”

“If I was interested in the people, I might.”

“If I were interested in the people, I might.”

“Then what kind of a sport are you, when you’re keen to read about other people’s scandals, but sore on any one who inquires about yours?”

“Then what kind of person are you, when you’re eager to read about other people’s scandals, but upset when someone asks about yours?”

“That’s the other fellow’s bad luck. If he—”

“That’s the other guy’s bad luck. If he—”

“You don’t get my point. A newspaper is simply a news exchange. If you’re ready to read about the affairs of others, you should not resent the activity of the newspaper that attempts to present yours. I’m merely advancing a theory.”

“You're missing my point. A newspaper is just a way to share news. If you're willing to read about other people's lives, you shouldn't be upset about a newspaper trying to cover yours. I'm just proposing a theory.”

“Damned ingenious,” admitted the polo-player. “Make a reporter a sort of public agent, eh? Only, you see, he isn’t. He hasn’t any right to my private affairs.”

“Damned clever,” the polo player admitted. “Turning a reporter into some kind of public agent, huh? But you see, he isn’t. He has no right to my private matters.”

“Then you shouldn’t take advantage of his efforts, as you do when you read about your friends.”

“Then you shouldn’t exploit his efforts like you do when you read about your friends.”

“Oh, that’s too fine-spun for me. Now, I’ll tell you; just because I take a drink at a bar I don’t make a pal of the bartender. It comes to about the same thing, I fancy. You’re trying to justify your profession. Let me ask you; do you feel that you’re within your decent rights when you come to a stranger with such a question as you put up to me?”

“Oh, that’s way too complicated for me. Let me tell you; just because I grab a drink at a bar doesn’t mean I’m friends with the bartender. It’s pretty much the same thing, I think. You’re trying to justify your job. Let me ask you; do you really think it’s appropriate to approach a stranger with a question like the one you just asked me?”

“No; I don’t,” replied Banneker ruefully. “I feel like a man trying to hold up a bigger man with a toy pistol.”

“No; I don’t,” Banneker replied with a hint of sadness. “I feel like a guy trying to hold up a bigger guy with a toy gun.”

“Then you’d better get into some other line.”

“Then you should find another line of work.”

But whatever hopes Banneker may have had of the magazine line suffered a set-back when, a few days later, he called upon the Great Gaines at his office, and was greeted with a cheery though quizzical smile.

But whatever hopes Banneker might have had for the magazine line took a hit when, a few days later, he visited the Great Gaines at his office and was welcomed with a cheerful yet curious smile.

“Yes; I’ve read it,” said the editor at once, not waiting for the question. “It’s clever. It’s amazingly clever.”

“Yeah, I’ve read it,” the editor replied immediately, not waiting for the question. “It’s smart. It’s incredibly smart.”

“I’m glad you like it,” replied Banneker, pleased but not surprised.

“I’m glad you like it,” Banneker replied, pleased but not surprised.

Mr. Gaines’s expression became one of limpid innocence. “Like it? Did I say I liked it?”

Mr. Gaines's expression turned into one of clear innocence. “Like it? Did I say I liked it?”

“No; you didn’t say so.”

"No, you didn't say that."

“No. As a matter of fact I don’t like it. Dear me, no! Not at all. Where did you get the idea?” asked Mr. Gaines abruptly.

“No. I actually don’t like it. Oh no! Not at all. Where did you get that idea?” Mr. Gaines asked abruptly.

“The plot?”

"What's the plot?"

“No; no. Not the plot. The plot is nothing. The idea of choosing such an environment and doing the story in that way.”

“No; no. Not the plot. The plot doesn’t matter. It’s the idea of selecting such a setting and telling the story in that way.”

“From The New Era Magazine.”

“From The New Era Mag.”

“I begin to see. You have been studying the magazine.”

“I get it now. You've been looking at the magazine.”

“Yes. Since I first had the idea of trying to write for it.”

“Yes. Ever since I first thought about writing for it.”

“Flattered, indeed!” said Mr. Gaines dryly. “And you modeled yourself upon—what?”

“Flattered, really!” Mr. Gaines said dryly. “And you based yourself on—what?”

“I wrote the type of story which the magazine runs to.”

“I wrote the kind of story that the magazine publishes.”

“Pardon me. You did not. You wrote, if you will forgive me, an imitation of that type. Your story has everything that we strive for except reality.”

“Excuse me. You didn’t. You wrote, if you’ll pardon me, a copy of that style. Your story has everything we aim for except authenticity.”

“You believe that I have deliberately copied—”

“You think I have intentionally copied—”

“A type, not a story. No; you are not a plagiarist, Mr. Banneker. But you are very thoroughly a journalist.”

“A type, not a story. No; you’re not a plagiarist, Mr. Banneker. But you are definitely a journalist.”

“Coming from you that can hardly be accounted a compliment.”

“Coming from you, that’s hardly a compliment.”

“Nor is it so intended. But I don’t wish you to misconstrue me. You are not a journalist in your style and method; it goes deeper than that. You are a journalist in your—well, in your approach. ‘What the public wants.’”

“Nor is it meant that way. But I don’t want you to misunderstand me. You’re not a journalist in your style and method; it runs deeper than that. You are a journalist in your—well, in your approach. ‘What the public wants.’”

Inwardly Banneker was raging. The incisive perception stung. But he spoke lightly. “Doesn’t The New Era want what its public wants?”

Inwardly, Banneker was furious. The sharp insight hurt. But he spoke casually. “Isn’t The New Era interested in what its audience wants?”

“My dear sir, in the words of a man who ought to have been an editor of to-day, ‘The public be damned!’ What I looked to you for was not your idea of what somebody else wanted you to write, but your expression of what you yourself want to write. About hoboes. About railroad wrecks. About cowmen or peddlers or waterside toughs or stage-door Johnnies, or ward politicians, or school-teachers, or life. Not pink teas.”

“My dear sir, in the words of someone who should be a modern-day editor, ‘The public be damned!’ What I expected from you wasn't your take on what someone else wanted you to write, but your own thoughts on what you want to write. About hobos. About train wrecks. About cowboys, peddlers, tough guys by the water, wannabe actors, local politicians, teachers, or life. Not fancy tea parties.”

“I have read pink-tea stories in your magazine.”

“I’ve read pink-tea stories in your magazine.”

“Of course you have. Written by people who could see through the pink to the primary colors underneath. When you go to a pink tea, you are pink. Did you ever go to one?”

Still thoroughly angry, Banneker nevertheless laughed, “Then the story is no use?”

Still really angry, Banneker laughed anyway, “So the story is pointless?”

“Not to us, certainly. Miss Thornborough almost wept over it. She said that you would undoubtedly sell it to The Bon Vivant and be damned forever.”

“Definitely not for us. Miss Thornborough was almost in tears about it. She said you would surely sell it to The Bon Vivant and be cursed forever.”

“Thank her on my behalf,” returned the other gravely. “If The Bon Vivant wants it and will pay for it, I shall certainly sell it to them.”

“Thank her for me,” the other replied seriously. “If The Bon Vivant wants it and is willing to pay for it, I will definitely sell it to them.”

“Out of pique?... Hold hard, young sir! You can’t shoot an editor in his sanctum because of an ill-advised but natural question.”

“Just because you're upset?... Hold on there, young man! You can’t shoot an editor in his office just because of a thoughtless but normal question.”

“True enough. Nor do I want—well, yes; I would rather like to.”

“That's true. But I don’t want—well, actually, I would kinda like to.”

“Good! That’s natural and genuine.”

“Great! That’s authentic and real.”

“What do you think The Bon Vivant would pay for that story?” inquired Banneker.

“What do you think The Bon Vivant would pay for that story?” Banneker asked.

“Perhaps a hundred dollars. Cheap, for a career, isn’t it!”

“Maybe a hundred dollars. That's cheap for a career, right?”

“Isn’t the assumption that there is but one pathway to the True Art and but one signboard pointing to it a little excessive?”

“Isn’t it a bit much to think there’s only one way to the True Art and just one sign pointing to it?”

“Abominably. There are a thousand pathways, broad and narrow. They all go uphill.... Some day when you spin something out of your own inside, Mr. Banneker, forgive the well-meaning editor and let us see it. It might be pure silk.”

“Disgustingly. There are a thousand paths, wide and narrow. They all go uphill... One day when you create something from your own feelings, Mr. Banneker, forgive the well-intentioned editor and let us see it. It might be pure silk.”

All the way downtown, Banneker cursed inwardly but brilliantly. This was his first set-back. Everything prior which he had attempted had been successful. Inevitably the hard, firm texture of his inner endurance had softened under the spoiled-child treatment which the world had readily accorded him. Even while he recognized this, he sulked.

All the way downtown, Banneker cursed to himself but cleverly. This was his first setback. Everything he had tried before had succeeded. Naturally, the tough, resilient part of him had weakened under the pampering that the world had easily given him. Even as he realized this, he pouted.

To some extent he was cheered up by a letter from the editor of that lively and not too finicky publication, Tittle-Tattle. The interview with Miss Raleigh was acclaimed with almost rapturous delight. It was precisely the sort of thing wanted. Proof had already been sent to Miss Raleigh, who was equally pleased. Would Mr. Banneker kindly read and revise enclosed proof and return it as soon as possible? Mr. Banneker did better than that. He took back the corrected proof in person. The editor was most cordial, until Banneker inquired what price was to be paid for the interview. Then the editor was surprised and grieved. It appeared that he had not expected to pay anything for it.

To some extent, he felt uplifted by a letter from the editor of that lively and not too picky publication, Tittle-Tattle. The interview with Miss Raleigh was met with almost ecstatic delight. It was exactly what they needed. Proof had already been sent to Miss Raleigh, who was equally thrilled. Would Mr. Banneker kindly read and revise the enclosed proof and return it as soon as possible? Mr. Banneker did even better than that. He brought back the corrected proof in person. The editor was very friendly until Banneker asked what payment would be made for the interview. Then the editor was shocked and disappointed. It turned out he hadn’t expected to pay anything for it.

“Do you expect to get copy for nothing?” inquired the astonished and annoyed Banneker.

“Do you really think you can get something for free?” asked the astonished and annoyed Banneker.

“If it comes to that,” retorted the sharp-featured young man at the editorial desk, “you’re the one that’s getting something for nothing.”

“If it comes to that,” responded the sharp-featured young man at the editorial desk, “you’re the one who’s getting something for nothing.”

“I don’t follow you.”

"I'm not following you."

“Come off! This is red-hot advertising matter for Betty Raleigh, and you know it. Why, I ought to charge a coupla hundred for running it at all. But you being a newspaper man and the stuff being so snappy, I’m willing to make an exception. Besides, you’re a friend of Raleigh’s, ain’t you? Well—‘nuff said!”

“Come on! This is prime advertising material for Betty Raleigh, and you know it. Honestly, I should charge a couple hundred just for running it. But since you're a newspaper guy and the content is so lively, I'm willing to make an exception. Plus, you're a friend of Raleigh's, right? Well—enough said!”

It was upon the tip of Banneker’s tongue to demand the copy back. Then he bethought himself of Betty’s disappointment. The thing was well done. If he had been a thousand miles short of giving even a hint of the real Betty—who was a good deal of a person—at least he had embodied much of the light and frivolous charm which was her stage stock-in-trade, and what her public wanted. He owed her that much, anyhow.

It was on the tip of Banneker’s tongue to ask for the copy back. Then he remembered Betty’s disappointment. The piece was well done. Even if he hadn’t come close to capturing the real Betty—who was quite a character—he had at least conveyed much of the light and playful charm that was her trademark, and what her audience wanted. He owed her that much, at least.

“All right,” he said shortly.

“Okay,” he said shortly.

He left, and on the street-car immersed himself in some disillusioning calculations. Suppose he did sell the rejected story to The Bon Vivant. One hundred dollars, he had learned, was the standard price paid by that frugal magazine; that would not recompense him for the time bestowed upon it. He could have made more by writing “specials” for the Sunday paper. And on top of that to find that a really brilliant piece of interviewing had brought him in nothing more substantial than congratulations and the sense of a good turn done for a friend!

He left and, while on the streetcar, got lost in some disappointing calculations. If he did sell the rejected story to The Bon Vivant, he knew that the magazine typically paid one hundred dollars, which wouldn’t even cover the time he spent on it. He could have earned more by writing “specials” for the Sunday paper. Plus, it felt frustrating to know that a truly great piece of interviewing only earned him some praise and the satisfaction of helping a friend!

The magazine field, he began to suspect, might prove to be arid land.

The magazine industry, he started to think, could turn out to be a dry run.

CHAPTER XIII

What next? Banneker put the query to himself with more seriousness than he had hitherto given to estimating the future. Money, as he told Betty Raleigh, had never concerned him much. His start at fifteen dollars a week had been more than he expected; and though his one weekly evening of mild sybaritism ate up all his margin, and his successful sartorial experiments consumed his private surplus, he had no cause for worry, since his salary had been shortly increased to twenty, and even more shortly thereafter to twenty-five. Now it was a poor week in which he did not exceed the hundred. All of it went, rather more fluently than had the original fifteen. Frugal though he could be in normal expenditures, the rental of his little but fashionably situated apartment, his new club expenses, his polo outfit, and his occasional associations with the after-theater clique, which centered at The Avon, caused the debit column to mount with astonishing facility. Furthermore, through his Western associations he had an opportunity to pick up two half-broken polo ponies at bargain prices. He had practically decided to buy them. Their keep would be a serious item. He must have more money. How to get it? Harder work was the obvious answer. Labor had no terrors for Banneker. Mentally he was a hardened athlete, always in training. Being wise and self-protective, he did no writing on his day off. But except for this period of complete relaxation, he gave himself no respite. Any morning which did not find him writing in his den, after a light, working breakfast, he put in at the Library near by, insatiably reading economics, sociology, politics, science, the more serious magazines, and always the news and comments of the day. He was possessed of an assertive and sane curiosity to know what was going on in the world, an exigence which pressed upon him like a healthy appetite, the stimulus of his hard-trained mental condition. The satisfaction of this demand did not pay an immediate return; he obtained little or no actual material to be transmuted into the coin of so-much-per-column, except as he came upon suggestions for editorial use; and, since his earlier experience of The Ledger’s editorial method with contributions (which he considered light-fingered), he had forsworn this medium. Notwithstanding this, he wrote or sketched out many an editorial which would have astonished, and some which would have benefited, the Inside Room where the presiding genius, malicious and scholarly, dipped his pen alternately into luminous ether and undiluted venom. Some day, Banneker was sure, he himself was going to say things editorially.

What’s next? Banneker asked himself this question with more seriousness than he had ever given to thinking about the future. Money, as he told Betty Raleigh, had never been a big concern for him. His starting salary of fifteen dollars a week was more than he expected; and even though his one indulgent evening each week wiped out any extra cash and his fashion experiments consumed his savings, he had no reason to worry, since his pay had soon gone up to twenty dollars, and shortly after that to twenty-five. Now, it was a rare week when he didn’t make over a hundred dollars. All of it went out just as easily as that original fifteen had. Although he could be frugal with his regular expenses, the rent on his small but stylishly located apartment, his new club dues, his polo gear, and his occasional outings with the after-theater crowd at The Avon caused his expenses to rise quickly. Additionally, through his connections from the West, he had a chance to buy two half-trained polo ponies at good prices. He was pretty much decided on getting them. Their upkeep would be a significant expense. He needed to make more money. The obvious answer was to work harder. Banneker had no fear of hard work. Mentally, he was like a seasoned athlete, always in training. Being wise and cautious, he didn’t do any writing on his day off. But aside from that complete relaxation period, he didn’t give himself a break. Any morning that didn’t find him writing in his office after a light, working breakfast, he spent at the nearby Library, eagerly reading about economics, sociology, politics, science, the more serious magazines, and always the news and commentary of the day. He had a strong and healthy curiosity to know what was happening in the world, a drive that felt as urgent as a healthy appetite, fueling his sharp mind. Satisfying this curiosity didn’t bring immediate rewards; he got little to no actual material that could be turned into money for each column, except for suggestions that might be useful for editorial purposes; and after his past experiences with The Ledger’s editorial methods (which he thought were a bit sketchy), he had sworn off that route. Despite this, he wrote or outlined many editorials that would have surprised and benefited the Inside Room, where the cunning and scholarly presiding genius dipped his pen alternately into enlightening ideas and pure venom. Banneker was sure that one day he would have something to say from an editorial standpoint.

His opinion of the editorial output in general was unflattering. It seemed to him bound by formalism and incredibly blind to the immense and vivid interest of the news whereby it was surrounded, as if a man, set down in a meadow full of deep and clear springs, should elect to drink from a shallow, torpid, and muddy trickle. Legislation, taxes, transportation problems, the Greatness of Our City, our National Duty (whatever it might be at the time—and according to opinion), the drink question, the race problem, labor and capital; these were the reiterated topics, dealt with informatively often, sometimes wittily, seldom impartially. But, at best, this was but the creaking mechanism of the artificial structure of society, and it was varied only by an occasional literary or artistic sally, or a preachment in the terms of a convinced moralization upon the unvarying text that the wages of sin is death. Why not a touch of humanism, now and again, thought Banneker, following the inevitable parallels in paper after paper; a ray of light striking through into the life-texture beneath?

His opinion of the editorial content, in general, was not good. He felt it was restricted by formal rules and incredibly oblivious to the vast and vibrant interest of the surrounding news, like a person in a meadow full of deep, clear springs who chooses to drink from a shallow, stagnant, muddy trickle. Legislation, taxes, transportation issues, the Greatness of Our City, our National Duty (whatever that might mean at the time—and based on popular opinion), the alcohol debate, the race issue, labor and capital; these were the repetitive topics, discussed factually often, sometimes humorously, but rarely fairly. But at best, this was only the creaky mechanism of the artificial structure of society, occasionally varied by a literary or artistic outburst or a sermon on the unchanging lesson that the wages of sin is death. Why not include a bit of humanism once in a while, thought Banneker, as he noted the inevitable similarities in paper after paper; a ray of light breaking through to illuminate the life beneath?

By way of experiment he watched the tide of readers, flowing through the newspaper room of the Public Library, to ascertain what they read. Not one in thirty paid any attention to the editorial pages. Essaying farther afield, he attended church on several occasions. His suspicions were confirmed; from the pulpit he heard, addressed to scanty congregations, the same carefully phrased, strictly correct comments, now dealing, however, with the mechanism of another world. The chief point of difference was that the newspaper editorials were, on the whole, more felicitously worded and more compactly thought out. Essentially, however, the two ran parallel.

As an experiment, he observed the flow of readers coming into the newspaper room of the Public Library to see what they were reading. Not one in thirty paid attention to the editorial pages. Expanding his research, he attended church several times. His suspicions were confirmed; from the pulpit, he heard the same carefully worded, strictly accurate comments being directed at small congregations, but now they dealt with the workings of another world. The main difference was that the newspaper editorials were generally more effectively written and more concisely organized. Essentially, however, the two were similar.

Banneker wondered whether the editorial rostrum, too, was fated to deliver its would-be authoritative message to an audience which threatened to dwindle to the vanishing point. Who read those carefully wrought columns in The Ledger? Pot-bellied chair-warmers in clubs; hastening business men appreciative of the daily assurance that stability is the primal and final blessing, discontent the cardinal sin, the extant system perfect and holy, and any change a wile of the forces of destruction—as if the human race had evoluted by the power of standing still! For the man in the street they held no message. No; nor for the woman in the home. Banneker thought of young Smith of the yacht and the coming millions, with a newspaper waiting to drop into his hands. He wished he could have that newspaper—any newspaper, for a year. He’d make the man in the street sit up and read his editorials. Yes, and the woman in the home. Why not the boy and the girl in school, also? Any writer, really master of his pen, ought to be able to make even a problem in algebra editorially interesting!

Banneker wondered if the editorial platform was also destined to deliver its supposedly authoritative message to an audience that was likely to dwindle to nothing. Who was reading those carefully crafted columns in The Ledger? Overweight regulars in clubs; busy professionals who valued the daily reassurance that stability is the ultimate blessing, discontent the main sin, the existing system perfect and sacred, and any change a trick of destructive forces—as if humanity had evolved by just standing still! They had no message for the average person on the street. No, nor for the woman at home. Banneker thought of young Smith with the yacht and the future millions, with a newspaper ready to land in his hands. He wished he could have that newspaper—any newspaper, for a year. He’d make the person on the street pay attention and read his editorials. Yes, and the woman at home too. Why not the boy and girl in school as well? Any writer who is truly skilled with their pen should be able to make even an algebra problem interesting in an editorial!

And if he could make it interesting, he could make it pay.... But how was he to profit by all this hard work, this conscientious technical training to which he was devoting himself? True, it was improving his style. But for the purposes of Ledger reporting, he wrote quite well enough. Betterment here might be artistically satisfactory; financially it would be fruitless. Already his space bills were the largest, consistently, on the staff, due chiefly to his indefatigable industry in devoting every spare office hour to writing his “Eban” sketches, now paid at sixteen dollars a column, and Sunday “specials.” He might push this up a little, but not much.

And if he could make it interesting, he could make it pay... But how was he supposed to benefit from all this hard work, this dedicated technical training he was putting himself through? True, it was improving his style. But for the purposes of Ledger reporting, he wrote well enough already. Enhancing his skills might be artistically satisfying; financially, it would be pointless. His space bills were already the highest on the staff, mostly because of his relentless effort in spending every spare moment at the office writing his “Eban” sketches, now paying sixteen dollars a column, and Sunday “specials.” He might be able to bump this up a little, but not by much.

From the magazine field, expectations were meager in the immediate sense. True, The Bon Vivant had accepted the story which The Era rejected; but it had paid only seventy-five dollars. Banneker did not care to go farther on that path. Aside from the unsatisfactory return, his fastidiousness revolted from being identified with the output of a third-class and flashy publication. Whatever The Ledger’s shortcomings, it at least stood first in its field. But was there any future for him there, other than as a conspicuously well-paid reporter? In spite of the critical situation which his story of the Sippiac riots had brought about, he knew that he was safe as long as he wished to stay.

From the magazine scene, expectations were low in the immediate term. True, The Bon Vivant had accepted the story that The Era turned down, but it only paid seventy-five dollars. Banneker wasn’t interested in pursuing that option further. Besides the disappointing pay, he found it distasteful to be associated with the work of a low-quality and flashy publication. No matter what issues The Ledger had, it was at least the top in its category. But was there any real future for him there, other than being a noticeably well-paid reporter? Despite the tough situation that his story about the Sippiac riots had caused, he knew he was secure as long as he wanted to stay.

“You’re too valuable to lose,” said Tommy Burt, swinging his pudgy legs over Banneker’s desk, having finished one of his mirthful stories of a row between a wine agent and a theatrical manager over a doubly reserved table in a conspicuous restaurant. “Otherwise—phutt! But they’ll be very careful what kind of assignments they hand over to your reckless hands in future. You mustn’t throw expensive and brittle conventions at the editor’s head. They smash.”

“You're way too valuable to lose,” said Tommy Burt, swinging his chubby legs over Banneker’s desk, having just finished one of his funny stories about a fight between a wine agent and a theater manager over a reserved table at a fancy restaurant. “Otherwise—boom! But they’ll definitely think twice about what kind of assignments they give your careless hands in the future. You can’t throw expensive and fragile conventions at the editor’s head. They break.”

“And the fragments come back and cut. I know. But what does it all lead to, Tommy?”

“And the pieces come back and hurt. I get it. But where is all this going, Tommy?”

“Depends on which way you’re going.”

“Depends on which way you’re headed.”

“To the top, naturally.”

"To the top, of course."

“From anybody else that would sound blatant, Ban,” returned Tommy admiringly. “Somehow you get away with it. Are you as sincere as you act?”

“From anyone else, that would sound obvious, Ban,” Tommy said with admiration. “Somehow, you pull it off. Are you as genuine as you seem?”

“In so far as my intentions go. Of course, I may trip up and break myself in two.”

“In terms of my intentions, I could definitely stumble and end up breaking myself in two.”

“No. You’ll always fall light. There’s a buoyancy about you.... But what about coming to the end of the path and finding nowhere else to proceed?”

“No. You’ll always land softly. There’s a lightness to you.... But what happens when you reach the end of the path and there’s nowhere left to go?”

“Paragon of wisdom, you have stated the situation. Now produce the answer.”

“Paragon of wisdom, you’ve outlined the situation. Now give us the answer.”

“More money?” inquired Tommy.

“More money?” asked Tommy.

“More money. More opportunity.”

"More money, more opportunities."

“Then you’ve got to aim at the executive end. Begin by taking a copy-desk.”

“Then you need to focus on the executive level. Start by taking a copy-desk.”

“At forty a week?”

“At $40 a week?”

“It isn’t so long ago that twenty-five looked pretty big to you, Ban.”

“It wasn't that long ago that twenty-five seemed pretty significant to you, Ban.”

“A couple of centuries ago,” stated Banneker positively. “Forty a week wouldn’t keep me alive now.”

“A couple of centuries ago,” Banneker said confidently. “Forty a week wouldn’t be enough to keep me alive now.”

“You could write a lot of specials. Or do outside work.”

“You could write a lot of special projects. Or do freelance work.”

“Perhaps. But what would a desk lead to?

“Maybe. But what would a desk lead to?

“City editor. Night city editor. Night editor. Managing editor at fifteen thou.”

“City editor. Night city editor. Night editor. Managing editor at fifteen thousand.”

“After ten years. If one has the patience. I haven’t. Besides, what chance would I have?’

“After ten years. If someone has the patience. I don't. Besides, what chance would I have?”

“None, with the present lot in the Inside Room. You’re a heretic. You’re unsound. You’ve got dangerous ideas—accent on the dangerous. I doubt if they’d even trust you with a blue pencil. You might inject something radical into a thirty-head.”

“None, with the current group in the Inside Room. You’re a heretic. You’re not trustworthy. You have risky ideas—emphasis on the risky. I seriously doubt they’d even let you use a blue pencil. You might slip something radical into a thirty-head.”

“Tommy,” said Banneker, “I’m still new at this game. What becomes of star reporters?”

“Tommy,” Banneker said, “I’m still new at this game. What happens to star reporters?”

“Drink,” replied Tommy brusquely.

"Drink," Tommy replied curtly.

“Rats!” retorted Banneker. “That’s guff. There aren’t three heavy drinkers in this office.”

“Rats!” Banneker shot back. “That’s nonsense. There aren’t three heavy drinkers in this office.”

“A lot of the best men go that way,” persisted Burt. “It’s the late hours and the irregular life, I suppose. Some drift out into other lines. This office has trained a lot of playwrights and authors and ad-men.”

“A lot of the best guys go that route,” Burt continued. “It’s the late hours and the unpredictable lifestyle, I guess. Some move on to different careers. This office has trained a lot of playwrights, authors, and advertisers.”

“But some must stick.”

“But some have to stay.”

“They play out early. The game is too hard. They get to be hacks. Or permanent desk-men. D’you know Philander Akely?”

“They start early. The game is too difficult. They end up being hacks. Or stuck at a desk for good. Do you know Philander Akely?”

“Who is he?”

"Who’s he?"

“Ask me who he was and I’ll tell you. He was the brilliant youngster, the coruscating firework, the—the Banneker of ten years ago. Come into the den and meet him.”

“Ask me who he was and I’ll tell you. He was the brilliant young man, the dazzling firework, the—the Banneker of ten years ago. Come into the den and meet him.”

In one of the inner rooms Banneker was introduced to a fragile, desiccated-looking man languidly engaged in scissoring newspaper after newspaper which he took from a pile and cast upon the floor after operation. The clippings he filed in envelopes. A checkerboard lay on the table beside him.

In one of the inner rooms, Banneker was introduced to a frail, dried-up-looking man who was lazily cutting newspapers with scissors. He took them from a stack and tossed them on the floor afterward. He filed the clippings in envelopes. A checkerboard sat on the table next to him.

“Do you play draughts, Mr. Banneker?” he asked in a rumbling bass.

“Do you play checkers, Mr. Banneker?” he asked in a deep voice.

“Very little and very poorly.”

“Very little and very badly.”

The other sighed. “It is pure logic, in the form of contest. Far more so than chess, which is merely sustained effort of concentration. Are you interested in emblemology?”

The other sighed. “It’s just pure logic, in the form of a challenge. Much more than chess, which is really just prolonged focus. Are you into emblemology?”

“I’m afraid I know almost nothing of it,” confessed Banneker.

“I’m afraid I know almost nothing about it,” Banneker admitted.

Akely sighed again, gave Banneker a glance which proclaimed an utter lack of interest, and plunged his shears into the editorial vitals of the Springfield Republican. Tommy Burt led the surprised Banneker away.

Akely sighed again, gave Banneker a look that showed he couldn't care less, and dug his shears into the main content of the Springfield Republican. Tommy Burt led the shocked Banneker away.

“Dried up, played out, and given a measly thirty-five a week as hopper-feeder for the editorial room,” he announced. “And he was the star man of his time.”

“Dried up, played out, and given a pathetic thirty-five a week as a hopper-feeder for the editorial room,” he declared. “And he was the top guy of his time.”

“That’s pretty rotten treatment for him, then,” said Banneker indignantly.

"That's really unfair to him, then," Banneker said indignantly.

“Not a bit of it. He isn’t worth what he gets. Most offices would have chucked him out on the street.”

“Not at all. He doesn’t deserve what he gets. Most offices would have kicked him out on the street.”

“What was his trouble?”

"What was bothering him?"

“Nothing in particular. Just wore his machine out. Everything going out, nothing coming in. He spun out enough high-class copy to keep the ordinary reporter going for a life-time; but he spun it out too fast. Nothing left. The tragedy of it is that he’s quite happy.”

“Nothing in particular. Just wore his machine out. Everything going out, nothing coming in. He produced enough top-notch content to keep a regular reporter busy for a lifetime; but he produced it too quickly. Nothing left. The tragic part is that he’s pretty happy.”

“Then it isn’t a tragedy at all.”

“Then it’s not a tragedy at all.”

“Depends on whether you take the Christian or the Buddhist point of view. He’s found his Nirvana in checker problems and collecting literature about insignia. Write? I don’t suppose he’d want to if he could. ‘There but for the grace of God goes’—you or I. I think the facilis descensus to the gutter is almost preferable.”

“Depends on whether you look at it from a Christian or Buddhist perspective. He's found his Nirvana in solving checker problems and collecting literature about insignia. Writing? I doubt he'd want to if he could. ‘There but for the grace of God go you or I.’ I think the easy slide into the gutter is almost preferable.”

“So you’ve shown him to me as a dreadful warning, have you, Tommy?” mused Banneker aloud.

“So you’ve shown him to me as a serious warning, have you, Tommy?” Banneker thought out loud.

“Get out of it, Ban; get out of it.”

“Why don’t you get out of it yourself?”

“Why don’t you get out of it on your own?”

“Inertia. Or cowardice. And then, I haven’t come to the turning-point yet. When I do reach it, perhaps it’ll be too late.”

“Inertia. Or cowardice. And then, I haven’t hit the turning point yet. When I finally do, maybe it’ll be too late.”

“What do you reckon the turning-point?”

“What do you think the turning point is?”

“As long as you feel the excitement of the game,” explained this veteran of thirty, “you’re all right. That will keep you going; the sense of adventure, of change, of being in the thick of things. But there’s an underlying monotony, so they tell me: the monotony of seeing things by glimpses, of never really completing a job, of being inside important things, but never of them. That gets into your veins like a clogging poison. Then you’re through. Quit it, Ban, before it’s too late.”

“As long as you feel the excitement of the game,” explained this veteran of thirty, “you’re good. That will keep you motivated; the sense of adventure, change, and being in the middle of everything. But there’s a hidden monotony, or so they say: the monotony of only seeing things in glimpses, of never really finishing a task, of being part of important things, but never truly engaged with them. That seeps into your system like a toxic poison. Then you’re done. Quit it, Ban, before it’s too late.”

“No. I’m not going to quit the game. It’s my game. I’m going to beat it.”

“No. I’m not going to quit the game. It’s my game. I’m going to win.”

“Maybe. You’ve got the brains. But I think you’re too stiff in the backbone. Go-to-hell-if-you-don’t-like-the-way-I-do-it may be all right for a hundred-dollar-a-week job; but it doesn’t get you a managing editorship at fifteen to twenty thousand. Even if it did, you’d give up the go-to-hell attitude as soon as you landed, for fear it would cost you your job and be too dear a luxury.”

“Maybe. You’re smart. But I think you’re too inflexible. The whole ‘take it or leave it’ attitude might work for a job that pays a hundred bucks a week, but it won’t land you a managing editor position making fifteen to twenty thousand. Even if it did, you’d lose that attitude as soon as you got hired, afraid it would cost you your job and be too risky.”

“All right, Mr. Walpole,” laughed Banneker. “When I find what my price is, I’ll let you know. Meantime I’ll think over your well-meant advice.”

“Okay, Mr. Walpole,” Banneker laughed. “When I figure out what my price is, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’ll consider your thoughtful advice.”

If the normal way of advancement were closed to him in The Ledger office because of his unsound and rebellious attitude on social and labor questions, there might be better opportunities in other offices, Banneker reflected.

If the usual path to promotion was blocked for him at The Ledger office due to his unorthodox and defiant stance on social and labor issues, Banneker thought there might be better opportunities elsewhere.

Before taking any step he decided to talk over the general situation with that experienced campaigner, Russell Edmonds. Him and his diminutive pipe he found at Katie’s, after most of the diners had left. The veteran nodded when Banneker told him of his having reached what appeared to be a cul-de-sac.

Before making any move, he decided to discuss the overall situation with the seasoned campaigner, Russell Edmonds. He found him and his small pipe at Katie’s, after most of the diners had cleared out. The veteran nodded when Banneker mentioned that he had come to what seemed like a dead end.

“It’s about time you quit,” said Edmonds vigorously.

“It’s about time you quit,” Edmonds said passionately.

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“Have you changed your mind?”

The elder nodded between two spirals of smoke which gave him the appearance of an important godling delivering oracles through incense. “That was a dam’ bad story you wrote of the Sippiac killings.”

The elder nodded through two spirals of smoke, looking like an important figure delivering prophecies through incense. “That was a really bad story you wrote about the Sippiac killings.”

“I didn’t write it.”

"I didn't write that."

“Didn’t uh? You were there.”

"Weren't you? You were there."

“My story went to the office cat.”

“What was the stuff they printed? Amalgamated Wire Association?”

“No. Machine-made rewrite in the office.”

“No. Automated rewrite in the office.”

“It wasn’t dishonest. The Ledger’s too clever for that. It was unhonest. You can’t be both neutral and fair on cold-blooded murder.”

“It wasn’t dishonest. The Ledger’s too smart for that. It was unfair. You can’t be both neutral and just about cold-blooded murder.”

“You weren’t precisely neutral in The Courier.”

“You weren't exactly neutral in The Courier.”

Edmonds chuckled. “I did rather put it over on the paper. But that was easy. Simply a matter of lining up the facts in logical sequence.”

Edmonds laughed. “I did kind of pull one over on the paper. But that was simple. Just a matter of arranging the facts in a logical order.”

“Horace Vanney says you’re an anarchist.”

“It’s mutual. I think he’s one. To hell with all laws and rights that discommode Me and My interests. That’s the Vanney platform.”

“It’s mutual. I think he’s one. To hell with all laws and rights that interfere with Me and My interests. That’s the Vanney platform.”

“He thinks he ought to have advertised.”

“He thinks he should have advertised.”

“Wise guy! So he ought.”

"Smart aleck! He should."

“To secure immunity?”

"To get immunity?"

It required six long, hard puffs to elicit from Edmonds the opinion: “He’d have got it. Partly. Not all he paid for.”

It took six long, hard puffs for Edmonds to share his opinion: “He would have gotten it. Partly. Not everything he paid for.”

“Not from The Ledger,” said Banneker jealously. “We’re independent in that respect.”

“Not from The Ledger,” Banneker said, feeling envious. “We’re independent in that way.”

Edmonds laughed. “You don’t have to bribe your own heeler. The Ledger believes in Vanney’s kind of anarchism, as in a religion.”

Edmonds laughed. “You don’t need to bribe your own helper. The Ledger believes in Vanney’s version of anarchism, almost like a religion.”

“Could he have bought off The Courier?”

“Could he have bribed The Courier?”

“Nothing as raw as that. But it’s quite possible that if the Sippiac Mills had been a heavy advertiser, the paper wouldn’t have sent me to the riots. Some one more sympathetic, maybe.”

“Nothing as harsh as that. But it’s very possible that if the Sippiac Mills had been a big advertiser, the paper wouldn’t have sent me to cover the riots. Someone more sympathetic, perhaps.”

“Didn’t they kick on your story?”

“Didn’t they pick up on your story?”

“Who? The mill people? Howled!”

"Who? The mill workers? Howled!"

“But it didn’t get them anything?”

“Didn’t it! You know how difficult it is to get anything for publication out of old Rockface Enderby. Well, I had a brilliant idea that this was something he’d talk about. Law Enforcement stuff, you know. And he did. Gave me a hummer of an interview. Tore the guts out of the mill-owners for violating all sorts of laws, and put it up that the mill-guards were themselves a lawless organization. There’s nothing timid about Enderby. Why, we’d have started a controversy that would be going yet.”

“Didn't it! You know how hard it is to get anything published by old Rockface Enderby. Well, I had a great idea that this was something he’d actually discuss. Law enforcement stuff, you know. And he did. Gave me an amazing interview. He really went after the mill-owners for breaking all sorts of laws and said that the mill-guards were like their own lawless organization. There's nothing shy about Enderby. Honestly, we could have sparked a controversy that’s still going on.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

"Well, why didn't you?"

“Interview was killed,” replied Edmonds, grinning ruefully. “For the best interests of the paper. That’s what the Vanney crowd’s kick got them.”

“Interview was killed,” replied Edmonds, grinning wryly. “For the best interests of the paper. That’s what the Vanney crowd’s push got them.”

“Pop, what do you make of Willis Enderby?”

“Hey, Dad, what do you think of Willis Enderby?”

“Oh, he’s plodding along only a couple of decades behind his time.”

“Oh, he’s dragging his feet just a couple of decades behind the times.”

“A reactionary?”

"An extremist?"

“Didn’t I say he was plodding along? A reactionary is immovable except in the wrong direction. Enderby’s a conservative.”

“Didn’t I say he was slow and steady? A reactionary won’t budge except in the wrong way. Enderby’s a traditionalist.”

“As a socialist you’re against any one who isn’t as radical as you are.”

“As a socialist, you're against anyone who isn’t as radical as you are.”

“I’m not against Willis Enderby. I’m for him,” grunted the veteran.

“I’m not against Willis Enderby. I’m supporting him,” grunted the veteran.

“Why; if he’s a conservative?”

"Why, if he's conservative?"

“Oh, as for that, I can bring a long indictment against him. He’s a firm believer in the capitalistic system. He’s enslaved to the old economic theories, supply and demand, and all that rubbish from the ruins of ancient Rome. He believes that gold is the only sound material for pillars of society. The aristocratic idea is in his bones.” Edmonds, by a feat of virtuosity, sent a thin, straight column of smoke, as it might have been an allegorical and sardonic pillar itself, almost to the ceiling. “But he believes in fair play. Free speech. Open field. The rigor of the game. He’s a sportsman in life and affairs. That’s why he’s dangerous.”

“Oh, I can list plenty of reasons against him. He’s a strong supporter of capitalism. He’s stuck on those outdated economic theories, supply and demand, and all that nonsense from ancient Rome. He thinks gold is the only solid foundation for society. The idea of aristocracy is ingrained in him.” Edmonds, with impressive skill, sent a thin, straight plume of smoke, as if it were a sarcastic and symbolic pillar itself, almost reaching the ceiling. “But he believes in fair play. Free speech. A level playing field. The integrity of the game. He’s a true sportsman in life and business. That’s why he’s a threat.”

“Dangerous? To whom?”

"Dangerous? For whom?"

“To the established order. To the present system. Why, son, all we Socialists ask is fair play. Give us an even chance for labor, for the proletariat; an even show before the courts, an open forum in the newspapers, the right to organize as capital organizes, and we’ll win. If we can’t win, we deserve to lose. I say that men like Willis Enderby are our strongest supporters.”

“To the established order. To the current system. Listen, son, all we Socialists want is a fair opportunity. Give us a fair chance for labor, for the working class; a fair treatment in court, a platform in the newspapers, the right to organize just like capital does, and we’ll succeed. If we can’t succeed, then we deserve to fail. I believe that people like Willis Enderby are our biggest allies.”

“Probably he thinks his side will win, under the strict rules of the game.”

“Probably he thinks his team will win, following the strict rules of the game.”

“Of course. But if he didn’t, he’d still be for fair play, to the last inch.”

“Of course. But even if he didn’t, he’d still be for fair play, to the very end.”

“That’s a pretty fine thing to say of a man, Pop.”

"That's a really nice thing to say about a guy, Dad."

“It’s a pretty fine man,” said Edmonds.

“It’s a really great guy,” said Edmonds.

“What does Enderby want? What is he after?”

“What does Enderby want? What is he looking for?”

“For himself? Nothing. It’s something to be known as the ablest honest lawyer in New York. Or, you can turn it around and say he’s the honestest able lawyer in New York. I think, myself, you wouldn’t be far astray if you said the ablest and honestest. No; he doesn’t want anything more than what he’s got: his position, his money, his reputation. Why should he? But it’s going to be forced on him one of these days.”

“For himself? Nothing. It’s something to be recognized as the most skilled honest lawyer in New York. Or, you could flip it and say he’s the most honest skilled lawyer in New York. Personally, I think you wouldn’t be wrong to say the most skilled and the most honest. No; he doesn’t want anything more than what he has: his position, his money, his reputation. Why should he? But it’s going to be thrust upon him one of these days.”

“Politically?”

"Politics?"

“Yes. Whatever there is of leadership in the reform element here centers in him. It’s only a question of time when he’ll have to carry the standard.”

“Yes. All the leadership in the reform group here revolves around him. It's just a matter of time before he has to take the lead.”

“I’d like to be able to fall in behind him when the time comes.”

“I want to be able to follow him when the time comes.”

“On The Ledger?” grunted Edmonds.

“But I shan’t be on The Ledger when the time comes. Not if I can find any other place to go.”

“But I won't be on The Ledger when the time comes. Not if I can find anywhere else to go.”

“Plenty of places,” affirmed Edmonds positively.

“Lots of places,” confirmed Edmonds confidently.

“Yes; but will they give me the chance I want?”

“Yes; but will they give me the opportunity I'm looking for?”

“Not unless you make it for yourself. But let’s canvass ’em. You want a morning paper.”

“Not unless you get it for yourself. But let’s check them out. You want a morning newspaper.”

“Yes. Not enough salary in the evening field.”

“Yes. The salary in the evening field isn’t enough.”

“Well: you’ve thought of The Sphere first, I suppose.”

“Well, I guess you thought of The Sphere first.”

“Naturally. I like their editorial policy. Their news policy makes me seasick.”

“Naturally. I like their editorial policy. Their news policy makes me feel nauseous.”

“I’m not so strong for the editorials. They’re always for reform and never for progress.”

“I’m not really a fan of the editorials. They’re always about reform and never about real progress.”

“Ah, but that’s epigram.”

“Ah, but that’s a saying.”

“It’s true, nevertheless. The Sphere is always tiptoeing up to the edge of some decisive policy, and then running back in alarm. What of The Observer? They’re looking for new blood.”

“It’s true, though. The Sphere is constantly approaching the brink of some important decision and then retreating in fear. What about The Observer? They’re seeking new talent.”

“The Observer! O Lord! Preaches the eternal banalities and believes them the eternal verities.”

“The Observer! Oh God! Talks about the same old clichés and thinks they’re universal truths.”

“Epigram, yourself,” grinned Edmonds. “Well, The Monitor?”

“Epigram, yourself,” Edmonds grinned. “So, what about The Monitor?”

“The three-card Monitor, and marked cards at that.”

“The three-card Monty, and marked cards too.”

“Yes; you’d have to watch the play. The Graphic then?”

“Yes; you’ll need to see the play. The Graphic then?”

“Nothing but an ornamental ghost. The ghost of a once handsomely kept lady. I don’t aspire to write daily epitaphs.”

“Just an ornamental ghost. The ghost of a lady who used to be well-kept. I don’t want to write daily epitaphs.”

“And The Messenger I suppose you wouldn’t even call a kept lady. Too common. Babylonian stuff. But The Express is respectable enough for anybody.”

“And The Messenger, I guess you wouldn’t even call a kept woman. Too ordinary. Babylonian stuff. But The Express is respectable enough for anyone.”

“And conscious of it in every issue. One long and pious scold, after a high-minded, bad-tempered formula of its own.”

“And aware of it in every matter. One long and self-righteous lecture, after a pretentious, bad-tempered standard of its own.”

“Then I’ll give you a motto for your Ledger.” Edmonds puffed it out enjoyably,—decorated with bluish and delicate whorls. “‘Meliora video proboque, deleriora sequor.’”

“Then I’ll give you a motto for your Ledger.” Edmonds puffed it out with pleasure, decorated with swirling blue and delicate patterns. “‘Meliora video proboque, deleriora sequor.’”

“No; I won’t have that. The last part will do; we do follow the worser way; but if we see the better, we don’t approve it. We don’t even recognize it as the better. We’re honestly convinced in our advocacy of the devil.”

“No; I won’t accept that. The last part is good enough; we do choose the worse option, but when we see the better one, we don’t acknowledge it. We don’t even see it as the better choice. We’re genuinely convinced in our support of the devil.”

“I don’t know that we’re honestly convinced of anything on The Courier, except of the desirability of keeping friendly with everybody. But such as we are, we’d grab at you.”

“I’m not sure we’re really convinced of anything on The Courier, except that it’s important to stay friendly with everyone. But as we are, we’d reach out to you.”

“No; thanks, Pop. You yourself are enough in the troubled-water duckling line for one old hen like The Courier.”

“No; thanks, Dad. You yourself are enough of a troubled-water duckling for one old hen like The Courier.”

“Then there remains only The Patriot, friend of the Pee-pul.”

“Then there remains only The Patriot, friend of the People.”

“Skimmed scum,” was Banneker’s prompt definition. “And nothing in the soup underneath.”

“Skimmed scum,” was Banneker’s quick definition. “And nothing in the soup below.”

Ernst, the waiter, scuttled across the floor below, and disappeared back of the L-angle a few feet away.

Ernst, the waiter, hurried across the floor below and vanished behind the L-angle a few feet away.

“Somebody’s dining there,” remarked Edmonds, “while we’ve been stripping the character off every paper in the field.”

“Someone's eating there,” Edmonds said, “while we’ve been removing the character from every paper in the field.”

“May it be all the editors and owners in a lump!” said Banneker. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk louder. I’m feeling reckless.”

“May it be all the editors and owners together!” said Banneker. “I wish I had spoken up more. I’m feeling bold.”

“Bad frame of mind for a man seeking a job. By the way, what are you out after, exactly? Aiming at the editorial page, aren’t you?”

“Not a great mindset for someone looking for a job. By the way, what are you really after? Going for the editorial page, right?”

Banneker leaned over the table, his face earnest to the point of somberness. “Pop,” he said, “you know I can write.”

Banneker leaned over the table, his face serious to the point of being gloomy. “Dad,” he said, “you know I can write.”

“You can write like the devil,” Edmonds offered up on twin supports of vapor.

“You can write like a pro,” Edmonds said, floating on two puffs of smoke.

“Yes, and I can do more than that. I can think.”

“For self, or others?” propounded the veteran.

“For yourself, or for others?” asked the veteran.

“I take you. I can think for myself and make it profitable to others, if I can find the chance. Why, Pop, this editorial game is child’s play!”

“I choose you. I can think for myself and make it beneficial to others if I get the opportunity. Seriously, Dad, this editorial stuff is a piece of cake!”

“You’ve tried it?”

"Have you tried it?"

“Experimentally. The opportunities are limitless. I could make people read editorials as eagerly as they read scandal or baseball.”

“Experimentally. The opportunities are endless. I could get people to read editorials with the same excitement as they read gossip or baseball.”

“How?”

"How?"

“By making them as simple and interesting as scandal or baseball.”

“By making them as straightforward and engaging as gossip or baseball.”

“Oh! As easy as that,” observed Edmonds scornfully. “High art, son! Nobody’s found the way yet. Perhaps, if—”

“Oh! As easy as that,” Edmonds said dismissively. “High art, kid! Nobody’s figured it out yet. Maybe if—”

He stopped, took his pipe from his lips and let his raised eyes level themselves toward the corner of the L where appeared a figure.

He stopped, took his pipe out of his mouth, and let his gaze settle on the corner of the L where a figure appeared.

“Would you gentlemen mind if I took my coffee with you?” said the newcomer smoothly.

“Would you guys mind if I joined you for coffee?” said the newcomer smoothly.

Banneker looked with questioning eyebrows toward Edmonds, who nodded. “Come up and sit down, Mr. Marrineal,” invited Banneker, moving his chair to leave a vacancy between himself and his companion.

Banneker raised his eyebrows in question at Edmonds, who nodded. “Come up and take a seat, Mr. Marrineal,” Banneker said, shifting his chair to create an open space between himself and his companion.

CHAPTER XIV

Tertius C. Marrineal was a man of forty, upon whom the years had laid no bonds. A large fortune, founded by his able but illiterate father in the timber stretches of the Great Lakes region, and spread out into various profitable enterprises of mining, oil, cattle, and milling, provided him with a constantly increasing income which, though no amateur at spending, he could never quite overtake. Like many other hustlers of his day and opportunity, old Steve Marrineal had married a shrewd little shopgirl who had come up with him through the struggle by the slow, patient steps described in many of our most improving biographies. As frequently occurs, though it doesn’t get into the biographies, she who had played a helpful role in adversity, could not withstand affluence. She bloated physically and mentally, and became the juicy and unsuspecting victim of a horde of parasites and flatterers who swarmed eagerly upon her, as soon as the rough and contemptuous protection of her husband was removed by the hand of a medical prodigy who advertised himself as the discoverer of a new and infallible cure for cancer, and whom Mrs. Marrineal, with an instinctive leaning toward quackery, had forced upon her spouse. Appraising his prospective widow with an accurate eye, the dying man left a testament bestowing the bulk of his fortune upon his son, with a few heavy income-producing properties for Mrs. Marrineal. Tertius Marrineal was devoted to his mother, with a jealous, pitying, and protective affection. This is popularly approved as the infallible mark of a good man. Tertius Marrineal was not a good man.

Tertius C. Marrineal was a forty-year-old man who showed no signs of aging. He inherited a large fortune from his capable but uneducated father, who had built a business in the timberlands of the Great Lakes region and expanded into various successful enterprises like mining, oil, cattle, and milling. This gave Tertius a steadily growing income that he, despite enjoying spending, could never fully keep up with. Like many ambitious people of his time, old Steve Marrineal had married a savvy shopgirl who had stood by him through their struggles, following the slow and steady path often recounted in inspirational biographies. However, as is often the case but rarely noted in those biographies, the woman who had been a supportive partner in hard times could not handle life in comfort. She became progressively complacent both physically and mentally and fell prey to a swarm of opportunistic hangers-on and sycophants who rushed to her once her husband’s rough and dismissive protection was taken away by a medical expert who claimed to have discovered a new and foolproof cancer treatment, whom Mrs. Marrineal, with her instinct for quackery, had insisted on bringing into their lives. Judging his potential widow with a clear eye, the dying man left a will that gave most of his wealth to his son and allocated a few lucrative properties for Mrs. Marrineal. Tertius Marrineal was devoted to his mother, with a mix of jealousy, pity, and protectiveness. This is widely seen as a sure sign of a good man. Tertius Marrineal was not a good man.

Nor was there any particular reason why he should be. Boys who have a business pirate for father, and a weak-minded coddler for mother, seldom grow into prize exhibits. Young Marrineal did rather better than might have been expected, thanks to the presence at his birth-cradle of a robust little good-fairy named Self-Preservation, who never gets half the credit given to more picturesque but less important gift-bringers. He grew up with an instinctive sense of when to stop. Sometimes he stopped inopportunely. He quit several courses of schooling too soon, because he did not like the unyielding regimen of the institutions. When, a little, belated, he contrived to gain entrance to a small, old, and fashionable Eastern college, he was able, or perhaps willing, to go only halfway through his sophomore year. Two years in world travel with a well-accredited tutor seemed to offer an effectual and not too rigorous method of completing the process of mind-formation. Young Marrineal got a great deal out of that trip, though the result should perhaps be set down under the E of Experience rather than that of Erudition. The mentor also acquired experience, but it profited him little, as he died within the year after the completion of the trip, his health having been sacrificed in a too conscientious endeavor to keep even pace with his pupil. Young Marrineal did not suffer in health. He was a robust specimen. Besides, there was his good and protective fairy always ready with the flag of warning at the necessary moment.

Nor was there any specific reason why he should be. Boys who have a business-minded pirate for a father and a overly coddling mother typically don’t turn out to be shining examples. Young Marrineal did better than expected, thanks to a little good-fairy named Self-Preservation who was present at his birth. She doesn’t get half the credit that more glamorous but less important gift-bringers receive. He grew up with an instinct for knowing when to stop. Sometimes he stopped at the wrong time. He quit several schools too early because he didn’t like the strict routines of the institutions. When he finally got into a small, old, and prestigious college in the East, he managed—or maybe just wanted—to only get through half of his sophomore year. Two years of world travel with a well-respected tutor seemed like an effective and not too demanding way to complete his education. Young Marrineal gained a lot from that trip, though the outcome should probably be classified under the E for Experience rather than Erudition. The tutor also gained experience, but it did him little good, as he died within a year after the trip, his health compromised by his diligent efforts to keep up with his student. Young Marrineal didn’t suffer in health. He was a strong individual. Plus, he had his good and protective fairy always ready with a warning flag at the right moment.

Launched into the world after the elder Marrineal’s death, Tertius interested himself in sundry of the businesses left by his father. Though they had been carefully devised and surrounded with safeguards, the heir managed to break into and improve several of them. The result was more money. After having gambled with fair luck, played the profuse libertine for a time, tried his hand at yachting, horse-racing, big-game hunting, and even politics, he successively tired of the first three, and was beaten at the last, but retained an unsatisfied hunger for it. To celebrate his fortieth birthday, he had bought a house on the eastern vista of Central Park, and drifted into a rather indeterminate life, identified with no special purpose, occupation, or set. Large though his fortune was, it was too much disseminated and he was too indifferent to it, for him to be conspicuous in the money game which constitutes New York’s lists of High Endeavor. His reputation, in the city of careless reckonings, was vague, but just a trifle tarnished; good enough for the casual contacts which had hitherto made up his life, but offering difficulties should he wish to establish himself more firmly.

Launched into the world after the death of the elder Marrineal, Tertius became interested in various businesses left by his father. Even though they were carefully planned and had safeguards, the heir managed to break into and improve several of them. The result was more money. After gambling with decent luck, living it up for a while, trying his hand at yachting, horse racing, big-game hunting, and even politics, he eventually got bored with the first three and lost at the last, but still had an unfulfilled desire for it. To celebrate his fortieth birthday, he bought a house on the eastern edge of Central Park and drifted into a rather aimless life, with no specific purpose, job, or group. Although his fortune was substantial, it was too spread out, and he was too indifferent to it to stand out in the money scene that defines New York's High Endeavor. His reputation in a city known for its casual dealings was unclear, but slightly tarnished; acceptable for the casual connections that had made up his life so far, but presenting challenges if he wanted to establish himself more firmly.

The best clubs were closed to him; he had reached his possible summit along that path in achieving membership in the recently and superbly established Oligarchs Club, which was sumptuous, but over-vivid like a new Oriental rug. As to other social advancement, his record was an obstacle. Not that it was worse than, nor indeed nearly as bad as, that of many an established member of the inner circle; but the test for an outsider seeking admittance is naturally made more severe. Delavan Eyre, for example, an average sinner for one of his opportunities and standing, had certainly no better a general repute, and latterly a much more dubious one than Marrineal. But Eyre “belonged” of right.

The best clubs were off-limits to him; he had reached the highest point he could achieve by becoming a member of the recently and lavishly established Oligarchs Club, which was luxurious but overly flashy, like a brand-new Oriental rug. As for other social advancements, his past was a stumbling block. It wasn’t that his history was worse than, or even nearly as bad as, that of many established members of the inner circle; however, the bar for an outsider seeking entry is naturally set higher. For instance, Delavan Eyre, an average person given his opportunities and status, had certainly no better overall reputation, and recently had a much more questionable one than Marrineal. But Eyre had the right to be there.

As sufficient indication of Marrineal’s status, by the way, it may be pointed out that, while he knew Eyre quite well, it was highly improbable that he would ever know Mrs. Eyre, or, if he did fortuitously come to know her, that he would be able to improve upon the acquaintance. All this Marrineal himself well understood. But it must not be inferred that he resented it. He was far too much of a philosopher for that. It amused him as offering a new game to be played, more difficult certainly and inferentially more interesting than any of those which had hitherto enlisted his somewhat languid efforts. He appreciated also, though with a cynical disbelief in the logic of the situation, that he must polish up his reputation. He was on the new quest at the time when he overheard Banneker and Edmonds discuss the journalistic situation in Katie’s restaurant, and had already determined upon his procedure.

As a clear sign of Marrineal’s status, it's worth noting that, even though he knew Eyre fairly well, it was very unlikely that he would ever get to know Mrs. Eyre. And if he did happen to meet her, he probably wouldn’t be able to make the relationship any better. Marrineal understood all of this perfectly. However, it shouldn’t be taken to mean that he was upset about it. He was too much of a philosopher for that. Instead, it amused him because it presented a new challenge, certainly more difficult and, in a way, more interesting than any of the previous ones that had occupied his somewhat lackluster efforts. He also recognized, though he cynically doubted the logic of the situation, that he needed to polish up his reputation. He was on this new quest at the time he overheard Banneker and Edmonds discussing the journalism scene in Katie’s restaurant, and he had already decided on his approach.

Sitting between the two newspaper workers, Marrineal overtopped them both; the supple strength of Banneker as well as the gnarly slenderness of Edmonds. He gave an impression of loose-jointed and rather lazy power; also of quiet self-confidence. He began to talk at once, with the easy, drifting commentary of a man who had seen everything, measured much, and liked the glittering show. Both of the others, one his elder, the other his junior, felt the ready charm of the man. Both were content to listen, waiting for the clue to his intrusion which he had contrived to make not only inoffensive, but seemingly a casual act of good-fellowship. The clue was not afforded, but presently some shrewd opinion of the newcomer upon the local political situation set them both to discussion. Quite insensibly Marrineal withdrew from the conversation, sipping his coffee and listening with an effect of effortless amenity.

Sitting between the two newspaper workers, Marrineal towered over them both; the flexible strength of Banneker and the lean, wiry frame of Edmonds. He gave off an impression of relaxed and somewhat lazy power, along with quiet self-assurance. He started talking immediately, with the casual, meandering commentary of someone who had experienced everything, assessed a lot, and appreciated the glamorous display. Both of the others, one older and the other younger, felt the man's natural charm. They were both happy to listen, waiting for a hint about why he had joined them, which he had managed to make not just unobtrusive but also seem like a friendly gesture. That hint didn’t come, but soon some sharp insight from the newcomer about the local political scene prompted both of them to engage in discussion. Without even realizing it, Marrineal pulled away from the conversation, sipping his coffee and listening with an air of effortless friendliness.

“If we had a newspaper here that wasn’t tied hard and fast, politically!” cried Edmonds presently.

“If we had a newspaper here that wasn’t tightly bound to a political agenda!” Edmonds exclaimed after a moment.

Marrineal fingered a specially fragrant cigar. “But a newspaper must be tied to something, mustn’t it?” he queried. “Otherwise it drifts.”

Marrineal tapped a uniquely scented cigar. “But a newspaper has to be connected to something, right?” he asked. “Otherwise, it just floats away.”

“Why not to its reading public?” suggested Banneker.

“Why not to its readers?” suggested Banneker.

“That’s an idea. But can you tie to a public? Isn’t the public itself adrift, like seaweed?”

“That's an interesting point. But can you connect with the public? Isn't the public itself drifting, like seaweed?”

“Blown about by the gales of politics.” Edmonds accepted the figure. “Well, the newspaper ought to be the gale.”

“Blown around by the winds of politics.” Edmonds agreed. “Well, the newspaper should be the wind.”

“I gather that you gentlemen do not think highly of present journalistic conditions.”

“I get that you guys don’t have a high opinion of the current state of journalism.”

“You overheard our discussion,” said Banneker bluntly.

“You heard our conversation,” Banneker said straightforwardly.

Marrineal assented. “It did not seem private. Katie’s is a sort of free forum. That is why I come. I like to listen. Besides, it touched me pretty closely at one or two points.”

Marrineal agreed. “It didn’t feel private. Katie’s place is more of an open forum. That’s why I come. I enjoy listening. Also, it hit home for me at a couple of points.”

The two others turned toward him, waiting. He nodded, and took upon himself an air of well-pondered frankness. “I expect to take a more active part in journalism from now on.”

The two others turned to him, waiting. He nodded and adopted an air of carefully considered honesty. “I plan to be more active in journalism from now on.”

Edmonds followed up the significant phrase. “More active? You have newspaper interests?”

Edmonds pursued the important phrase. “More active? Are you involved with newspapers?”

“Practically speaking, I own The Patriot. What do you gentlemen think of it?”

“Basically, I own The Patriot. What do you guys think about it?”

“Who reads The Patriot?” inquired Banneker. He was unprepared for the swift and surprised flash from Marrineal’s fine eyes, as if some profoundly analytical or revealing suggestion had been made.

“Who reads The Patriot?” Banneker asked. He wasn’t ready for the quick and surprised sparkle in Marrineal’s sharp eyes, as if he had just made some deep analytical or revealing point.

“Forty thousand men, women, and children. Not half enough, of course.”

“Forty thousand men, women, and children. Certainly not nearly enough, of course.”

“Not a tenth enough, I would say, if I owned the paper. Nor are they the right kind of readers.”

“Not nearly enough, I’d say, if I owned the paper. And those aren’t the right kind of readers either.”

“How would you define them, then?” asked Marrineal, still in that smooth voice.

“How would you define them, then?” Marrineal asked, still using that smooth voice.

“Small clerks. Race-track followers. People living in that class of tenements which call themselves flats. The more intelligent servants. Totally unimportant people.”

“Small clerks. Race-track followers. People living in that type of apartment they call flats. The more educated housekeepers. Completely insignificant people.”

“Therefore a totally unimportant paper?”

“So, it’s a completely irrelevant paper?”

“A paper can be important only through what it makes people believe and think. What possible difference can it make what The Patriot’s readers think?”

“A paper can only be important based on what it makes people believe and think. What difference does it make what The Patriot’s readers think?”

“If there were enough of them?” suggested Marrineal.

“If there were enough of them?” Marrineal suggested.

“No. Besides, you’ll never get enough of them, in the way you’re running the paper now.”

“No. Besides, you’ll never get enough of them, given how you’re managing the paper right now.”

“Don’t say ‘you,’ please,” besought Marrineal. “I’ve been keeping my hands off. Watching.”

“Please don’t say ‘you,’” Marrineal pleaded. “I’ve been staying away. Just watching.”

“And now you’re going to take hold?” queried Edmonds. “Personally?”

“And now you’re going to take charge?” asked Edmonds. “Me, personally?”

“As soon as I can find my formula—and the men to help me work it out,” he added, after a pause so nicely emphasized that both his hearers had a simultaneous inkling of the reason for his being at their table.

“As soon as I can find my formula—and the men to help me figure it out,” he added, after a pause so perfectly timed that both his listeners had a sudden understanding of why he was at their table.

“I’ve seen newspapers run on formula before,” muttered Edmonds.

“I’ve seen newspapers stick to a formula before,” muttered Edmonds.

“Onto the rocks?”

"On the rocks?"

“Invariably.”

"Always."

“That’s because the formulas were amateur formulas, isn’t it?”

"That's because those formulas were basic, right?"

The veteran of a quarter-century turned a mildly quizzical smile upon the adventurer into risky waters. “Well?” he jerked out.

The veteran of twenty-five years gave a slightly puzzled smile to the adventurer heading into dangerous waters. “Well?” he said abruptly.

Marrineal’s face was quite serious as he took up the obvious implication. “Where is the dividing line between professional and amateur in the newspaper business? You gentlemen will bear with me if I go into personal details a little. I suppose I’ve always had the newspaper idea. When I was a youngster of twenty, I tried myself out. Got a job as a reporter in St. Louis. It was just a callow escapade. And of course it couldn’t last. I was an undisciplined sort of cub. They fired me; quite right, too. But I did learn a little. And at least it educated me in one thing; how to read newspapers.” He laughed lightly. “Perhaps that is as nearly thorough an education as I’ve ever had in anything.”

Marrineal looked serious as he picked up on the clear implication. “What’s the line between professional and amateur in the newspaper industry? You guys will have to bear with me as I share a bit of personal history. I think I’ve always been into the idea of newspapers. When I was just twenty, I gave it a shot. I landed a job as a reporter in St. Louis. It was just a youthful adventure. And, of course, it couldn’t go on forever. I was an undisciplined rookie. They let me go; and honestly, it was the right call. But I did learn a thing or two. At the very least, it taught me how to read newspapers.” He chuckled softly. “Maybe that’s the most complete education I’ve ever had in anything.”

“It’s rather an art, newspaper reading,” observed Banneker.

“It’s quite an art, reading the newspaper,” noted Banneker.

“You’ve tried it, I gather. So have I, rather exhaustively in the last year. I’ve been reading every paper in New York every day and all through.”

“You've given it a shot, I see. So have I, quite thoroughly over the past year. I've been reading every newspaper in New York every day and all the way through.”

“That’s a job for an able-minded man,” commented Edmonds, looking at him with a new respect.

“That's a job for a capable person,” Edmonds said, looking at him with newfound respect.

“It put eye-glasses on me. But if it dimmed my eyes, it enlightened my mind. The combined newspapers of New York do not cover the available field. They do not begin to cover it.... Did you say something, Mr. Banneker?”

“It put glasses on me. But while it dulled my vision, it brightened my mind. The combined newspapers of New York don’t even scratch the surface. They don’t begin to cover it... Did you say something, Mr. Banneker?”

“Did I? I didn’t mean to,” said Banneker hastily. “I’m a good deal interested.”

"Did I? I didn’t mean to," Banneker said quickly. "I’m really interested."

“I’m glad to hear that,” returned Marrineal with gravity. “After I’d made my estimate of what the newspapers publish and fail to publish, I canvassed the circulation lists and news-stands and made another discovery. There is a large potential reading public not yet tied up to any newspaper. It’s waiting for the right paper.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Marrineal replied seriously. “After I analyzed what the newspapers publish and ignore, I looked into the circulation lists and newsstands and found something else. There’s a big group of potential readers who aren’t currently connected to any newspaper. They’re waiting for the right one.”

“The imputation of amateurishness is retracted, with apologies,” announced Russell Edmonds.

“The claim of being unprofessional is retracted, with apologies,” announced Russell Edmonds.

“Accepted. Though there are amateur areas yet in my mind. I bought The Patriot.”

“Accepted. Although there are still some amateur areas in my mind. I bought The Patriot.”

“Does that represent one of the areas?”

“It represents nothing, thus far, except what it has always represented, a hand-to-mouth policy and a financial deficit. But what’s wrong with it from your point of view?”

“It represents nothing, so far, except what it has always represented: a hand-to-mouth policy and a financial deficit. But what's wrong with it from your perspective?”

“Cheap and nasty,” was the veteran’s succinct criticism.

“Cheap and nasty,” was the veteran’s straightforward criticism.

“Any more so than The Sphere? The Sphere’s successful.”

“Is it really any different from The Sphere? The Sphere is successful.”

“Because it plays fair with the main facts. It may gloss ’em up with a touch of sensationalism, like the oil on a barkeep’s hair. But it does go after the facts, and pretty generally it presents ’em as found. The Patriot is fakey; clumsy at it, too. Any man arrested with more than five dollars in his pocket is a millionaire clubman. If Bridget O’Flaherty jumps off Brooklyn Bridge, she becomes a prominent society woman with picture (hers or somebody else’s) in The Patriot. And the cheapest little chorus-girl tart, who blackmails a broker’s clerk with a breach of promise, gets herself called a ‘distinguished actress’ and him a ‘well-known financier.’ Why steal the Police Gazette’s rouge and lip-stick?”

“Because it deals honestly with the main facts. It might hype them up with a bit of sensationalism, like the oil in a bartender’s hair. But it does go after the facts, and mostly it presents them as they are. The Patriot is fake; clumsily so, too. Any guy caught with more than five dollars in his pocket is labeled a millionaire club member. If Bridget O’Flaherty jumps off the Brooklyn Bridge, she becomes a famous society woman with her picture (or someone else's) in The Patriot. And the most basic chorus-girl who blackmails a broker’s clerk over a broken promise gets called a ‘distinguished actress’ and him a ‘well-known financier.’ Why copy the Police Gazette’s makeup and lipstick?”

“Because it’s what the readers want.”

“Because that's what the readers want.”

“All right. But at least give it to ’em well done. And cut out the printing of wild rumors as news. That doesn’t get a paper anything in the long run. None of your readers have any faith in The Patriot.”

“All right. But at least serve it to them well done. And stop printing wild rumors as news. That's not going to help a newspaper in the long run. None of your readers trust The Patriot.”

“Does any paper have the confidence of its public?” returned Marrineal.

“Does any newspaper have the trust of its readers?” Marrineal replied.

Touched upon a sensitive spot, Edmonds cursed briefly. “If it hasn’t, it’s because the public has a dam’-fool fad for pretending it doesn’t believe what it reads. Of course it believes it! Otherwise, how would it know who’s president, or that the market sagged yesterday? This I-never-believe-what-I-read-in-the-papers’ guff makes me sick to the tips of my toes.”

Touched a nerve, Edmonds swore under his breath. “If it hasn’t, it’s because the public has a ridiculous habit of pretending it doesn’t believe what it reads. Of course it believes it! Otherwise, how would it know who the president is, or that the market dropped yesterday? This ‘I-never-believe-what-I-read-in-the-papers’ nonsense makes me nauseous.”

“Only the man who knows newspapers from the inside can disbelieve them scientifically,” put in Banneker with a smile.

“Only someone who understands newspapers from the inside can scientifically disbelieve them,” Banneker said with a smile.

“What would you do with The Patriot if you had it?” interrogated the proprietor.

“What would you do with The Patriot if you had it?” asked the owner.

“I? Oh, I’d try to make it interesting,” was the prompt and simple reply.

“I? Oh, I’d try to make it interesting,” was the quick and straightforward answer.

“How, interesting?”

“Really, interesting?”

For his own purposes Banneker chose to misinterpret the purport of the question. “So interesting that half a million people would have to read it.”

For his own reasons, Banneker decided to misunderstand the meaning of the question. “So interesting that half a million people would need to read it.”

“You think you could do that?”

“You think you can do that?”

“I think it could be done.”

“I believe it can be done.”

“Will you come with me and try it?”

“Will you come with me and give it a try?”

“You’re offering me a place on The Patriot staff?”

“Are you offering me a spot on The Patriot team?”

“Precisely. Mr. Edmonds is joining.”

"Exactly. Mr. Edmonds is joining."

That gentleman breathed a small cloud of blue vapor into the air together with the dispassionate query: “Is that so? Hadn’t heard of it.”

That guy exhaled a little cloud of blue smoke into the air along with the indifferent question: “Oh really? I hadn’t heard about that.”

“My principle in business is to determine whether I want a man or an article, and then bid a price that can’t be rejected.”

“My approach to business is to decide if I want a person or a product, and then offer a price that’s hard to refuse.”

“Sound,” admitted the veteran. “Perfectly sound. But I’m not specially in need of money.”

“Good,” the veteran acknowledged. “Perfectly good. But I’m not really in need of money.”

“I’m offering you opportunity.”

"I'm giving you a chance."

“What kind?”

"Which kind?"

“Opportunity to handle big stories according to the facts as you see them. Not as you had to handle the Sippiac strike story.”

“Chance to cover major stories based on the facts as you perceive them. Not how you had to deal with the Sippiac strike story.”

Edmonds set down his pipe. “What did you think of that?”

Edmonds put down his pipe. “What did you think about that?”

“A masterpiece of hinting and suggestion and information for those who can read between the lines. Not many have the eye for it. With me you won’t have to write between the lines. Not on labor or political questions, anyway. You’re a Socialist, aren’t you?”

“A masterpiece of subtlety and implication for those who can read between the lines. Not everyone has the eye for it. With me, you won’t need to write between the lines. Not on labor or political issues, anyway. You’re a Socialist, right?”

“Yes. You’re not going to make The Patriot a Socialist paper, are you?”

“Yes. You're not going to turn The Patriot into a Socialist newspaper, are you?”

“Some people might call it that. I’m going to make it a popular paper. It’s going to be for the many against the few. How are you going to bring about Socialism?”

“Some people might call it that. I’m going to make it a popular paper. It’s going to be for the many against the few. How are you going to achieve Socialism?”

“Education.”

“Learning.”

“Exactly! What better chance could you ask? A paper devoted to the interests of the masses, and willing to print facts. I want you to do the same sort of thing that you’ve been doing for The Courier; a job of handling the big, general stories. You’ll be responsible to me alone. The salary will be a third higher than you are now getting. Think it over.”

“Exactly! What better opportunity could you ask for? A newspaper focused on the interests of the people and ready to publish the facts. I want you to do the same kind of work you've been doing for The Courier; handling the major stories. You'll report directly to me. The salary will be a third higher than what you're currently earning. Think about it.”

“I’ve thought. I’m bought,” said Russell Edmonds. He resumed his pipe.

“I’ve thought about it. I’m in,” said Russell Edmonds. He picked up his pipe again.

“And you, Mr. Banneker?”

“I’m not a Socialist, in the party sense. Besides a Socialist paper in New York has no chance of big circulation.”

“I’m not a Socialist, in the political party sense. Plus, a Socialist newspaper in New York has no chance of getting big circulation.”

“Oh, The Patriot isn’t going to tag itself. Politically it will be independent. Its policy will be socialistic only in that it will be for labor rather than capital and for the under dog as against the upper dog. It certainly won’t tie up to the Socialist Party or advocate its principles. It’s for fair play and education.”

“Oh, The Patriot isn’t going to promote itself. Politically, it will be independent. Its policy will be socialistic only in that it will support labor over capital and the underdog against the top dog. It definitely won’t align itself with the Socialist Party or promote its ideas. It’s for fair play and education.”

“What’s your purpose?” demanded Banneker. “Money?”

“What’s your purpose?” Banneker asked forcefully. “Money?”

“I’ve a very comfortable income,” replied Marrineal modestly.

“I have a really comfortable income,” Marrineal replied modestly.

“Political advancement? Influence? Want to pull the wires?” persisted the other.

“Political advancement? Influence? Want to pull the strings?” the other continued.

“The game. I’m out of employment and tired of it.”

“The game. I’m unemployed and fed up with it.”

“And you think I could be of use in your plan? But you don’t know much about me.”

“And you think I could help with your plan? But you don’t really know much about me.”

Marrineal murmured smilingly something indefinite but complimentary as to Banneker’s reputation on Park Row; but this was by no means a fair index to what he knew about Banneker.

Marrineal smiled and murmured something vague but flattering about Banneker's reputation on Park Row; however, this didn’t truly reflect what he knew about Banneker.

Indeed, that prematurely successful reporter would have been surprised at the extent to which Marrineal’s private investigations had gone. Not only was the purchaser of The Patriot apprised of Banneker’s professional career in detail, but he knew of his former employment, and also of his membership in The Retreat, which he regarded with perplexity and admiration. Marrineal was skilled at ascertainments. He made a specialty of knowing all about people.

Indeed, that unexpectedly successful reporter would have been shocked at how far Marrineal’s private investigations had gone. Not only was the buyer of The Patriot fully informed about Banneker’s professional career in detail, but he also knew about his previous jobs and his membership in The Retreat, which he saw with confusion and admiration. Marrineal was an expert at finding out information. He specialized in knowing everything about people.

“With Mr. Edmonds on roving commission and you to handle the big local stuff,” he pursued, “we should have the nucleus of a news organization. Like him, you would be responsible to me alone. And, of course, it would be made worth your while. What do you think? Will you join us?”

“Since Mr. Edmonds is on a roving assignment and you’ll take care of the major local news,” he continued, “we should have the foundation of a news organization. Like him, you'd report directly to me. And, of course, it would be well compensated. What do you think? Will you join us?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

“No?” There was no slightest hint of disappointment, surprise, or resentment in Marrineal’s manner. “Do you mind giving me the reason?”

“No?” There was not the slightest hint of disappointment, surprise, or resentment in Marrineal’s manner. “Could you tell me why?”

“I don’t care to be a reporter on The Patriot.”

“I don’t want to be a reporter for The Patriot.”

“Well, this would hardly be reporting. At least, a very specialized and important type.”

"Well, this would barely count as reporting. At least, a very specific and important type."

“For that matter, I don’t care to be a reporter on any paper much longer. Besides, you need me—or some one—in another department more than in the news section.”

“For that matter, I don’t want to be a reporter for any paper much longer. Besides, you need me—or someone—in another department more than in the news section.”

“You don’t like the editorials,” was the inference which Marrineal drew from this, and correctly.

“You don’t like the editorials,” was the conclusion that Marrineal reached from this, and he was right.

“I think they’re solemn flapdoodle.”

“I think they’re serious nonsense.”

“So do I. Occasionally I write them myself and send them in quietly. It isn’t known yet that I own the property; so I don’t appear at the office. Mine are quite as solemn and flapdoodlish as the others. To which quality do you object the most?”

“So do I. Sometimes I write them myself and send them in quietly. It’s not known yet that I own the property, so I don’t show up at the office. Mine are just as serious and nonsensical as the others. Which quality do you dislike the most?”

“Solemnity. It’s the blight of editorial expression. All the papers suffer from it.”

“Solemnity. It’s the curse of editorial expression. All the papers struggle with it.”

“Then you wouldn’t have the editorial page modeled on that of any of our contemporaries.”

“Then you wouldn’t have the editorial page based on any of our contemporaries.”

“No. I’d try to make it interesting. There isn’t a page in town that the average man-in-the-street-car can read without a painful effort at thought.”

“No. I’d try to make it interesting. There isn’t a page in town that the average person can read without struggling to think.”

“Editorials are supposed to be for thinking men,” put in Edmonds.

“Editorials are meant for thoughtful people,” Edmonds said.

“Make the thinking easy, then. Don’t make it hard, with heavy words and a didactic manner. Talk to ’em. You’re trying to reach for their brain mechanism. Wrong idea. Reach for their coat-lapels. Hook a finger in the buttonholes and tell ’em something about common things they never stopped to consider. Our editorializers are always tucking their hands into their oratorical bosoms and discoursing in a sonorous voice about freight differentials as an element in stabilizing the market. How does that affect Jim Jones? Why, Jim turns to the sporting page. But if you say to him casually, in print, ‘Do you realize that every woman who brings a child into the world shows more heroism than Teddy Roosevelt when he charged up San Juan Hill?’—what’ll Jim do about that? Turn to the sporting page just the same, maybe. But after he’s absorbed the ball-scores, he’ll turn back to the editorial. You see, he never thought about Mrs. Jones just that way before.”

“Make it easy to understand, then. Don’t complicate things with fancy words and a preachy tone. Just talk to them. You want to connect with their mindset. Forget that. Grab their attention. Get their interest and share something about everyday things they’ve never thought about. Our editorial writers are always tucking their hands into their rhetorical pockets and speaking in a booming voice about freight costs as a factor in stabilizing the market. How does that matter to Jim Jones? Jim just switches to the sports section. But if you casually say to him in print, ‘Did you know that every woman who brings a child into the world shows more courage than Teddy Roosevelt when he charged up San Juan Hill?’—what will Jim do with that? He might still go back to the sports section. But after he’s checked the scores, he might return to the editorial. You see, he’s never thought about Mrs. Jones that way before.”

“Sentimentalism,” observed Marrineal. “Not altogether original, either.” But he did not speak as a critic. Rather as one pondering upon new vistas of thought.

“Sentimentalism,” Marrineal noted. “Not completely original, either.” But he didn’t say it like a critic. Instead, he sounded like someone thinking about new ideas.

“Why shouldn’t an editorial be sentimental about something besides the starry flag and the boyhood of its party’s candidate? Original? I shouldn’t worry overmuch about that. All my time would be occupied in trying to be interesting. After I got ’em interested, I could perhaps be instructive. Very cautiously, though. But always man to man: that’s the editorial trick, as I see it. Not preacher to congregation.”

“Why shouldn’t an editorial be emotional about something other than the star-spangled banner and the childhood of its party's candidate? Original? I wouldn’t stress too much about that. I’d be too busy trying to be engaging. Once I got them interested, I could maybe be informative. But I’d have to be careful. It’s always person to person: that’s the editorial secret, as I see it. Not preacher to congregation.”

“Where are your editorials, son?” asked the veteran Edmonds abruptly.

“Where are your editorials, son?” asked the seasoned Edmonds abruptly.

“Locked up.” Banneker tapped his forehead.

“Locked up.” Banneker tapped his head.

“In the place of their birth?” smiled Marrineal.

“In the place where they were born?” smiled Marrineal.

“Oh, I don’t want too much credit for my idea. A fair share of it belongs to a bald-headed and snarling old nondescript whom I met one day in the Public Library and shall probably never meet again anywhere. Somebody had pointed me out—it was after that shooting mess—and the old fellow came up to me and growled out, ‘Employed on a newspaper?’ I admitted it. ‘What do you know about news?’ was his next question. Well, I’m always open to any fresh slants on the business, so I asked him politely what he knew. He put on an expression like a prayerful owl and said, ‘Suppose I came into your office with the information that a destructive plague was killing off the earthworms?’ Naturally, I thought one of the librarians had put up a joke on me; so I said, ‘Refer you to the Anglers’ Department of the All-Outdoors Monthly.’ ‘That is as far as you could see into the information?’ he said severely. I had to confess that it was. ‘And you are supposed to be a judge of news!’ he snarled. Well, he seemed so upset about it that I tried to be soothing by asking him if there was an earthworm pestilence in progress. ‘No,’ answers he, and lucky for you. For if the earthworms all died, so would you and the rest of us, including your accursed brood of newspapers, which would be some compensation. Read Darwin,’ croaks the old bird, and calls me a callow fool, and flits.”

“Oh, I don’t want too much credit for my idea. A fair share of it belongs to a bald-headed, grumpy old guy I met one day in the Public Library and probably won’t encounter again anywhere. Someone had pointed me out—it was after that shooting incident—and the old man came over to me and growled, ‘Working for a newspaper?’ I admitted it. ‘What do you know about news?’ was his next question. Well, I’m always open to new perspectives on the business, so I asked him politely what he knew. He made an expression like a thoughtful owl and said, ‘What if I walked into your office with the information that a deadly plague is wiping out the earthworms?’ Naturally, I thought one of the librarians was playing a joke on me, so I said, ‘I’d refer you to the Anglers’ Department of the All-Outdoors Monthly.’ ‘Is that as far as your insight goes?’ he said sternly. I had to admit that it was. ‘And you’re supposed to be a judge of news!’ he snarled. He seemed so upset about it that I tried to calm him down by asking if there was an earthworm plague going on. ‘No,’ he answered, ‘and lucky for you. Because if all the earthworms died, you and the rest of us would too, including your cursed newspapers, which would be some consolation. Read Darwin,’ the old guy croaked and called me a naïve fool, then flew off.”

“Who was he? Did you find out?” asked Edmonds.

“Who was he? Did you figure it out?” asked Edmonds.

“Some scientific grubber from the museum. I looked up the Darwin book and decided that he was right; not Darwin; the old croaker.”

“Some science nerd from the museum. I checked out the Darwin book and figured he was right; not Darwin; the old guy.”

“Still, that was not precisely news,” pointed out Marrineal.

“Still, that wasn’t exactly news,” Marrineal pointed out.

“Theoretical news. I’m not sure,” pursued Banneker, struck with a new idea, “that that isn’t the formula for editorial writing; theoretical news. Supplemented by analytical news, of course.”

“Theoretical news. I’m not sure,” continued Banneker, struck with a new idea, “that’s not the formula for editorial writing; theoretical news. Of course, it’s supplemented by analytical news.”

“Philosophizing over Darwin and dead worms would hardly inspire half a million readers to follow your editorial output, day after day.” Marrineal delivered his opinion suavely.

“Debating Darwin and dead worms certainly won't motivate half a million readers to keep up with your editorial pieces, day in and day out.” Marrineal expressed his opinion smoothly.

“Not if written in the usual style, suggesting a conscientious rehash of the encyclopedia. But suppose it were done differently, and with a caption like this, ‘Why Does an Angle-Worm Wriggle?’ Set that in irregular type that weaved and squirmed across the column, and Jones-in-the-street-car would at least look at it.”

“Not if it’s written in the typical way, hinting at a careful rewriting of the encyclopedia. But what if it was done differently, with a title like this: ‘Why Does an Angle-Worm Wriggle?’ Imagine that in a funky font that curled and squirmed across the page, and the average person on the streetcar would definitely take a look at it.”

“Good Heavens! I should think so,” assented Marrineal. “And call for the police.”

“Good heavens! I definitely think so,” agreed Marrineal. “And let's call the police.”

“Or, if that is too sensational,” continued Banneker, warming up, “we could head it ‘Charles Darwin Would Never Go Fishing, Because’ and a heavy dash after ‘because.’”

“Or, if that sounds too dramatic,” Banneker continued, getting into it, “we could title it ‘Charles Darwin Would Never Go Fishing, Because’ and then have a long dash after ‘because.’”

“Fakey,” pronounced Edmonds. “Still, I don’t know that there’s any harm in that kind of faking.”

“Fakey,” Edmonds said. “Still, I don’t see any harm in that kind of faking.”

“Merely a trick to catch the eye. I don’t know whether Darwin ever went fishing or not. Probably he did if only for his researches. But, in essentials, I’m giving ’em a truth; a big truth.”

“Just a trick to grab attention. I’m not sure if Darwin ever went fishing. He probably did, at least for his research. But basically, I’m providing them with a truth; a big truth.”

“What?” inquired Marrineal.

“What?” asked Marrineal.

“Solemn sermonizers would call it the inter-relations of life or something to that effect. What I’m after is to coax ’em to think a little.”

“Serious preachers might refer to it as the connections between life or something like that. What I want is to encourage them to think a bit more.”

“About angle-worms?”

"About angleworms?"

“About anything. It’s the process I’m after. Only let me start them thinking about evolution and pretty soon I’ll have them thinking about the relations of modern society—and thinking my way. Five hundred thousand people, all thinking in the way we told ’em to think—”

“About anything. It’s the process I'm going for. Just let me get them thinking about evolution, and soon enough I’ll have them considering the dynamics of modern society—and thinking my way. Five hundred thousand people, all thinking the way we told them to think—”

“Could elect Willis Enderby mayor of New York,” interjected the practical Edmonds.

“Could elect Willis Enderby as mayor of New York,” interjected the practical Edmonds.

Marrineal, whose face had become quite expressionless, gave a little start. “Who?” he said.

Marrineal, with a completely blank expression, startled slightly. “Who?” he asked.

“Judge Enderby of the Law Enforcement Society.”

“Oh! Yes. Of course. Or any one else.”

“Oh! Yes. Of course. Or anyone else.”

“Or any one else,” agreed Banneker, catching a quick, informed glance from Edmonds.

“Or anyone else,” Banneker agreed, catching a quick, knowing glance from Edmonds.

“Frankly, your scheme seems a little fantastic to me,” pronounced the owner of The Patriot. “But that may be only because it’s new. It might be worth trying out.” He reverted again to his expressionless reverie, out of which exhaled the observation: “I wonder what the present editorial staff could do with that.”

“Honestly, your plan seems a bit far-fetched to me,” said the owner of The Patriot. “But maybe that’s just because it’s something new. It could be worth a shot.” He returned to his blank thoughts, from which he voiced, “I wonder what the current editorial team could make of that.”

“Am I to infer that you intend to help yourself to my idea?” inquired Banneker.

“Should I take it that you plan to take my idea for yourself?” Banneker asked.

Mr. Marrineal aroused himself hastily from his editorial dream. Though by no means a fearful person, he was uncomfortably sensible of a menace, imminent and formidable. It was not in Banneker’s placid face, nor in the unaltered tone wherein the pertinent query was couched. Nevertheless, the object of that query became aware that young Banneker was not a person to be trifled with. He now went on, equably to say:

Mr. Marrineal quickly woke up from his editorial daydream. Even though he wasn't easily scared, he felt an unsettling threat that was close and serious. It wasn't in Banneker’s calm expression or in the steady way the relevant question was asked. Still, the subject of that question realized that young Banneker was not someone to mess with. He continued, saying in a steady tone:

“Because, if you do, it might be as well to give me the chance of developing it.”

“Because if you do, it would be good to give me the opportunity to develop it.”

Possibly the “Of course,” with which Marrineal responded to this reasonable suggestion, was just a little bit over-prompt.

Possibly the “Of course,” that Marrineal replied with to this reasonable suggestion was maybe a bit too quick.

“Give me ten days. No: two weeks, and I’ll be ready to show my wares. Where can I find you?”

“Give me ten days. No, make it two weeks, and I’ll be ready to show what I have. Where can I find you?”

Marrineal gave a telephone address. “It isn’t in the book,” he said. “It will always get me between 9 A.M. and noon.”

Marrineal provided a phone number. “It's not in the book,” he said. “You'll always reach me between 9 A.M. and noon.”

They talked of matters journalistic, Marrineal lapsing tactfully into the role of attentive listener again, until there appeared in the lower room a dark-faced man of thirty-odd, spruce and alert, who, upon sighting them, came confidently forward. Marrineal ordered him a drink and presented him to the two journalists as Mr. Ely Ives. As Mr. Ives, it appeared, was in the secret of Marrineal’s journalistic connection, the talk was resumed, becoming more general. Presently Marrineal consulted his watch.

They discussed journalistic topics, with Marrineal skillfully slipping back into the role of interested listener until a dark-faced man in his thirties entered the lower room, looking sharp and lively. When he spotted them, he walked over with confidence. Marrineal ordered him a drink and introduced him to the two journalists as Mr. Ely Ives. Since Mr. Ives was aware of Marrineal’s journalism ties, the conversation resumed and became more inclusive. Soon, Marrineal checked his watch.

“You’re not going up to the After-Theater Club to-night?” he asked Banneker, and, on receiving a negative reply, made his adieus and went out with Ives to his waiting car.

“You're not going to the After-Theater Club tonight?” he asked Banneker, and, upon getting a no, he said his goodbyes and left with Ives to his waiting car.

Banneker and Edmonds looked at each other. “Don’t both speak at once,” chuckled Banneker. “What do you?”

Banneker and Edmonds glanced at each other. “Don’t both of you speak at once,” Banneker laughed. “What do you think?”

“Think of him? He’s a smooth article. Very smooth. But I’ve seen ’em before that were straight as well as smooth.”

“Think of him? He’s a slick guy. Really slick. But I’ve seen others before who were just as straight as they were slick.”

“Bland,” said Banneker. “Bland with a surpassing blandness. A blandness amounting to blandeur, as grandness in the highest degree becomes grandeur. I like that word,” Banneker chucklingly approved himself. “But I wouldn’t use it in an editorial, one of those editorials that our genial friend was going to appropriate so coolly. A touch of the pirate in him, I think. I like him.”

“Bland,” said Banneker. “Bland with an overwhelming blandness. A blandness that reaches a level of blandeur, similar to how grandness at its peak becomes grandeur. I like that word,” Banneker chuckled to himself. “But I wouldn’t use it in an editorial, one of those editorials that our friendly colleague was planning to take so casually. There’s a bit of a pirate in him, I think. I like him.”

“Yes; you have to. He makes himself likable. What do you figure Mr. Ely Ives to be?”

“Yes; you have to. He makes himself likable. What do you think Mr. Ely Ives is like?”

“Henchman.”

"Sidekick."

“Do you know him?”

"Do you know him?"

“I’ve seen him uptown, once or twice. He has some reputation as an amateur juggler.”

“I’ve seen him in the city, a couple of times. He’s got a bit of a reputation as an amateur juggler.”

“I know him, too. But he doesn’t remember me or he wouldn’t have been so pleasant,” said the veteran, committing two errors in one sentence, for Ely Ives had remembered him perfectly, and in any case would never have exhibited any unnecessary rancor in his carefully trained manner. “Wrote a story about him once. He’s quite a betting man; some say a sure-thing bettor. Several years ago Bob Wessington was giving one of his famous booze parties on board his yacht ‘The Water-Wain,’ and this chap was in on it somehow. When everybody was tanked up, they got to doing stunts and he bet a thousand with Wessington he could swarm up the backstay to the masthead. Two others wished in for a thousand apiece, and he cleaned up the lot. It cut his hands up pretty bad, but that was cheap at three thousand. Afterwards it turned out that he’d been practicing that very climb in heavy gloves, down in South Brooklyn. So I wrote the story. He came back with a threat of a libel suit. Fool bluff, for it wasn’t libelous. But I looked up his record a little and found he was an ex-medical student, from Chicago, where he’d been on The Chronicle for a while. He quit that to become a press-agent for a group of oil-gamblers, and must have done some good selling himself, for he had money when he landed here. To the best of my knowledge he is now a sort of lookout for the Combination Traction people, with some connection with the City Illuminating Company on the side. It’s a secret sort of connection.”

“I know him, too. But he doesn’t remember me, or he wouldn’t have been so nice,” said the veteran, making two mistakes in one sentence because Ely Ives remembered him perfectly and would never show unnecessary bitterness in his well-trained manner. “I wrote a story about him once. He’s really into betting; some say he’s a sure-thing bettor. A few years ago, Bob Wessington was throwing one of his famous booze parties on his yacht, ‘The Water-Wain,’ and this guy somehow got involved. When everyone was drunk, they started doing stunts, and he bet a thousand dollars with Wessington that he could climb up the backstay to the masthead. Two others joined in for a thousand each, and he ended up winning all of it. It messed up his hands pretty bad, but that was a small price to pay for three thousand. Later, it turned out he had been practicing that climb with heavy gloves in South Brooklyn. So I wrote the story. He came back threatening a libel suit. It was a stupid bluff since it wasn’t libelous. But I looked into his background a bit and found out he was a former medical student from Chicago, where he worked at The Chronicle for a while. He left that to become a press agent for a group of oil gamblers, and he must have been good at selling himself because he had money when he got here. As far as I know, he’s now a sort of lookout for the Combination Traction people, with some secret connection to the City Illuminating Company on the side.”

Banneker made the world-wide symbolistic finger-shuffle of money-handling. “Legislative?” he inquired.

Banneker made the universal gesture of counting money. “Legislative?” he asked.

“Possibly. But it’s more keeping a watch on publicity and politics. He gives himself out as a man-about-town, and is supposed to make a good thing out of the market. Maybe he does, though I notice that generally the market makes a good thing out of the smart guy who tries to beat it.”

“Maybe. But it’s really more about keeping an eye on publicity and politics. He presents himself as a socialite and is thought to profit from the market. Perhaps he does, but I’ve noticed that usually the market ends up taking advantage of the clever person who tries to outsmart it.”

“Not a particularly desirable person for a colleague.”

“Not someone I would want as a coworker.”

“I doubt if he’d be Marrineal’s colleague exactly. The inside of the newspaper isn’t his game. More likely he’s making himself attractive and useful to Marrineal just to find out what he’s up to with his paper.”

“I don’t think he’d really be Marrineal’s colleague. Working on the newspaper isn’t his thing. More likely, he’s trying to make himself appealing and helpful to Marrineal just to figure out what he’s doing with his paper.”

“I’ll show him something interesting if I get hold of that editorial page.”

"I'll show him something interesting if I can get my hands on that editorial page."

“Son, are you up to it, d’you think?” asked Edmonds with affectionate solicitude. “It takes a lot of experience to handle policies.”

“Son, do you think you’re ready for this?” asked Edmonds with caring concern. “It takes a lot of experience to manage policies.”

“I’ll have you with me, won’t I, Pop? Besides, if my little scheme works, I’m going out to gather experience like a bee after honey.”

“I’ll have you with me, right, Pop? Plus, if my little plan works out, I’m going out to gain experience like a bee collecting honey.”

“We’ll make a queer team, we three,” mused the veteran, shaking his bony head, as he leaned forward over his tiny pipe. His protuberant forehead seemed to overhang the idea protectively. Or perhaps threateningly. “None of us looks at a newspaper from the same angle or as the same kind of a machine as the others view it.”

“We’ll make an odd team, the three of us,” thought the veteran, shaking his thin head as he leaned forward over his small pipe. His prominent forehead seemed to hover over the idea either protectively or maybe even threateningly. “None of us sees a newspaper from the same perspective or views it as the others do.”

“Never mind our views. They’ll assimilate. What about his?”

“Forget our opinions. They’ll adapt. What about his?”

“Ah! I wish I knew. But he wants something. Like all of us.” A shade passed across the clearly modeled severity of the face. Edmonds sighed. “I don’t know but that I’m too old for this kind of experiment. Yet I’ve fallen for the temptation.”

“Ah! I wish I knew. But he wants something. Like all of us.” A shadow crossed the clearly defined seriousness of his face. Edmonds sighed. “I don’t know, maybe I’m too old for this kind of experiment. Yet I’ve given in to the temptation.”

“Pop,” said Banneker with abrupt irrelevance, “there’s a line from Emerson that you make me think of when you look like that. ‘His sad lucidity of soul.’”

“Pop,” Banneker said suddenly, “there’s a line from Emerson that comes to mind when you look like that. ‘His sad lucidity of soul.’”

“Do I? But it isn’t Emerson. It’s Matthew Arnold.”

“Do I? But it’s not Emerson. It’s Matthew Arnold.”

“Where do you find time for poetry, you old wheelhorse! Never mind; you ought to be painted as the living embodiment of that line.”

“Where do you find time for poetry, you old workhorse! Never mind; you should be painted as the living embodiment of that line.”

“Or as a wooden automaton, jumping at the end of a special wire from our correspondent.’ Ban, can you see Marrineal’s hand on a wire?”

“Or like a wooden figure, springing at the end of a special wire from ‘our correspondent.’ Ban, can you see Marrineal’s hand on a wire?”

“If it’s plain enough to be visible, I’m underestimating his tact. I’d like to have a lock of his hair to dream on to-night. I’m off to think things over, Pop. Good-night.”

“If it’s obvious enough to see, I’m underestimating his tact. I’d love to have a lock of his hair to dream about tonight. I’m going to think things over, Pop. Good night.”

Banneker walked uptown, through dimmed streets humming with the harmonic echoes of the city’s never-ending life, faint and delicate. He stopped at Sherry’s, and at a small table in the side room sat down with a bottle of ale, a cigarette, and some stationery. When he rose, it was to mail a letter. That done, he went back to his costly little apartment upon which the rent would be due in a few days. He had the cash in hand: that was all right. As for the next month, he wondered humorously whether he would have the wherewithal to meet the recurring bill, not to mention others. However, the consideration was not weighty enough to keep him sleepless.

Banneker walked uptown, through dimly lit streets buzzing with the constant energy of the city, soft and subtle. He stopped at Sherry’s and sat down at a small table in the side room with a bottle of beer, a cigarette, and some stationery. When he got up, it was to mail a letter. After that, he returned to his expensive little apartment, where the rent was due in a few days. He had the cash ready: that was fine. As for the next month, he jokingly wondered if he would have enough to cover the upcoming bills, not to mention others. However, this thought was not significant enough to keep him awake at night.

Custom kindly provides its own patent shock-absorbers to all the various organisms of nature; otherwise the whole regime would perish. Necessarily a newspaper is among the best protected of organisms against shock: it deals, as one might say, largely in shocks, and its hand is subdued to what it works in. Nevertheless, on the following noon The Ledger office was agitated as it hardly would have been had Brooklyn Bridge fallen into the East River, or the stalest mummy in the Natural History Museum shown stirrings of life. A word was passing from eager mouth to incredulous ear.

Custom generously provides its own patent shock-absorbers to all the different organisms in nature; otherwise, the whole system would collapse. Naturally, a newspaper is among the best-protected of organisms against shock: it works, one might say, largely with shocks, and it is well-adapted to what it handles. Nevertheless, the next noon, The Ledger office was buzzing with excitement as if Brooklyn Bridge had fallen into the East River or the oldest mummy in the Natural History Museum had started to move. A word was flying from eager lips to incredulous ears.

Banneker had resigned.

Banneker resigned.

CHAPTER XV

Looking out of the front window, into the decorum of Grove Street, Mrs. Brashear could hardly credit the testimony of her glorified eyes. Could the occupant of the taxi indeed be Mr. Banneker whom, a few months before and most sorrowfully, she had sacrificed to the stern respectability of the house? And was it possible, as the very elegant trunk inscribed “E.B.—New York City” indicated, that he was coming back as a lodger? For the first time in her long and correct professional career, the landlady felt an unqualified bitterness in the fact that all her rooms were occupied.

Looking out of the front window at the scene on Grove Street, Mrs. Brashear could hardly believe her eyes. Could the person in the taxi really be Mr. Banneker, whom she had sadly let go just a few months ago to maintain the strict respectability of her home? And was it possible, as suggested by the very stylish trunk labeled “E.B.—New York City,” that he was coming back as a tenant? For the first time in her long and proper career as a landlady, she felt a deep frustration that all her rooms were filled.

The occupant of the taxi jumped out and ran lightly up the steps.

The passenger in the taxi got out and quickly ran up the steps.

“How d’you do, Mrs. Brashear. Am I still excommunicated?”

“How are you, Mrs. Brashear? Am I still excommunicated?”

“Oh, Mr. Banneker! I’m so glad to see you. If I could tell you how often I’ve blamed myself—”

“Oh, Mr. Banneker! I’m really glad to see you. If I could tell you how often I’ve blamed myself—”

“Let’s forget all that. The point is I’ve come back.”

“Let’s move past all that. The main thing is I’m back.”

“Oh, dear! I do hate not to take you in. But there isn’t a spot.”

“Oh, no! I really hate to not be able to take you in. But there isn’t any space.”

“Who’s got my old room?”

“Who has my old room?”

“Mr. Hainer.”

“Hainer? Let’s turn him out.”

“Hainer? Let’s kick him out.”

“I would in a minute,” declared the ungrateful landlady to whom Mr. Hainer had always been a model lodger. “But the law—”

“I would in a minute,” said the ungrateful landlady, to whom Mr. Hainer had always been a model tenant. “But the law—”

“Oh, I’ll fix Hainer if you’ll fix the room.”

“Oh, I’ll take care of Hainer if you handle the room.”

“How?” asked the bewildered Mrs. Brashear.

“How?” asked the confused Mrs. Brashear.

“The room? Just as it used to be. Bed, table, couple of chairs, bookshelf.”

“The room? Exactly like it used to be. Bed, table, a couple of chairs, bookshelf.”

“But Mr. Hainer’s things?”

“But what about Mr. Hainer’s stuff?”

“Store ’em. It’ll be for only a month.”

“Store them. It’ll just be for a month.”

Leaving his trunk, Banneker sallied forth in smiling confidence to accost and transfer the unsuspecting occupant of his room. To achieve this, it was necessary only to convince the object of the scheme that the incredible offer was made in good faith; an apartment in the “swell” Regalton, luxuriously furnished, service and breakfast included, rent free for a whole month. A fairy-tale for the prosaic Hainer to be gloated over for the rest of his life! Very quietly, for this was part of the bargain, the middle-aged accountant moved to his new glories and Banneker took his old quarters. It was all accomplished that evening. The refurnishing was finished on the following day.

Leaving his suitcase behind, Banneker confidently stepped out with a smile to approach and swap places with his unsuspecting roommate. To pull this off, he just needed to convince his target that the unbelievable offer was genuine: a room in the fancy Regalton, fully furnished, with service and breakfast included, free of rent for an entire month. A fairy tale for the practical Hainer to brag about for the rest of his life! Quietly, as part of the deal, the middle-aged accountant moved into his new luxury while Banneker took over his old space. Everything was settled that evening, and the redecorating was complete the next day.

“But what are you doing it for, if I may be so bold, Mr. Banneker?” asked the landlady.

“But what are you doing it for, if I can be so bold, Mr. Banneker?” asked the landlady.

“Peace, quiet, and work,” he answered gayly. “Just to be where nobody can find me, while I do a job.”

“Peace, quiet, and work,” he replied cheerfully. “Just being somewhere nobody can find me while I get some work done.”

Here, as in the old, jobless days, Banneker settled down to concentrated and happy toil. Always a creature of Spartan self-discipline in the matter of work, he took on, in this quiet and remote environment, new energies. Miss Westlake, recipient of the output as it came from the hard-driven pen, was secretly disquieted. Could any human being maintain such a pace without collapse? Day after day, the devotee of the third-floor-front rose at seven, breakfasted from a thermos bottle and a tin box, and set upon his writing; lunched hastily around the corner, returned with armfuls of newspapers which he skimmed as a preliminary to a second long bout with his pen; allowed himself an hour for dinner, and came back to resume the never-ending task. As in the days of the “Eban” sketches, now on the press for book publication, it was write, rewrite, and re-rewrite, the typed sheets coming back to Miss Westlake amended, interlined, corrected, but always successively shortened and simplified. Profitable, indeed, for the solicitous little typist; but she ventured, after a fortnight of it, to remonstrate on the score of ordinary prudence. Banneker laughed, though he was touched, too, by her interest.

Here, just like in the old, jobless days, Banneker settled down to focused and joyful work. Always someone with strong self-discipline when it came to his job, he found new energy in this quiet and remote setting. Miss Westlake, who received everything that came from his driven pen, was secretly worried. Could anyone really keep up such a pace without burning out? Day after day, the dedicated writer on the third floor got up at seven, had breakfast from a thermos and a tin box, and dove into his writing; he grabbed a quick lunch around the corner, returned with stacks of newspapers that he skimmed through as a warm-up for another long session with his pen; allowed himself an hour for dinner, and came back to continue the endless task. Just like during the days of the “Eban” sketches, which were now being prepared for book publication, it was write, revise, and revise again, with the typed pages coming back to Miss Westlake marked up, edited, and corrected, but always getting shorter and simpler. It was definitely beneficial for the concerned little typist; however, after two weeks of this, she took the chance to advise him on the matter of common sense. Banneker laughed, but he was also touched by her concern.

“I’m indestructible,” he assured her. “But next week I shall run around outside a little.”

“I’m indestructible,” he reassured her. “But next week, I’ll go outside for a bit.”

“You must,” she insisted.

"You have to," she insisted.

“Field-work, I believe they call it. The Elysian Fields of Manhattan Island. Perhaps you’ll come with me sometimes and see that I attend properly to my recreation.”

“Fieldwork, I think they call it. The Elysian Fields of Manhattan Island. Maybe you’ll join me sometime and see that I take my leisure seriously.”

Curiosity as well as a mere personal interest prompted her to accept. She did not understand the purpose of these strange and vivid writings committed to her hands, so different from any of the earlier of Mr. Banneker’s productions; so different, indeed, from anything that she had hitherto seen in any print. Nor did she derive full enlightenment from her Elysian journeys with the writer. They seemed to be casual if not aimless. The pair traveled about on street-cars, L trains, Fifth Avenue buses, dined in queer, crowded restaurants, drank in foreign-appearing beer-halls, went to meetings, to Cooper Union forums, to the Art Gallery, the Aquarium, the Museum of Natural History, to dances in East-Side halls: and everywhere, by virtue of his easy and graceful good-fellowship, Banneker picked up acquaintances, entered into their discussions, listened to their opinions and solemn dicta, agreeing or controverting with equal good-humor, and all, one might have carelessly supposed, in the idlest spirit of a light-minded Haroun al Raschid.

Curiosity and a personal interest led her to say yes. She didn't get the purpose of these strange and colorful writings that were in her hands, so different from anything else Mr. Banneker had created before; in fact, they were unlike anything she'd seen in print. She didn't gain full understanding from her enjoyable outings with the writer. They seemed casual, if not aimless. The two traveled around on streetcars, L trains, Fifth Avenue buses, dined in quirky, crowded restaurants, drank in beer halls that looked foreign, attended meetings, went to Cooper Union forums, visited the Art Gallery, the Aquarium, the Museum of Natural History, and danced in East Side halls: and everywhere, thanks to his easygoing and charming nature, Banneker made new friends, joined in their discussions, listened to their views and serious opinions, agreeing or disagreeing with equal friendliness, all of which one might have carelessly thought was in the idle spirit of a light-hearted Haroun al Raschid.

“What is it all about, if you don’t mind telling?” asked his companion as he bade her good-night early one morning.

“What’s it all about, if you don’t mind sharing?” asked his companion as he said goodnight to her early one morning.

“To find what people naturally talk about,” was the ready answer.

“To find what people naturally talk about,” was the quick answer.

“And then?”

“And what’s next?”

“To talk with them about what interests them. In print.”

“To discuss what interests them. In writing.”

“Then it isn’t Elysian-fielding at all.”

“Then it’s not Elysian-fielding at all.”

“No. It’s work. Hard work.”

“And what do you do after it?”

“And what do you do after that?”

“Oh, sit up and write for a while.”

“Oh, sit up and write for a bit.”

“You’ll break down.”

"You'll have a breakdown."

“Oh, no! It’s good for me.”

And, indeed, it was better for him than the alternative of trying to sleep without the anodyne of complete exhaustion. For again, his hours were haunted by the not-to-be-laid spirit of Io Welland. As in those earlier days when, with hot eyes and set teeth, he had sent up his nightly prayer for deliverance from the powers of the past—

And, really, it was better for him than the option of trying to sleep without being completely worn out. Because once again, his nights were disturbed by the unshakeable presence of Io Welland. Just like in those earlier times when, with intense eyes and clenched teeth, he would send up his nightly prayer for freedom from the burdens of the past—

“Heaven shield and keep us free From the wizard, Memory And his cruel necromancies!”—

“Heaven protect us and keep us safe From the wizard, Memory And his cruel dark magic!”—

she came back to her old sway over his soul, and would not be exorcised.—So he drugged his brain against her with the opiate of weariness.

she returned to her old control over his soul and wouldn't be shaken off. —So he dulled his mind against her with the drug of exhaustion.

Three of his four weeks had passed when Banneker began to whistle at his daily stent. Thereafter small boys, grimy with printer’s ink, called occasionally, received instructions and departed, and there emanated from his room the clean and bitter smell of paste, and the clip of shears. Despite all these new activities, the supply of manuscript for Miss Westlake’s typewriter never failed. One afternoon Banneker knocked at the door, asked her if she thought she could take dictation direct, and on her replying doubtfully that she could try, transferred her and her machine to his den, which was littered with newspapers, proof-sheets, and foolscap. Walking to and fro with a sheet of the latter inscribed with a few notes in his hand, the hermit proceeded to deliver himself to the briskly clicking writing machine.

Three of his four weeks had gone by when Banneker started to whistle while working each day. After that, some young boys, covered in printer’s ink, would occasionally stop by, receive instructions, and leave. From his room came the clean, sharp smell of paste and the sound of scissors cutting. Even with all these new activities, there was always enough manuscript for Miss Westlake’s typewriter. One afternoon, Banneker knocked on the door and asked her if she thought she could take dictation directly. When she hesitantly said she could try, he moved her and her machine to his workspace, which was cluttered with newspapers, proof sheets, and blank paper. As he paced back and forth with a sheet of paper that had a few notes written on it, the hermit began to dictate to the rapidly clicking typewriter.

“Three-em dash,” said he at the close. “That seemed to go fairly well.”

“Three-em dash,” he said at the end. “That seemed to go pretty well.”

“Are you training me?” asked Miss Westlake.

“Are you teaching me?” asked Miss Westlake.

“No. I’m training myself. It’s easier to write, but it’s quicker to talk. Some day I’m going to be really busy”—Miss Westlake gasped—“and time-saving will be important. Shall we try it again to-morrow?”

“No. I’m training myself. Writing is easier, but talking is faster. One day I’m going to be really busy”—Miss Westlake gasped—“and saving time will be important. Should we try it again tomorrow?”

She nodded. “I could brush up my shorthand and take it quicker.”

She nodded. “I could improve my shorthand and do it faster.”

“Do you know shorthand?” He looked at her contemplatively. “Would you care to take a regular position, paying rather better than this casual work?”

“Do you know shorthand?” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Would you be interested in a permanent position that pays better than this freelance work?”

“With you?” asked Miss Westlake in a tone which constituted a sufficient acceptance.

“With you?” asked Miss Westlake in a tone that clearly showed she was on board.

“Yes. Always supposing that I land one myself. I’m in a big gamble, and these,” he swept a hand over the littered accumulations, “are my cards. If they’re good enough, I’ll win.”

“Yes. Assuming I manage to get one myself. I’m taking a big risk, and these,” he waved his hand over the messy piles, “are my cards. If they’re good enough, I’ll win.”

“They are good enough,” said Miss Westlake with simple faith.

“They’re good enough,” said Miss Westlake with simple faith.

“I’ll know to-morrow,” replied Banneker.

“I’ll know tomorrow,” replied Banneker.

For a young man, jobless, highly unsettled of prospects, the ratio of whose debts to his assets was inversely to what it should have been, Banneker presented a singularly care-free aspect when, at 11 A.M. of a rainy morning, he called at Mr. Tertius Marrineal’s Fifth Avenue house, bringing with him a suitcase heavily packed. Mr. Marrineal’s personal Jap took over the burden and conducted it and its owner to a small rear room at the top of the house. Banneker apprehended at the first glance that this was a room for work. Mr. Marrineal, rising from behind a broad, glass-topped table with his accustomed amiable smile, also looked workmanlike.

For a young man, jobless and feeling uncertain about the future, whose debts far outweighed his assets, Banneker seemed remarkably carefree when he arrived at Mr. Tertius Marrineal’s house on Fifth Avenue at 11 A.M. on a rainy morning, carrying a heavily packed suitcase. Mr. Marrineal’s personal Japanese assistant took the suitcase and led Banneker to a small back room at the top of the house. Banneker immediately sensed that this was a workspace. Mr. Marrineal, rising from behind a wide glass-topped table with his usual friendly smile, also had a work-oriented appearance.

“You have decided to come with us, I hope,” said he pleasantly enough, yet with a casual politeness which might have been meant to suggest a measure of indifference. Banneker at once caught the note of bargaining.

“You’ve decided to join us, I hope,” he said cheerfully enough, but with a casual politeness that seemed to imply a hint of indifference. Banneker immediately picked up on the tone of negotiation.

“If you think my ideas are worth my price,” he replied.

“If you think my ideas are worth what I’m charging,” he replied.

“Let’s have the ideas.”

“Let’s get the ideas.”

“No trouble to show goods,” Banneker said, unclasping the suitcase. He preferred to keep the talk in light tone until his time came. From the case he extracted two close-packed piles of news-print, folded in half.

“No trouble to show goods,” Banneker said, unzipping the suitcase. He liked to keep the conversation light until it was his turn. From the case, he pulled out two neatly stacked piles of newsprint, folded in half.

“Coals to Newcastle,” smiled Marrineal. “These seem to be copies of The Patriot.”

“Coals to Newcastle,” smiled Marrineal. “These look like copies of The Patriot.”

“Not exact copies. Try this one.” Selecting an issue at random he passed it to the other.

“Not exact copies. Try this one.” He picked an issue at random and handed it to the other.

Marrineal went into it carefully, turning from the front page to the inside, and again farther in the interior, without comment. Nor did he speak at once when he came to the editorial page. But he glanced up at Banneker before settling down to read.

Marrineal entered it cautiously, flipping from the front page to the inside, and then further into the interior, without saying a word. He didn’t speak immediately when he reached the editorial page. Instead, he looked up at Banneker before focusing on his reading.

“Very interesting,” he said presently, in a non-committal manner. “Have you more?”

“Very interesting,” he said after a moment, in a neutral tone. “Do you have more?”

Silently Banneker transferred to the table-top the remainder of the suitcase’s contents. Choosing half a dozen at random, Marrineal turned each inside out and studied the editorial columns. His expression did not in any degree alter.

Silently, Banneker emptied the rest of the suitcase's contents onto the table. Picking a half dozen at random, Marrineal turned each one inside out and examined the editorial columns. His expression didn't change at all.

“You have had these editorials set up in type to suit yourself, I take it,” he observed after twenty minutes of perusal; “and have pasted them into the paper.”

“You have had these editorials typeset to your liking, I assume,” he commented after twenty minutes of reading; “and have glued them into the paper.”

“Exactly.”

"Exactly."

“Why the double-column measure?”

“Why the two-column layout?”

“More attractive to the eye. It stands out.”

“More appealing to the eye. It catches attention.”

“And the heavy type for the same reason?”

“And the bold text for the same reason?”

“Yes. I want to make ’em just as easy to read as possible.”

“Yes. I want to make them as easy to read as I can.”

“They’re easy to read,” admitted the other. “Are they all yours?”

“They're easy to read,” the other person admitted. “Are they all yours?”

“Mine—and others’.”

"Mine and others'."

Marrineal looked a bland question. Banneker answered it.

Marrineal looked at Banneker with a blank expression. Banneker answered the question.

“I’ve been up and down in the highways and the low-ways, Mr. Marrineal, taking those editorials from the speech of the ordinary folk who talk about their troubles and their pleasures.”

“I’ve traveled all over the highways and backroads, Mr. Marrineal, gathering those editorials from the voices of everyday people who share their struggles and joys.”

“I see. Straight from the throbbing heart of the people. Jones-in-the-street-car.”

“I see. Straight from the heart of the people. Jones-on-the-street-car.”

“And Mrs. Jones. Don’t forget her. She’ll read ’em.”

“And Mrs. Jones. Don’t forget her. She’ll read them.”

“If she doesn’t, it won’t be because they don’t bid for her interest. Here’s this one, ‘Better Cooking Means Better Husbands: Try It.’ That’s the argumentum ad feminam with a vengeance.”

“If she doesn’t, it won’t be because they don’t try to get her attention. Here’s one: ‘Better Cooking Means Better Husbands: Try It.’ That’s the argumentum ad feminam taken to the extreme.”

“Yes. I picked that up from a fat old party who was advising a thin young wife at a fish-stall. ‘Give’m his food right an’ he’ll come home to it, ‘stid o’ workin’ the free lunch.’”

“Yes. I heard that from a chubby old woman who was giving advice to a slim young wife at a fish market. ‘Give him his food right and he’ll come home for it instead of eating the free lunch.’”

“Here are two on the drink question. ‘Next Time Ask the Barkeep Why He Doesn’t Drink,’ and, ‘Mighty Elephants Like Rum—and Are Chained Slaves.’”

“Here are two about drinking. ‘Next Time Ask the Bartender Why He Doesn’t Drink,’ and, ‘Strong Elephants Love Rum—and Are Chained Slaves.’”

“You’ll find more moralizing on booze if you look farther. It’s one of the subjects they talk most about.”

“You’ll find more people lecturing about alcohol if you dig deeper. It’s one of the things they discuss the most.”

“‘The Sardine is Dead: Therefore More Comfortable Than You, Mr. Straphanger,’” read Marrineal.

“Go up in the rush-hour L any day and you’ll hear that editorial with trimmings.”

“Get on the L during rush hour any day, and you’ll hear that editorial with all the extras.”

“And ‘Mr. Flynn Owes You a Yacht Ride’ is of the same order, I suppose.”

“And ‘Mr. Flynn Owes You a Yacht Ride’ is probably in the same category, I guess.”

“Yes. If it had been practicable, I’d have had some insets with that: a picture of Flynn, a cut of his new million-dollar yacht, and a table showing the twenty per cent dividends that the City Illuminating Company pays by over-taxing Jones on his lighting and heating. That would almost tell the story without comment.”

“Yes. If it had been possible, I’d have included a few inserts with that: a picture of Flynn, a shot of his new million-dollar yacht, and a chart showing the twenty percent dividends that the City Illuminating Company pays by overcharging Jones for his lighting and heating. That would almost tell the story without needing any commentary.”

“I see. Still making it easy for them to read.”

“I understand. You’re still making it easy for them to read.”

Marrineal ran over a number of other captions, sensational, personal, invocative, and always provocative: “Man, Why Hasn’t Your Wife Divorced You?” “John L. Sullivan, the Great Unknown.” “Why Has the Ornithorhyncus Got a Beak?” “If You Must Sell Your Vote, Ask a Fair Price For It.” “Mustn’t Play, You Kiddies: It’s a Crime: Ask Judge Croban.” “Socrates, Confucius, Buddha, Christ; All Dead, But—!!!” “The Inventor of Goose-Plucking Was the First Politician. They’re At It Yet.” “How Much Would You Pay a Man to Think For You?” “Air Doesn’t Cost Much: Have You Got Enough to Breathe?”

Marrineal went through a bunch of other catchy headlines, dramatic, personal, thought-provoking, and always attention-grabbing: “Man, Why Hasn’t Your Wife Left You Yet?” “John L. Sullivan, the Great Unknown.” “Why Does the Platypus Have a Beak?” “If You Must Sell Your Vote, Make Sure You Get a Fair Price.” “No Playing, Kids: It’s a Crime: Ask Judge Croban.” “Socrates, Confucius, Buddha, Christ; All Gone, But—!!!” “The Inventor of Goose-Plucking Was the First Politician. They’re Still at It.” “How Much Would You Pay Someone to Think for You?” “Air Doesn’t Cost Much: Do You Have Enough to Breathe?”

“All this,” said the owner of The Patriot, “is taken from what people talk and think about?”

“All this,” said the owner of The Patriot, “is based on what people talk and think about?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Doesn’t some of it reach out into the realm of what Mr. Banneker thinks they ought to talk and think about?”

“Doesn’t some of it touch on what Mr. Banneker thinks they should talk and think about?”

Banneker laughed. “Discovered! Oh, I won’t pretend but what I propose to teach ’em thinking.”

Banneker laughed. “Discovered! Oh, I won’t pretend that I’m not planning to teach them how to think.”

“If you can do that and make them think our way—”

“If you can do that and get them to think like us—”

“‘Give me place for my fulcrum,’ said Archimedes.”

“‘Give me space for my lever,’ said Archimedes.”

“But that’s an editorial you won’t write very soon. One more detail. You’ve thrown up words and phrases into capital letters all through for emphasis. I doubt whether that will do.”

“But that’s an editorial you won’t be writing anytime soon. One more thing. You’ve been throwing words and phrases in all caps throughout for emphasis. I’m not sure that’s going to work.”

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“Haven’t you shattered enough traditions without that? The public doesn’t want to be taught with a pointer. I’m afraid that’s rather too much of an innovation.”

“Haven’t you broken enough traditions without that? The public doesn’t want to be instructed with a pointer. I’m worried that’s a bit too much of an innovation.”

“No innovation at all. In fact, it’s adapted plagiarism.”

“No innovation whatsoever. Actually, it’s just copycatting.”

“From what?”

“From what source?”

“Harper’s Monthly of the seventy’s. I used to have some odd volumes in my little library. There was a department of funny anecdote; and the point of every joke, lest some obtuse reader should overlook it, was printed in italics. That,” chuckled Banneker, “was in the days when we used to twit the English with lacking a sense of humor. However, the method has its advantages. It’s fool-proof. Therefore I helped myself to it.”

“Harper’s Monthly from the '70s. I used to have some odd volumes in my little library. There was a section for funny anecdotes, and the punchline for every joke, just in case any slow reader missed it, was printed in italics. That,” chuckled Banneker, “was back when we would tease the English for not having a sense of humor. Anyway, the method has its benefits. It’s foolproof. So I decided to use it myself.”

“Then you’re aiming at the weak-minded?”

“Are you targeting the gullible?”

“At anybody who can assimilate simple ideas plainly expressed,” declared the other positively. “There ought to be four million of ’em within reaching distance of The Patriot’s presses.”

“At anyone who can understand straightforward ideas clearly stated,” declared the other firmly. “There should be four million of them within reach of The Patriot’s presses.”

“Your proposition—though you haven’t made any as yet—is that we lead our editorial page daily with matter such as this. Am I correct?”

“Your suggestion—although you haven't actually made one yet—is that we feature content like this on our editorial page every day. Am I right?”

“No. Make a clean sweep of the present editorials. Substitute mine. One a day will be quite enough for their minds to work on.”

“No. Get rid of the current editorials. Replace them with mine. One a day will be plenty for them to think about.”

“But that won’t fill the page,” objected the proprietor.

“But that won’t fill the page,” the owner protested.

“Cartoon. Column of light comment. Letters from readers. That will,” returned Banneker with severe brevity.

“Cartoon. Light commentary column. Letters from readers. That’s what,” replied Banneker tersely.

“It might be worth trying,” mused Marrineal.

“It might be worth a shot,” thought Marrineal.

“It might be worth, to a moribund paper, almost anything.” The tone was significant.

“It could be worth almost anything to a dying paper.” The tone was important.

“Then you are prepared to join our staff?”

“Are you ready to join our team?”

“On suitable terms.”

“On fair terms.”

“I had thought of offering you,” Marrineal paused for better effect, “one hundred and fifty dollars a week.”

“I was thinking of offering you,” Marrineal paused for a dramatic effect, “one hundred and fifty dollars a week.”

Banneker was annoyed. That was no more than he could earn, with a little outside work, on The Ledger. He had thought of asking two hundred and fifty. Now he said promptly:

Banneker was irritated. That was about all he could make, with a bit of extra work, on The Ledger. He had considered asking for two hundred and fifty. Now he said quickly:

“Those editorials are worth three hundred a week to any paper. As a starter,” he added.

“Those editorials are worth three hundred a week to any newspaper. As a starting point,” he added.

A pained and patient smile overspread Marrineal’s regular features. “The Patriot’s leader-writer draws a hundred at present.”

A pained but patient smile spread across Marrineal's usual features. “The editor of The Patriot is currently earning a hundred.”

“I dare say.”

"I must say."

“The whole page costs barely three hundred.”

“The entire page costs just about three hundred.”

“It is overpaid.”

"It pays too much."

“For a comparative novice,” observed Marrineal without rancor, “you do not lack self-confidence.”

“For someone relatively new to this,” Marrineal noted without any bitterness, “you definitely have a lot of self-confidence.”

“There are the goods,” said Banneker evenly. “It is for you to decide whether they are worth the price asked.”

“There are the goods,” Banneker said calmly. “It’s up to you to decide if they’re worth the price I’m asking.”

“And there’s where the trouble is,” confessed Marrineal. “I don’t know. They might be.”

“And that’s where the problem is,” Marrineal admitted. “I’m not sure. They could be.”

Banneker made his proposition. “You spoke of my being a novice. I admit the weak spot. I want more experience. You can afford to try this out for six months. In fact, you can’t afford not to. Something has got to be done with The Patriot, and soon. It’s losing ground daily.”

Banneker presented his idea. “You mentioned that I’m inexperienced. I acknowledge that flaw. I need more practice. You can take a chance on this for six months. Honestly, you can’t afford not to. We have to do something about The Patriot, and quickly. It’s losing traction every day.”

“You are mistaken,” returned Marrineal.

"You’re mistaken," replied Marrineal.

“Then the news-stands and circulation lists are mistaken, too,” retorted the other. “Would you care to see my figures?”

“Then the newsstands and circulation lists are wrong, too,” the other shot back. “Do you want to see my numbers?”

Marrineal waved away the suggestion with an easy gesture which surrendered the point.

Marrineal dismissed the suggestion with a casual wave, giving up on the argument.

“Very well. I’m backing the new editorial idea to get circulation.”

“Alright. I’m supporting the new editorial idea to boost circulation.”

“With my money,” pointed out Marrineal.

“With my money,” Marrineal pointed out.

“I can’t save you the money. But I can spread it for you, that three hundred dollars.”

“I can’t save you the money. But I can distribute it for you, that three hundred dollars.”

“How, spread it?”

“How to share it?”

“Charge half to editorial page: half to the news department.”

“Charge half to the editorial page and half to the news department.”

“On account of what services to the news department?”

“Because of what services to the news department?”

“General. That is where I expect to get my finishing experience. I’ve had enough reporting. Now I’m after the special work; a little politics, a little dramatic criticism; a touch of sports; perhaps some book-reviewing and financial writing. And, of course, an apprenticeship in the Washington office.”

“General. That’s where I expect to gain my final experience. I’ve done enough reporting. Now I’m looking for special work; a bit of politics, some dramatic criticism; a touch of sports; maybe some book reviews and financial writing. And, of course, an internship in the Washington office.”

“Haven’t you forgotten the London correspondence?”

“Haven’t you forgotten about the London correspondence?”

Whether or not this was sardonic, Banneker did not trouble to determine. “Too far away, and not time enough,” he answered. “Later, perhaps, I can try that.”

Whether or not this was sarcastic, Banneker didn't care to find out. “Too far away, and not enough time,” he replied. “Maybe later, I can give that a shot.”

“And while you are doing all these things who is to carry out the editorial idea?”

“And while you're doing all these things, who’s going to carry out the editorial idea?”

“I am.”

"I am."

Marrineal stared. “Both? At the same time?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“No living man could do it.”

“No living man can do it.”

“I can do it. I’ve proved it to myself.”

“I can do it. I’ve shown myself I can.”

“How and where?”

“Since I last saw you. Now that I’ve got the hang of it, I can do an editorial in the morning, another in the afternoon, a third in the evening. Two and a half days a week will turn the trick. That leaves the rest of the time for the other special jobs.”

“Since I last saw you. Now that I've figured it out, I can do an editorial in the morning, another in the afternoon, and a third in the evening. Two and a half days a week will do the job. That leaves the rest of the time for other special tasks.”

“You won’t live out the six months.”

“You won’t make it six months.”

“Insure my life if you like,” laughed Banneker. “Work will never kill me.”

“Go ahead and insure my life if you want,” Banneker laughed. “Work will never be the thing that kills me.”

Marrineal, sitting with inscrutable face turned half away from his visitor, was beginning, “If I meet you on the salary,” when Banneker broke in:

Marrineal, with an unreadable expression turned slightly away from his visitor, was starting to say, “If I meet you on the salary,” when Banneker interrupted:

“Wait until you hear the rest. I’m asking that for six months only. Thereafter I propose to drop the non-editorial work and with it the salary.”

“Wait until you hear the rest. I'm only asking for six months. After that, I plan to stop the non-editorial work and with it the salary.”

“With what substitute?”

“With what alternative?”

“A salary based upon one cent a week for every unit of circulation put on from the time the editorials begin publication.”

“A salary based on one cent a week for each unit of circulation added from the time the editorials start being published.”

“It sounds innocent,” remarked Marrineal. “It isn’t as innocent as it sounds,” he added after a penciled reckoning on the back of an envelope. “In case we increase fifty thousand, you will be drawing twenty-five thousand a year.”

“It sounds innocent,” Marrineal said. “But it’s not as innocent as it seems,” he added after doing some quick math on the back of an envelope. “If we go up by fifty thousand, you’ll be making twenty-five thousand a year.”

“Well? Won’t it be worth the money?”

“Well? Is it worth the money?”

“I suppose it would,” admitted Marrineal dubiously. “Of course fifty thousand in six months is an extreme assumption. Suppose the circulation stands still?”

“I guess it would,” Marrineal said uncertainly. “Of course, making fifty thousand in six months is a pretty big assumption. What if the circulation stays the same?”

“Then I starve. It’s a gamble. But it strikes me that I’m giving the odds.”

“Then I’ll starve. It’s a risk. But it seems to me that I’m the one taking the chances.”

“Can you amuse yourself for an hour?” asked Marrineal abruptly.

“Can you entertain yourself for an hour?” Marrineal asked suddenly.

“Why, yes,” answered Banneker hesitantly. “Perhaps you’d turn me loose in your library. I’d find something to put in the time on there.”

“Yeah, sure,” Banneker replied, a bit unsure. “Maybe you could let me explore your library. I’d find something to pass the time.”

“Not very much, I’m afraid,” replied his host apologetically. “I’m of the low-brow species in my reading tastes, or else rather severely practical. You’ll find some advertising data that may interest you, however.”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” replied his host apologetically. “I have pretty simple tastes in reading, or I tend to be quite practical. You’ll find some advertising data that might interest you, though.”

From the hour—which grew to an hour and a half—spent in the library, Banneker sought to improve his uncertain conception of his prospective employer’s habit and trend of mind. The hope of revelation was not borne out by the reading matter at hand. Most of it proved to be technical.

From the hour—which turned into an hour and a half—spent in the library, Banneker tried to get a better understanding of his future employer’s habits and mindset. However, his hope for insight was not fulfilled by the materials he found. Most of it turned out to be technical.

When he returned to Marrineal’s den, he found Russell Edmonds with the host.

When he got back to Marrineal’s den, he found Russell Edmonds with the host.

“Well, son, you’ve turned the trick,” was the veteran’s greeting.

“Well, son, you’ve done it,” was the veteran’s greeting.

“You’ve read ’em?” asked Banneker, and Marrineal was shrewd enough to note the instinctive shading of manner when expert spoke to expert. He was an outsider, being merely the owner. It amused him.

“You’ve read them?” Banneker asked, and Marrineal was smart enough to notice the subtle change in behavior when one expert spoke to another. He was an outsider, just the owner. It entertained him.

“Yes. They’re dam’ good.”

"Yes. They're really good."

“Aren’t they dam’ good?” returned Banneker eagerly.

“Aren't they damn good?” replied Banneker eagerly.

“They’ll save the day if anything can.”

"They'll save the day if anything can."

“Precisely my own humble opinion if a layman may speak,” put in Marrineal. “Mr. Banneker, shall I have the contract drawn up?”

“Just my own humble opinion if a regular person can weigh in,” Marrineal said. “Mr. Banneker, should I get the contract prepared?”

“Not on my account. I don’t need any. If I haven’t made myself so essential after the six months that you have to keep me on, I’ll want to quit.”

“Not because of me. I don’t need any. If I haven’t made myself so important after six months that you have to keep me around, I’d want to leave.”

“Still in the gambling mood,” smiled Marrineal.

“Still in the mood to gamble,” smiled Marrineal.

The two practical journalists left, making an appointment to spend the following morning with Marrineal in planning policy and methods. Banneker went back to his apartment and wrote Miss Camilla Van Arsdale all about it, in exultant mood.

The two practical journalists left, making plans to meet with Marrineal the next morning to discuss policy and methods. Banneker returned to his apartment and wrote to Miss Camilla Van Arsdale about the whole thing, feeling very excited.

“Brains to let! But I’ve got my price. And I’ll get a higher one: the highest, if I can hold out. It’s all due to you. If you hadn’t kept my mind turned to things worth while in the early days at Manzanita, with your music and books and your taste for all that is fine, I’d have fallen into a rut. It’s success, the first real taste. I like it. I love it. And I owe it all to you.”

“Brains to rent! But I’ve got my price. And I’ll get a higher one: the highest, if I can hold out. It’s all thanks to you. If you hadn’t kept my mind focused on things that matter in the early days at Manzanita, with your music and books and your appreciation for everything that’s great, I’d have fallen into a rut. It’s success, the first real taste. I like it. I love it. And I owe it all to you.”

Camilla Van Arsdale, yearning over the boyish outburst, smiled and sighed and mused and was vaguely afraid, with quasi-maternal fears. She, too, had had her taste of success; a marvelous stimulant, bubbling with inspiration and incitement. But for all except the few who are strong and steadfast, there lurks beneath the effervescence a subtle poison.

Camilla Van Arsdale, reflecting on the boyish outburst, smiled and sighed, lost in thought and feeling a hint of worry with a kind of motherly instinct. She had also experienced her share of success; a fantastic motivator, full of inspiration and drive. But for all but a few who are strong and reliable, there’s a hidden danger beneath the excitement.

CHAPTER XVI

Not being specially gifted with originality of either thought or expression, Mr. Herbert Cressey stopped Banneker outside of his apartment with the remark made and provided for the delayed reunion of frequent companions: “Well I thought you were dead!”

Not particularly talented in original thinking or expression, Mr. Herbert Cressey stopped Banneker outside his apartment and remarked, as was typical for the delayed reunion of regular acquaintances: “Well, I thought you were dead!”

By way of keeping to the same level Banneker replied cheerfully: “I’m not.”

By staying on the same level, Banneker replied cheerfully, “I’m not.”

“Where’ve you been all this while?”

“Where have you been all this time?”

“Working.”

"Working."

“Where were you Monday last? Didn’t see you at Sherry’s.”

“Where were you last Monday? I didn’t see you at Sherry’s.”

“Working.”

"Working."

“And the week before? You weren’t at The Retreat.”

“Working, also.”

“Also working.”

“And the week before that? Nobody’s seen so much—”

“Working. Working. Working.”

"Busy. Busy. Busy."

“I stopped in at your roost and your new man told me you were away and might be gone indefinitely. Funny chap, your new man. Mysterious sort of manner. Where’d you pick him up?”

“I stopped by your place and your new guy told me you were out and might be gone for a while. He’s a funny guy, your new guy. Kind of mysterious. Where did you find him?”

“Oh, Lord! Hainer!” exclaimed Banneker appreciatively. “Well, he told the truth.”

“Oh, man! Hainer!” exclaimed Banneker appreciatively. “Well, he spoke the truth.”

“You look pulled down, too, by Jove!” commented Cressey, concern on his sightly face. “Ridin’ for a fall, aren’t you?”

“You look worn out, too, for sure!” Cressey said, worry on his handsome face. “Headed for trouble, aren’t you?”

“Only for a test. I’m going to let up next week.”

“Just for a test. I’ll ease up next week.”

“Tell you what,” proffered Cressey. “Let’s do a day together. Say Wednesday, eh? I’m giving a little dinner that night. And, oh, I say! By the way—no: never mind that. You’ll come, won’t you? It’ll be at The Retreat.”

“Here’s the deal,” said Cressey. “Let’s spend a day together. How about Wednesday? I’m hosting a small dinner that night. And, oh, wait! Never mind that. You’ll come, right? It’ll be at The Retreat.”

“Yes: I’ll come. I’ll be playing polo that afternoon.”

“Yes: I’ll come. I’m going to be playing polo that afternoon.”

“Not if Jim Maitland sees you first. He’s awfully sore on you for not turning up to practice. Had a place for you on the second team.”

“Not if Jim Maitland spots you first. He’s really upset with you for skipping practice. He had a spot for you on the second team.”

“Don’t want it. I’m through with polo.”

“Don’t want it. I’m done with polo.”

“Ban! What the devil—”

“Ban! What the heck—”

“Work, I tell you. Next season I may be able to play. For the present I’m off everything.”

“Work, I’m telling you. Next season I might be able to play. For now, I’m done with everything.”

“Have they made you all the editors of The Ledger in one?”

“Have they made you all the editors of The Ledger combined?”

“I’m off The Ledger, too. Give you all the painful details Wednesday. Fare-you-well.”

“I’m leaving The Ledger as well. I’ll share all the painful details on Wednesday. Take care.”

General disgust and wrath pervaded the atmosphere of the polo field when Banneker, making his final appearance on Wednesday, broke the news to Maitland, Densmore, and the others.

General disgust and anger filled the atmosphere of the polo field when Banneker, making his final appearance on Wednesday, broke the news to Maitland, Densmore, and the others.

“Just as you were beginning to know one end of your stick from the other,” growled the irate team captain.

“Just as you were starting to figure out one end of your stick from the other,” grumbled the annoyed team captain.

Banneker played well that afternoon because he played recklessly. Lack of practice sometimes works out that way; as if luck took charge of a man’s play and carried him through. Three of the five goals made by the second team fell to his mallet, and he left the field heartily cursed on all sides for his recalcitrancy in throwing himself away on work when the sport of sports called him. Regretful, yet well pleased with himself, he had his bath, his one, lone drink, and leisurely got into his evening clothes. Cressey met him at the entry to the guest’s lounge giving on the general dining-room.

Banneker played well that afternoon because he played without holding back. Sometimes, a lack of practice leads to that; it’s as if luck took over his game and carried him through. He scored three out of the five goals made by the second team, and he left the field getting hearty curses from all sides for being so reckless and focusing on work when the best pastime was calling him. Feeling regretful but also pleased with himself, he took his bath, had his one drink, and casually got into his evening clothes. Cressey met him at the entrance to the guest lounge that opened into the main dining room.

“Damned if you’re not a good-lookin’ chap, Ban!” he declared with something like envy in his voice. “Thinning down a bit gives you a kind of look. No wonder Mertoun puts in his best licks on your clothes.”

“Damn, you’re one good-looking guy, Ban!” he said with a hint of envy in his voice. “Losing some weight gives you a certain vibe. It’s no surprise Mertoun works hard on your clothes.”

“Which reminds me that I’ve neglected even Mertoun,” smiled Banneker.

“Which reminds me that I’ve even neglected Mertoun,” smiled Banneker.

“Go ahead in, will you? I’ve got to bone some feller for a fresh collar. My cousin’s in there somewhere. Mrs. Rogerson Lyle from Philadelphia. She’s a pippin in pink. Go in and tell on yourself, and order her a cocktail.”

“Go on in, okay? I need to talk to some guy about a new collar. My cousin’s in there somewhere. Mrs. Rogerson Lyle from Philadelphia. She looks great in pink. Go in and introduce yourself, and get her a cocktail.”

Seeking to follow the vague direction, Banneker turned to the left and entered a dim side room. No pippin in pink disclosed herself. But a gracious young figure in black was bending over a table looking at a magazine, the long, free curve of her back turned toward him. He advanced. The woman said in a soft voice that shook him to the depths of his soul:

Seeking to follow the vague direction, Banneker turned left and entered a dim side room. No pippin in pink appeared. But a graceful young woman in black was leaning over a table, looking at a magazine, her long, relaxed back facing him. He moved closer. The woman spoke in a soft voice that shook him to his core:

“Back so soon, Archie? Want Sis to fix your tie?”

“Back so soon, Archie? Do you want Sis to fix your tie?”

She turned then and said easily: “Oh, I thought you were my brother.... How do you do, Ban?”

She turned then and said casually, “Oh, I thought you were my brother.... How’s it going, Ban?”

Io held out her hand to him. He hardly knew whether or not he took it until he felt the close, warm pressure of her fingers. Never before had he so poignantly realized that innate splendor of femininity that was uniquely hers, a quality more potent than any mere beauty. Her look met his straight and frankly, but he heard the breath flutter at her lips, and he thought to read in her eyes a question, a hunger, and a delight. His voice was under rigid control as he said:

Io extended her hand to him. He wasn't even sure if he took it until he felt the warm, intimate grip of her fingers. Never before had he so deeply understood that unique and natural splendor of femininity that belonged solely to her, a quality more powerful than any simple beauty. Her gaze met his directly and openly, but he noticed her breath catch at her lips, and he thought he saw a question, a longing, and a joy in her eyes. His voice was tightly controlled as he said:

“I didn’t know you were to be here, Mrs. Eyre.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here, Mrs. Eyre.”

“I knew that you were,” she retorted. “And I’m not Mrs. Eyre, please. I’m Io.”

“I knew you were,” she shot back. “And I’m not Mrs. Eyre, just so you know. I’m Io.”

He shook his head. “That was in another world.”

He shook his head. “That was in a different world.”

“Oh, Ban, Ban!” she said. Her lips seemed to cherish the name that they gave forth so softly. “Don’t be a silly Ban. It’s the same world, only older; a million years older, I think.... I came here only because you were coming. Are you a million years older, Ban?”

“Oh, Ban, Ban!” she said. Her lips seemed to savor the name as it rolled off so gently. “Don’t be a silly Ban. It’s the same world, just older; a million years older, I think.... I came here only because you were coming. Are you a million years older, Ban?”

“Unfair,” he said hoarsely.

"Unfair," he said weakly.

“I’m never unfair. I play the game.” Her little, firm chin went up defiantly. Yes: she was more lovely and vivid and desirable than in the other days. Or was it only the unstifled yearning in his heart that made her seem so? “Have you missed me?” she asked simply.

“I’m never unfair. I play the game.” Her little, firm chin lifted with defiance. Yes: she seemed more beautiful, vibrant, and desirable than before. Or was it just the uncontained longing in his heart that made her appear that way? “Have you missed me?” she asked straightforwardly.

He made no answer.

He didn't respond.

“I’ve missed you.” She walked over to the window and stood looking out into the soft and breathing murk of the night. When she came back to him, her manner had changed. “Fancy finding you here of all places!” she said gayly.

“I’ve missed you.” She walked over to the window and stood looking out into the soft, dark night. When she returned to him, her demeanor had shifted. “What a surprise to see you here of all places!” she said cheerfully.

“It isn’t such a bad place to be,” he said, relieved to meet her on the new ground.

“It’s not such a bad place to be,” he said, feeling relieved to meet her on the new ground.

“It’s a goal,” she declared. “Half of the aspiring gilded youth of the city would give their eye-teeth to make it. How did you manage?”

“It’s a goal,” she said. “Half of the aspiring wealthy kids in the city would give anything to achieve it. How did you do it?”

“I didn’t manage. It was managed for me. Old Poultney Masters put me in.”

“I didn’t handle it. It was handled for me. Old Poultney Masters put me in.”

“Well, don’t scowl at me! For a reporter, you know, it’s rather an achievement to get into The Retreat.”

“Well, don’t give me that look! For a reporter, it’s quite an accomplishment to get into The Retreat.”

“I suppose so. Though I’m not a reporter now.”

“I guess so. Although I’m not a reporter anymore.”

“Well, for any newspaper man. What are you, by the way?”

“Well, for any newspaper guy. What are you, by the way?”

“A sort of all-round experimental editor.”

“A flexible experimental editor.”

“I hadn’t heard of that,” said Io, with a quickness which apprised him that she had been seeking information about him.

“I hadn’t heard of that,” Io said quickly, letting him know she had been looking for information about him.

“Nobody has. It’s only just happened.”

“Nobody did. It just happened.”

“And I’m the first to know of it? That’s as it should be,” she asserted calmly. “You shall tell me all about it at dinner.”

“And I’m the first to know about it? That’s how it should be,” she said calmly. “You’ll tell me all about it at dinner.”

“Am I taking you in?”

"Am I picking you up?"

“No: you’re taking in my cousin, Esther Forbes. But I’m on your left. Be nice to me.”

“No, you’re looking at my cousin, Esther Forbes. I'm on your left. Please be nice to me.”

Others came in and joined them. Banneker, his inner brain a fiery whorl, though the outer convolutions which he used for social purposes remained quite under control, drifted about making himself agreeable and approving himself to his host as an asset of the highest value. At dinner, sprightly and mischievous Miss Forbes, who recalled their former meeting at Sherry’s, found him wholly delightful and frankly told him so. He talked little with Io; but he was conscious to his nerve-ends of the sweet warmth of her so near him. To her questions about his developing career he returned vague replies or generalizations.

Others came in and joined them. Banneker, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts, kept his social mask under control as he floated around, making himself likable and proving his worth to his host. At dinner, the lively and playful Miss Forbes, who remembered their previous encounter at Sherry’s, found him completely charming and told him so without hesitation. He didn’t talk much with Io, but he was acutely aware of the warm comfort of her close presence. When she asked about his growing career, he responded with vague answers or broad statements.

“You’re not drinking anything,” she said, as the third course came on. “Have you renounced the devil and all his works?” There was an impalpable stress upon the “all.”

“You're not having anything to drink,” she said as the third course was served. “Have you turned your back on the devil and everything he does?” There was a noticeable emphasis on the “everything.”

His answer, composed though it was in tone, quite satisfied her. “I wouldn’t dare touch drink to-night.”

His answer, even though it was polite, really pleased her. “I wouldn’t dare have a drink tonight.”

After dinner there was faro bank. Banneker did not play. Io, after a run of indifferent luck, declared herself tired of the game and turned to him.

After dinner, there was a faro bank. Banneker didn't play. Io, after having a streak of bad luck, said she was tired of the game and turned to him.

“Take me out somewhere where there is air to breathe.”

“Take me somewhere I can breathe fresh air.”

They stood together on the stone terrace, blown lightly upon by a mist-ladden breeze.

They stood together on the stone terrace, gently stirred by a misty breeze.

“It ought to be a great drive of rain, filling the world,” said Io in her voice of dreams. “The roar of waters above us and below, and the glorious sense of being in the grip of a resistless current.... We’re all in the grip of resistless currents. D’you believe that yet, Ban?”

“It should really be a huge downpour, drenching everything,” said Io in her dreamy tone. “The sound of the rushing water all around us, and the amazing feeling of being caught up in an unstoppable current.... We’re all caught in unstoppable currents. Do you believe that yet, Ban?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

“Skeptic! You want to work out your own fate. You ‘strive to see, to choose your path.’ Well, you’ve climbed. Is it success. Ban?”

“Skeptic! You want to shape your own future. You ‘strive to see, to choose your path.’ Well, you’ve climbed. Is it success? Ban?”

“It will be.”

“It’s happening.”

“And have you reached the Mountains of Fulfillment?”

"And have you made it to the Mountains of Fulfillment?"

He shook his head. “One never does, climbing alone.”

He shook his head. “You never do when you’re climbing alone.”

“Has it been alone, Ban?”

“Has it been lonely, Ban?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Always?”

"Always?"

“Always.”

"Always."

“So it has been for me—really. No,” she added swiftly; “don’t ask me questions. Not now. I want to hear more of your new venture.”

“So that’s how it’s been for me—truly. No,” she quickly added; “don’t ask me any questions. Not right now. I want to hear more about your new project.”

He outlined his plan and hopes for The Patriot.

He explained his plan and aspirations for The Patriot.

“It’s good,” she said gravely. “It’s power, and so it’s danger. But it’s good.... Are we friends, Ban?”

“It’s good,” she said earnestly. “It’s power, and with that comes danger. But it’s good... Are we friends, Ban?”

“How can we be!”

“How can we not be! You’ve tried to drop me out of your life. Oh, I know, because I know you—better than you think. You’ll never drop me out of your life again,” she murmured with confident wistfulness. “Never, Ban.... Let’s go in.”

“How can we not be! You’ve tried to cut me out of your life. Oh, I know, because I know you—better than you realize. You’ll never cut me out of your life again,” she murmured with a confident sense of longing. “Never, Ban.... Let’s go inside.”

Not until she came to bid him good-night, with a lingering handclasp, her palm cleaving to his like the reluctant severance of lips, did she tell him that she was going away almost immediately. “But I had to make sure first that you were really alive, and still Ban,” she said.

Not until she came to say goodnight, with a lingering handshake, her palm sticking to his like a reluctant kiss, did she let him know that she was leaving almost right away. “But I had to make sure first that you were really alive and still Ban,” she said.

It was many months before he saw her again.

It took him many months to see her again.

PART III—FULFILLMENT

CHAPTER I

The House With Three Eyes sent forth into the darkness a triple glow of hospitality. Through the aloof Chelsea district street, beyond the westernmost L structure, came taxicabs, hansoms, private autos, to discharge at the central door men who were presently revealed, under the lucent globe above the lintel, to be for the most part silhouette studies in the black of festal tailoring and silk hat against the white of expansive shirt-front. Occasionally, though less often, one of the doors at either flank of the house, also overwatched by shining orbs, opened to discharge an early departure. A midnight wayfarer, pausing opposite to contemplate this inexplicable grandeur in a dingy neighborhood, sought enlightenment from the passing patrolman:

The House With Three Eyes emitted a welcoming glow into the darkness. Taxicabs, carriages, and private cars made their way along the quiet Chelsea street, past the last L-shaped building, to drop off guests at the central door. The doormen, revealed under the bright light above the entrance, mostly looked like shadowy figures in dapper black suits and top hats against the bright white of their shirt fronts. Sometimes, though less frequently, one of the doors on either side of the house—also illuminated by glowing lights—would open to let out some early guests. A passerby, stopping across the street to take in this unexpected opulence in an otherwise shabby neighborhood, turned to a nearby police officer for an explanation:

“Wot’s doin’? Swell gamblin’ joint? Huh?” As he spoke a huge, silent car crept swiftly to the entry, which opened to swallow up two bareheaded, luxuriously befurred women, with their escorts. The curious wayfarer promptly amended his query, though not for the better.

“What's going on? Nice gambling place? Huh?” As he spoke, a large, silent car quietly approached the entrance, which opened to let in two bareheaded women dressed in luxurious fur, along with their companions. The curious passerby quickly changed his question, but it didn’t improve.

“Naw!” replied the policeman with scorn. “That’s Mr. Banneker’s house.”

“Nah!” the policeman replied with disdain. “That’s Mr. Banneker’s house.”

“Banneker? Who’s Banneker?”

"Banneker? Who is Banneker?"

With augmented contempt the officer requested the latest quotations on clover seed. “He’s the editor of The Patriot,” he vouchsafed. “A millionaire, too, they say. And a good sport.”

With increased disdain, the officer asked for the latest prices on clover seed. “He’s the editor of The Patriot,” he said. “A millionaire, they say. And a good sport.”

“Givin’ a party, huh?”

"Throwing a party, huh?"

“Every Saturday night,” answered he of the uniform and night-stick, who, having participated below-stairs in the reflections of the entertainment, was condescending enough to be informative. “Say, the swellest folks in New York fall over themselves to get invited here.”

“Every Saturday night,” replied the guy in the uniform and nightstick, who, having taken part in the discussions downstairs about the entertainment, was gracious enough to share some info. “You know, the most prestigious people in New York are eager to get invited here.”

“Why ain’t he on Fi’th Avenyah, then?” demanded the other.

“Why isn’t he on Fifth Avenue, then?” demanded the other.

“He makes the Fi’th Avenyah bunch come to him,” explained the policeman, with obvious pride. “Took a couple of these old houses on long lease, knocked out the walls, built ’em into one, on his own plan, and, say! It’s a pallus! I been all through it.”

“He gets the Fi’th Avenyah group to come to him,” explained the policeman, clearly proud. “He took a couple of these old houses on long leases, knocked down the walls, combined them into one, based on his own design, and, you know what? It’s amazing! I’ve been all through it.”

A lithely powerful figure took the tall steps of the house three at a time, and turned, under the light, to toss away a cigar.

A lithe, powerful figure ascended the tall steps of the house three at a time, then turned under the light to flick away a cigar.

“Cheest!” exclaimed the wayfarer in tones of awe: “that’s K.O. Doyle, the middleweight, ain’t it?”

“Cheest!” exclaimed the traveler in tones of awe: “that’s K.O. Doyle, the middleweight, right?”

“Sure! That’s nothin’. If you was to get inside there you’d bump into some of the biggest guys in town; a lot of high-ups from Wall Street, and maybe a couple of these professors from Columbyah College, and some swell actresses, and a bunch of high-brow writers and painters, and a dozen dames right off the head of the Four Hundred list. He takes ’em, all kinds, Mr. Banneker does, just so they’re somethin’. He’s a wonder.”

“Sure! That’s nothing. If you were to go inside there, you’d run into some of the biggest names in town; a lot of high-ups from Wall Street, maybe a couple of professors from Columbia College, some fancy actresses, a bunch of elite writers and artists, and a dozen women right off the top of the Four Hundred list. He welcomes all kinds, Mr. Banneker does, as long as they’re someone. He’s incredible.”

The wayfarer passed on to his oniony boarding-house, a few steps along, deeply marveling at the irruption of magnificence into the neighborhood in the brief year since he had been away.

The traveler continued on to his rundown boarding house just a few steps away, baffled by the sudden burst of luxury that had appeared in the area during the short year he had been gone.

Equipages continued to draw up, unload, and withdraw, until twelve thirty, when, without so much as a preliminary wink, the House shut its Three Eyes. A scant five minutes earlier, an alert but tired-looking man, wearing the slouch hat of the West above his dinner coat, had briskly mounted the steps and, after colloquy with the cautious, black guardian of the door, had been admitted to a side room, where he was presently accosted by a graying, spare-set guest with ruminative eyes.

Equipages kept arriving, unloading, and leaving until twelve thirty, when, without so much as a hint, the House closed its Three Eyes. Just five minutes earlier, a sharp but exhausted-looking man, wearing a Western slouch hat over his dinner jacket, had quickly climbed the steps and, after a brief conversation with the cautious black guard at the door, was let into a side room, where he was soon approached by a thin, gray-haired guest with thoughtful eyes.

“I heard about this show by accident, and wanted in,” explained the newcomer in response to the other’s look of inquiry. “If I could see Banneker—”

“I found out about this show by chance and wanted to be a part of it,” the newcomer explained in response to the other's curious look. “If I could see Banneker—”

“It will be some little time before you can see him. He’s at work.”

“It will be a little while before you can see him. He’s at work.”

“But this is his party, isn’t it?”

“But this is his party, right?”

“Yes. The party takes care of itself until he comes down.”

“Yes. The party will manage itself until he arrives.”

“Oh; does it? Well, will it take care of me?”

“Oh, does it? Well, will it look after me?”

“Are you a friend of Mr. Banneker’s?”

“Are you a friend of Mr. Banneker?”

“In a way. In fact, I might claim to have started him on his career of newspaper crime. I’m Gardner of the Angelica City Herald.”

“In a way. Actually, I could say that I helped kick off his career in newspaper crime. I’m Gardner from the Angelica City Herald.”

“Ban will be glad to see you. Take off your things. I am Russell Edmonds.”

“Ban will be happy to see you. Please take off your things. I’m Russell Edmonds.”

He led the way into a spacious and beautiful room, filled with the composite hum of voices and the scent of half-hidden flowers. The Westerner glanced avidly about him, noting here a spoken name familiar in print, there a face recognized from far-spread photographic reproduction.

He led the way into a large and beautiful room, filled with a mix of voices and the smell of partially hidden flowers. The Westerner looked around eagerly, noticing a spoken name he had read about and a face he recognized from widely shared photographs.

“Some different from Ban’s shack on the desert,” he muttered. “Hello! Mr. Edmonds, who’s the splendid-looking woman in brown with the yellow orchids, over there in the seat back of the palms?”

“Different from Ban’s shack in the desert,” he muttered. “Hey! Mr. Edmonds, who’s the gorgeous woman in brown with the yellow orchids, sitting back there among the palms?”

Edmonds leaned forward to look. “Royce Melvin, the composer, I believe. I haven’t met her.”

Edmonds leaned forward to take a look. “I think that's Royce Melvin, the composer. I haven’t met her.”

“I have, then,” returned the other, as the guest changed her position, fully revealing her face. “Tried to dig some information out of her once. Like picking prickly pears blindfold. That’s Camilla Van Arsdale. What a coincidence to find her here!”

“I have, then,” replied the other, as the guest shifted her position, fully exposing her face. “Tried to get some information out of her once. It was like trying to pick prickly pears while blindfolded. That’s Camilla Van Arsdale. What a coincidence to see her here!”

“No! Camilla Van Arsdale? You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I want to speak to her. Make yourself known to any one you like the looks of. That’s the rule of the house; no introductions.”

“No! Camilla Van Arsdale? Excuse me, please? I need to talk to her. Feel free to introduce yourself to anyone you’re interested in. That’s the house rule; no formal introductions.”

He walked across the room, made his way through the crescent curving about Miss Van Arsdale, and, presenting himself, was warmly greeted.

He walked across the room, navigated around the curve that surrounded Miss Van Arsdale, and, when he introduced himself, he was warmly welcomed.

“Let me take you to Ban,” he said. “He’ll want to see you at once.”

“Let me take you to Ban,” he said. “He wants to see you right away.”

“But won’t it disturb his work?”

“But won't it disrupt his work?”

“Nothing does. He writes with an open door and a shut brain.”

“Nothing does. He writes with an open door and a closed mind.”

He led her up the east flight of stairs and down a long hallway to an end room with door ajar, notwithstanding that even at that distance the hum of voices and the muffled throbbing of the concert grand piano from below were plainly audible. Banneker’s voice, regular, mechanical, desensitized as the voices of those who dictate habitually are prone to become, floated out:

He took her up the east flight of stairs and down a long hallway to a room at the end with the door slightly open, even though she could clearly hear the hum of voices and the muffled sound of the concert grand piano from below. Banneker's voice, steady, robotic, and numb like the voices of those who talk on autopilot, drifted out:

“Quote where ignorance is bliss ‘tis folly to be wise end quote comma said a poet who was also a cynic period. Many poets are comma but not the greatest period. Because of their—turn back to the beginning of the paragraph, please, Miss Westlake.”

“Quote, where ignorance is bliss, it’s foolish to be wise,” said a poet who was also a cynic. Many poets are, but not the greatest. Because of their—turn back to the beginning of the paragraph, please, Miss Westlake.”

“I’ve brought up an old friend, Ban,” announced Edmonds, pushing wide the door.

“I’ve brought an old friend, Ban,” said Edmonds, swinging the door wide open.

Vaguely smiling, for he had trained himself to be impervious to interruptions, the editorializer turned in his chair. Instantly he sprang to his feet, and caught Miss Van Arsdale by both hands.

Vaguely smiling, since he had trained himself to be unaffected by interruptions, the editorialist turned in his chair. Instantly, he jumped to his feet and grabbed Miss Van Arsdale by both hands.

“Miss Camilla!” he cried. “I thought you said you couldn’t come.”

“Miss Camilla!” he exclaimed. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it.”

“I’m defying the doctors,” she replied. “They’ve given me so good a report of myself that I can afford to. I’ll go down now and wait for you.”

“I’m going against the doctors,” she replied. “They’ve given me such a good report about myself that I can. I’ll go down now and wait for you.”

“No; don’t. Sit up here with me till I finish. I don’t want to lose any of you,” said he affectionately.

“No; don’t. Sit up here with me until I’m done. I don’t want to lose any of you,” he said fondly.

But she laughingly refused, declaring that he would be through all the sooner for his other guests, if she left him.

But she laughed and said no, stating that he would get through his other guests much faster if she left him.

“See that she meets some people, Bop,” Banneker directed. “Gaines of The New Era, if he’s here, and Betty Raleigh, and that new composer, and the Junior Masters.”

“Make sure she meets some people, Bop,” Banneker said. “Gaines from The New Era, if he’s around, and Betty Raleigh, and that new composer, and the Junior Masters.”

Edmonds nodded, and escorted her downstairs. Nicely judging the time when Banneker would have finished, he was back in quarter of an hour. The stenographer had just left.

Edmonds nodded and led her downstairs. He accurately estimated that Banneker would be done soon, and returned in fifteen minutes. The stenographer had just left.

“What a superb woman, Ban!” he said. “It’s small wonder that Enderby lost himself.”

“What an amazing woman, Ban!” he said. “It’s no surprise that Enderby lost himself.”

Banneker nodded. “What would she have said if she could know that you, an absolute stranger, had been the means of saving her from a terrific scandal? Gives one a rather shivery feeling about the power and responsibility of the press, doesn’t it?”

Banneker nodded. “What would she have said if she could know that you, a complete stranger, were the reason she was saved from a huge scandal? It really makes you think about the power and responsibility of the press, doesn’t it?”

“It would have been worse than murder,” declared the veteran, with so much feeling that his friend gave him a grateful look. “What’s she doing in New York? Is it safe?”

“It would have been worse than murder,” the veteran said, with such intensity that his friend looked at him gratefully. “What’s she doing in New York? Is it safe?”

“Came on to see a specialist. Yes; it’s all right. The Enderbys are abroad.”

“Came to see a specialist. Yes, it’s fine. The Enderbys are overseas.”

“I see. How long since you’d seen her?”

“I understand. How long has it been since you saw her?”

“Before this trip? Last spring, when I took a fortnight off.”

“Before this trip? Last spring, when I took two weeks off.”

“You went clear West, just to see her?”

“You went all the way West just to see her?”

“Mainly. Partly, too, to get back to the restfulness of the place where I never had any troubles. I’ve kept the little shack I used to own; pay a local chap named Mindle to keep it in shape. So I just put in a week of quiet there.”

“Mainly. Also, to return to the peacefulness of the place where I never had any problems. I’ve kept the little shack I used to own; I pay a local guy named Mindle to maintain it. So I just spend a week of relaxation there.”

“You’re a queer chap, Ban. And a loyal one.”

“You're an unusual guy, Ban. And a loyal one.”

“If I weren’t loyal to Camilla Van Arsdale—” said Banneker, and left the implication unconcluded.

“If I weren’t loyal to Camilla Van Arsdale—” said Banneker, leaving the implication hanging.

“Another friend from your picturesque past is down below,” said Edmonds, and named Gardner.

“Another friend from your charming past is down below,” said Edmonds, naming Gardner.

“Lord! That fellow nearly cost me my life, last time we met,” laughed Banneker. Then his face altered. Pain drew its sharp lines there, pain and the longing of old memories still unassuaged. “Just the same, I’ll be glad to see him.”

“Wow! That guy almost got me killed the last time we met,” laughed Banneker. Then his expression changed. Pain carved deep lines on his face, pain and the yearning for old memories that still lingered. “Still, I’ll be happy to see him.”

He sought out the Californian, found him deep in talk with Guy Mallory of The Ledger, who had come in late, gave him hearty greeting, and looked about for Camilla Van Arsdale. She was supping in the center of a curiously assorted group, part of whom remembered the old romance of her life, and part of whom had identified her, by some chance, as Royce Melvin, the composer. All of them were paying court to her charm and intelligence. She made a place beside herself for Banneker.

He looked for the Californian and found him deep in conversation with Guy Mallory from The Ledger, who had arrived late. Guy greeted him warmly and then scanned the room for Camilla Van Arsdale. She was having dinner in the middle of a diverse group, some of whom remembered her past romance, while others, by chance, had mistaken her for Royce Melvin, the composer. Everyone there was drawn to her charm and intelligence. She made space next to her for Banneker.

“We’ve been discussing The Patriot, Ban,” she said, “and Mr. Gaines has embalmed you, as an editorial writer, in the amber of one of his best epigrams.”

“We’ve been talking about The Patriot, Ban,” she said, “and Mr. Gaines has preserved you, as an editorial writer, in the timelessness of one of his best quotes.”

The Great Gaines made a deprecating gesture. “My little efforts always sound better when I’m not present,” he protested.

The Great Gaines made a dismissive gesture. “My small contributions always sound better when I’m not around,” he complained.

“To be the subject of any Gaines epigram, however stinging, is fame in itself,” said Banneker.

“To be the subject of any Gaines epigram, no matter how cutting, is fame in itself,” said Banneker.

“And no sting in this one. ‘Attic salt and American pep,’” she quoted. “Isn’t it truly spicy?”

“And no sting in this one. ‘Attic salt and American pep,’” she quoted. “Isn’t it really spicy?”

Banneker bowed with half-mocking appreciation. “I fancy, though, that Mr. Gaines prefers his journalistic egg more au naturel.”

Banneker bowed with a hint of playful sarcasm. “I think, though, that Mr. Gaines likes his journalistic egg a bit more au naturel.”

“Sometimes,” admitted the most famous of magazine editors, “I could dispense with some of the pep.”

“Sometimes,” admitted the most famous magazine editor, “I could do without some of the hype.”

“I like the pep, too, Ban.” Betty Raleigh, looking up from a seat where she sat talking to a squat and sensual-looking man, a dweller in the high places and cool serenities of advanced mathematics whom jocular-minded Nature had misdowered with the face of a satyr, interposed the suave candor of her voice. “I actually lick my lips over your editorials even where I least agree with them. But the rest of the paper—Oh, dear! It screeches.”

“I like the energy, too, Ban.” Betty Raleigh, glancing up from where she was sitting and chatting with a short, attractive man, someone who thrived in the lofty, calm world of advanced mathematics but had been humorously gifted by Nature with the looks of a satyr, chimed in with her smooth, honest tone. “I even find myself eager to read your editorials, even when I disagree with them. But the rest of the paper—Oh, no! It’s just awful.”

“Modern life is such a din that one has to screech to be heard above it,” said Banneker pleasantly.

“Modern life is so noisy that you have to shout to be heard above it,” said Banneker happily.

“Isn’t it the newspapers which make most of the din, though?” suggested the mathematician.

“Isn't it the newspapers that create most of the noise, though?” suggested the mathematician.

“Shouting against each other,” said Gaines.

“Yelling at each other,” said Gaines.

“Like Coney Island barkers for rival shows,” put in Junior Masters.

“Like Coney Island promoters for competing attractions,” Junior Masters added.

“Just for variety how would it do to try the other tack and practice a careful but significant restraint?” inquired Betty.

“Just for variety, how about we try a different approach and practice a careful but meaningful restraint?” Betty asked.

“Wouldn’t sell a ticket,” declared Banneker.

“Wouldn’t sell a ticket,” said Banneker.

“Still, if we all keep on yelling in the biggest type and hottest words we can find,” pointed out Edmonds, “the effect will pall.”

“Still, if we all keep shouting in the loudest voice and with the strongest words we can find,” Edmonds pointed out, “the impact will fade.”

“Perhaps the measure of success is in finding something constantly more strident and startling than the other fellow’s war whoop,” surmised Masters.

“Maybe success is all about finding something that’s louder and more shocking than what everyone else is shouting about,” Masters speculated.

“I have never particularly admired the steam calliope as a form of expression,” observed Miss Van Arsdale.

“I have never really admired the steam calliope as a way of expressing oneself,” Miss Van Arsdale said.

“Ah!” said the actress, smiling, “but Royce Melvin doesn’t make music for circuses.”

“Ah!” said the actress, smiling, “but Royce Melvin doesn’t create music for circuses.”

“And a modern newspaper is a circus,” pronounced the satyr-like scholar.

“And a modern newspaper is a circus,” declared the satyr-like scholar.

“Three-ring variety; all the latest stunts; list to the voice of the ballyhoo,” said Masters.

“Three-ring variety; all the latest stunts; listen to the hype,” said Masters.

“Panem et circenses” pursued the mathematician, pleased with his simile, “to appease the howling rabble. But it is mostly circus, and very little bread that our emperors of the news give us.”

Panem et circenses,” the mathematician continued, satisfied with his comparison, “to calm the screaming crowd. But it’s mostly entertainment and very little food that our news emperors provide us.”

“We’ve got to feed what the animal eats,” defended Banneker lightly.

“We have to provide what the animal eats,” Banneker stated casually.

“After having stimulated an artificial appetite,” said Edmonds.

“After creating a fake hunger,” said Edmonds.

As the talk flowed on, Betty Raleigh adroitly drew Banneker out of the current of it. “Your Patriot needn’t have screeched at me, Ban,” she murmured in an injured tone.

As the conversation continued, Betty Raleigh skillfully pulled Banneker out of it. "Your Patriot didn’t need to shout at me, Ban," she said in a hurt tone.

“Did it, Betty? How, when, and where?”

“I thought you were horridly patronizing about the new piece, and quite unkind to me, for a friend.”

"I felt you were really condescending about the new piece, and quite unkind to me, considering we're friends."

“It wasn’t my criticism, you know,” he reminded her patiently. “I don’t write the whole paper, though most of my acquaintances seem to think that I do. Any and all of it to which they take exception, at least.”

“It wasn’t my criticism, you know,” he reminded her patiently. “I don’t write the whole paper, even though most of my friends seem to think I do. At least when it comes to anything they disagree with.”

“Of course, I know you didn’t write it, or it wouldn’t have been so stupid. I could stand anything except the charge that I’ve lost my naturalness and become conventional.”

“Of course, I know you didn’t write it, or it wouldn’t have been so dumb. I could handle anything except the accusation that I’ve lost my authenticity and become ordinary.”

“You’re like the man who could resist anything except temptation, my dear: you can stand anything except criticism,” returned Banneker with a smile so friendly that there was no sting in the words. “You’ve never had enough of that. You’re the spoiled pet of the critics.”

“You’re like the guy who can resist everything except temptation, my dear: you can handle anything except criticism,” Banneker replied with a smile so friendly that there was no bite in the words. “You’ve never had enough of that. You’re the spoiled favorite of the critics.”

“Not of this new one of yours. He’s worse than Gurney. Who is he and where does he come from?”

“Not this new one of yours. He’s worse than Gurney. Who is he and where did he come from?”

“An inconsiderable hamlet known as Chicago. Name, Allan Haslett. Dramatic criticism out there is still so unsophisticated as to be intelligent as well as honest—at its best.”

“An insignificant small town called Chicago. Name, Allan Haslett. The dramatic criticism there is still so basic that it remains both smart and straightforward—at its best.”

“Which it isn’t here,” commented the special pet of the theatrical reviewers.

“Which it isn’t here,” said the special pet of the theater critics.

“Well, I thought a good new man would be better than the good old ones. Less hampered by personal considerations. So I sent and got this one.”

“Well, I thought a good new guy would be better than the good old ones. Less held back by personal issues. So I sent for this one.”

“But he isn’t good. He’s a horrid beast. We’ve been specially nice to him, on your account mostly—Ban, if you grin that way I shall hate you! I had Bezdek invite him to one of the rehearsal suppers and he wouldn’t come. Sent word that theatrical suppers affected his eyesight when he came to see the play.”

“But he isn’t good. He’s a terrible creature. We’ve been especially nice to him, mostly because of you—Ban, if you smile like that I’m going to dislike you! I had Bezdek invite him to one of the rehearsal dinners, and he refused to come. He sent word that theatrical dinners strain his eyesight when he comes to see the play.”

Banneker chuckled. “Just why I got him. He doesn’t let the personal element prejudice him.”

Banneker laughed. “That's exactly why I have him. He doesn't let personal feelings get in the way.”

“He is prejudiced. And most unfair. Ban,” said Betty in her most seductive tones, “do call him down. Make him write something decent about us. Bez is fearfully upset.”

“He's biased. And really unfair. Ban,” said Betty in her most alluring voice, “please get him to tone it down. Make him write something nice about us. Bez is really upset.”

Banneker sighed. “The curse of this business,” he reflected aloud, “is that every one regards The Patriot as my personal toy for me or my friends to play with.”

Banneker sighed. “The downside of this job,” he thought out loud, “is that everyone sees The Patriot as just a personal toy for me or my friends to mess around with.”

“This isn’t play at all. It’s very much earnest. Do be nice about it, Ban.”

“This isn’t a game at all. It’s really serious. Please be kind about it, Ban.”

“Betty, do you remember a dinner party in the first days of our acquaintance, at which I told you that you represented one essential difference from all the other women there?”

“Betty, do you remember that dinner party when we first got to know each other, where I told you that you were fundamentally different from all the other women there?”

“Yes. I thought you were terribly presuming.”

“Yes. I thought you were being really arrogant.”

“I told you that you were probably the only woman present who wasn’t purchasable.”

“I told you that you were probably the only woman here who wasn’t for sale.”

“Not understanding you as well as I do now, I was quite shocked. Besides, it was so unfair. Nearly all of them were most respectable married people.”

“Not knowing you as well as I do now, I was really shocked. Plus, it was so unfair. Almost all of them were pretty respectable married people.”

“Bought by their most respectable husbands. Some of ’em bought away from other husbands. But I gave you credit for not being on that market—or any other. And now you’re trying to corrupt my professional virtue.”

“Bought by their most respectable husbands. Some of them bought away from other husbands. But I thought you weren’t for sale—or involved in any of that. And now you’re trying to undermine my professional integrity.”

“Ban! I’m not.”

"Ban! I’m not doing that."

“What else is it when you try to use your influence to have me fire our nice, new critic?”

“What else is it when you try to use your influence to get me to fire our nice, new critic?”

“If that’s being corruptible, I wonder if any of us are incorruptible.” She stretched upward an idle hand and fondled a spray of freesia that drooped against her cheek. “Ban; there’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you. Tertius Marrineal wants to marry me.”

“If that’s what it means to be corruptible, I wonder if any of us can really be incorruptible.” She reached up with a lazy hand and brushed a drooping spray of freesia against her cheek. “Ban, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Tertius Marrineal wants to marry me.”

“I’ve suspected as much. That would settle the obnoxious critic, wouldn’t it! Though it’s rather a roundabout way.”

"I had a feeling that was the case. That would take care of the annoying critic, wouldn't it! Even if it's a bit complicated."

“Ban! You’re beastly.”

“Ban! You're so mean.”

“Yes; I apologize,” he replied quickly. “But—have I got to revise my estimate of you, Betty? I should hate to.”

“Yes; I’m sorry,” he responded quickly. “But—do I have to change my opinion of you, Betty? I really wouldn’t want to.”

“Your estimate? Oh, as to purchasability. That’s worse than what you’ve just said. Yet, somehow, I don’t resent it. Because it’s honest, I suppose,” she said pensively. “No: it wouldn’t be a—a market deal. I like Tertius. I like him a lot. I won’t pretend that I’m madly in love with him. But—”

“Your estimate? Oh, about whether he’s buyable. That’s worse than what you just said. Yet, somehow, I don’t hold it against you. I guess it’s because it’s honest,” she said thoughtfully. “No: it wouldn’t be a market deal. I like Tertius. I really like him. I won’t pretend that I’m head over heels in love with him. But—”

“Yes; I know,” he said gently, as she paused, looking at him steadily, but with clouded eyes. He read into that “but” a world of opportunities; a theater of her own—the backing of a powerful newspaper—wealth—and all, if she so willed it, without interruption to her professional career.

“Yes; I know,” he said softly, as she paused, looking at him steadily, but with cloudy eyes. He saw in that “but” a world of possibilities—a stage of her own—the support of a major newspaper—wealth—and all of it, if she chose, without any disruption to her professional career.

“Would you think any the less of me?” she asked wistfully.

“Would you think any less of me?” she asked with a longing look.

“Would you think any the less of yourself?” he countered.

“Would you think any less of yourself?” he replied.

The blossoming spray broke under her hand. “Ah, yes; that’s the question after all, isn’t it?” she murmured.

The blossoming spray snapped under her hand. “Ah, yes; that’s the question after all, right?” she murmured.

Meantime, Gardner, the eternal journalist, fostering a plan of his own, was gathering material from Guy Mallory who had come in late.

Meantime, Gardner, the forever journalist, working on his own plan, was collecting information from Guy Mallory, who had arrived late.

“What gets me,” he said, looking over at the host, “is how he can do a day’s work with all this social powwow going on.”

“What gets me,” he said, glancing at the host, “is how he can manage a full day’s work with all this social chatter happening.”

“A day’s? He does three days’ work in every one. He’s the hardest trained mind in the business. Why, he could sit down here this minute, in the middle of this room, and dictate an editorial while keeping up his end in the general talk. I’ve seen him do it.”

“A day’s? He packs three days' worth of work into just one. He’s the most focused and skilled person in the business. Seriously, he could sit right here, in the middle of this room, and write an editorial while still engaging in the conversation. I’ve seen him do it.”

“He must be a wonder at concentration.”

“He must be amazing at focusing.”

“Concentration? If he didn’t invent it, he perfected it. Tell you a story. Ban doesn’t go in for any game except polo. One day some of the fellows at The Retreat got talking golf to him—”

“Concentration? If he didn’t invent it, he perfected it. Let me tell you a story. Ban doesn’t play any game except polo. One day, some of the guys at The Retreat started talking golf to him—”

“The Retreat? Good Lord! He doesn’t belong to The Retreat, does he?”

“The Retreat? Oh my gosh! He’s not part of The Retreat, is he?”

“Yes; been a member for years. Well, they got him to agree to try it. Jim Tamson, the pro—he’s supposed to be the best instructor in America—was there then. Banneker went out to the first tee, a 215-yard hole, watched Jim perform his show-em-how swing, asked a couple of questions. ‘Eye on the ball,’ says Jim. ‘That’s nine tenths of it. The rest is hitting it easy and following through. Simple and easy,’ says Jim, winking to himself. Banneker tries two or three clubs to see which feels easiest to handle, picks out a driving-iron, and slams the ball almost to the edge of the green. Chance? Of course, there was some luck in it. But it was mostly his everlasting ability to keep his attention focused. Jim almost collapsed. ‘First time I ever saw a beginner that didn’t top,’ says he. ‘You’ll make a golfer, Mr. Banneker.’

“Yes; I’ve been a member for years. Well, they got him to agree to try it. Jim Tamson, the pro—he’s supposed to be the best instructor in America—was there then. Banneker went out to the first tee, a 215-yard hole, watched Jim do his show-and-tell swing, asked a couple of questions. ‘Keep your eye on the ball,’ says Jim. ‘That’s nine-tenths of it. The rest is hitting it easy and following through. Simple and straightforward,’ says Jim, winking to himself. Banneker tries two or three clubs to see which feels easiest to handle, picks out a driving iron, and crushes the ball almost to the edge of the green. Chance? Sure, there was some luck in it. But it was mostly his incredible ability to keep his attention focused. Jim almost collapsed. ‘First time I’ve ever seen a beginner who didn’t top it,’ he says. ‘You’re going to be a golfer, Mr. Banneker.’”

“‘Not me,’ says Ban. ‘This game is too easy. It doesn’t interest me.’ He hands Jim a twenty-dollar bill, thanks him, goes in and has his bath, and has never touched a golf-stick since.”

“‘Not me,’ says Ban. ‘This game is too easy. It doesn’t interest me.’ He gives Jim a twenty-dollar bill, thanks him, goes inside, takes his bath, and hasn’t picked up a golf club since.”

Gardner had been listening with a kindling eye. He brought his fist down on his knee. “You’ve told me something!” he exclaimed.

Gardner had been listening with an excited look. He slammed his fist down on his knee. “You’ve told me something!” he exclaimed.

“Going to try it out on your own game?”

“Are you going to try it out in your own game?”

“Not about golf. About Banneker. I’ve been wondering how he managed to establish himself as an individual figure in this big town. Now I begin to see it. It’s publicity; that’s what it is. He’s got the sense of how to make himself talked about. He’s picturesque. I’ll bet Banneker’s first and last golf shot is a legend in the clubs yet, isn’t it?”

“Not about golf. About Banneker. I’ve been thinking about how he managed to make a name for himself in this big city. Now I’m starting to get it. It’s all about publicity; that’s what it comes down to. He knows how to get people talking about him. He’s quite a character. I bet Banneker’s first and last golf shot is still a legend in the clubs, right?”

“It certainly is,” confirmed Mallory. “But do you really think that he reasoned it all out on the spur of the moment?”

“It definitely is,” Mallory agreed. “But do you really think he figured it all out on the spot?”

“Oh, reasoned; probably not. It’s instinctive, I tell you. And the twenty to the professional was a touch of genius. Tamson will never stop talking about it. Can’t you hear him, telling it to his fellow pros? Golf’s too easy for me,’ he says, ‘and hands me a double sawbuck! Did ye ever hear the like!’ And so the legend is built up. It’s a great thing to become a local legend. I know, for I’ve built up a few of ’em myself.... I suppose the gun-play on the river-front gave him his start at it and the rest came easy.”

“Oh, I get it; probably not. It’s instinctive, I’m telling you. And giving twenty to the professional was pure genius. Tamson will never stop talking about it. Can’t you just picture him telling his fellow pros? ‘Golf’s too easy for me,’ he says, ‘and hands me a double sawbuck! Have you ever heard anything like it!’ And that’s how the legend grows. It’s amazing to become a local legend. I know this because I’ve made a few myself.... I guess the gunplay on the riverfront got him started and the rest just came naturally.”

“Ask him. He’ll probably tell you,” said Mallory. “At least, he’ll be interested in your theory.”

“Ask him. He'll probably tell you,” Mallory said. “At least, he'll be interested in your theory.”

Gardner strolled over to Banneker’s group, not for the purpose of adopting Mallory’s suggestion, for he was well satisfied with his own diagnosis, but to congratulate him upon the rising strength of The Patriot. As he approached, Miss Van Arsdale, in response to a plea from Betty Raleigh, went to the piano, and the dwindled crowd settled down into silence. For music, at The House With Three Eyes, was invariably the sort of music that people listen to; that is, the kind of people whom Banneker gathered around him.

Gardner walked over to Banneker’s group, not to take Mallory’s suggestion because he was pleased with his own assessment, but to congratulate him on the growing strength of The Patriot. As he got closer, Miss Van Arsdale, responding to a request from Betty Raleigh, went to the piano, and the smaller crowd fell silent. At The House With Three Eyes, the music was always the kind that people actually listened to; specifically, the kind of people Banneker brought together.

After she had played, Miss Van Arsdale declared that she must go, whereupon Banneker insisted upon taking her to her hotel. To her protests against dragging him away from his own party, he retorted that the party could very well run itself without him; his parties often did, when he was specially pressed in his work. Accepting this, his friend elected to walk; she wanted to hear more about The Patriot. What did she think of it, he asked.

After playing, Miss Van Arsdale said she had to leave, and Banneker insisted on taking her to her hotel. When she protested about pulling him away from his own party, he replied that the party could manage without him; they often did when he was busy with work. Accepting this, she decided to walk; she wanted to hear more about The Patriot. "What do you think of it?" he asked.

“I don’t expect you to like it,” he added.

“That doesn’t matter. I do tremendously admire your editorials. They’re beautifully done; the perfection of clarity. But the rest of the paper—I can’t see you in it.”

“That doesn’t matter. I really admire your editorials. They’re beautifully written; perfectly clear. But the rest of the paper—I just don’t see you in it.”

“Because I’m not there, as an individual.”

“Because I’m not there, as a person.”

He expounded to her his theory of journalism. That was a just characterization of Junior Masters, he said: the three-ringed circus. He, Banneker, would run any kind of a circus they wanted, to catch and hold their eyes; the sensational acts, the clowns of the funny pages, the blare of the bands, the motion, the color, and the spangles; all to beguile them into reading and eventually to thinking.

He explained his theory of journalism to her. It was a fair description of Junior Masters, he said: a three-ring circus. He, Banneker, would put on whatever kind of circus they wanted to grab and keep their attention; the sensational acts, the clowns in the funny pages, the loud music, the movement, the colors, and the glitter; all to entice them into reading and eventually thinking.

“But we haven’t worked it out yet, as we should. What I’m really aiming at is a saturated solution, as the chemists say: Not a saturated solution of circulation, for that isn’t possible, but a saturated solution of influence. If we can’t put The Patriot into every man’s house, we ought to be able to put it into every man’s mind. All things to all men: that’s the formula. We’re far from it yet, but we’re on the road. And in the editorials, I’m making people stir their minds about real things who never before developed a thought beyond the everyday, mechanical processes of living.”

“But we haven’t figured it out yet like we should. What I’m really aiming for is a saturated solution, as the chemists put it: Not a saturated solution of circulation, since that’s impossible, but a saturated solution of influence. If we can’t get The Patriot into every man’s home, we should be able to get it into every man’s mind. All things to all people: that’s the key. We’re still a long way from that, but we’re making progress. In the editorials, I’m getting people to think about real issues who never before considered anything beyond their daily, mechanical routines.”

“To what end?” she asked doubtfully.

“To what end?” she asked uncertainly.

“Does it matter? Isn’t the thinking, in itself, end enough?”

“Does it really matter? Isn’t the act of thinking enough in itself?”

“Brutish thinking if it’s represented in your screaming headlines.”

“Brutish thinking if it’s shown in your screaming headlines.”

“Predigested news. I want to preserve all their brain-power for my editorial page. And, oh, how easy I make it for them! Thoughts of one syllable.”

“Simple news. I want to keep all their brain power for my editorial page. And, oh, how easy I make it for them! Ideas in one syllable.”

“And you use your power over their minds to incite them to discontent.”

“And you use your influence over their thoughts to stir up their discontent.”

“Certainly.”

"Sure."

“But that’s dreadful, Ban! To stir up bitterness and rancor among people.”

“But that’s terrible, Ban! To create bitterness and resentment among people.”

“Don’t you be misled by cant, Miss Camilla,” adjured Banneker. “The contented who have everything to make them content have put a stigma on discontent. They’d have us think it a crime. It isn’t. It’s a virtue.”

“Don’t get fooled by all the talk, Miss Camilla,” urged Banneker. “The happy people who have everything they need to be happy have labeled discontent as something bad. They want us to believe it’s a crime. It’s not. It’s a virtue.”

“Ban! A virtue?”

"Ban! Is it a virtue?"

“Well; isn’t it? Call it by the other name, ambition. What then?”

“Well; isn’t it? Call it by the other name, ambition. What now?”

Miss Van Arsdale pondered with troubled eyes. “I see what you mean,” she confessed. “But the discontent that arises within one’s self is one thing; the ‘divine discontent.’ It’s quite another to foment it for your own purposes in the souls of others.”

Miss Van Arsdale thought deeply, her eyes filled with concern. “I get what you're saying,” she admitted. “But the dissatisfaction that comes from within is one thing; the ‘divine discontent’ is something else entirely. It’s a whole different issue to stir it up in others for your own agenda.”

“That depends upon the purpose. If the purpose is to help the others, through making their discontent effective to something better, isn’t it justified?”

"That depends on the purpose. If the purpose is to help others by turning their dissatisfaction into something better, isn’t it justified?"

“But isn’t there always the danger of making a profession of discontent?”

“But isn’t there always the risk of turning discontent into a career?”

“That’s a shrewd hit,” confessed Banneker. “I’ve suspected that Marrineal means to capitalize it eventually, though I don’t know just how. He’s a secret sort of animal, Marrineal.”

“That's a clever observation,” Banneker admitted. “I’ve suspected that Marrineal plans to make the most of it eventually, although I'm not sure how. He’s a rather secretive guy, Marrineal.”

“But he gives you a free hand?” she asked.

"But he gives you freedom?" she asked.

“He has to,” said Banneker simply.

“He has to,” Banneker said straightforwardly.

Camilla Van Arsdale sighed. “It’s success, Ban. Isn’t it?”

Camilla Van Arsdale sighed. “It’s success, Ban. Right?”

“Yes. It’s success. In its kind.”

“Yes. It’s success. In its way.”

“Is it happiness?”

"Is this happiness?"

“Yes. Also in its kind.”

"Yes. Also in its category."

“The real kind? The best kind?”

“It’s satisfaction. I’m doing what I want to do.”

She sighed. “I’d hoped for something more.”

She sighed. “I was hoping for something better.”

He shook his head. “One can’t have everything.”

He shook his head. “You can’t have it all.”

“Why not?” she demanded almost fiercely. “You ought to have. You’re made for it.” After a pause she added: “Then it isn’t Betty Raleigh. I’d hoped it was. I’ve been watching her. There’s character there, Ban, as well as charm.”

“Why not?” she asked almost fiercely. “You should have. You’re meant for it.” After a pause, she added: “So it isn’t Betty Raleigh. I had hoped it was. I’ve been keeping an eye on her. There’s depth there, Ban, as well as charm.”

“She has other interests. No; it isn’t Betty.”

“She has other interests. No, it’s not Betty.”

“Ban, there are times when I could hate her,” broke out Miss Van Arsdale.

“Ban, there are times when I could really hate her,” Miss Van Arsdale said.

“Who? Betty?”

"Who? Betty?"

“You know whom well enough.”

"You know them well enough."

“I stand corrected in grammar as well as fact,” he said lightly.

“I admit I was wrong about both grammar and facts,” he said lightly.

“Have you seen her?”

"Have you seen her?"

“Yes. I see her occasionally. Not often.”

“Yes. I see her sometimes. Not very often.”

“Does she come here?”

“Is she coming here?”

“She has been.”

"She's been."

“And her husband?”

"And what about her husband?"

“No.”

“Ban, aren’t you ever going to get over it?”

“Ban, are you ever going to move on from this?”

He looked at her silently.

He silently looked at her.

“No; you won’t. There are a few of us like that. God help us!” said Camilla Van Arsdale.

“No, you won’t. There are a few of us like that. God help us!” said Camilla Van Arsdale.

CHAPTER II

Others than Banneker’s friends and frequenters now evinced symptoms of interest in his influence upon his environment. Approve him you might, or disapprove him; the palpable fact remained that he wielded a growing power. Several promising enterprises directed at the City Treasury had aborted under destructive pressure from his pen. A once impregnably cohesive ring of Albany legislators had disintegrated with such violence of mutual recrimination that prosecution loomed imminent, because of a two weeks’ “vacation” of Banneker’s at the State Capitol. He had hunted some of the lawlessness out of the Police Department and bludgeoned some decent housing measures through the city councils. Politically he was deemed faithless and unreliable which meant that, as an independent, he had ruined some hopefully profitable combinations in both parties. Certain men, high up in politics and finance at the point where they overlap, took thoughtful heed of him. How could they make him useful? Or, at least, prevent him from being harmful?

Others besides Banneker’s friends and regular visitors were now showing interest in how he was impacting his surroundings. You might like him or dislike him; the obvious truth was that he had a growing influence. Several promising projects aimed at the City Treasury had failed due to the damaging effects of his writings. A once solid group of Albany lawmakers had fallen apart with such fierce blame-shifting that legal action seemed likely, all because of Banneker’s two weeks spent at the State Capitol. He had driven out some of the corruption in the Police Department and pushed some effective housing reforms through the city councils. Politically, he was seen as untrustworthy and inconsistent, which meant that, as an independent, he had disrupted some potentially lucrative deals in both parties. Certain influential figures in politics and finance, where those worlds intersect, started to take notice of him. How could they make him an asset? Or, at the very least, stop him from causing trouble?

No less a potentate than Poultney Masters had sought illumination from Willis Enderby upon the subject in the days when people in street-cars first began to rustle through the sheets of The Patriot, curious to see what the editorial had to say to them that day.

No less a powerful figure than Poultney Masters had sought insight from Willis Enderby on the topic during the time when people in streetcars first started flipping through the pages of The Patriot, eager to see what the editorial would say to them that day.

“What do you think of him?” began the magnate.

“What do you think of him?” the magnate started.

“Able,” grunted the other.

"Able," the other replied.

“If he weren’t, I wouldn’t be troubling my head about him. What else? Dangerous?”

“If he wasn't, I wouldn't be stressing about him. What else? Dangerous?”

“As dangerous as he is upright. Exactly.”

“As dangerous as he is principled. Exactly.”

“Now, I wonder what the devil you mean by that, Enderby,” said the financier testily. “Dangerous as long as he’s upright? Eh? And dangerous to what?”

“Now, I’m curious what you mean by that, Enderby,” the financier said irritably. “Dangerous as long as he’s standing? Huh? And dangerous to what?”

“To anything he goes after. He’s got a following. I might almost say a blind following.”

“To anything he pursues. He has a loyal following. I could nearly call it a blind following.”

“Got a boss, too, hasn’t he?”

“Got a boss, too, doesn’t he?”

“Marrineal? Ah, I don’t know how far Marrineal interferes. And I don’t know Marrineal.”

“Marrineal? Ah, I’m not sure how much Marrineal is involved. And I don’t know Marrineal.”

“Upright, too; that one?” The sneer in Masters’s heavy voice was palpable.

“Straight up, too; that one?” The sneer in Masters’s deep voice was unmistakable.

“You consider that no newspaper can be upright,” the lawyer interpreted.

“You think that no newspaper can be honest,” the lawyer explained.

“I’ve bought ’em and bluffed ’em and stood ’em in a corner to be good,” returned the other simply. “What would you expect my opinion to be?”

“I've bought them and tricked them and put them in a corner to behave,” the other replied straightforwardly. “What do you think my opinion would be?”

“The Sphere, among them?” queried the lawyer.

“The Sphere, among them?” asked the lawyer.

“Damn The Sphere!” exploded the other. “A dirty, muck-grubbing, lying, crooked rag.”

“Damn The Sphere!” shouted the other. “A filthy, sleazy, deceitful, crooked tabloid.”

“Your actual grudge against it is not for those latter qualities, though,” pointed out Enderby. “On questions where it conflicts with your enterprises, it’s straight enough. That’s it’s defect. Upright equals dangerous. You perceive?”

“Your real issue with it isn’t about those later qualities, though,” Enderby pointed out. “When it comes to matters that interfere with your plans, it’s pretty clear. That’s its flaw. Upright means dangerous. Do you get it?”

Masters shrugged the problem away with a thick and ponderous jerk of his shoulders. “What’s young Banneker after?” he demanded.

Masters shrugged off the problem with a heavy, exaggerated motion of his shoulders. “What’s young Banneker up to?” he asked.

“You ought to know him as well as I. He’s a sort of protégé of yours, isn’t he?”

“You should know him as well as I do. He’s kind of your protégé, right?”

“At The Retreat, you mean? I put him in because he looked to be polo stuff. Now the young squirt won’t practice enough to be certain team material.”

“At The Retreat, you mean? I put him in because he seemed into polo stuff. Now the young kid won’t practice enough to really be team material.”

“Found a bigger game.”

“Found a larger game.”

“Umph! But what’s in back of it?”

"Umph! But what's behind it?"

“It’s the game for the game’s sake with him, I suspect. I can only tell you that, wherever I’ve had contact with him, he has been perfectly straightforward.”

“It’s all about the game for him, I think. All I can say is that, whenever I've interacted with him, he has been completely honest.”

“Maybe. But what about this anarchistic stuff of his?”

“Maybe. But what about this anarchist stuff he talks about?”

“Oh, anarchistic! You mean his attacks on Wall Street? The Stock Exchange isn’t synonymous with the Constitution of the United States, you know, Masters. Do moderate your language.”

“Oh, anarchistic! You mean his attacks on Wall Street? The Stock Exchange isn’t the same as the Constitution of the United States, you know, Masters. Please, be more careful with your words.”

“Now you’re laughing at me, damn you, Enderby.”

“It’s good for you. You ought to laugh at yourself more. Ask Banneker what he’s at. Very probably he’ll laugh at you inside. But he’ll answer you.”

“It’s good for you. You should laugh at yourself more. Ask Banneker what he’s up to. He'll probably laugh at you inside, but he’ll respond.”

“That reminds me. He had an editorial last week that stuck to me. It is the bitter laughter of the people that shakes thrones. Have a care, you money kings, not to become too ridiculous!’ Isn’t that socialist-anarchist stuff?”

“That reminds me. He had an editorial last week that really stuck with me. ‘It’s the bitter laughter of the people that shakes thrones. Be careful, you money kings, not to become too ridiculous!’ Isn’t that the kind of socialist-anarchist stuff?”

“It’s very young stuff. But it’s got a quality, hasn’t it?”

“It’s really new stuff. But it has a certain quality to it, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, hell, yes; quality!” rumbled the profane old man. “Well, I will tackle your young prodigy one of these days.”

“Oh, hell yes; quality!” the grumpy old man said. “Well, I’ll take on your young genius one of these days.”

Which, accordingly, he did, encountering, some days later, Banneker in the reading-room at The Retreat.

Which, as a result, he did, running into Banneker a few days later in the reading room at The Retreat.

“What are you up to; making trouble with that editorial screed of yours?” he growled at the younger man.

“What are you doing; stirring up trouble with that editorial piece of yours?” he growled at the younger man.

Banneker smiled. He accepted that growl from Poultney Masters, not because Masters was a great and formidable figure in the big world, but because beneath the snarl there was a quality of—no, not of friendliness, but of man-to-man approach.

Banneker smiled. He took that growl from Poultney Masters, not because Masters was a powerful and impressive figure in the larger world, but because beneath the snarl there was a quality of—no, not of friendliness, but of a man-to-man approach.

“No. I’m trying to cure trouble, not make it.”

“No. I’m trying to solve problems, not create them.”

“Umph! Queer idea of curing. Here we are in the midst of good times, everywhere, and you talk about—what was the stuff?—oh, yes: ‘The grinning mask of prosperity, beneath which Want searches with haggard and threatening eyes for the crust denied.’ Fine stuff!”

“Ugh! Strange way of healing. Here we are enjoying ourselves, everywhere, and you mention—what was it?—oh, right: ‘The smiling face of success, under which Poverty looks with tired and menacing eyes for the scraps that are refused.’ Great stuff!”

“Not mine. I don’t write as beautifully as all that. It’s quoted from a letter. But I’ll take the responsibility, since I quoted it. There’s some truth in it, you know.”

“Not mine. I don’t write that beautifully. It’s quoted from a letter. But I’ll take the responsibility since I quoted it. There’s some truth in it, you know.”

“Not a hair’s-weight. If you fill the minds of the ignorant with that sort of thing, where shall we end?”

“Not a hair's weight. If you crowd the minds of the uninformed with that kind of stuff, where will it lead us?”

“If you fill the minds of the ignorant, they will no longer be ignorant.”

“If you fill the minds of the uninformed, they will no longer be uninformed.”

“Then they’ll be above their class and their work. Our whole trouble is in that; people thinking they’re too good for the sort of work they’re fitted for.”

“Then they'll think they're better than their job and their level. Our main issue is that people believe they're too good for the kind of work they're suited for.”

“Aren’t they too good if they can think themselves into something better?”

“Aren’t they too good if they can imagine themselves into something better?”

Poultney Masters delivered himself of a historical profundity. “The man who first had the notion of teaching the mass of people to read will have something to answer for.”

Poultney Masters expressed a deep thought about history. “The person who first thought of teaching the general population to read will have some explaining to do.”

“Destructive, isn’t it?” said Banneker, looking up quickly.

“Destructive, right?” Banneker said, glancing up suddenly.

“Now, you want to go farther. You want to teach ’em to think.”

“Now, you want to go further. You want to teach them to think.”

“Exactly. Why not?”

"Definitely. Why not?"

“Why not? Why, because, you young idiot, they’ll think wrong.”

“Why not? Because, you naive fool, they’ll get the wrong idea.”

“Very likely. At first. We all had to spell wrong before we spelled right. What if people do think wrong? It’s the thinking that’s important. Eventually they’ll think right.”

“Very likely. At first. We all had to spell incorrectly before we spelled correctly. What if people think the wrong way? It’s the thinking that matters. Eventually, they’ll think the right way.”

“With the newspapers to guide them?” There was a world of scorn in the magnate’s voice.

“With the newspapers to guide them?” There was a world of contempt in the magnate’s voice.

“Some will guide wrong. Some will guide right. The most I hope to do is to teach ’em a little to use their minds. Education and a fair field. To find out and to make clear what is found; that’s the business of a newspaper as I see it.”

“Some will lead you astray. Some will lead you correctly. What I really hope to do is teach them a bit about using their minds. Education and equal opportunity. To discover and clarify what is discovered; that’s the purpose of a newspaper in my view.”

“Tittle-tattle. Tale-mongering,” was Masters’s contemptuous qualification.

“Tittle-tattle. Gossip,” was Masters’s contemptuous remark.

“A royal mission,” laughed Banneker. “I call the Sage to witness. ‘But the glory of kings is to search out a matter.’”

“But they’ve got to be kings,” retorted the other quickly. “It’s a tricky business, Banneker. Better go in for polo. We need you.” He lumbered away, morose and growling, but turned back to call over his shoulder: “Read your own stuff when you get up to-morrow and see if polo isn’t a better game and a cleaner.”

“But they have to be kings,” the other replied quickly. “It’s a complicated situation, Banneker. You’d be better off playing polo. We need you.” He walked away, sulking and grumbling, but turned back to shout over his shoulder: “Read your own work when you wake up tomorrow and see if polo isn’t a better and cleaner game.”

What the Great of the city might think of his journalistic achievement troubled Banneker but little, so long as they thought of it at all, thereby proving its influence; the general public was his sole arbiter, except for the opinions of the very few whose approval he really desired, Io Eyre, Camilla Van Arsdale, and more remotely the men for whose own standards he maintained a real respect, such as Willis Enderby and Gaines. Determined to make Miss Van Arsdale see his point of view, as well as to assure himself of hers, he had extracted from her a promise that she would visit The Patriot office before she returned to the West. Accordingly, on a set morning she arrived on her trip of inspection, tall, serene, and, in her aloof genre, beautiful, an alien figure in the midst of that fevered and delirious energy. He took her through the plant, elucidating the mechanical processes of the daily miracle of publication, more far-reaching than was ever any other voice of man, more ephemeral than the day of the briefest butterfly. Throughout, the visitor’s pensive eyes kept turning from the creature to the creator, until, back in the trim quietude of his office, famed as the only orderly working-room of journalism, she delivered her wondering question:

What the city's elites thought of his journalistic success didn’t bother Banneker much, as long as they thought about it at all, which showed its impact; the general public was his main judge, aside from the opinions of a few whose approval he actually cared about—like Io Eyre, Camilla Van Arsdale, and, to a lesser extent, the men whose standards he respected, such as Willis Enderby and Gaines. Wanting to make Miss Van Arsdale understand his perspective and to secure hers, he got her to promise that she'd visit The Patriot office before heading back West. So, on a scheduled morning, she arrived for her inspection, tall, calm, and, in her detached way, beautiful—an outsider in the midst of the frantic energy. He showed her around the facility, explaining the mechanical processes behind the daily miracle of publication, which had more reach than any other human voice but was more fleeting than a day in the life of the shortest-lived butterfly. All the while, the visitor's thoughtful eyes shifted from the creation to its creator, and eventually, back in the neat calmness of his office, known as the only tidy workspace in journalism, she asked her curious question:

“And you have made all this, Ban?”

"And you made all this, Ban?"

“At least I’ve remade it.”

“At least I’ve recreated it.”

She shook her head. “No; as I told you before, I can’t see you in it.”

She shook her head. “No; as I told you before, I can’t picture you in it.”

“You mean, it doesn’t express me. It isn’t meant to.’

"You mean, it doesn't represent me. It’s not supposed to."

“Whom does it express, then? Mr. Marrineal?”

“Who does it express, then? Mr. Marrineal?”

“No. It isn’t an expression at all in that sense. It’s a—a response. A response to the demand of hundreds of thousands of people who have never had a newspaper made for them before.”

“No. It isn’t an expression at all in that sense. It’s a—a response. A response to the needs of hundreds of thousands of people who have never had a newspaper created for them before.”

“An echo of vox populi? Does that excuse its sins?”

“An echo of vox populi? Does that justify its wrongs?”

“I’m not putting it forth as an excuse. Is it really sins or only bad taste that offends you?”

“I’m not offering this as an excuse. Are you really upset about sins or just bad taste?”

“Clever, Ban. And true in a measure. But insincerity is more than bad taste. It’s one of the primal sins.”

“Smart move, Ban. And somewhat accurate. But being insincere is more than just bad manners. It’s one of the fundamental sins.”

“You find The Patriot insincere?”

"You think The Patriot is fake?"

“Can I find it anything else, knowing you?”

"Is there anything else I can find, knowing you?"

“Ah, there you go wrong again, Miss Camilla. As an expression of my ideals, the news part of the paper would be insincere. I don’t like it much better than you do. But I endure it; yes, I’ll be frank and admit that I even encourage it, because it gives me wider scope for the things I want to say. Sincere things. I’ve never yet written in my editorial column anything that I don’t believe from the bottom of my soul. Take that as a basis on which to judge me.”

“Ah, you're mistaken again, Miss Camilla. The news section of the paper doesn’t represent my ideals; it's too insincere for my liking. I don't care for it any more than you do. But I put up with it; yes, I’ll be honest and admit that I even support it, because it allows me more room to express the things I truly want to say. Sincere things. I’ve never written anything in my editorial column that I don’t believe with all my heart. Use that to judge me.”

“My dear Ban! I don’t want to judge you.”

“I want you to,” he cried eagerly. “I want your judgment and your criticism. But you must see what I’m aiming for. Miss Camilla, I’m making people stir their minds and think who never before had a thought beyond the everyday processes of life.”

“I want you to,” he said eagerly. “I want your opinion and your feedback. But you have to understand what I’m trying to achieve. Miss Camilla, I’m getting people to engage their minds and think in ways they never did beyond the daily routine of life.”

“For your own purposes? Thought, as you manipulate it, might be a high-explosive. Have you thought of using it in that way?”

“For your own purposes? I was thinking that, as you handle it, it could be like a high-explosive. Have you considered using it that way?”

“If I found a part of the social edifice that had to be blown to pieces, I might.”

“If I found a part of the social structure that needed to be destroyed, I might.”

“Take care that you don’t involve us all in the crash. Meantime, what is the rest of your editorial page; a species of sedative to lull their minds? Who is Evadne Ellington?”

“Make sure you don’t get us all mixed up in the crash. In the meantime, what’s the rest of your editorial page doing; just a kind of sedative to calm their minds? Who is Evadne Ellington?”

“One of our most prominent young murderesses.”

"One of our most notable young female murderers."

“And you let her sign a column on your page?”

“And you allowed her to write a column for your page?”

“Oh, she’s a highly moral murderess. Killed her lover in defense of her honor, you know. Which means that she shot him when he got tired of her. A sobbing jury promptly acquitted her, and now she’s writing ‘Warnings to Young Girls.’ They’re most improving and affecting, I assure you. We look after that.”

“Oh, she’s a very moral killer. She killed her lover to defend her honor, you know. Which means that she shot him when he got bored with her. A crying jury quickly let her go, and now she’s writing ‘Warnings to Young Girls.’ They’re really uplifting and touching, I promise you. We take care of that.”

“Ban! I hate to have you so cynical.”

“Ban! I can't stand that you're so cynical.”

“Not at all,” he protested. “Ask the Prevention of Vice people and the criminologists. They’ll tell you that Evadne’s column is a real influence for good among the people who read and believe it.”

“Not at all,” he protested. “Ask the Vice Prevention people and the criminologists. They’ll tell you that Evadne’s column has a real positive influence on the people who read and believe it.”

“What class is Reformed Rennigan’s sermon aimed at?” she inquired, with wrinkling nostrils. “‘Soaking it to Satan’; is that another regular feature?”

“What class is Reformed Rennigan’s sermon aimed at?” she asked, her nostrils flaring. “‘Soaking it to Satan’; is that another regular thing?”

“Twice a week. It gives us a Y.M.C.A. circulation that is worth a good deal to us. Outside of my double column, the page is a sort of forum. I’ll take anything that is interesting or authoritative. For example, if Royce Melvin had something of value to say to the public about music, where else could she find so wide a hearing as through The Patriot?”

“Twice a week. It gives us a Y.M.C.A. circulation that is really valuable to us. Besides my double column, the page serves as a kind of forum. I’m open to anything that’s interesting or credible. For instance, if Royce Melvin had something important to share with the public about music, where else could she reach such a large audience as through The Patriot?”

“No, I thank you,” returned his visitor dryly.

“No, thank you,” his visitor replied dryly.

“No? Are you sure? What is your opinion of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ as a national song?”

“No? Are you sure? What do you think of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ as a national anthem?”

“It’s dreadful.”

"It’s terrible."

“Why?”

“For every reason. The music misfits the words. It’s beyond the range of most voices. The harmonies are thin. No crowd in the world can sing it. What is the value or inspiration of a national song that the people can’t sing?”

“For every reason. The music doesn't match the words. It’s too difficult for most voices. The harmonies are weak. No crowd anywhere can sing it. What’s the point of a national song that the people can’t sing?”

“Ask it of The Patriot’s public. I’ll follow it up editorially; ‘Wanted; A Song for America.’”

“Ask the public of The Patriot. I’ll follow up with an editorial; ‘Wanted: A Song for America.’”

“I will,” she answered impulsively. Then she laughed. “Is that the way you get your contributors?”

"I will," she said without thinking. Then she laughed. "Is that how you recruit your contributors?"

“Often, as the spider said to the fly,” grinned Banneker the shameless. “Take a thousand words or more and let us have your picture.”

“No. Not that. I’ve seen my friends’ pictures too often in your society columns. By the way, how comes it that a paper devoted to the interests of the common people maintains that aristocratic feature?”

“No. Not that. I’ve seen my friends’ photos too many times in your gossip columns. By the way, how is it that a paper focused on the interests of everyday people has that high-class angle?”

“Oh, the common people eat it alive. Russell Edmonds is largely responsible for keeping it up. You should hear his theory. It’s ingenious. I’ll send for him.”

“Oh, the ordinary people love it. Russell Edmonds is mostly to blame for maintaining it. You should listen to his theory. It’s brilliant. I’ll get him over.”

Edmonds, who chanced to be at his desk, entered the editorial den with his tiny pipe between his teeth, and, much disconcerted at finding a lady there, hastily removed it until Miss Van Arsdale suggested its restitution.

Edmonds, who happened to be at his desk, walked into the editorial office with his small pipe between his teeth, and, quite surprised to see a lady there, quickly took it out until Miss Van Arsdale proposed that he put it back.

“What? The society page?” said he. “Yes; I was against dropping it. You see, Miss Van Arsdale, I’m a Socialist in belief.”

“What? The society page?” he said. “Yes; I was opposed to getting rid of it. You see, Miss Van Arsdale, I believe in Socialism.”

“Is there a pun concealed in that or are you serious, Mr. Edmonds?”

“Is there a joke hidden in that, or are you serious, Mr. Edmonds?”

“Serious. I’m always that on the subjects of Socialism and The Patriot.”

“Serious. I’m always that way on the subjects of Socialism and The Patriot.”

“Then you must explain if I’m to understand.”

“Then you need to explain if I’m going to understand.”

“By whom is society news read? By two classes,” expounded the veteran; “those whose names appear, and those who are envious of those whose names appear. Well, we’re after the envious.”

“Who reads the news in society? Two groups,” the veteran explained; “those whose names are mentioned, and those who envy those whose names are mentioned. Well, we’re targeting the envious.”

“Still I don’t see. With what purpose?’

“Still I don’t see. For what reason?”

“Jim Simpson, who has just got his grocery bill for more than he can pay, reads a high-colored account of Mrs. Stumpley-Triggs’s aquatic dinner served in the hundred-thousand-dollar swimming-pool on her Westchester estate. That makes Jim think.”

“Jim Simpson, who just received a grocery bill that exceeds what he can afford, reads an extravagant article about Mrs. Stumpley-Triggs’s lavish dinner held in the hundred-thousand-dollar swimming pool at her estate in Westchester. That gets Jim thinking.”

“You mean that it makes him discontented.”

"You mean that it makes him unhappy."

“Well, discontent is a mighty leaven.”

“Well, discontent is a powerful force for change.”

Miss Van Arsdale directed her fine and serious eyes upon Banneker. “So it comes back to the cult of discontent. Is that Mr. Marrineal’s formula, too, Mr. Edmonds?”

Miss Van Arsdale directed her sharp and serious gaze at Banneker. “So it all circles back to the culture of discontent. Is that Mr. Marrineal’s approach as well, Mr. Edmonds?”

“Underneath all his appearance of candor, Marrineal’s a secret animal,” said Edmonds.

“Behind his seeming honesty, Marrineal is really a secret beast,” said Edmonds.

“Does he leave you a free hand with your editorials, Ban?” inquired the outsider.

“Does he give you complete freedom with your editorials, Ban?” asked the outsider.

“Absolutely.”

“Definitely.”

“Watches the circulation only,” said Edmonds. “Thus far,” he added.

“Just watches the circulation,” said Edmonds. “So far,” he added.

“You’re looking for an ulterior motive, then,” interpreted Miss Van Arsdale.

“You’re looking for a hidden agenda, then,” Miss Van Arsdale interpreted.

“I’m looking for whatever I can find in Marrineal, Miss Van Arsdale,” confessed the patriarch of the office. “As yet I haven’t found much.”

“I’m looking for anything I can find in Marrineal, Miss Van Arsdale,” admitted the head of the office. “So far, I haven’t found much.”

“I have,” said Banneker. “I’ve discovered his theory of journalism. We three, Edmonds, Marrineal, and I, regard this business from three diverse viewpoints. To Edmonds it’s a vocation and a rostrum. He wants really, under his guise as the most far-seeing news man of his time, to call sinners against society to repentance, or to force repentance down their throats. There’s a good deal of the stern evangelist about you, you know, Pop.”

“I have,” said Banneker. “I’ve figured out his theory of journalism. The three of us—Edmonds, Marrineal, and I—look at this business from three different perspectives. For Edmonds, it’s a profession and a platform. He really wants, behind his role as the most insightful news guy of his time, to call out sinners against society and urge them to repent, or to shove repentance down their throats. There's a lot of the strict evangelist in you, you know, Pop.”

“And you?” The other’s smile seemed enmeshed in the dainty spiral of smoke brooding above his pursed lips.

“And you?” The other’s smile appeared intertwined with the delicate swirl of smoke hovering above his pursed lips.

“Oh, I’m more the pedagogue. With me, too, the game is a vocation. But it’s a different one. I’d like to marshal men’s minds as a generalissimo marshals armies.”

“Oh, I’m more of a teacher. For me, the game is a calling as well. But it’s a different kind. I want to organize people’s minds the way a general organizes armies.”

“In the bonds of your own discipline?” asked Miss Van Arsdale.

“If I could chain a mind I’d be the most splendid tyrant of history. No. Free leadership of the free is good enough.”

“If I could control a mind, I’d be the greatest tyrant in history. No. Leading free people is good enough.”

“If Marrineal will leave you free,” commented the veteran. “What’s your diagnosis of Marrineal, then?”

“If Marrineal will leave you alone,” the veteran said. “What’s your take on Marrineal, then?”

“A priest of Baal.”

“A Baal priest.”

“With The Patriot in the part of Baal?”

“With The Patriot in the role of Baal?”

“Not precisely The Patriot. Publicity, rather, of which The Patriot is merely the instrument. Marrineal’s theory of publicity is interesting. It may even be true. Substantially it is this: All civilized Americans fear and love print; that is to say, Publicity, for which read Baal. They fear it for what it may do to them. They love and fawn on it for what it may do for them. It confers the boon of glory and launches the bolts of shame. Its favorites, made and anointed from day to day, are the blessed of their time. Those doomed by it are the outcasts. It sits in momentary judgment, and appeal from its decisions is too late to avail anything to its victims. A species of auto-juggernaut, with Marrineal at the wheel.”

“Not exactly The Patriot. Rather, it’s the publicity which The Patriot serves as a tool for. Marrineal’s idea of publicity is intriguing. It might even be accurate. Essentially, it goes like this: All civilized Americans both fear and adore print; that is, Publicity, which could be interpreted as Baal. They fear it for what it could do to them. They love and cater to it for what it could do for them. It brings the gift of fame and unleashes the weight of disgrace. Its favorites, chosen and celebrated daily, are the blessed of their era. Those condemned by it are the outcasts. It holds immediate judgment, and appealing its decisions is too late to help its victims. A sort of self-driving juggernaut, with Marrineal at the wheel.”

“What rubbish!” said Miss Van Arsdale with amused scorn.

“What nonsense!” said Miss Van Arsdale with playful disdain.

“Oh, because you’ve nothing to ask or fear from Baal. Yet even you would use it, for your musical preachment.”

“Oh, because you have nothing to ask or fear from Baal. Still, even you would use it for your musical preaching.”

As he spoke, he became aware of Edmonds staring moodily and with pinched lips at Miss Van Arsdale. To the mind’s eye of the old stager had flashed a sudden and astounding vision of all that pride of womanhood and purity underlying the beauty of the face, overlaid and fouled by the inky vomit of Baal of the printing-press, as would have come to pass had not he, Edmonds, obstructed the vengeance.

As he spoke, he noticed Edmonds staring moodily with pursed lips at Miss Van Arsdale. In the old actor's mind, a sudden and shocking vision flashed of all the pride of femininity and purity beneath the beauty of her face, tainted and ruined by the dark, toxic output of the printing press, which would have happened if Edmonds hadn’t blocked the revenge.

“I can imagine nothing printed,” said the woman who had loved Willis Enderby, “that could in any manner influence my life.”

“I can’t imagine anything written,” said the woman who had loved Willis Enderby, “that could in any way affect my life.”

“Fortunate you!” Edmonds wreathed his little congratulation in festoons of light vapor. “But you live in a world of your own making. Marrineal is reckoning on the world which lives and thinks largely in terms of what its neighbor thinks of it.”

“Lucky you!” Edmonds wrapped his small compliment in clouds of light mist. “But you live in a world of your own creation. Marrineal is focused on a world that largely considers what its neighbors think of it.”

“He once said to me,” remarked Banneker, “that the desire to get into or keep out of print could be made the master-key to new and undreamed-of powers of journalism if one had the ability to find a formula for it.”

“He once told me,” Banneker said, “that the desire to get published or stay out of print could unlock new and unimaginable powers of journalism if one could find a formula for it.”

“I’m not sure that I understand what he means,” said Miss Van Arsdale, “but it has a sinister sound.”

“I’m not sure I understand what he means,” said Miss Van Arsdale, “but it sounds ominous.”

“Are Baal’s other names Bribery and Blackmail?” glowered Edmonds.

“Are Baal’s other names Bribery and Blackmail?” Edmonds scowled.

“There has never been a hint of any illegitimate use of the paper, so far as I can discover. Yet it’s pretty plain to me that he intends to use it as an instrument.”

“There has never been any indication of improper use of the paper, as far as I can tell. Still, it's quite clear to me that he plans to use it as a tool.”

“As soon as we’ve made it strong enough,” supplied Edmonds.

“As soon as we've made it strong enough,” Edmonds said.

“An instrument of what?” inquired Miss Van Arsdale.

“An instrument of what?” asked Miss Van Arsdale.

“Power for himself. Political, I suppose.”

“Power for himself. Political power, I guess.”

“Does he want office?” she asked.

“Does he want a job?” she asked.

“Perhaps. Perhaps he prefers the deeper-lying power to make and unmake politicians. We’ve done it already in a few cases. That’s Edmonds’s specialty. I’ll know within a few days what Marrineal wants, if I can get a showdown. He and I are coming to a new basis of finance.”

“Maybe. Maybe he likes having the underlying power to create and destroy politicians. We've already done it a few times. That’s Edmonds’s thing. I’ll find out in a few days what Marrineal wants, if I can get a face-to-face meeting. He and I are establishing a new financial arrangement.”

“Yes; he thinks he can’t afford to keep on paying you by circulation. You’re putting on too much.” This from Edmonds.

“Yes; he thinks he can’t keep paying you based on circulation. You’re overdoing it.” This from Edmonds.

“That’s what he got me here for. However, I don’t really believe he can. I’m eating up what should be the paper’s legitimate profits. And yet”—he smiled radiantly—“there are times when I don’t see how I’m going to get along with what I have. It’s pretty absurd, isn’t it, to feel pinched on fifty thousand a year, when I did so well at Manzanita on sixty a month?”

“That’s why he brought me here. But honestly, I don’t really think he can. I’m consuming what should be the paper’s real profits. Yet”—he smiled brightly—“there are moments when I can’t figure out how I’m going to manage with what I have. It’s pretty ridiculous, right, to feel tight on fifty thousand a year, when I was doing so well at Manzanita on sixty a month?”

“It’s a fairy-tale,” declared Miss Van Arsdale. “I knew that you were going to arrive sooner or later, Ban. But this isn’t an arrival. It’s a triumph.”

“It’s a fairy tale,” said Miss Van Arsdale. “I knew you would show up eventually, Ban. But this isn’t just an arrival. It’s a victory.”

“Say rather it’s a feat of balancing,” he propounded. “A tight-rope stunt on a gilded rope. Failure on one side; debt on the other. Keep going like the devil to save yourself from falling.”

“Say it’s more like a balancing act,” he suggested. “A tightrope trick on a shiny rope. One misstep leads to failure; the other to debt. Keep pushing like crazy to avoid falling.”

“What is it making of him, Mr. Edmonds?” Banneker’s oldest friend turned her limpid and anxious regard upon his closest friend.

“What is it making of him, Mr. Edmonds?” Banneker’s oldest friend directed her clear and worried gaze at his closest friend.

“A power. Oh, it’s real enough, all this empire of words that crumbles daily. It leaves something behind, a little residue of thought, ideals, convictions. What do you fear for him?”

“A power. Oh, it’s definitely real, this empire of words that falls apart every day. It leaves something behind, a little trace of thought, ideals, beliefs. What are you worried about for him?”

“Cynicism,” she breathed uneasily.

“Cynicism,” she murmured nervously.

“It’s the curse of the game. But it doesn’t get the worker who feels his work striking home.”

“It’s the curse of the game. But it doesn’t affect the worker who feels his work making an impact.”

“Do you see any trace of cynicism in the paper?” asked Banneker curiously.

“Do you see any signs of cynicism in the paper?” asked Banneker curiously.

“All this blaring and glaring and froth and distortion,” she replied, sweeping her hand across the issue which lay on the desk before her. “Can you do that sort of thing and not become that sort of thing?”

“All this noise and chaos and nonsense,” she replied, sweeping her hand across the issue that was lying on the desk in front of her. “Can you engage with that kind of thing and not turn into that kind of thing?”

“Ask Edmonds,” said Banneker.

"Ask Edmonds," Banneker said.

“Thirty years I’ve been in this business,” said the veteran slowly. “I suppose there are few of its problems and perplexities that I haven’t been up against. And I tell you, Miss Van Arsdale, all this froth and noise and sensationalism doesn’t matter. It’s an offense to taste, I know. But back of it is the big thing that we’re trying to do; to enlist the ignorant and helpless and teach them to be less ignorant and helpless. If fostering the political ambitions of a Marrineal is part of the price, why, I’m willing to pay it, so long as the paper keeps straight and doesn’t sell itself for bribe money. After all, Marrineal can ride to his goal only on our chariot. The Patriot is an institution now. You can’t alter an institution, not essentially. You get committed to it, to the thing you’ve made yourself. Ban and I have made the new Patriot, not Marrineal. Even if he got rid of us, he couldn’t change the paper; not for a long time and only very gradually. The following that we’ve built up would be too strong for him.”

“I've been in this business for thirty years,” the veteran said slowly. “I suppose there are few problems and challenges I haven't faced. And I tell you, Miss Van Arsdale, all this hype and noise and sensationalism doesn’t matter. I know it's an offense to good taste. But behind it all is the big goal we’re trying to achieve: to engage the uninformed and powerless and teach them to be less ignorant and helpless. If supporting the political ambitions of a Marrineal is part of the deal, then I’m fine with it, as long as the paper stays on the right path and doesn’t sell out for bribe money. After all, Marrineal can only reach his goal with our support. The Patriot is now an institution. You can't fundamentally change an institution. You commit to it, to what you've created. Ban and I have built the new Patriot, not Marrineal. Even if he got rid of us, he couldn't change the paper; not for a while and only very gradually. The following we've built would be too strong for him.”

“Isn’t it too strong for you two?” asked the doubting woman-soul.

“Isn’t it too much for you two?” asked the skeptical woman-soul.

“No. We understand it because we made it.”

“No. We get it because we created it.”

“Frankenstein once said something like that,” she murmured.

“Frankenstein once said something like that,” she whispered.

“It isn’t a monster,” rumbled Edmonds. “Sometimes I think it’s a toy dog, with Ban’s ribbon around its cute little neck. I’ll answer for Ban, Miss Van Arsdale.”

“It’s not a monster,” rumbled Edmonds. “Sometimes I think it’s a toy dog, with Ban’s ribbon around its cute little neck. I’ll vouch for Ban, Miss Van Arsdale.”

The smoke of his minute pipe went up, tenuous and graceful, incense devoted to the unseen God behind the strangely patterned curtain of print; to Baal who was perhaps even then grinning down upon his unsuspecting worshipers.

The smoke from his tiny pipe rose, thin and graceful, like incense dedicated to the invisible God behind the oddly designed curtain of words; to Baal, who might have been grinning down at his unaware worshipers even then.

But Banneker, moving purposefully amidst that vast phantasmagoria of pulsing print, wherein all was magnified, distorted, perverted to the claims of a gross and rabid public appetite, dreamed his pure, untainted dream; the conception of his newspaper as a voice potent enough to reach and move all; dominant enough to impose its underlying ideal; confident enough of righteousness to be free of all silencing and control. That voice should supply the long unsatisfied hunger of the many for truth uncorrupted. It should enunciate straightly, simply, without reservation, the daily verities destined to build up the eternal structure. It should be a religion of seven days a week, set forth by a thousand devoted preachers for a million faithful hearers.

But Banneker, moving purposefully through that vast display of vibrant print, where everything was exaggerated, twisted, and distorted to feed a crude and restless public demand, envisioned his pure, unblemished dream; the idea of his newspaper as a powerful voice capable of reaching and inspiring everyone; strong enough to assert its underlying ideals; confident enough in its righteousness to be free from any silencing or control. That voice should satisfy the long-unmet hunger of the many for untainted truth. It should communicate clearly, simply, and without hesitation the daily truths meant to construct the timeless foundation. It should be a religion practiced every day of the week, delivered by a thousand dedicated preachers to a million devoted listeners.

Camilla Van Arsdale had partly read his dream, and could have wept for it and him.

Camilla Van Arsdale had partly understood his dream and could have cried for it and for him.

Io Eyre had begun to read it, and her heart went out to him anew. For this was the test of success.

Io Eyre had started to read it, and her heart went out to him again. For this was the true measure of success.

CHAPTER III

It was one of those mornings of coolness after cloying heat when even the crowded, reeking, frowzy metropolis wakes with a breath of freshness in its nostrils. Independent of sleep as ever, Banneker was up and footing it briskly for the station before eight o’clock, for Camilla Van Arsdale was returning to Manzanita, having been ordered back to her seclusion with medical science’s well-considered verdict wrapped up in tactful words to bear her company on the long journey. When she would be ordered on a longer journey by a mightier Authority, medical science forbore to specify; but in the higher interests of American music it was urgently pressed upon her that she be abstemious in diet, niggardly of work, careful about fatigue and excitement, and in general comport herself in such manner as to deprive the lease of life remaining to her of most of its savor and worth. She had told Ban that the physicians thought her condition favorable.

It was one of those cool mornings after a stuffy heat wave when even the crowded, smelly, messy city wakes up with a fresh breath of air. Always independent of sleep, Banneker was up and walking quickly to the station before eight o’clock, because Camilla Van Arsdale was heading back to Manzanita, having been instructed to return to her solitude with medical science’s carefully chosen words to accompany her on the long trip. Medical science didn’t specify when she would be ordered on a longer journey by a more powerful Authority; however, for the greater good of American music, it was strongly recommended that she eat lightly, work minimally, and be mindful of fatigue and stress, generally behaving in a way that would strip her remaining time of life of most of its enjoyment and value. She had told Ban that the doctors believed her condition was hopeful.

Invalidism was certainly not suggested in her erect bearing and serene face as she moved about her stateroom setting in order the books, magazines, flowers, and candy, with which Banneker had sought to fortify her against the tedium of the trip. As the time for departure drew near, they fell into and effortfully maintained that meaningless, banal, and jerky talk which is the inevitable concomitant of long partings between people who, really caring for each other, can find nothing but commonplaces wherewith to ease their stress of mind. Miss Van Arsdale’s common sense came to the rescue.

Invalidism was definitely not hinted at in her upright posture and calm expression as she moved around her cabin, arranging the books, magazines, flowers, and candy that Banneker had brought to keep her company during the dullness of the trip. As the departure time approached, they engaged in a forced, shallow, and awkward conversation that often accompanies long goodbyes between people who genuinely care for each other but can only rely on clichés to smooth over their anxiety. Miss Van Arsdale’s practicality came to the rescue.

“Go away, my dear,” she said, with her understanding smile. “Don’t think that you’re obliged to cling to the dragging minutes. It’s an ungraceful posture.... Ban! What makes you look like that?”

“Go away, my dear,” she said, with her knowing smile. “Don’t feel like you have to hold onto the passing moments. It’s an awkward stance... Seriously! What’s got you looking like that?”

“I thought—I heard—”

"I thought—I heard—"

A clear voice outside said, “Then it must be this one.” There was a decisive tap on the door. “May I come in?”..."Come in,” responded Miss Van Arsdale. “Bring them here, porter,” directed the voice outside, and Io entered followed by an attendant almost hidden in a huge armful of such roses as are unpurchasable even in the most luxurious of stores.

A clear voice outside said, “Then it must be this one.” There was a firm knock on the door. “Can I come in?”...”Come in,” replied Miss Van Arsdale. “Bring them here, porter,” instructed the voice outside, and Io came in, followed by an attendant nearly buried under a massive bouquet of roses that you can't even find in the fanciest shops.

“I’ve looted our conservatory,” said she. “Papa will slay me. They’ll last to Chicago.”

“I’ve raided our conservatory,” she said. “Dad will kill me. They’ll last until Chicago.”

After an almost imperceptible hesitation she kissed the older woman. She gave her hand to Banneker. “I knew I should find you here.”

After a barely noticeable pause, she kissed the older woman. She extended her hand to Banneker. “I knew I would find you here.”

“Any other woman of my acquaintance would have said, ‘Who would have expected to find you here!’” commented Miss Van Arsdale.

“Any other woman I know would have said, ‘Who would have thought to see you here!’” commented Miss Van Arsdale.

“Yes? I suppose so. But we’ve never been on that footing, Ban and I.” Io’s tone was casual; almost careless.

“Yes? I guess so. But we’ve never had that kind of relationship, Ban and I.” Io’s tone was laid-back; almost indifferent.

“I thought that you were in the country,” said Banneker.

"I thought you were out in the country," Banneker said.

“So we are. I drove up this morning to bid Miss Van Arsdale bon voyage, and all the luck in the world. I suppose we three shall meet again one of these days.”

“So we are. I drove up this morning to say goodbye to Miss Van Arsdale and wish her all the luck in the world. I guess the three of us will meet again someday.”

“You prophesy in the most matter-of-fact tone a gross improbability,” observed Miss Van Arsdale.

“You predict an unlikely scenario in the most straightforward way,” observed Miss Van Arsdale.

“Oh, our first meeting was the gross improbability,” retorted the girl lightly. “After that anything might be logical. Au revoir.”

“Oh, our first meeting was such a crazy coincidence,” the girl replied casually. “After that, anything could make sense. See you later.”

“Go with her, Ban,” said Miss Camilla.

“It isn’t leaving time yet,” he protested. “There’s five whole minutes.”

“It’s not time to leave yet,” he argued. “We still have five whole minutes.”

“Yes; come with me, Ban,” said Io tranquilly.

“Yes, come with me, Ban,” Io said calmly.

Camilla Van Arsdale kissed his cheek, gave him a little, half-motherly pat, said, “Keep on making me proud of you,” in her even, confident tones, and pushed him out of the door.

Camilla Van Arsdale kissed his cheek, gave him a light, half-maternal pat, said, “Keep making me proud of you,” in her calm, self-assured voice, and nudged him out the door.

Ban and Io walked down the long platform in a thoughtful silence which disconcerted neither of them. Io led the way out of it.

Ban and Io walked down the long platform in a thoughtful silence that didn’t bother either of them. Io took the lead out of it.

“At half-past four,” she stated, “I had a glass of milk and one cracker.”

“At 4:30,” she said, “I had a glass of milk and one cracker.”

“Where do you want to breakfast?”

“Where do you want to have breakfast?”

“Thanking you humbly, sir, for your kind invitation, the nearer the better. Why not here?”

“Thank you so much, sir, for your kind invitation; the sooner, the better. Why not do it here?”

They found a table in the well-appointed railroad restaurant and ordered. Over her honey-dew melon Io asked musingly:

They found a table in the nicely decorated train restaurant and ordered. While enjoying her honeydew melon, Io asked thoughtfully:

“What do you suppose she thinks of us?”

“What do you think she thinks about us?”

“Miss Camilla? What should she think?”

“Miss Camilla? What is she supposed to think?”

“What, indeed? What do we think, ourselves?”

“What, really? What do we think, personally?”

“Has it any importance?” he asked gloomily.

“Does it even matter?” he asked sadly.

“And that’s rather rude,” she chided. “Anything that I think should, by courtesy, be regarded as important.... Ban, how often have we seen each other?”

“And that’s pretty rude,” she said. “Anything I think should, out of courtesy, be seen as important... Ban, how often have we seen each other?”

“Since I came to New York, you mean?”

“Since I got to New York, you mean?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Nine times.”

"Nine times."

“So many? And how much have we talked together? All told; in time, I mean.”

“So many? And how much have we talked together? All together; over time, I mean.”

“Possibly a solid hour. Not more.”

“Probably about an hour. No longer.”

“It hasn’t made any difference, has it? There’s been no interruption. We’ve never let the thread drop. We’ve never lost touch. Not really.”

“It hasn’t changed anything, has it? There’s been no break. We’ve always kept in touch. We’ve never really lost connection.”

“No. We’ve never lost touch.”

“No. We’ve always stayed in touch.”

“You needn’t repeat it as if it were a matter for mourning and repentance. I think it rather wonderful.... Take our return from the train, all the way down without a word. Were you sulking, Ban?”

“You don’t need to say it like it’s something to be sad about or regret. I actually find it quite amazing... Think about our ride back from the train, all the way down without saying a word. Were you pouting, Ban?”

“No. You know I wasn’t.”

“No. You know I wasn't.”

“Of course I know it. It was simply that we didn’t need to talk. There’s no one else in the world like that.... How long is it? Three years—four—more than four years.

“Of course I know it. It was just that we didn’t need to talk. There’s no one else in the world like that.... How long has it been? Three years—four—more than four years.”

We twain once well in sunder What will the mad gods do For hate with me, I wond—‘”

'We two once apart What will the crazy gods do For their hatred towards me, I wonder—'

“My God, Io! Don’t!”

“Oh my God, Io! No!”

“Oh, Ban; I’m sorry! Have I hurt you? I was dreaming back into the old world.”

“Oh, Ban; I’m sorry! Did I hurt you? I was lost in thoughts about the old world.”

“And I’ve been trying all these years not to.”

“And I’ve been trying not to for all these years.”

“Is the reality really better? No; don’t answer that! I don’t want you to. Answer me something else. About Betty Raleigh.”

“Is reality really better? No; don’t answer that! I don’t want you to. Answer me something else. About Betty Raleigh.”

“What about her?”

“If I were a man I should find her an irresistible sort of person. Entirely aside from her art. Are you going to marry her, Ban?”

“If I were a guy, I’d find her totally irresistible. Forget about her art for a second. Are you planning to marry her, Ban?”

“No.”

"Nope."

“Tell me why not.”

"Tell me why not."

“For one reason because she doesn’t want to marry me.”

“For one reason: she doesn’t want to marry me.”

“Have you asked her? It’s none of my business. But I don’t believe you have. Tell me this; would you have asked her, if it hadn’t been for—if Number Three had never been wrecked in the cut? You see the old railroad terms you taught me still cling. Would you?”

“Have you asked her? It's not my place to say. But I don't think you have. Let me ask you this: would you have asked her if it hadn’t been for—if Number Three hadn’t been wrecked in the cut? You see, those old railroad terms you taught me still stick with me. Would you?”

“How do I know? If the world hadn’t changed under my feet, and the sky over my head—”

“How do I know? If the world hadn’t shifted beneath me, and the sky above me—”

“Is it so changed? Do the big things, the real things, ever change?... Don’t answer that, either. Ban, if I’ll go out of your life now, and stay out, honestly, will you marry Betty Raleigh and—and live happy ever after?”

“Has it really changed that much? Do the important things, the real things, ever change?... Don't answer that. Listen, if I step out of your life now and really stay gone, honestly, will you marry Betty Raleigh and—and live happily ever after?”

“Would you want me to?”

"Do you want me to?"

“Yes. Truly. And I’d hate you both forever.”

“Yes. Seriously. And I’d hate you both forever.”

“Betty Raleigh is going to marry some one else.”

“Betty Raleigh is going to marry someone else.”

“No! I thought—people said—Are you sorry, Ban?”

“Not for myself. I think he’s the wrong man for her.”

“Not for me. I believe he’s not the right guy for her.”

“Yes; that would be a change of the earth underfoot and the sky overhead, if one cared,” she mused. “And I said they didn’t change.”

“Yeah; that would be a change of the ground beneath and the sky above, if anyone cared,” she thought. “And I said they didn’t change.”

“Don’t they!” retorted Banneker bitterly. “You are married.”

“Don’t they!” Banneker shot back angrily. “You’re married.”

“I have been married,” she corrected, with an air of amiable rectification. “It was a wise thing to do. Everybody said so. It didn’t last. Nobody thought it would. I didn’t really think so myself.”

“I’ve been married,” she corrected, with a friendly tone. “It was a smart move. Everyone said so. It didn’t last. No one thought it would. I didn’t really think so either.”

“Then why in Heaven’s name—”

“Then why on Earth—”

“Oh, let’s not talk about it now. Some other time, perhaps. Say next time we meet; five or six months from now.... No; I won’t tease you any more, Ban. It won’t be that. It won’t be long. I’ll tell you the truth: I’d heard a lot about you and Betty Raleigh, and I got to know her and I hoped it would be a go. I did; truly, Ban. I owed you that chance of happiness. I took mine, you see; only it wasn’t happiness that I gambled for. Something else. Safety. The stakes are usually different for men and women. So now you know.... Well, if you don’t, you’ve grown stupid. And I don’t want to talk about it any more. I want to talk about—about The Patriot. I read it this morning while I was waiting; your editorial. Ban”—she drew a derisive mouth—“I was shocked.”

“Oh, let’s not get into that right now. Maybe another time. Like when we meet again; five or six months from now.... No; I won’t tease you anymore, Ban. It won’t be that. It won’t be long. I’ll be straight with you: I heard a lot about you and Betty Raleigh, and I got to know her and hoped it would work out. I really did, Ban. I owed you that chance at happiness. I took my shot, you know; but it wasn’t happiness that I was looking for. It was something else. Safety. The stakes are usually different for men and women. So now you know.... Well, if you don’t, you’ve become clueless. And I don’t want to discuss it anymore. I want to talk about—about The Patriot. I read it this morning while I was waiting; your editorial. Ban”—she made a mocking face—“I was shocked.”

“What was it? Politics?” asked Banneker, who, turning out his editorials several at a time, seldom bothered to recall on what particular day any one was published. “You wouldn’t be expected to like our politics.”

“What was it? Politics?” asked Banneker, who, pumping out his editorials several at a time, rarely bothered to remember what specific day any of them was published. “You probably wouldn’t be into our politics.”

“Not politics. It is about Harvey Wheelwright.”

“Not politics. It’s about Harvey Wheelwright.”

Banneker was amused. “The immortally popular Wheelwright. We’re serializing his new novel, ‘Satiated with Sin,’ in the Sunday edition. My idea. It’ll put on circulation where we most need it.”

Banneker couldn’t help but laugh. “The ever-popular Wheelwright. We’re running his new novel, ‘Satiated with Sin,’ in the Sunday edition. That was my idea. It’ll boost our circulation in the areas we need it most.”

“Is that any reason why you should exploit him as if he were the foremost living novelist?”

“Is that any reason for you to take advantage of him like he’s the best living novelist?”

“Certainly. Besides, he is, in popularity.”

“Of course. Besides, he is popular.”

“But, Ban; his stuff is awful! If this latest thing is like the earlier. [“Worse,” murmured Banneker.] And you’re writing about him as if he were—well, Conrad and Wells rolled into one.”

“But, Ban; his stuff is terrible! If this latest thing is anything like the earlier one. [“Worse,” murmured Banneker.] And you’re writing about him as if he were—well, Conrad and Wells combined into one.”

“He’s better than that, for the kind of people that read him. It’s addressed to them, that editorial. All the stress is on his piety, his popularity, his power to move men’s minds; there isn’t a word that even touches on the domain of art or literary skill.”

“He's better than that for the kind of people who read him. That editorial is aimed at them. It focuses on his piety, his popularity, and his ability to influence people's thoughts; there isn't a single word that addresses art or literary talent.”

“It has that effect.”

"It does that."

“Ah! That’s my art,” chuckled Banneker. “That’s literary skill, if you choose!”

“Ah! That’s my art,” chuckled Banneker. “That’s literary talent, if you like!”

“Do you know what I call it? I call it treason.”

“Do you know what I call it? I call it betrayal.”

His mind flashed to meet hers. She read comprehension in his changed face and the shadow in her eyes, lambent and profound, deepened.

His mind connected with hers. She saw understanding in his transformed expression, and the look in her eyes, bright and deep, grew even darker.

“Treason to the world that we two made for ourselves out there,” she pursued evenly.

“Treason to the world that we created for ourselves out there,” she continued calmly.

“You shattered it.”

"You broke it."

“To the Undying Voices.”

"To the Eternal Voices."

“You stilled them, for me.”

"You calmed them down for me."

“Oh, Ban! Not that!” A sudden, little sob wrenched at her throat. She half thrust out a hand toward him, and withdrew it, to cup and hold her chin in the old, thoughtful posture that plucked at his heart with imperious memories. “Don’t they sing for you any more?” begged Io, wistful as a child forlorn for a dream of fairies dispelled.

“Oh, Ban! Not that!” A sudden, small sob caught in her throat. She reached out a hand towards him but pulled it back to hold her chin in the familiar, thoughtful way that tugged at his heart with powerful memories. “Don’t they sing for you anymore?” Io pleaded, longing like a child yearning for a lost dream of fairies.

“I wouldn’t let them. They all sang of you.”

“I wouldn’t let them. They all sang about you.”

She sighed, but about the tender corners of her lips crept the tremor of a smile. Instantly she became serious again.

She sighed, but a slight tremor of a smile appeared at the corners of her lips. Just as quickly, she became serious again.

“If you still heard the Voices, you could never have written that editorial.... What I hate about it is that it has charm; that it imparts charm to a—to a debasing thing.”

“If you still heard the Voices, you could never have written that editorial.... What I dislike about it is that it has charm; that it gives charm to a—to a degrading thing.”

“Oh, come, Io!” protested the victim of this criticism, more easily. “Debasing? Why, Wheelwright is considered the most uplifting of all our literary morality-improvers.”

“Oh, come on, Io!” protested the target of this criticism, more easily. “Debasing? Why, Wheelwright is seen as the most uplifting of all our literary morality-improvers.”

Io amplified and concluded her critique briefly and viciously. “A slug!”

Io amplified and wrapped up her critique sharply and harshly. “A slug!”

“No; seriously. I’m not sure that he doesn’t inculcate a lot of good in his way. At least he’s always on the side of the angels.”

“No; seriously. I’m not sure that he doesn’t instill a lot of good in his way. At least he’s always on the side of good.”

“What kind of angels? Tinsel seraphs with paint on their cheeks, playing rag-time harps out of tune! There’s a sickly slaver of sentiment over everything he touches that would make any virtue nauseous.”

“What kind of angels? Glittery seraphs with makeup on their cheeks, playing ragtime harps out of tune! There’s a sickly sweetness to everything he touches that would make any virtue feel sick.”

“Don’t you want a job as a literary critic Our Special Reviewer, Miss Io Wel—Mrs. Delavan Eyre,” he concluded, in a tone from which the raillery had flattened out.

“Don’t you want a job as a literary critic? Our Special Reviewer, Miss Io Wel—Mrs. Delavan Eyre,” he concluded, in a tone that had lost its playful edge.

At that bald betrayal, Io’s color waned slightly. She lifted her water-glass and sipped at it. When she spoke again it was as if an inner scene had been shifted.

At that blatant betrayal, Io's color faded a bit. She picked up her water glass and took a sip. When she spoke again, it felt like a part of her had changed.

“What did you come to New York for?”

“Success.”

"Achievement."

“As in all the fables. And you’ve found it. It was almost too easy, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed, not. It was touch and go.”

“Definitely not. It was a close call.”

“Would you have come but for me?”

“Would you have come if it weren't for me?”

He stared at her, considering, wondering.

He looked at her, thinking, questioning.

“Remember,” she adjured him; “success was my prescription. Be flattering for once. Let me think that I’m responsible for the miracle.”

“Remember,” she urged him; “success was my plan. Be nice for once. Let me believe that I’m the reason for the miracle.”

“Perhaps. I couldn’t stay out there—afterward. The loneliness....”

“Maybe. I couldn’t stay out there—after that. The loneliness....”

“I didn’t want to leave you loneliness,” she burst out passionately under her breath. “I wanted to leave you memory and ambition and the determination to succeed.”

"I didn’t want to leave you feeling lonely," she said fervently under her breath. "I wanted to leave you with memories, ambition, and the determination to succeed."

“For what?”

"Why?"

“Oh, no; no!” She answered the harsh thought subtending his query. “Not for myself. Not for any pride. I’m not cheap, Ban.”

“Oh, no; no!” She responded to the harsh thought behind his question. “Not for myself. Not for any pride. I’m not cheap, Ban.”

“No; you’re not cheap.”

“No; you’re not low-quality.”

“I would have kept my distance.... It was quite true what I said to you about Betty Raleigh. It was not success alone that I wanted for you; I wanted happiness, too. I owed you that—after my mistake.”

“I would have kept my distance.... It’s true what I said about Betty Raleigh. It wasn’t just success that I wanted for you; I wanted happiness, too. I owed you that—after my mistake.”

He caught up the last word. “You’ve admitted to yourself, then, that it was a mistake?”

He picked up on the last word. “So, you’ve admitted to yourself that it was a mistake?”

“I played the game,” she retorted. “One can’t always play right. But one can always play fair.”

“I played the game,” she replied. “You can’t always play perfectly. But you can always play fair.”

“Yes; I know your creed of sportsmanship. There are worse religions.”

“Yes; I get your values about sportsmanship. There are worse beliefs.”

“Do you think I played fair with you, Ban? After that night on the river?”

“Do you think I was honest with you, Ban? After that night on the river?”

He was mute.

He couldn't speak.

“Do you know why I didn’t kiss you good-bye in the station? Not really kiss you, I mean, as I did on the island?”

“Do you know why I didn’t kiss you goodbye at the station? Not really kiss you, I mean, like I did on the island?”

“No.”

"Nope."

“Because, if I had, I should never have had the strength to go away.” She lifted her eyes to his. Her voice fell to a half whisper. “You understood, on the island?... What I meant?”

“Because if I had, I never would have had the strength to leave.” She looked up at him. Her voice dropped to a half-whisper. “You understood, on the island?... What I meant?”

“Yes.”

"Yeah."

“But you didn’t take me. I wonder. Ban, if it hadn’t been for the light flashing in our eyes and giving us hope...?”

“But you didn’t take me. I wonder. Ban, if it hadn’t been for the light flashing in our eyes and giving us hope…?”

“How can I tell? I was dazed with the amazement and the glory of it—of you. But—yes. My God, yes! And then? Afterward?”

“How can I know? I was stunned by the wonder and the beauty of it—of you. But—yes. Oh my God, yes! And then? What happened next?”

“Could there have been any afterward?” she questioned dreamily. “Would we not just have waited for the river to sweep us up and carry us away? What other ending could there have been, so fitting?”

“Could there have been any continuation?” she asked dreamily. “Would we not have just waited for the river to take us away? What other ending could there have been that was so fitting?”

“Anyway,” he said with a sudden savage jealousy, “whatever happened you would not have gone away to marry Eyre.”

“Anyway,” he said with a sudden burst of jealousy, “no matter what happened, you wouldn’t have left to marry Eyre.”

“Should I not? I’m by no means sure. You don’t understand much of me, my poor Ban.”

“Should I not? I'm really not sure. You don’t know much about me, my poor Ban.”

“How could you!” he burst out. “Would that have been—”

“How could you!” he exclaimed. “Would that have been—”

“Oh, I should have told him, of course. I’d have said, ‘Del, there’s been another man, a lover.’ One could say those things to him.”

“Oh, I should have told him, of course. I would have said, ‘Del, there’s been another man, a lover.’ You could say those things to him.”

“Would he have married you?”

"Would he have married you?"

“You wouldn’t, would you?” she smiled. “All or nothing, Ban, for you. About Del, I don’t know.” She shrugged dainty shoulders. “I shouldn’t have much cared.”

“You wouldn’t, would you?” she smiled. “It’s all or nothing for you, Ban. As for Del, I’m not sure.” She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “I shouldn’t have cared that much.”

“And would you have come back to me, Io?”

“And would you have returned to me, Io?”

“Do you want me to say ‘Yes’? You do want me to say’ Yes,’ don’t you, my dear? How can I tell?... Sooner or later, I suppose. Fate. The irresistible current. I am here now.”

“Do you want me to say ‘Yes’? You want me to say ‘Yes,’ right, my dear? How can I know?... Sooner or later, I guess. Fate. The unstoppable flow. I’m here now.”

“Io.” He leaned to her across the little table, his somber regard holding hers. “Why did you tell Camilla Van Arsdale that you would never divorce Eyre?”

“Io.” He leaned toward her over the small table, his serious gaze locked on hers. “Why did you tell Camilla Van Arsdale that you would never divorce Eyre?”

“Because it’s true.”

"Because it's true."

“But why tell her? So that it should come back to me?”

“But why tell her? Just so it can come back to me?”

She answered him straight and fearlessly. “Yes. I thought it would be easier for you to hear from her.”

She replied to him honestly and without fear. “Yes. I thought it would be easier for you to hear it from her.”

“Did you?” He sat staring past her at visions. It was not within Banneker’s code, his sense of fair play in the game, to betray to Io his wonderment (shared by most of her own set) that she should have endured the affront of Del Eyre’s openly flagitious life, even though she had herself implied some knowledge of it in her assumption that a divorce could be procured. However, Io met his reticence with characteristic candor.

“Did you?” He sat staring past her, lost in thought. It wasn’t in Banneker’s nature, his sense of fairness in the situation, to reveal to Io his surprise (shared by many of her friends) that she had put up with the disgrace of Del Eyre’s openly immoral life, even though she had hinted at knowing something about it by assuming a divorce could be arranged. However, Io responded to his hesitance with her usual honesty.

“Of course I know about Del. We have a perfect understanding. He’s agreed to maintain the outward decencies, from now on. I don’t consider that I’ve the right to ask more. You see, I shouldn’t have married him ... even though he understood that I wasn’t really in love with him. We’re friends; and we’re going to remain friends. Just that. Del’s a good sort,” she added with a hint of pleading the cause of a misunderstood person. “He’d give me my divorce in a minute; even though he still cares—in his way. But there’s his mother. She’s a sort of latter-day saint; one of those rare people that you respect and love in equal parts; the only other one I know is Cousin Willis Enderby. She’s an invalid, hopeless, and a Roman Catholic, and for me to divorce Del would poison the rest of her life. So I won’t. I can’t.”

“Of course I know about Del. We have a clear understanding. He’s agreed to keep up appearances from now on. I don’t think I have the right to ask for more. You see, I shouldn’t have married him… even though he knew I wasn’t really in love with him. We’re friends, and we’re going to stay friends. That’s all. Del’s a decent guy,” she added, trying to defend someone who was misunderstood. “He’d give me my divorce in a heartbeat, even though he still cares—in his own way. But there’s his mother. She’s like a modern saint; one of those rare people you respect and love equally; the only other person I know like that is Cousin Willis Enderby. She’s an invalid, hopeless, and a Roman Catholic, and if I divorced Del, it would ruin the rest of her life. So I won’t. I can’t.”

“She won’t live forever,” muttered Banneker.

“She won’t live forever,” Banneker muttered.

“No. Not long, perhaps.” There was pain and resolution in Io’s eyes as they were lifted to meet his again. “There’s another reason. I can’t tell even you, Ban. The secret isn’t mine.... I’m sorry.”

“No. Not long, maybe.” There was pain and determination in Io’s eyes as they were raised to meet his again. “There’s another reason. I can’t even tell you, Ban. The secret isn’t mine.... I’m sorry.”

“Haven’t you any work to do to-day?” she asked after a pause, with a successful effect of lightness.

“Haven’t you got any work to do today?” she asked after a pause, trying to sound light-hearted.

He roused himself, settled the check, and took her to her car, parked near by.

He got up, paid the bill, and walked her to her car, which was parked nearby.

“Where do you go now?” he asked.

“Where are you heading now?” he asked.

“Back to the country.”

“Back to the countryside.”

“When shall I see you again?”

“When will I see you again?”

“I wonder,” said Io.

“I’m curious,” said Io.

CHAPTER IV

Panem et Circenses; bread and the Big Show. The diagnosis of the satyr-like mathematician had been accurate. That same method whereby the tyrants of Rome had sought to beguile the restless and unthinking multitude, Banneker adopted to capture and lead the sensation-avid metropolitan public through his newspaper. As a facture, a creation made to the mind of the creator, The Patriot was Banneker’s own. True, Marrineal reserved full control. But Marrineal, after a few months spent in anxious observation of his editor’s headlong and revolutionary method, had taken the sales reports for his determinative guide and decided to give the new man full sway.

Panem et Circenses; bread and the Big Show. The diagnosis of the satyr-like mathematician had been spot on. Using the same strategy that the tyrants of Rome used to distract the restless and unthinking masses, Banneker sought to engage and lead the sensation-hungry urban audience through his newspaper. As a product, a creation made by its creator, The Patriot was Banneker’s own. True, Marrineal had complete control. But after a few months of anxiously observing his editor's bold and revolutionary approach, Marrineal had looked at the sales reports as his main measure and decided to give the new man complete authority.

Circulation had gone up as water rises in a tube under irresistible pressure from beneath. Nothing like it had ever been known in local journalism. Barring some set-back, within four years of the time when Banneker’s introductory editorial appeared, the paper would have eclipsed all former records. In less than two years it had climbed to third place, and already Banneker’s salary, under the percentage agreement, was, in the words of the alliterative Gardner, whose article describing The House With Three Eyes and its owner had gone forth on the wings of a far-spreading syndicate, “a stupendous stipend.”

Circulation had surged like water rising in a tube due to unstoppable pressure from below. Nothing like this had ever been seen in local journalism. Unless something went wrong, within four years of Banneker’s first editorial, the newspaper would surpass all previous records. In less than two years, it had risen to third place, and already Banneker’s salary, based on the percentage agreement, was, in the words of the alliterative Gardner, whose article about The House With Three Eyes and its owner had spread widely through a syndicate, “an incredible salary.”

Banneker’s editorials pervaded and gave the keynote. With sublime self-confidence he had adopted the untried scheme of having no set and determined place for the editorial department. Sometimes, his page appeared in the middle of the paper; sometimes on the back; and once, when a most promising scheme of municipal looting was just about to be put through, he fired his blast from the front sheet in extra heavy, double-leaded type, displacing an international yacht race and a most titillating society scandal with no more explanation than was to be found in the opening sentence:

Banneker's editorials were everywhere and set the tone. With bold self-assurance, he tried out the unconventional idea of having no fixed spot for the editorial section. Sometimes, his page showed up in the middle of the paper; other times, it was at the back. And once, just as a very promising plan for city corruption was about to happen, he launched his protest from the front page in large, bold type, bumping an international yacht race and a juicy society scandal without offering more explanation than what was in the opening sentence:

“This is more important to YOU, Mr. New Yorker, than any other news in to-day’s issue.”

“This is more important to YOU, Mr. New Yorker, than any other news in today’s issue.”

“Where Banneker sits,” Russell Edmonds was wont to remark between puffs, “is the head of the paper.”

“Where Banneker sits,” Russell Edmonds used to say between puffs, “is the head of the paper.”

“Let ’em look for the stuff,” said Banneker confidently. “They’ll think all the more of it when they find it.”

“Let them search for the stuff,” said Banneker confidently. “They'll appreciate it even more when they find it.”

Often he used inset illustrations, not so much to give point to his preachments, as to render them easier of comprehension to the unthinking. And always he sought the utmost of sensationalism in caption and in type, employing italics, capitals, and even heavy-face letters with an effect of detonation.

Often he used inset illustrations, not just to emphasize his messages, but to make them easier to understand for those who didn’t think deeply. And he always aimed for maximum sensationalism in his captions and text, using italics, capital letters, and even bold text to create a dramatic impact.

“Jollies you along until he can see the white of your mind, and then fires his slug into your head, point-blank,” Edmonds said.

“Jollies you along until he can see the whites of your eyes, and then fires his bullet into your head, point-blank,” Edmonds said.

With all this he had the high art to keep his style direct, unaffected, almost severe. No frills, no literary graces, no flashes of wit except an occasional restrained touch of sarcasm: the writing was in the purest style and of a classic simplicity. The typical reader of The Patriot had a friendly and rather patronizing feeling for the editorials: they were generally deemed quite ordinary, “common as an old shoe” (with an approving accent from the commentator), comfortably devoid of the intricate elegancies practiced by Banneker’s editorial compeers. So they were read and absorbed, which was all that their writer hoped or wished for them. He was not seeking the bubble, reputation, but the solid satisfaction of implanting ideas in minds hitherto unaroused to mental processes, and training the resultant thought in his chosen way and to eventual though still vague purposes.

With all this, he had the skill to keep his style straightforward, unpretentious, almost strict. No embellishments, no literary flourishes, no clever quips except for the occasional subtle touch of sarcasm: the writing was in the purest form and of classic simplicity. The typical reader of The Patriot felt a friendly and somewhat condescending view toward the editorials: they were usually considered quite ordinary, “common as an old shoe” (with an approving tone from the commentator), comfortably lacking the complex refinements used by Banneker’s editorial peers. So they were read and absorbed, which was all that their writer hoped or wished for. He was not after fleeting fame but the solid satisfaction of planting ideas in minds that had previously been unengaged in thinking, and guiding that resulting thought in his chosen direction toward eventual, though still unclear, goals.

“They’re beginning to imitate you, Ban,” commented Russell Edmonds in the days of The Patriot’s first surprising upward leap. “Flattery of your peers.”

“They're starting to mimic you, Ban,” Russell Edmonds remarked during the early days of The Patriot's unexpected rise. “It’s flattery from your peers.”

“Let ’em imitate,” returned Banneker indifferently.

"Let them imitate," Banneker replied casually.

“Yes; they don’t come very near to the original. It’s a fundamental difference in style.”

“Yes; they don’t come very close to the original. It’s a fundamental difference in style.”

“It’s a fundamental difference in aim.”

“It’s a basic difference in goal.”

“Aim?”

"Goal?"

“They’re writing at and for their owners; to make good with the boss. I’m writing at my public.”

“They’re writing for their bosses, trying to impress them. I’m writing for my audience.”

“I believe you’re right. It’s more difficult, though, isn’t it, to write for a hundred thousand people than at one?”

“I believe you're right. It's more challenging, though, isn't it, to write for a hundred thousand people than for just one?”

“Not if you understand them from study at first hand, as I do. That’s why the other fellows are five or ten-thousand-dollar men,” said Banneker, quite without boastfulness “while I’m—”

“Not if you really get to know them from studying them firsthand, like I do. That’s why the other guys are making five or ten thousand dollars,” Banneker said, completely without bragging, “while I’m—”

“A fifty-thousand-dollar a year man,” supplied Edmonds.

“A $50,000-a-year guy,” Edmonds said.

“Well, getting toward that figure. I’m on the target with the editorials and I’m going to hold on it. But our news policy is different. We still wobble there.”

“Well, getting close to that figure. I’m on track with the editorials and I’m going to stick with it. But our news policy is different. We’re still unsteady in that area.”

“What do you want! Look at the circulation. Isn’t that good enough?”

“What do you want? Check out the circulation. Isn’t that good enough?”

“No. Every time I get into a street-car and see a passenger reading some other paper, I feel that we’ve missed fire,” returned Banneker inexorably. “Pop, did you ever see an actress make up?”

“No. Every time I get on a streetcar and see a passenger reading some other paper, I feel like we’ve missed the mark,” Banneker replied firmly. “Pop, have you ever seen an actress put on makeup?”

“I’ve a general notion of the process.”

“I have a general idea of the process.”

“Find me a man who can make up news ready and rouged to go before the daily footlights as an actress makes up her face.”

“Find me a person who can create news, polished and prepped to take center stage like an actress gets her face ready for the spotlight.”

The veteran grunted. “Not to be found on Park Row.”

The veteran grunted. “Not available on Park Row.”

“Probably not. Park Row is too deadly conventional.”

“Probably not. Park Row is way too predictable.”

One might suppose that the environment of religious journalism would be equally conventional. Yet it was from this department that the “find” eventually came, conducted by Edmonds. Edgar Severance, ten years older than Banneker, impressed the guiding spirit of The Patriot at first sight with a sense of inner certitude and serenity not in the least impaired by his shabbiness which had the redeeming merit of being clean.

One might think that the world of religious journalism would be just as traditional. However, it was from this area that the “discovery” eventually emerged, led by Edmonds. Edgar Severance, who was ten years older than Banneker, made a strong impression on the driving force behind The Patriot at first glance, exuding a sense of inner confidence and calm that was in no way diminished by his worn appearance, which had the redeeming quality of being clean.

“You’re not a newspaper man?” said Banneker after the introduction. “What are you?”

“You're not a newspaper guy?” Banneker asked after the introduction. “What do you do?”

“I’m a prostitute,” answered the other equably.

“I’m a sex worker,” the other replied calmly.

Banneker smiled. “Where have you practiced your profession?”

Banneker smiled. “Where have you worked in your field?”

“As assistant editor of Guidance. I write the blasphemous editorials which are so highly regarded by the sweetly simple souls that make up our clientèle; the ones which weekly give gratuitous advice to God.”

“As the assistant editor of Guidance, I write the controversial editorials that are so appreciated by the kind-hearted people who make up our clientèle; the ones that weekly offer unsolicited advice to God.”

“Did Mr. Edmonds find you there?”

“Did Mr. Edmonds see you there?”

“No,” put in the veteran; “I traced him down through some popular scientific stuff in the Boston Sunday Star.”

“No,” the veteran said; “I tracked him down through some popular science articles in the Boston Sunday Star.”

“Fake, all of it,” proffered Severance. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be popular.”

“It's all fake,” Severance said. “If it weren’t, it wouldn’t be popular.”

“Is that your creed of journalism?” asked Banneker curiously.

“Is that your philosophy of journalism?” asked Banneker curiously.

“Largely.”

“Mostly.”

“Why come to The Patriot, then? It isn’t ours.”

“Why come to The Patriot, then? It’s not ours.”

Severance raised his fine eyebrows, but contented himself with saying: “Isn’t it? However, I didn’t come. I was brought.” He indicated Edmonds.

Severance raised his perfectly shaped eyebrows but settled for saying: “Isn’t it? But I didn’t come on my own. I was brought here.” He pointed to Edmonds.

“He gave me more ideas on news-dressing,” said the veteran, “than I’d pick up in a century on the Row.”

“He gave me more ideas about news-dressing,” said the veteran, “than I’d learn in a century on the Row.”

“Ideas are what we’re after. Where do you get yours, Mr. Severance, since you are not a practical newspaper man?”

“Ideas are what we’re looking for. Where do you get yours, Mr. Severance, since you’re not a practical newspaper guy?”

“From talking with people, and seeing what the newspapers fail to do.”

“From talking to people and noticing what the newspapers overlook.”

“Where were you before you went on Guidance?”

“Where were you before you started Guidance?”

“Instructor at Harvard.”

“Teacher at Harvard.”

“And you practiced your—er—specified profession there, too?”

“And you worked in your—um—specific profession there, too?”

“Oh, no. I was partly respectable then.

“Oh, no. I was somewhat respectable back then.

“Why did you leave?”

"Why did you go?"

“Drink.”

"Have a drink."

“Ah? You don’t build up much of a character for yourself as prospective employee.”

“Ah? You’re not really presenting yourself as a strong candidate for the job.”

“If I join The Patriot staff I shall probably disappear once a month or so on a spree.”

“If I join The Patriot staff, I’ll probably vanish once a month or so to go on a bender.”

“Why should you join The Patriot staff? That is what you fail to make clear to me.”

“Why should you join The Patriot staff? That’s what you don’t make clear to me.”

“Reference, Mr. Russell Edmonds,” returned the other negligently.

“Reference, Mr. Russell Edmonds,” the other replied casually.

“You two aren’t getting anywhere with all this chatter,” growled the reference. “Come, Severance; talk turkey, as you did to me.”

“You two aren’t getting anywhere with all this talking,” growled the reference. “Come on, Severance; let’s get to the point, like you did with me.”

“I don’t want to talk,” objected the other in his gentle, scholarly accents. “I want to look about: to diagnose the trouble in the news department.”

“I don’t want to talk,” the other person said in his gentle, academic tone. “I want to look around: to figure out what’s going wrong in the news department.”

“What do you suspect the trouble to be?” asked Banneker.

“What do you think the problem is?” asked Banneker.

“Oh, the universal difficulty. Lack of brains.”

“Oh, the common struggle. A shortage of brains.”

Banneker laughed, but without relish. “We pay enough for what we’ve got. It ought to be good quality.”

Banneker laughed, but it wasn't genuine. “We pay enough for what we have. It should be good quality.”

“You pay not wisely but too well. My own princely emolument as a prop of piety is thirty-five dollars a week.”

“You're not being smart with your money; you're being too generous. My own royal salary as a support of faith is thirty-five dollars a week.”

“Would you come here at that figure?”

“Would you come here for that amount?”

“I should prefer forty. For a period of six weeks, on trial.”

“I would prefer forty. For a trial period of six weeks.”

“As Mr. Edmonds seems to think it worth the gamble, I’ll take you on. From to-day, if you wish. Go out and look around.”

“As Mr. Edmonds believes it's worth the risk, I'm in. Starting today, if you want. Go out and check things out.”

“Wait a minute,” interposed Edmonds. “What’s his title? How is his job to be defined?”

“Hold on a second,” Edmonds interrupted. “What’s his title? How do we define his job?”

“Call him my representative in the news department. I’ll pay his salary myself. If he makes good, I’ll more than get it back.”

“Call him my representative in the news department. I’ll pay his salary myself. If he does well, I’ll get way more than that back.”

Mr. Severance’s first concern appeared to be to make himself popular. In the anomalous position which he occupied as representative between two mutually jealous departments, this was no easy matter. But his quiet, contained courtesy, his tentative, almost timid, way of offering suggestions or throwing out hints which subsequently proved to have definite and often surprising value, his retiring willingness to waive any credit in favor of whosoever might choose to claim it, soon gave him an assured if inconspicuous position. His advice was widely sought. As an immediate corollary a new impress made itself felt in the daily columns. With his quick sensitiveness Banneker apprehended the change. It seemed to him that the paper was becoming feminized in a curious manner.

Mr. Severance’s main concern seemed to be making himself popular. In the unusual position he held as a representative between two competing departments, this wasn't easy. But his calm, polite demeanor, his careful, almost shy way of offering suggestions or hinting at ideas that later turned out to be quite valuable, and his humble willingness to let others take credit soon earned him a secure but low-key status. His advice was in high demand. As a result, a new influence was noticeable in the daily columns. With his sharp instincts, Banneker sensed this change. It struck him that the paper was becoming strangely more feminine.

“Is it a play for the women?” he asked Severance in the early days of the development.

“Is it a play for women?” he asked Severance in the early days of development.

“No.”

“You’re certainly specializing on femaleness.”

“You're definitely focusing on femininity.”

“For the men. Not the women. It’s an old lure.”

“For the guys. Not the women. It’s an old trick.”

Banneker frowned. “And not a pretty one.”

Banneker frowned. “And definitely not a pretty one.”

“Effective, though. I bagged it from the Police Gazette. Have you ever had occasion to note the almost unvarying cover appeal of that justly popular weekly?”

“Effective, though. I got it from the Police Gazette. Have you ever noticed the almost constant cover appeal of that well-liked weekly?”

“Half-dressed women,” said Banneker, whose early researches had extended even to those levels.

“Half-dressed women,” said Banneker, whose early research had even explored those aspects.

“Exactly. With all they connote. Thereby attracting the crude and roving male eye. Of course, we must do the trick more artistically and less obviously. But the pictured effect is the thing. I’m satisfied of that. By the way, I am having a little difficulty with your art department. Your man doesn’t adapt himself to new ideas.”

“Exactly. With all they imply. This attracts the crude and wandering male gaze. Of course, we need to do it more artistically and less obviously. But the visual impact is what matters. I'm sure of that. By the way, I'm having a bit of trouble with your art department. Your guy doesn’t seem to adjust to new ideas.”

“I’ve thought him rather old-fashioned. What do you want to do?”

“I’ve always found him a bit old-fashioned. What do you want to do?”

“Bring in a young chap named Capron whom I’ve run upon. He used to be an itinerant photographer, and afterward had a try at the movies, but he’s essentially a news man. Let him read the papers for pictures.”

“Bring in a young guy named Capron that I’ve come across. He used to be a traveling photographer and later tried his hand at movies, but he’s basically a news guy. Let him look through the papers for pictures.”

Capron came on the staff as an insignificant member with an insignificant salary. Personally a man of blameless domesticity, he was intellectually and professionally a sex-monger. He conceived the business of a news art department to be to furnish pictured Susannahs for the delectation of the elders of the reading public. His flair for femininity he transferred to The Patriot’s pages, according to a simple and direct formula; the greater the display of woman, the surer the appeal and therefore the sale. Legs and bosoms he specialized for in illustrations. Bathing-suits and boudoir scenes were his particular aim, although any picture with a scandal attachment in the accompanying news would serve, the latter, however, to be handled in such manner as invariably to point a moral. Herein his team work with Severance was applied in high perfection.

Capron joined the team as a low-level employee earning a low salary. Although he had a perfect home life, he was a bit of a womanizer when it came to his work. He believed that the purpose of a news art department was to provide eye-catching images of women for the enjoyment of the older reading audience. He brought his keen sense of femininity to the pages of The Patriot, following a straightforward approach: the more women showcased, the better the appeal and thus the sales. He specialized in illustrations featuring legs and cleavage. His main focus was on bathing suits and intimate moments, although any picture that came with a bit of scandalous news would do, provided that the story was presented in a way that always conveyed a lesson. His collaboration with Severance was executed with remarkable skill.

“Should Our Girls Become Artists’ Models” was one of their early and inspired collaborations, a series begun with a line of “beauty pictures” and spun out by interviews with well or less known painters and illustrators, giving rich opportunity for displays of nudity, the moral being pointed by equally lavish interviews with sociologists and prominent Mothers in Israel. Although at least ninety-nine per cent of all professional posing is such as would not be out of place at a church sociable, the casual reader of the Capron-Severance presentation would have supposed that a lace veil was the extent of the protection allowed to a female model between sheer nakedness and the outer artistic world. Following this came a department devoted (ostensibly) to physical culture for women. It was conducted by the proprietress of a fashionable reducing gymnasium, who was allowed, as this was a comparatively unimportant feature, to supply the text subject to Severance’s touching-up ingenuity; but the models were devised and posed by Capron. They were extremely shapely and increasingly expressive in posture and arrangement until they attained a point where the post-office authorities evinced symptoms of rising excitement—though not the type of excitement at which the Art Expert was aiming—when the series took a turn for the milder, and more purely athletic, and, by the same token, less appetizing; and presently faded away in a burst of semi-editorial self-laudation over The Patriot’s altruistic endeavors to improve the physical status of the “future mothers of the nation.”

“Should Our Girls Become Artists’ Models” was one of their early and creative collaborations, starting with a series of “beauty pictures” and expanded by interviews with both well-known and lesser-known painters and illustrators, providing ample opportunity for displays of nudity, with the moral underscored by equally elaborate interviews with sociologists and prominent mothers in Israel. Although at least ninety-nine percent of all professional posing would fit right in at a church social, the average reader of the Capron-Severance presentation might think that a lace veil was the only form of protection allowed for a female model between complete nudity and the broader artistic world. Following this, there was a section ostensibly focused on physical culture for women. It was run by the owner of a trendy weight-loss gym, who was permitted to supply the text, subject to Severance’s editing skills; however, the models were created and posed by Capron. They were very shapely and increasingly expressive in their poses until they reached a point where the post office authorities showed signs of concern—though not the kind of concern the Art Expert was aiming for—when the series shifted towards a milder, more purely athletic style, which was, by the same token, less appealing; and eventually faded away in a burst of semi-editorial self-congratulation over The Patriot’s altruistic efforts to improve the physical status of the “future mothers of the nation.”

Failing any other excuse for their careful lubricities, the team could always conjure up an enticing special feature from an imaginary foreign correspondent, aimed direct at the family circle and warning against the “Moral Pitfalls of Paris,” or the “Vampires of High Life in Vienna.” The invariable rule was that all sex-stuff must have a moral and virtuous slant. Thus was afforded to the appreciative reader a double satisfaction, physical and ethical, pruriency and piety.

Failing any other excuse for their cautious indulgences, the team could always come up with an appealing special feature from a pretend foreign correspondent, aimed directly at families and warning about the “Moral Pitfalls of Paris” or the “Vampires of High Life in Vienna.” The constant rule was that all sexual content had to have a moral and virtuous angle. This gave the appreciative reader a double satisfaction, both physical and ethical, a mix of curiosity and righteousness.

It was Capron who devised the simple but effective legend which afterward became, in a thousand variants, a stock part of every news item interesting enough to merit graphic treatment, “The X Marks the Spot Where the Body Was Found.” He, too, adapted, from a design in a drug-store window picturing a sponge fisherman in action, the cross-section illustration for news. Within a few weeks he had displaced the outdated art editor and was in receipt of a larger salary than the city editor, who dealt primarily in news, not sensations, panem not circenses.

It was Capron who came up with the simple yet effective headline that eventually became a staple in countless news articles intriguing enough to warrant visual treatment: “The X Marks the Spot Where the Body Was Found.” He also modified a design from a pharmacy window showing a sponge fisherman at work, creating the cross-section illustration for news. Within a few weeks, he had replaced the outdated art editor and was earning a higher salary than the city editor, who focused mainly on news, not sensationalism, panem not circenses.

Sensationalism of other kinds was spurred to keep pace with the sex appeal. The news columns became constantly more lurid. They shrieked, yelled, blared, shrilled, and boomed the scandals and horrors of the moment in multivocal, multigraphic clamor, tainting the peaceful air breathed by everyday people going about their everyday business, with incredible blatancies which would be forgotten on the morrow in the excitement of fresh percussions, though the cumulative effect upon the public mind and appetite might be ineradicable. “Murderer Dabbles Name in Bloody Print.” “Wronged Wife Mars Rival’s Beauty.” “Society Woman Gives Hundred-Dollar-Plate Dinner.” “Scientist Claims Life Flickers in Mummy.” “Cocktails, Wine, Drug, Ruin for Lovely Girl of Sixteen.” “Financier Resigns After Sprightly Scene at Long Beach.” Severance developed a literary genius for excitant and provocative word-combinations in the headings; “Love-Slave,” “Girl-Slasher,” “Passion-Victim,” “Death-Hand,” “Vengeance-Oath,” “Lust-Fiend.” The articles chosen for special display were such as lent themselves, first, to his formula for illustration, and next to captions which thrilled with the sensations of crime, mystery, envy of the rich and conspicuous, or lechery, half concealed or unconcealed. For facts as such he cared nothing. His conception of news was as a peg upon which to hang a sensation. “Love and luxury for the women: money and power for the men,” was his broad working scheme for the special interest of the paper, with, of course, crime and the allure of the flesh for general interest. A jungle man, perusing one day’s issue (supposing him to have been competent to assimilate it), would have judged the civilization pictured therein too grisly for his unaccustomed nerves and fled in horror back to the direct, natural, and uncomplicated raids and homicides of the decent wilds.

Sensationalism of various types grew to match the sex appeal. The news sections got increasingly more shocking. They screamed, shouted, blared, shrieked, and boomed the scandals and horrors of the day in a noisy, chaotic burst, tainting the peaceful atmosphere around everyday people going about their routines with outrageous headlines that would be forgotten by the next day amidst the excitement of new stories, even though their lasting impact on public perception and desire might be impossible to erase. “Murderer’s Name in Blood-Soaked Headlines.” “Betrayed Wife Dents Rival’s Beauty.” “Socialite Hosts Hundred-Dollar-Plate Dinner.” “Scientist Claims Life Flickers in Mummy.” “Cocktails, Wine, Drugs, Ruin for Beautiful 16-Year-Old Girl.” “Financier Resigns After Lively Scene at Long Beach.” Severance developed a knack for catchy and provocative headlines like “Love-Slave,” “Girl-Slasher,” “Passion-Victim,” “Death-Hand,” “Vengeance-Oath,” “Lust-Fiend.” The articles he chose for special display were based on his formula for illustration and captivating captions that stirred feelings related to crime, mystery, envy of the wealthy and famous, or inappropriate desires, whether subtly hinted at or overt. He didn’t care about the facts themselves. His idea of news was just a way to showcase a sensational story. “Love and luxury for women: money and power for men,” was his broad approach for the paper’s special interests, along with crime and the lure of desire for the general audience. A primitive man reading one day’s issue (if he could manage to understand it) would have thought the civilization described within was too gruesome for his unaccustomed sensibilities and would flee in horror back to the straightforward, natural, and uncomplicated raids and murders of the decent wilds.

The Great Gaines, descending for once from the habitual classicism of his phraseology, described The Patriot of Severance’s production in two terse and sufficient words.

The Great Gaines, breaking away for once from his usual formal language, described The Patriot of Severance’s production in two brief and adequate words.

“It itches.”

"It itches."

That itch irked Banneker almost unendurably at times. He longed to be relieved of it; to scratch the irritant Severance clean off the skin of The Patriot. But Severance was too evidently valuable. Banneker did go so far as to protest.

That itch bothered Banneker almost unbearably at times. He wanted to get rid of it; to scratch the annoying Severance clean off the surface of The Patriot. But Severance was clearly too valuable. Banneker even went as far as to object.

“Aren’t you rather overdoing this thing, Severance?”

“Aren’t you really overdoing this, Severance?”

“Which thing? We’re overdoing everything; hence the growth of the paper.”

“Which thing? We’re going overboard on everything; that’s why the paper is getting bigger.”

Banneker fell back upon banality. “Well, we’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

Banneker resorted to a cliché. "Well, we have to set some boundaries."

Severance bestowed upon the other his well-bred and delicate smile. “Exactly my principle. I’m for drawing the line every issue and on every page, if there’s room for it. ‘Nulla dies sine linea.’ The line of appeal to the sensations, whether it’s a pretty face or a caption that jumps out and grabs you by the eye. I want to make ’em gloat.”

Severance gave the other a well-mannered and gentle smile. “That’s exactly my philosophy. I believe in drawing a line on every issue and on every page, if there’s space for it. ‘Nulla dies sine linea.’ It’s about appealing to the senses, whether it's a nice face or a catchy caption that grabs your attention. I want to make them proud.”

“I see. You were in earnest more or less when in our first talk, you defined your profession.”

“I get it. You were pretty serious when we first talked and you explained what you do for a living.”

Severance waved a graceful hand. “Prostitution is the profession of all successful journalism which looks at itself honestly. Why not play the pander frankly?—among ourselves, of course. Perhaps I’m offending you, Mr. Banneker.”

Severance waved a graceful hand. “Prostitution is the profession of all successful journalism that honestly examines itself. Why not just be upfront about it?—among ourselves, of course. Maybe I’m offending you, Mr. Banneker.”

“You’re interesting me. But, ‘among ourselves’ you say. You’re not a newspaper man; you haven’t the traditions.”

“You’re interesting me. But, ‘just between us’ you say. You’re not a reporter; you don’t have the background.”

“Therefore I haven’t the blind spots. I’m not fooled by the sentimentalism of the profession or the sniveling claims of being an apostle of public enlightenment. If enlightenment pays, all very well. But it’s circulation, not illumination, that’s the prime desideratum. Frankly, I’d feed the public gut with all it can and will stand.”

“Therefore, I don’t have any blind spots. I’m not deceived by the sentimentalism in the industry or the whiny claims of being a champion of public knowledge. If enlightenment pays, that’s great. But it’s circulation, not illumination, that really matters. Honestly, I’d give the public whatever they can handle.”

“Even to the extent of keeping the Tallman divorce scandal on the front page for a week consecutively. You won’t pretend that, as news, it’s worth it.”

“Even going so far as to keep the Tallman divorce scandal on the front page for a whole week in a row. You can’t seriously say it’s worth that as news.”

“Give me a definition of news,” retorted the expert. “The Tallman story won’t alter the history of the world. But it has its—well, its specialized value for our purposes.”

“Give me a definition of news,” replied the expert. “The Tallman story won’t change the course of history. But it has its—well, its specific value for what we need.”

“You mean,” said Banneker, deliberately stimulating his own growing nausea, “that it makes the public’s mind itch.”

“You mean,” said Banneker, intentionally heightening his own rising nausea, “that it makes the public’s mind itch.”

“It’s a pretty filthy and scabby sort of animal, the public, Mr. Banneker. We’re not trying to reform its morals in our news columns, I take it.”

“It’s a pretty dirty and rough kind of animal, the public, Mr. Banneker. We’re not trying to change its morals in our news columns, I assume.”

“No. No; we’re not. Still—”

“No. No, we’re not. Still—”

“That’s the province of your editorials,” went on the apostle of titillation smoothly. “You may in time even educate them up to a standard of decency where they won’t demand the sort of thing we’re giving them now. But our present business with the news columns is to catch them for you to educate.”

“That's the job of your editorials,” continued the influencer of excitement smoothly. “You might eventually teach them to a level of decency where they won’t seek the kind of content we’re providing now. But our current task with the news columns is to attract them so you can educate them.”

“Quite so! You lure them into the dive where I wait to preach them a sermon.”

“Exactly! You draw them into the dive where I’ll be ready to give them a speech.”

After that conversation Banneker definitely decided that Severance’s activities must be curbed. But when he set about it, he suffered an unpleasant surprise. Marrineal, thoroughly apprised of the new man’s activities (as he was, by some occult means of his own, of everything going on in the office), stood fast by the successful method, and let Banneker know, tactfully but unmistakably, that Severance, who had been transferred to the regular payroll at a highly satisfactory figure, was to have a free hand. So the ex-religious editor continued to stroll leisurely through his unauthoritative and influential routine, contributing his commentary upon the news as it flowed in. He would saunter over to the make-up man’s clotted desk, run his eye over the dummy of the morrow’s issue, and inquire;

After that conversation, Banneker was sure that Severance’s activities needed to be limited. But when he tried to do something about it, he encountered an unpleasant surprise. Marrineal, who was fully aware of the new guy’s actions (as he seemed to know everything happening in the office through some secret means), firmly supported the current approach and made it clear to Banneker, in a tactful yet direct way, that Severance, now on the regular payroll at a very satisfactory salary, was going to have full freedom. So the former religious editor continued to casually go through his unofficial and influential routine, adding his commentary on the news as it came in. He would wander over to the cluttered desk of the make-up guy, glance at the mock-up for the next issue, and ask;

“Wasn’t there a shooting scrape over a woman in a big West-Side apartment?... Being kept by the chap that was shot, wasn’t she?... Oh, a bank clerk?... Well, that’s a pretty dull-looking seventh page. Why not lift this text of the new Suburban Railways Bill and spread the shooting across three columns? Get Sanderson to work out a diagram and do one of his filmy line drawings of the girl lying on the couch. And let’s be sure to get the word ‘Banker’ into the top head.”

“Wasn’t there a shooting that happened over a woman in a big West Side apartment?... She was dating the guy who got shot, right?... Oh, a bank clerk?... Well, that seventh page looks pretty boring. Why don’t we take this text from the new Suburban Railways Bill and spread the shooting story over three columns? Get Sanderson to create a diagram and do one of his sketchy line drawings of the girl lying on the couch. And let’s make sure to include the word ‘Banker’ in the headline.”

Or he would deliver a practical lecture from a text picked out of what to a less keen-scented news-hound might have appeared an unpromising subject.

Or he would give a practical lecture based on a topic that, to a less perceptive news-hound, might have seemed like an uninteresting subject.

“Can’t we round out that disappearance story a little; the suburban woman who hasn’t been seen since she went to New York three days ago? Get Capron to fake up a picture of the home with the three children in it grouped around Bereaved Husband, and—here, how would something like this do for caption: ‘“Mamma, Mamma! Come Back!” Sob Tiny Tots.’ The human touch. Nothing like a bit of slush to catch the women. And we’ve been going a little shy on sentiment lately.”

“Can’t we flesh out that disappearance story a bit; the suburban woman who hasn’t been seen since she went to New York three days ago? Get Capron to create a fake picture of the home with the three kids gathered around the grieving husband, and—how about a caption like this: ‘“Mom, Mom! Come Back!” Cry the Little Kids.’ The emotional appeal. Nothing like a touch of drama to attract the women. And we’ve been a bit short on sentiment lately.”

The “human touch,” though it became an office joke, also took its place as an unwritten law. Severance’s calm and impersonal cynicism was transmuted into a genuine enthusiasm among the copy-readers. Headlining took on a new interest, whetted by the establishment of a weekly prize for the most attractive caption. Maximum of sensationalism was the invariable test.

The “human touch,” while it became an office joke, also became an unspoken rule. Severance’s calm and detached cynicism transformed into real enthusiasm among the copy-readers. Writing headlines became more engaging, spurred by the creation of a weekly prize for the best caption. The ultimate test was always the level of sensationalism.

Despite his growing distaste for the Severance cult, Banneker was honest enough to admit that the original stimulus dated from the day when he himself had injected his personality and ideas into the various departments of the daily. He had established the new policy; Severance had done no more than inform it with the heated imaginings and provocative pictorial quality inherent in a mind intensely if scornfully apprehensive of the unsatiated potential depravities of public taste. It was Banneker’s hand that had set the strings vibrating to a new tune; Severance had only raised the pitch, to the nth degree of sensationalism. And, in so far as the editorial page gave him a lead, the disciple was faithful to the principles and policies of his chief. The practice of the news columns was always informed by a patently defensible principle. It paeaned the virtues of the poor and lowly; it howled for the blood of the wicked and the oppressor; it was strident for morality, the sanctity of the home, chastity, thrift, sobriety, the People, religion, American supremacy. As a corollary of these pious standards it invariably took sides against wealth and power, sentimentalized every woman who found her way into the public prints, whether she had perpetrated a murder or endowed a hospital, simpered and slavered over any “heart-interest story” of childhood (“blue-eyed tot stuff” was the technical office term), and licked reprehensive but gustful lips over divorce, adultery, and the sexual complications. It peeped through keyholes of print at the sanctified doings of Society and snarled while it groveled. All the shibboleths of a journalism which respected neither itself, its purpose, nor its readers echoed from every page. And this was the reflex of the work and thought of Errol Banneker, who intimately respected himself, and his profession as expressed in himself. There is much of the paradoxical in journalism—as, indeed, in the life which it distortedly mirrors.

Despite his growing dislike for the Severance cult, Banneker was honest enough to admit that the original inspiration came from the day he himself had infused his personality and ideas into the various departments of the daily. He had set the new policy; Severance had merely filled it with the intense, if scornful, imagination and provocative visual style of someone deeply aware of the unfulfilled potential corruptions of public taste. It was Banneker’s influence that had struck a new chord; Severance had just cranked up the volume to the nth degree of sensationalism. Insofar as the editorial page guided him, the disciple remained loyal to the principles and policies of his mentor. The news columns were always backed by a clearly defendable principle. They praised the virtues of the poor and downtrodden; they cried out for justice against the wicked and the oppressors; they were loud supporters of morality, the sanctity of home, chastity, thrift, sobriety, the People, religion, and American supremacy. In line with these pious standards, it consistently took a stand against wealth and power, sentimentalizing every woman who made it into the public eye, whether she had committed murder or funded a hospital, gushing over any “heart-interest story” from childhood (the technical office term was “blue-eyed tot stuff”), and eagerly devouring tales of divorce, adultery, and complicated love lives. It pried into the private lives of Society and growled while it fawned. All the clichés of a journalism that had no respect for itself, its purpose, or its readers echoed from every page. And this was the reflection of the work and thoughts of Errol Banneker, who respected himself and his profession deeply. There’s much that’s paradoxical in journalism—just as there is in the life it often distortedly reflects.

Every other newspaper in town caught the contagion; became by insensible degrees more sensational and pornographic. The Patriot had started a rag-time pace (based on the same fundamental instinct which the rhythm of rag-time expresses, if the psychologists are correct) and the rest must, perforce, adopt it. Such as lagged in this Harlot’s Progress suffered a loss of circulation, journalism’s most condign penalty. For there are certain appetites which, once stimulated, must be appeased. Otherwise business wanes!

Every other newspaper in town caught the trend and gradually became more sensational and risqué. The Patriot had picked up a fast-paced approach (stemming from the same basic instinct that the rhythm of ragtime conveys, if the psychologists are right) and the others had to follow suit. Those that fell behind in this Harlot’s Progress experienced a drop in circulation, which is the harshest penalty in journalism. Because there are certain desires that, once awakened, must be satisfied. Otherwise, business declines!

Out of conscious nothing, as represented by the now moribund News, there was provoked one evening a large, round, middle-aged, smiling, bespectacled apparition who named himself as Rudy Sheffer and invited himself to a job. Marrineal had sent him to Severance, and Severance, ever tactful, had brought him to Banneker. Russell Edmonds being called in, the three sat in judgment upon the Big Idea which Mr. Sheffer had brought with him and which was:

Out of the void of awareness, as reflected by the now fading News, one evening, a large, round, middle-aged, smiling, bespectacled figure appeared, introducing himself as Rudy Sheffer and inviting himself for a job. Marrineal had sent him to Severance, and Severance, always diplomatic, brought him to Banneker. With Russell Edmonds being called in, the three sat to evaluate the Big Idea that Mr. Sheffer had brought with him, which was:

“Give ’em a laugh.”

“Give them a laugh.”

“The potentialities of humor as a circulation agency,” opined Severance in his smoothest academic voice, “have never been properly exploited.”

“The potential of humor as a means of communication,” said Severance in his most polished academic tone, “has never been fully utilized.”

“A laugh on every page where there ain’t a thrill,” pursued Sheffer confidently.

“A laugh on every page where there isn’t a thrill,” Sheffer continued confidently.

“You find some of our pages dull?” asked Banneker, always interested in any new view.

“You think some of our pages are boring?” asked Banneker, always curious about any new perspective.

“Well, your market page ain’t no scream. You gotta admit it.”

“Well, your market page isn’t very impressive. You have to admit that.”

“People don’t usually want to laugh when they’re studying the stock market,” growled Edmonds.

“People generally don’t feel like laughing when they’re studying the stock market,” Edmonds grumbled.

“Surprise ’em, then. Give ’em a jab in the ribs and see how they like it. Pictures. Real comics. Anywhere in the paper that there’s room for em.”

“Surprise them, then. Give them a poke in the side and see how they respond. Images. Real comic strips. Anywhere in the paper where there's space for them.”

“There’s always a cartoon on the editorial page,” pointed out Banneker.

“There’s always a cartoon on the editorial page,” Banneker pointed out.

“Cartoon? What does that get you? A cartoon’s an editorial, ain’t it?”

“Cartoon? What does that get you? A cartoon’s an editorial, right?”

Russell Edmonds shot a side glance at Banneker, meaning: “This is no fool. Watch him.”

Russell Edmonds glanced sideways at Banneker, signaling: “This guy isn’t a fool. Keep an eye on him.”

“Makes ’em think, don’t it?” pursued the visitor. “If it tickles ’em, that’s on the side. It gets after their minds, makes ’em work for what they get. That’s an effort. See?”

“Makes them think, doesn’t it?” the visitor continued. “If it amuses them, that’s a bonus. It challenges their minds, makes them work for what they get. That’s an effort. Understand?”

“All right. What’s your aim?”

“Okay. What’s your goal?”

“Not their brains. I leave that to Mr. Banneker’s editorials. I’m after the laugh that starts down here.” He laid hand upon his rotund waistcoat. “The belly-laugh.”

“Not their brains. I leave that to Mr. Banneker’s editorials. I’m after the laugh that starts down here.” He placed his hand on his round waistcoat. “The belly laugh.”

“The anatomy of anti-melancholy,” murmured Severance. “Valuable.”

“The anatomy of anti-melancholy,” Severance murmured. “Very important.”

“You’re right, it’s valuable,” declared its proponent. “It’s money; that’s what it is. Watch ’em at the movies. When their bellies begin to shake, the picture’s got ’em.”

“You're right, it's valuable,” said its supporter. “It's money; that's what it is. Just watch them at the movies. When their stomachs start to rumble, the film has them hooked.”

“How would you produce this desirable effect?” asked Severance.

“How would you create this desired effect?” asked Severance.

“No trouble to show goods. I’m dealing with gents, I know. This is all under your shirt for the present, if you don’t take up the scheme.”

“No trouble to show products. I’m dealing with gentlemen, I know. This is all between us for now, if you don’t go for the plan.”

From a portfolio which he had set in a corner he produced a sheaf of drawings. They depicted the adventures, mischievous, predatory, or criminal, of a pair of young hopefuls whose physiognomies and postures were genuinely ludicrous.

From a portfolio he had placed in a corner, he took out a collection of drawings. They showed the adventures—playful, sneaky, or illegal—of a couple of young dreamers whose faces and poses were truly ridiculous.

“Did you draw these?” asked Banneker in surprise, for the draughtsmanship was expert.

“Did you draw these?” Banneker asked, surprised, because the artistry was impressive.

“No. Hired a kid artist to do ’em. I furnished the idea.”

“No. I hired a kid artist to do them. I came up with the idea.”

“Oh, you furnished the idea, did you?” queried Edmonds. “And where did you get it?”

“Oh, you came up with the idea, did you?” asked Edmonds. “And where did you get it from?”

With an ineffably satisfied air, Mr. Sheffer tapped his bullet head.

With an incredibly satisfied look, Mr. Sheffer tapped his shiny bald head.

“You must be older than you look, then. Those figures of the kids are redrawn from a last-century German humorous classic, ‘Max und Moritz.’ I used to be crazy over it when I was a youngster. My grandfather brought it to me from Europe, and made a translation for us youngsters.”

“You must be older than you seem, then. Those images of the kids are redrawn from a last-century German comic classic, ‘Max und Moritz.’ I was really into it when I was a kid. My grandfather brought it back from Europe and translated it for us kids.”

“Sure! Those pictures’d make a reformer laugh. I picked up the book in German on an Ann Street sidewalk stand, caught the Big Idea right then and there; to Americanize the stuff and—”

“Sure! Those pictures would make a reformer laugh. I picked up the book in German from a sidewalk stand on Ann Street, got the main idea right then and there; to make the stuff more American and—”

“For ‘Americanize,’ read ‘steal,’” commented Edmonds.

“There ain’t no thin’ crooked in this,” protested the other with sincerity. “The stuff ain’t copyrighted here. I looked that up particularly.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this,” the other insisted genuinely. “This stuff isn’t copyrighted here. I checked that specifically.”

“Quite true, I believe,” confirmed Severance. “It’s an open field.”

“That's definitely true, I think,” Severance agreed. “It's an open field.”

“I got ten series mapped out to start. Call ’em ‘The Trouble-hunter Twins, Ruff and Reddy.’ If they catch on, the artist and me can keep ’em goin’ forever. And they’ll catch.”

“I have ten series planned to kick things off. Let’s call them ‘The Trouble-hunting Twins, Ruff and Reddy.’ If they take off, the artist and I can keep them going indefinitely. And they will take off.”

“I believe they will,” said Severance.

“Smeared across the top of a page it’ll make a business man laugh as hard as a kid. I know business men. I was one, myself. Sold bar fixtures on the road for four years. And my best selling method was the laughs I got out of ’em. Used to take a bit of chalk and do sketches on the table-tops. So I know what makes ’em laugh. Belly-laughs. You make a business man laugh that way, and you get his business. It ain’t circulation alone; it’s advertising that the stuff will bring in. Eh?”

“Smeared across the top of a page, it’ll make a businessman laugh as hard as a kid. I know businessmen. I was one myself. I sold bar fixtures on the road for four years. And my best sales technique was the laughs I got from them. I used to take a piece of chalk and draw sketches on the table-tops. So I know what makes them laugh. Big laughs. If you make a businessman laugh like that, you win his business. It's not just about circulation; it’s about the advertising that brings it in. Right?”

“What do you think, Mr. Banneker?” asked Severance.

“What do you think, Mr. Banneker?” Severance asked.

“It’s worth trying,” decided Banneker after thought. “You don’t think so, do you, Pop?”

“It’s worth a shot,” Banneker decided after some thought. “You don’t think so, do you, Pop?”

“Oh, go ahead!” returned Edmonds, spewing forth a mouthful of smoke as if to expel a bad taste. “What’s larceny among friends?”

“Oh, go for it!” Edmonds replied, blowing out a mouthful of smoke as if trying to get rid of a bad taste. “What’s theft between friends?”

“But we’re not taking anything of value, since there’s no copyright and any one can grab it,” pointed out the smooth Severance.

“But we’re not taking anything of value, since there’s no copyright and anyone can grab it,” pointed out the smooth Severance.

Thus there entered into the high-tension atmosphere of the sensationalized Patriot the relaxing quality of humor. Under the ingenuous and acquisitive Sheffer, whose twins achieved immediate popularity, it developed along other lines. Sheffer—who knew what makes business men laugh—pinned his simple faith to three main subjects, convulsive of the diaphragmatic muscles, building up each series upon the inherent humor to be extracted from physical violence as represented in the perpetrations and punishments of Ruff and Reddy, marital infidelity as mirrored in the stratagems and errancies of an amorous ape with an aged and jealous spouse, and the sure-fire familiarity of aged minstrel jokes (mother-in-law, country constable, young married cookery, and the like) refurbished in pictorial serials through the agency of two uproarious and imbecilic vulgarians, Bonehead and Buttinsky.

So into the charged atmosphere of the sensationalized Patriot came the relief of humor. Under the naïve and eager Sheffer, whose twin characters quickly became popular, it took on a different direction. Sheffer—who understood what makes businesspeople laugh—focused his simple belief on three main topics that got everyone laughing: the inherent humor in physical violence shown in the antics and punishments of Ruff and Reddy, marital cheating depicted through the schemes and mistakes of a lovesick ape with an older, jealous partner, and the reliable familiarity of old minstrel jokes (mother-in-law, rural cop, young married cooking, and so on) revamped in illustrated serials with the help of two laughable and foolish characters, Bonehead and Buttinsky.

Children cried for them, and laughed to exhaustion over them. Not less did the mentally exhausted business man writhe abdominally over their appeal. Spread across the top of three pages they wrung the profitable belly-laugh from growing thousands of new readers. If Banneker sometimes had misgivings that the educational influence of The Patriot was not notably improved by all this instigation of crime and immorality made subject for mirth in the mind of developing youth, he stifled them in the thought of increased reading public for his own columns. Furthermore, it was not his newspaper, anyway.

Children cried for them and laughed until they were exhausted. Similarly, the mentally drained businessman squirmed in reaction to their appeal. Spread across the top of three pages, they drew hearty laughs from thousands of new readers. If Banneker occasionally worried that The Patriot's educational impact was not significantly enhanced by all this encouragement of crime and immorality made into a joke for impressionable youth, he pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the growing readership for his columns. Besides, it wasn't his newspaper, after all.

But the editorial page was still peculiarly his own, and with that clarity of view which he never permitted personal considerations to prejudice, Banneker perceived that it was falling below pitch. Or, rather, that, while it remained static, the rest of the paper, under the stimulus of Severance, Capron, Sheffer, and, in the background but increasingly though subtly assertive, Marrineal, had raised its level of excitation. Change his editorials he would not. Nor was there need; the response to them was too widespread and fervent, their following too blindly fanatic, the opposition roused by them too furious to permit of any doubt as to their effectiveness. But that portion of the page not taken up by his writings and the cartoon (which was often based upon an idea supplied by him), was susceptible of alteration, of keying-up. Casting about him for the popular note, the circus appeal, he started a “signed-article” department of editorial contributions to which he invited any and all persons of prominence in whatever line. The lure of that universal egotism which loves to see itself in the public eye secured a surprising number of names. Propagandists were quick to appreciate the opportunity of The Patriot’s wide circulation for furthering their designs, selfish or altruistic. To such desirables as could not be caught by other lures, Banneker offered generous payment.

But the editorial page was still uniquely his, and with the clear perspective that he never let personal biases affect, Banneker realized that it was falling behind. Or, rather, while it stayed the same, the rest of the paper, energized by Severance, Capron, Sheffer, and, increasingly assertive from the background, Marrineal, had raised its excitement level. He wouldn’t change his editorials, nor was there any need; the response to them was too broad and passionate, their following too blindly devoted, and the opposition they stirred up too furious to doubt their effectiveness. However, the part of the page not occupied by his writings and the cartoon (which was often inspired by him) could be changed, could be energized. Looking around for popular appeal, the circus-like attraction, he started a “signed-article” department for editorial contributions, inviting anyone of note from any field. The allure of that universal self-importance which loves being in the spotlight brought in a surprising number of names. Propagandists quickly realized the chance to use The Patriot’s broad reach to advance their agendas, whether selfish or altruistic. For those who couldn’t be drawn in by other incentives, Banneker offered generous payment.

It was on this latter basis that he secured a prize, in the person of the Reverend George Bland, ex-revivalist, ex-author of pious stories for the young, skilled dealer in truisms, in wordy platitudes couched largely in plagiarized language from the poets and essayists, in all the pseudo-religious slickeries wherewith men’s souls are so easily lulled into self-satisfaction. The Good, the True, the Beautiful; these were his texts, but the real god of his worship was Success. This, under the guise of Duty (“man’s God-inspired ambition to be true to his best possibilities”), he preached day in and day out through his “Daily Help” in The Patriot: Be guided by me and you will be good: Be good and you will be prosperous: Be prosperous and you will be happy. On an adjoining page there were other and far more specific instructions as to how to be prosperous and happy, by backing Speedfoot at 10 to 1 in the first race, or Flashaway at 5 to 2 in the third. Sometimes the Reverend Bland inveighed convincingly against the evils of betting. Yet a cynic might guess that the tipsters’ recipes for being prosperous and happy (and therefore, by a logical inversion, good) were perhaps as well based and practical as the reverend moralist’s. His correspondence, surest indication of editorial following, grew to be almost as large as Banneker’s. Severance nicknamed him “the Oracle of Boobs,” and for short he became known as the “Booblewarbler,” for there were times when he burst into verse, strongly reminiscent of the older hymnals. This he resented hotly and genuinely, for he was quite sincere; as sincere as Sheffer, in his belief in himself. But he despised Sheffer and feared Severance, not for what the latter represented, but for the cynical honesty of his attitude. In retort for Severance’s stab, he dubbed the pair Mephistopheles and Falstaff, which was above his usual felicitousness of characterization. Sheffer (who read Shakespeare to improve his mind, and for ideas!) was rather flattered.

It was on this basis that he landed a prize, in the form of the Reverend George Bland, a former revivalist and ex-author of inspirational stories for kids. He was a master of common truths and wordy clichés filled with language largely copied from poets and essayists, using all the fake religious smooth talk that easily lulls people into self-satisfaction. The Good, the True, the Beautiful; those were his main messages, but the real god he worshipped was Success. Under the pretense of Duty (“man’s God-inspired ambition to be true to his best possibilities”), he preached day in and day out through his “Daily Help” in The Patriot: Follow my lead, and you’ll be good: Be good, and you’ll be successful: Be successful, and you’ll be happy. On the next page, there were more specific instructions on how to be successful and happy, like betting on Speedfoot at 10 to 1 in the first race or Flashaway at 5 to 2 in the third. Sometimes, Reverend Bland passionately spoke out against the evils of gambling. Yet, a cynic might think that the tipsters’ advice on being prosperous and happy (and thus, logically speaking, good) was just as well-founded and practical as the reverend moralist’s. His correspondence, a clear sign of editorial popularity, grew to be almost as extensive as Banneker’s. Severance nicknamed him “the Oracle of Boobs,” and for short, he became known as the “Booblewarbler,” as he sometimes broke into verses reminiscent of older hymnals. He was genuinely upset by this, as he was quite sincere; as sincere as Sheffer in his belief in himself. However, he looked down on Sheffer and feared Severance, not because of what Severance represented, but due to the cynical honesty of his attitude. In response to Severance’s jab, he called the pair Mephistopheles and Falstaff, which showed he could be clever with characterization. Sheffer (who read Shakespeare to better himself and find ideas!) was rather flattered.

Even the platitudinous Bland had his practical inspirations; if they had not been practical, they would not have been Bland’s. One of these was an analysis of the national business character.

Even the overly simple Bland had his practical ideas; if they hadn't been practical, they wouldn't have been Bland's. One of these was an analysis of the national business character.

“We Americans,” he wrote, “are natural merchandisers. We care less for the making of a thing than for the selling of it. Salesmanship is the great American game. It calls forth all our native genius; it is the expression of our originality, our inventiveness, our ingenuity, our idealism,” and so on, for a full column slathered with deadly and self-betraying encomiums. For the Reverend Bland believed heartily that the market was the highest test of humankind. He would rather sell a thing than make it! In fact, anything made with any other purpose than to sell would probably not be successful, and would fail to make its author prosperous; therefore it must be wrong. Not the creator, but the salesman was the modern evangel.

“We Americans,” he wrote, “are natural merchants. We care more about selling something than about making it. Salesmanship is the ultimate American pastime. It brings out all our native talent; it reflects our originality, inventiveness, ingenuity, and idealism,” and he went on like this for a full column filled with flattering yet revealing praise. The Reverend Bland truly believed that the marketplace was the ultimate measure of humanity. He would rather sell something than create it! In fact, anything made with a purpose other than selling would likely not succeed and wouldn’t make its creator wealthy; therefore, it must be wrong. Not the creator, but the salesperson was the modern prophet.

“The Booblewarbler has given away the game,” commented Severance with his slight, ironic smile, the day when this naive effusion appeared. “He’s right, of course. But he thinks he’s praising when he’s damning.”

“The Booblewarbler has revealed the truth,” Severance remarked with his subtle, ironic smile on the day this naive outburst was published. “He’s correct, of course. But he believes he’s complimenting when he’s actually criticizing.”

Banneker was disturbed. But the flood of letters which came in promptly reassured him. The Reverend editorializer was hailed broadcast as the Messiah of the holy creed of Salesmanship, of the high cult of getting rid of something for more than it is worth. He was organized into a lecture tour; his department in the paper waxed ever greater. Banneker, with his swift appreciation of a hit, followed the lead with editorials; hired authors to write short stories glorifying the ennobled figure of the Salesman, his smartness, his strategy, his ruthless trickery, his success. And the salesmanhood of the nation, in trains, in hotel lobbies, at the breakfast table with its Patriot propped up flanking the egg and coffee, rose up to call him blessed and to add to his income.

Banneker was troubled. But the avalanche of letters that came in quickly reassured him. The Reverend editorial writer was celebrated far and wide as the Savior of the sacred doctrine of Salesmanship, part of the high art of selling something for more than it's worth. He was set up for a lecture tour; his section in the newspaper grew bigger and bigger. Banneker, with his quick understanding of a success, followed suit with editorials; he hired writers to produce short stories that praised the heroic figure of the Salesman, highlighting his cleverness, strategy, ruthless tactics, and achievements. And the salespeople across the country, in trains, in hotel lobbies, at the breakfast table with their newspapers alongside their eggs and coffee, rose up to honor him and boost his income.

Personal experiences in achieving success were a logical sequence to this; success in any field, from running a city as set forth by His Honor the Mayor, to becoming a movie star, by all the movie stars or aspirants whom their press-agents could crowd into the paper. A distinguished novelist of notably high blood-pressure contributed a series of thoughtful essays on “How to be Irresistible in Love,” and a sentimental pugilist indulged in reminiscences (per a hired pen from the cheap magazine field) upon “The Influence of my Mother on my Career.” An imitator of Banneker developed a daily half-column of self-improvement and inspiration upon moral topics, achieving his effects by capitalizing all the words which otherwise would have been too feeble or banal to attract notice, thereby giving an air of sublimated importance to the mildly incomprehensible. Nine tenths of The Patriot’s editorial readers believed that they were following a great philosopher along the path of the eternal profundities. To give a touch of science, an amateur astronomer wrote stirring imaginative articles on interstellar space, and there were occasional “authoritative” pronouncements by men of importance in the political, financial, or intellectual worlds, lifted from public speeches or old publications. The page, if it did not actually itch, buzzed and clanged. But above the composite clamor rose ever the voice of Banneker, clear, serene, compelling.

Personal experiences in achieving success created a logical progression to this; success in any area, from managing a city as outlined by the Mayor, to becoming a movie star, represented by all the actors or hopefuls their publicists could fit into the paper. A well-known novelist with notably high blood pressure wrote a series of insightful essays called “How to Be Irresistible in Love,” and a sentimental boxer shared memories (through a ghostwriter from a low-budget magazine) about “The Influence of My Mother on My Career.” An imitator of Banneker penned a daily half-column on self-improvement and inspiration regarding moral issues, making it impactful by capitalizing all the words that would otherwise have seemed too weak or ordinary to catch attention, thus giving an air of inflated significance to the somewhat confusing. Nine-tenths of The Patriot’s editorial readers thought they were following a great philosopher on the path to eternal truths. To add a hint of science, an amateur astronomer wrote exciting imaginative pieces on interstellar space, and there were occasional “authoritative” statements from notable individuals in the political, financial, or intellectual spheres, taken from public speeches or old publications. The page, if it didn't actually itch, buzzed and clanged. But above the mixed noise, the voice of Banneker rose, clear, calm, and compelling.

And Banneker took his pay for it, deeming it well earned.

And Banneker accepted his payment for it, thinking it was well deserved.

CHAPTER V

Life was broadening out before Banneker into new and golden persuasions. He had become a person of consequence, a force to be reckoned with, in the great, unheeding city. By sheer resolute thinking and planning, expressed and fulfilled in unsparing labor, he had made opportunity lead to opportunity until his position was won. He was courted, sought after, accepted by representative people of every sort, their interest and liking answering to his broad but fine catholicity of taste in human relationships. If he had no intimates other than Russell Edmonds, it was because he felt no need of them.

Life was expanding for Banneker, opening up new and exciting possibilities. He had become an important figure, someone influential, in the vast, indifferent city. Through determined thinking and planning, combined with hard work, he had turned one opportunity into another until he achieved his success. People of all kinds sought him out, attracted to his broad yet refined approach to human connections. If he had no close friends besides Russell Edmonds, it was simply because he didn't feel the need for anyone else.

He had found Io again.

He found Io again.

Prophecies had all failed in the matter of his rise. He thought, with pardonable exultation, of how he had confuted them, one after another. Cressey had doubted that one could be at the same time a successful journalist and a gentleman; Horace Vanney had deemed individuality inconsistent with newspaper writing; Tommy Burt and other jejune pessimists of the craft had declared genuine honesty incompatible with the higher and more authoritative phases of the profession. Almost without set plan and by an inevitable progress, as it now seemed to him, he had risen to the most conspicuous, if not yet the most important, position on Park Row, and had suffered no conscious compromise of standards, whether of self-respect, self-assertion, or honor.

Prophecies had all failed regarding his rise. He thought, with justifiable pride, of how he had proven them wrong, one after another. Cressey had doubted that someone could be both a successful journalist and a gentleman; Horace Vanney believed individuality didn’t fit with newspaper writing; Tommy Burt and other naive pessimists in the field argued that genuine honesty was incompatible with the more elevated and authoritative aspects of the profession. Almost without a clear plan and through what now seemed like an inevitable journey, he had ascended to the most visible, if not yet the most important, position on Park Row, and had not sacrificed any of his standards—whether it be self-respect, self-assertion, or honor.

Had he ever allowed monetary considerations seriously to concern him, he might have been troubled by an untoward and not easily explicable phenomenon. His bank account consistently failed to increase in ratio to his earnings. In fact, what with tempting investments, the importunities of a highly luxurious taste in life hitherto unsuspected, and an occasional gambling flyer, his balance was precarious, so to speak. With the happy optimism of one to whom the rosy present casts an intensified glow upon the future, he confidently anticipated a greatly and steadily augmented income, since the circulation of The Patriot was now the terror of its rivals. That any radical alteration could be made in his method of recompense did not occur to him. So completely had he identified himself with The Patriot that he subconsciously regarded himself as essential to its prosperity if not to its actual existence. Therein he was supported by all the expert opinion of Park Row. Already he had accepted one modification of his contract, and his takings for new circulation were now twenty-five cents per unit per year instead of fifty cents as formerly.

If he had ever let money concerns really bother him, he might have been worried by a strange and hard-to-explain situation. His bank account never seemed to grow in line with his earnings. In fact, between tempting investments, the pressures of a lifestyle he’d never realized he wanted, and the occasional gamble, his balance was, shall we say, shaky. With the optimistic outlook of someone who sees a bright present casting a rosy light on the future, he confidently expected his income to grow significantly and steadily, as the circulation of The Patriot had become a nightmare for its competitors. The thought that any major change might be made to how he was paid didn’t even cross his mind. He had so completely linked himself to The Patriot that he subconsciously saw himself as vital to its success, if not its very survival. He was backed up in this belief by all the expert opinion from Park Row. He had already accepted one change to his contract, and his earnings for new circulation were now twenty-five cents per unit per year instead of fifty cents like before.

But Tertius Marrineal and his business manager, a shrewd and practical gentleman named Haring, had done a vast deal of expert figuring, as a result of which the owner strolled into his editor’s office one noon with his casual air of having nothing else to do, and pleasantly inquired:

But Tertius Marrineal and his business manager, a smart and practical guy named Haring, had done a lot of expert calculations. As a result, the owner walked into his editor’s office one afternoon with a relaxed attitude as if he had nothing else going on, and casually asked:

“Busy?”

"Are you busy?"

“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be worth much,” returned Banneker, in a cheerful tone.

“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be worth much,” Banneker replied cheerfully.

“Well, if you can spare me fifteen minutes—”

“Well, if you can give me fifteen minutes—”

“Sit down.” Banneker swiveled his chair to face the other.

“Sit down.” Banneker turned his chair to face the other person.

“I needn’t tell you that the paper is a success; a big success,” began Marrineal.

“I don’t need to tell you that the paper is a success; a huge success,” began Marrineal.

“You needn’t. But it’s always pleasant to hear.”

“You don’t have to. But it’s always nice to hear.”

“Possibly too big a success. What would you say to letting circulation drop for a while?”

“Maybe it's too much of a success. How about we let the circulation decline for a bit?”

“What!” Banneker felt a momentary queer sensation near the pit of his stomach. If the circulation dropped, his income followed it. But could Marrineal be serious?

“What!” Banneker felt a brief, strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. If his circulation dropped, his income would drop too. But could Marrineal actually be serious?

“The fact is we’ve reached the point where more circulation is a luxury. We’re printing an enormous paper, and wood-pulp prices are going up. If we could raise our advertising rates;—but Mr. Haring thinks that three raises a year is all the traffic will bear. The fact is, Mr. Banneker, that the paper isn’t making money. We’ve run ahead of ourselves. You’re swallowing all the profits.”

“The truth is we’ve gotten to a place where more circulation is a luxury. We’re printing a huge paper, and prices for wood pulp are increasing. If we could boost our advertising rates;—but Mr. Haring believes that three price increases a year is all the market can handle. The reality is, Mr. Banneker, that the paper isn’t profitable. We’ve gotten ahead of ourselves. You’re consuming all the profits.”

Banneker’s inner voice said warningly to Banneker, “So that’s it.” Banneker’s outer voice said nothing.

Banneker’s inner voice warned him, “So that’s how it is.” Banneker’s outer voice remained silent.

“Then there’s the matter of advertising. Your policy is not helping us much there.”

“Then there’s the issue of advertising. Your policy isn’t really helping us with that.”

“The advertising is increasing.”

“Advertising is on the rise.”

“Not in proportion to circulation. Nothing like.”

“Not in proportion to circulation. Nothing at all like it.”

“If the proper ratio isn’t maintained, that is the concern of the advertising department, isn’t it?”

“If the right balance isn’t kept, that’s the advertising department’s issue, right?”

“Very much the concern. Will you talk with Mr. Haring about it?”

“It's definitely a concern. Will you speak with Mr. Haring about it?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

Early in Banneker’s editorship it had been agreed that he should keep free of any business or advertising complications. Experience and the warnings of Russell Edmonds had told him that the only course of editorial independence lay in totally ignoring the effect of what he might write upon the profits and prejudices of the advertisers, who were, of course, the principal support of the paper. Furthermore, Banneker heartily despised about half of the advertising which the paper carried; dubious financial proffers, flamboyant mercantile copy of diamond dealers, cheap tailors, installment furniture profiteers, the lure of loan sharks and race-track tipsters, and the specious and deadly fallacies of the medical quacks. Appealing as it did to an ignorant and “easy” class of the public (“Banneker’s First-Readers,” Russell Edmonds was wont to call them), The Patriot offered a profitable field for all the pitfall-setters of print. The less that Banneker knew about them the more comfortable would he be. So he turned his face away from those columns.

Early in Banneker’s time as editor, it was agreed that he would avoid any business or advertising issues. His experience and warnings from Russell Edmonds made it clear that true editorial independence meant completely disregarding how his writing might affect the profits and biases of advertisers, who were, of course, the paper's main source of income. Additionally, Banneker strongly disliked about half of the ads in the paper; suspicious financial offers, flashy ads from diamond dealers, low-quality tailors, predatory furniture sellers, the temptation of loan sharks and racetrack tipsters, and the misleading and dangerous claims of quack doctors. The Patriot, appealing as it did to an uninformed and "easy" audience (which Russell Edmonds referred to as "Banneker’s First-Readers"), presented a lucrative opportunity for all kinds of deceitful advertisers. The less Banneker knew about them, the more at ease he felt. So he looked away from those sections.

The negative which he returned to Marrineal’s question was no more or less than that astute gentleman expected.

The negative he gave to Marrineal's question was exactly what that sharp gentleman anticipated.

“We carried an editorial last week on cigarettes, ‘There’s a Yellow Stain on Your Boy’s Fingers—Is There Another on his Character?’”

“We published an editorial last week about cigarettes, ‘There’s a Yellow Stain on Your Boy’s Fingers—Is There Another on His Character?’”

“Yes. It is still bringing in letters.”

“Yes. It’s still receiving letters.”

“It is. Letters of protest.”

“Yep. Protest letters.”

“From the tobacco people?”

"From the tobacco companies?"

“Exactly. Mr. Banneker, don’t you regard tobacco as a legitimate article of use?”

“Exactly. Mr. Banneker, don’t you see tobacco as a legitimate product?”

“Oh, entirely. Couldn’t do without it, myself.”

“Oh, totally. I couldn't manage without it, personally.”

“Why attack it, then, in your column?”

“Why criticize it, then, in your article?”

“Because my column,” answered Banneker with perceptible emphasis on the possessive, “doesn’t believe that cigarettes are good for boys.”

“Because my column,” answered Banneker with clear emphasis on the possessive, “doesn’t think that cigarettes are good for boys.”

“Nobody does. But the effect of your editorial is to play into the hands of the anti-tobacco people. It’s an indiscriminate onslaught on all tobacco. That’s the effect of it.”

“Nobody does. But your editorial ends up supporting the anti-tobacco people. It’s a blanket attack on all tobacco. That’s the end result.”

“Possibly.”

"Maybe."

“And the result is that the tobacco people are threatening to cut us off from their new advertising appropriation.”

“And the result is that the tobacco companies are threatening to cut us off from their new advertising budget.”

“Out of my department,” said Banneker calmly.

“Out of my department,” Banneker said calmly.

Marrineal was a patient man. He pursued. “You have offended the medical advertisers by your support of the so-called Honest Label Bill.”

Marrineal was a patient man. He continued, “You’ve upset the medical advertisers by backing the so-called Honest Label Bill.”

“It’s a good bill.”

“It’s a great bill.”

“Nearly a quarter of our advertising revenue is from the patent-medicine people.”

“Almost a quarter of our ad revenue comes from the patent-medicine companies.”

“Mostly swindlers.”

“Mostly con artists.”

“They pay your salary,” Marrineal pointed out.

“They're the ones who pay your salary,” Marrineal pointed out.

“Not mine,” said Banneker vigorously. “The paper pays my salary.”

“Not mine,” Banneker said firmly. “The paper pays my salary.”

“Without the support of the very advertisers that you are attacking, it couldn’t continue to pay it. Yet you decline to admit any responsibility to them.”

“Without the support of the exact advertisers you’re criticizing, it wouldn’t be able to keep funding it. Yet you refuse to acknowledge any responsibility to them.”

“Absolutely. To them or for them.”

“Definitely. To them or for them.”

“I confess I can’t see your basis,” said the reasonable Marrineal. “Considering what you have received in income from the paper—”

“I have to admit I don't see your reasoning,” said the sensible Marrineal. “Given what you've earned from the paper—”

“I have worked for it.”

“I’ve worked for it.”

“Admitted. But that you should absorb practically all the profits—isn’t that a little lopsided, Mr. Banneker?”

“Okay, I get it. But shouldn’t you be taking most of the profits—doesn’t that seem a bit unfair, Mr. Banneker?”

“What is your proposition, Mr. Marrineal?”

“What’s your proposal, Mr. Marrineal?”

Marrineal put his long, delicate fingers together, tip to tip before his face, and appeared to be carefully reckoning them up. About the time when he might reasonably have been expected to have audited the total and found it to be the correct eight with two supplementary thumbs, he ejaculated:

Marrineal brought his long, delicate fingers together, tips touching in front of his face, and seemed to be counting them thoughtfully. Just when he should have finished counting and realized it was the correct eight with two extra thumbs, he suddenly exclaimed:

“Coöperation.”

"Cooperation."

“Between the editorial page and the advertising department?”

“Between the editorial page and the ads department?”

“Perhaps I should have said profit-sharing. I propose that in lieu of our present arrangement, based upon a percentage on a circulation which is actually becoming a liability instead of an asset, we should reckon your salary on a basis of the paper’s net earnings.” As Banneker, sitting with thoughtful eyes fixed upon him, made no comment, he added: “To show that I do not underestimate your value to the paper, I propose to pay you fifteen per cent of the net earnings for the next three years. By the way, it won’t be necessary hereafter, for you to give any time to the news or Sunday features.”

“Maybe I should have mentioned profit-sharing. I suggest that instead of our current setup, which is based on a percentage of circulation that’s actually becoming more of a burden than a benefit, we should base your salary on the paper’s net earnings.” Since Banneker, sitting there with a thoughtful gaze fixed on him, didn’t respond, he continued: “To show that I recognize your importance to the paper, I’m offering you fifteen percent of the net earnings for the next three years. By the way, you won’t need to spend any more time on the news or Sunday features.”

“No. You’ve got out of me about all you could on that side,” observed Banneker.

“No. You’ve gotten about all you can from me on that topic,” Banneker said.

“The policy is established and successful, thanks largely to you. I would be the last to deny it.”

“The policy is in place and working well, mainly because of you. I wouldn’t deny that for a second.”

“What do you reckon as my probable income under the proposed arrangement?”

"What do you think my expected income would be under the proposed arrangement?"

“Of course,” answered the proprietor apologetically, “it would be somewhat reduced this year. If our advertising revenue increases, as it naturally should, your percentage might easily rise above your earnings under the old arrangement.”

“Of course,” the owner replied apologetically, “it would be a bit lower this year. If our advertising revenue goes up, as it naturally should, your share might easily surpass what you were earning under the old agreement.”

“I see,” commented Banneker thoughtfully. “You propose to make it worth my while to walk warily. As the pussy foots it, so to speak.”

“I get it,” Banneker said thoughtfully. “You want to make it worth my while to tread carefully. Like a cat, so to speak.”

“I ask you to recognize the fairness of the proposition that you conduct your column in the best interests of the concern—which, under the new arrangement, would also be your own best interests.”

“I ask you to see the fairness of the idea that you run your column in the best interests of the company—which, under the new setup, would also be in your own best interests.”

“Clear. Limpidly clear,” murmured Banneker. “And if I decline the new basis, what is the alternative?”

“Clear. Perfectly clear,” murmured Banneker. “And if I reject the new terms, what are my options?”

“Cut down circulation, and with it, loss.”

“Reduce circulation, and you’ll also face loss.”

“And the other, the real alternative?” queried the imperturbable Banneker.

“And what about the other option, the real alternative?” asked the calm Banneker.

Marrineal smiled, with a touch of appeal in his expression.

Marrineal smiled, his expression slightly charming.

“Frankness is best, isn’t it?” propounded the editor. “I don’t believe, Mr. Marrineal, that this paper can get along without me. It has become too completely identified with my editorial idea. On the other hand, I can get along without it.”

“Being straightforward is the best way, don’t you think?” the editor suggested. “I don’t think, Mr. Marrineal, that this paper can manage without me. It has become too closely tied to my editorial vision. On the flip side, I can manage without it.”

“By accepting the offer of the Mid-West Evening Syndicate, beginning at forty thousand a year?”

“By accepting the offer from the Mid-West Evening Syndicate, starting at forty thousand a year?”

“You’re well posted,” said Banneker, startled.

"You’re well-informed," Banneker said, surprised.

“Of necessity. What would you suppose?”

“Of course. What do you think?”

“Your information is fairly accurate.”

“Your information is pretty accurate.”

“I’m prepared to make you a guarantee of forty thousand, as a minimum.”

“I’m ready to guarantee you at least forty thousand.”

“I shall make nearer sixty than fifty this year.”

“I'll be closer to sixty than fifty this year.”

“At the expense of a possible loss to the paper. Come, Mr. Banneker; the fairness of my offer is evident. A generous guarantee, and a brilliant chance of future profits.”

“At the risk of a potential loss to the paper. Come on, Mr. Banneker; the fairness of my offer is clear. A generous assurance and an excellent opportunity for future profits.”

“And a free hand with my editorials?”

“Full autonomy with my editorials?”

“Surely that will arrange itself.”

"That will work itself out."

“Precisely what I fear.” Banneker had been making some swift calculations on his desk-blotter. Now he took up a blue pencil and with a gesture, significant and not without dramatic effect, struck it down through the reckoning. “No, Mr. Marrineal. It isn’t good enough. I hold to the old status. When our contract is out—”

“Exactly what I’m worried about.” Banneker had been doing some quick calculations on his desk blotter. Now he picked up a blue pencil and, with a gesture that was both meaningful and somewhat dramatic, struck it down through the calculations. “No, Mr. Marrineal. It’s not good enough. I’m sticking to the old terms. When our contract is up—”

“Just a moment, Mr. Banneker. Isn’t there a French proverb, something about no man being as indispensable as he thinks?” Marrineal’s voice was never more suave and friendly. “Before you make any final decision, look these over.” He produced from his pocket half a dozen of what appeared to be Patriot editorial clippings.

“Just a moment, Mr. Banneker. Isn’t there a French saying about how no man is as essential as he believes?” Marrineal’s voice was smoother and friendlier than ever. “Before you make any final decision, take a look at these.” He pulled out half a dozen editorial clippings from the Patriot from his pocket.

The editor of The Patriot glanced rapidly through them. A puzzled frown appeared on his face.

The editor of The Patriot quickly scanned them. A confused frown formed on his face.

“When did I write these?”

“When did I write this?”

“You didn’t.”

"You didn't."

“Who did?”

"Who?"

“I”

“They’re dam’ good.”

“They’re really good.”

“Aren’t they!”

"Aren't they?!"

“Also, they’re dam’ thievery.”

“Also, they’re damn thieves.”

“Doubtless you mean flattery. In its sincerest form. Imitation.”

“Surely you mean flattery. In its most genuine form. Imitation.”

“Perfect. I could believe I’d written them myself.”

“Perfect. I can totally believe I wrote them myself.”

“Yes; I’ve been a very careful student of The Patriot’s editorial style.”

“Yes; I’ve been a very attentive student of The Patriot’s editorial style.”

“The Patriot’s! Mine!”

“Mine, Patriot's!”

“Surely not. You would hardly contend seriously that, having paid the longest price on record for the editorials, The Patriot has not a vested right in them and their style.”

“Definitely not. You can’t honestly argue that, after paying the highest price ever for the editorials, The Patriot doesn’t have a legitimate claim to them and their style.”

“I see,” said Banneker thoughtfully. Inwardly he cursed himself for the worst kind of a fool; the fool who underestimates the caliber of his opponent.

“I see,” Banneker said, thinking hard. Inside, he cursed himself for being the worst type of fool; the fool who underestimates the strength of his opponent.

“Would you say,” continued the smooth voice of the other, “that these might be mistaken for your work?”

“Would you say,” continued the smooth voice of the other, “that these could be confused with your work?”

“Nobody would know the difference. It’s robbery of the rankest kind. But it’s infernally clever.”

“Nobody would notice the difference. It’s a really low-life kind of robbery. But it’s incredibly clever.”

“I’m not going to quarrel with you over a definition, Mr. Banneker,” said Marrineal. He leaned a little forward with a smile so frank and friendly that it quite astonished the other. “And I’m not going to let you go, either,” he pursued. “You need me and I need you. I’m not fool enough to suppose that the imitation can ever continue to be as good as the real thing. We’ll make it a fifty thousand guarantee, if you say so. And, as for your editorial policy—well, I’ll take a chance on your seeing reason. After all, there’s plenty of earth to prance on without always treading on people’s toes.... Well, don’t decide now. Take your time to it.” He rose and went to the door. There he turned, flapping the loose imitations in his hands.

“I’m not going to argue with you about a definition, Mr. Banneker,” Marrineal said. He leaned a bit forward with a smile that was so open and friendly it surprised the other man. “And I’m not letting you go, either,” he continued. “You need me, and I need you. I’m not naive enough to think that imitation can ever be as good as the real thing. Let’s make it a fifty-thousand guarantee, if you’re on board with that. As for your editorial policy—well, I’ll take a chance that you’ll come around. After all, there’s plenty of space to enjoy without always stepping on people’s toes... Well, don’t rush your decision. Take your time.” He stood up and walked to the door. There, he turned, waving the loose imitations in his hands.

“Banneker,” he said chuckling, “aren’t they really dam’ good!” and vanished.

“Banneker,” he said, chuckling, “aren’t they really great!” and disappeared.

In that moment Banneker felt a surge of the first real liking he had ever known for his employer. Marrineal had been purely human for a flash.

In that moment, Banneker felt a wave of genuine affection for his employer for the first time. Marrineal had been completely human, if only for an instant.

Nevertheless, in the first revulsion after the proprietor had left, Banneker’s unconquered independence rose within him, jealous and clamant. He felt repressions, claims, interferences potentially closing in upon his pen, also an undefined dread of the sharply revealed overseer. That a force other than his own mind and convictions should exert pressure, even if unsuccessful, upon his writings, was intolerable. Better anything than that. The Mid-West Syndicate, he knew, would leave him absolutely untrammeled. He would write the general director at once.

Nevertheless, right after the owner had left, Banneker's unyielding independence surged within him, feeling both protective and demanding. He sensed pressures, claims, and intrusions potentially closing in on his writing, along with a vague fear of the distinctly outlined overseer. The idea that a force beyond his own thoughts and beliefs could influence his work, even if it didn’t succeed, was unbearable. Anything would be better than that. He knew the Mid-West Syndicate would allow him complete freedom. He would write to the general director immediately.

In the act of beginning the letter, the thought struck and stunned him that this would mean leaving New York. Going to live in a Middle-Western city, a thousand miles outside of the orbit in which moved Io Eyre!

In the act of starting the letter, he was hit with the realization that this meant leaving New York. Moving to a city in the Midwest, a thousand miles away from the circle where Io Eyre lived!

He left the letter unfinished, and the issue to the fates.

He left the letter unfinished and the outcome up to fate.

CHAPTER VI

Put to the direct question, as, for example, on the witness stand, Mr. Ely Ives would, before his connection with Tertius Marrineal, have probably identified himself as a press-agent. In that capacity he had acted, from time to time, for a railroad with many axes to grind, a widespread stock-gambling enterprise, a minor political ring, a liquor combination, and a millionaire widow from the West who innocently believed that publicity, as manipulated by Mr. Ives, could gain social prestige for her in the East.

When directly asked, like on the witness stand, Mr. Ely Ives would likely have identified himself as a publicist before his association with Tertius Marrineal. In that role, he had occasionally worked for a railroad with various interests, a large stock-trading operation, a small political group, a liquor business, and a wealthy widow from the West who naively thought that the publicity generated by Mr. Ives could elevate her social status in the East.

In every phase of his employment, the ex-medical student had gathered curious and valuable lore. In fact he was one of those acquisitive persons who collect and hoard scandals, a miser of private and furtive information. His was the zeal of the born collector; something of the genius, too: he boasted a keen instinct. In his earlier and more precarious days he had formed the habit of watching for and collating all possible advices concerning those whom he worked for or worked against and branching from them to others along radiating lines of business, social, or family relationships. To him New York was a huge web, of sinister and promising design, dim, involved, too often impenetrable in the corners where the big spiders spin. He had two guiding maxims: “It may come in handy some day,” and “They’ll all bear watching.” Before the prosperous time, he had been, in his devotion to his guiding principles, a practitioner of the detective arts in some of their least savory phases; had haunted doorsteps, lurked upon corners, been rained upon, snowed upon, possibly spat upon, even arrested; all of which he accepted, mournful but uncomplaining. One cannot whole-heartedly serve an ideal and come off scatheless. He was adroit, well-spoken, smooth of surface, easy of purse, untiring, supple, and of an inexhaustible good-humor. It was from the ex-medical student that Marrineal had learned of Banneker’s offer from the Syndicate, also of his over-prodigal hand in money matters.

In every stage of his job, the former medical student had collected interesting and valuable information. In fact, he was one of those people who gather and hoard scandals, a miser when it comes to private and secretive information. He had the enthusiasm of a natural collector; there was something genius about him as well: he had a sharp instinct. During his earlier and more uncertain days, he had developed the habit of keeping an eye out for and compiling all possible information regarding those he worked for or against, branching out to others through various business, social, or family connections. To him, New York was a massive web, both dark and promising, often complicated and hard to navigate in corners where the big spiders spun. He operated by two guiding principles: “It might be useful someday,” and “They’re all worth keeping an eye on.” Before he became successful, he had wholeheartedly dedicated himself to his guiding principles by practicing detective work in some less than savory aspects; he had waited on doorsteps, lurked around corners, braved rain and snow, possibly faced spitting insults, and even got arrested—all of which he accepted, sorrowful but without complaint. You can't fully commit to an ideal without facing some consequences. He was skillful, articulate, smooth on the surface, financially comfortable, tireless, adaptable, and always in good spirits. It was from the former medical student that Marrineal learned about Banneker’s offer from the Syndicate, as well as his overly generous spending habits.

“He’s got to have the cash,” was the expert’s opinion upon Banneker. “There’s your hold on him.... Quit? No danger. New York’s in his blood. He’s in love with life, puppy-love; his clubs, his theater first-nights, his invitations to big houses which he seldom accepts, big people coming to his House with Three Eyes. And, of course, his sense of power in the paper. No; he won’t quit. How could he? He’ll compromise.”

“He needs to have the cash,” was the expert’s opinion on Banneker. “That’s what gives you leverage over him... Quit? Not a chance. New York is in his blood. He’s in love with life, like a puppy; his clubs, his theater premiers, his invitations to fancy parties that he rarely accepts, important people coming to his House with Three Eyes. And, of course, his sense of power in the paper. No; he won’t quit. How could he? He’ll compromise.”

“Do you figure him to be the compromising sort?” asked Marrineal doubtfully.

“Do you think he's the type to compromise?” Marrineal asked uncertainly.

“He isn’t the journalistic Puritan that he lets on to be. Look at that Harvey Wheelwright editorial,” pointed out the acute Ives. “He don’t believe what he wrote about Wheelwright; just did it for his own purposes. Well, if the oracle can work himself for his own purposes, others can work him when the time comes, if it’s properly managed.”

“He isn’t the journalistic purist he pretends to be. Check out that Harvey Wheelwright editorial,” pointed out the sharp Ives. “He doesn’t actually believe what he wrote about Wheelwright; he just did it for his own agenda. Well, if the oracle can manipulate things for his own ends, then others can influence him when the time is right, if they play their cards right.”

Marrineal shook his head. “If there’s a weakness in him I haven’t found it.”

Marrineal shook his head. “If there’s a flaw in him, I haven’t discovered it.”

Ives put on a look of confidential assurance. “Be sure it’s there. Only it isn’t of the ordinary kind. Banneker is pretty big in his way. No,” he pursued thoughtfully; “it isn’t women, and it isn’t Wall Street, and it isn’t drink; it isn’t even money, in the usual sense. But it’s something. By the way, did I tell you that I’d found an acquaintance from the desert where Banneker hails from?”

Ives wore a look of confident assurance. “Make sure it's there. It's just not the usual kind. Banneker is quite significant in his own way. No,” he continued thoughtfully, “it’s not about women, Wall Street, or drinking; it’s not even money, at least not in the typical sense. But it’s something. By the way, did I mention that I ran into someone from the desert where Banneker comes from?”

“No.” Marrineal’s tone subtly indicated that he should have been told at once. That sort of thing was, indeed, the basis on which Ives drew a considerable stipend from his patron’s private purse, as “personal representative of Mr. Marrineal” for purposes unspecified.

“No.” Marrineal's tone clearly suggested that he should have been informed immediately. This kind of information was, in fact, the reason Ives received a significant salary from his patron’s private funds, as the “personal representative of Mr. Marrineal” for unspecified purposes.

“A railroad man. From what he tells me there was some sort of love-affair there. A girl who materialized from nowhere and spent two weeks, mostly with the romantic station-agent. Might have been a princess in exile, by my informant, who saw her twice. More likely some cheap little skate of a movie actress on a bust.”

“A railroad worker. According to him, there was some kind of love affair happening. A girl who appeared out of nowhere and hung out for two weeks, mostly with the romantic station agent. She could have been a princess in hiding, based on what my source said, who saw her twice. More likely, she was just some nobody actress whose career had tanked.”

“A station-agent’s taste in women friends—” began Marrineal, and forbore unnecessarily to finish.

“A station-agent’s taste in women friends—” began Marrineal, and held back unnecessarily from finishing.

“Possibly it has improved. Or—well, at any rate, there was something there. My railroad man thinks the affair drove Banneker out of his job. The fact of his being woman-proof here points to its having been serious.”

“Maybe it has gotten better. Or—anyway, there was definitely something going on. My railroad guy believes the situation forced Banneker out of his job. The fact that he’s woman-proof here suggests it was serious.”

“There was a girl out there about that time visiting Camilla Van Arsdale,” remarked Marrineal carelessly; “a New York girl. One of the same general set. Miss Van Arsdale used to be a New Yorker and rather a distinguished one.”

“There was a girl around that time visiting Camilla Van Arsdale,” Marrineal said casually; “a girl from New York. She was part of the same social circle. Miss Van Arsdale used to be a New Yorker and quite a notable one.”

Too much master of his devious craft to betray discomfiture over another’s superior knowledge of a subject which he had tried to make his own, Ely Ives remarked:

Too skilled in his tricky craft to show discomfort over someone else's greater knowledge of a topic he had tried to master, Ely Ives said:

“Then she was probably the real thing. The princess on vacation. You don’t know who she was, I suppose,” he added tentatively.

“Then she was probably the real deal. The princess on vacation. You don’t know who she was, I guess,” he added cautiously.

Marrineal did not answer, thereby giving his factotum uncomfortably to reflect that he really must not expect payment for information and the information also.

Marrineal didn't respond, leading his assistant to awkwardly consider that he really shouldn't expect to be paid for the information or the information itself.

“I guess he’ll bear watching.” Ives wound up with his favorite philosophy.

“I guess he’ll be worth keeping an eye on.” Ives concluded with his favorite philosophy.

It was a few days after this that, by a special interposition of kindly chance, Ives, having returned from a trip out of town, saw Banneker and Io breakfasting in the station restaurant. To Marrineal he said nothing of this at the time; nor, indeed, to any one else. But later he took it to a very private market of his own, the breakfast-room of a sunny and secluded house far uptown, where lived, in an aroma of the domestic virtues, a benevolent-looking old gentleman who combined the attributes of the ferret, the leech, and the vulture in his capacity as editor of that famous weekly publication, The Searchlight. Ives did not sell in that mart; he traded for other information. This time he wanted something about Judge Willis Enderby, for he was far enough on the inside politically to see in him a looming figure which might stand in the way of certain projects, unannounced as yet, but tenderly nurtured in the ambitious breast of Tertius C. Marrineal. From the gently smiling patriarch he received as much of the unwritten records as that authority deemed it expedient to give him, together with an admonition, thrown in for good measure.

A few days later, thanks to a fortunate coincidence, Ives, back from a trip out of town, spotted Banneker and Io having breakfast at the station restaurant. At that moment, he didn’t mention this to Marrineal or anyone else. But later, he took the information to a very private place of his own: the breakfast room of a sunny, secluded house way uptown, where a kindly-looking old man lived, surrounded by the comforting atmosphere of home. This man, who was the editor of the famous weekly publication, The Searchlight, had a mix of qualities like those of a ferret, a leech, and a vulture. Ives didn’t sell anything there; he was after other information. This time, he wanted to know about Judge Willis Enderby since he was politically aware enough to recognize him as a significant figure who might obstruct some of Marrineal's yet-to-be-announced ambitions. From the gently smiling patriarch, he received as much of the unwritten information as the old man felt was appropriate to share, along with a word of caution for good measure.

“Dangerous, my young friend! Dangerous!”

“It's dangerous, my young friend!”

The passionate and patient collector thought it highly probable that Willis Enderby would be dangerous game. Certainly he did not intend to hunt in those fields, unless he could contrive a weapon of overwhelming caliber.

The eager and patient collector believed it was very likely that Willis Enderby would be a risky target. He definitely didn't plan to hunt in those areas unless he could come up with a weapon of superior power.

Ely Ives’s analysis of Banneker’s situation was in a measure responsible for Marrineal’s proposition of the new deal to his editor.

Ely Ives's analysis of Banneker's situation played a role in Marrineal's suggestion of the new deal to his editor.

“He has accepted it,” the owner told his purveyor of information. “But the real fight is to come.”

“He’s accepted it,” the owner told his source. “But the real battle is yet to come.”

“Over the policy of the editorial page,” opined Ives.

“About the editorial page's policy,” Ives said.

“Yes. This is only a truce.”

“Yes. This is just a truce.”

As a truce Banneker also regarded it. He had no desire to break it. Nor, after it was established, did Marrineal make any overt attempt to interfere with his conduct of his column.

As a truce, Banneker saw it that way too. He had no intention of breaking it. Also, once it was set, Marrineal didn't make any obvious attempts to interfere with how he handled his column.

After awaiting gage of battle from his employer, in vain, Banneker decided to leave the issue to chance. Surely he was not surrendering any principle, since he continued to write as he chose upon whatever topics he selected. Time enough to fight when there should be urged upon him either one of the cardinal sins of journalism, the suppressio veri or the suggestio falsi, which he had more than once excoriated in other papers, to the pious horror of the hush-birds of the craft who had chattered and cheeped accusations of “fouling one’s own nest.”

After waiting in vain for a signal from his boss to start the battle, Banneker decided to leave it to chance. He wasn’t giving up any principles, as he still wrote freely on whatever topics he chose. There would be plenty of time to fight when he was confronted with one of the major sins of journalism, the suppressio veri or the suggestio falsi, which he had criticized more than once in other papers, much to the pious dismay of the conservative voices in the industry who had chirped accusations of “fouling one’s own nest.”

Opportunity was not lacking to Marrineal for objections to a policy which made powerful enemies for the paper; Banneker, once assured of his following, had hit out right and left. From being a weak-kneed and rather apologetic defender of the “common people,” The Patriot had become, logically, under Banneker’s vigorous and outspoken policy, a proponent of the side of labor against capital. It had hotly supported two important and righteous local strikes and been the chief agent in winning one. With equal fervor it had advocated a third strike whose justice was at best dubious and had made itself anathema, though the strike was lost, to an industrial group which was honestly striving to live up to honorable standards. It had offended a powerful ring of bankers and for a time embarrassed Marrineal in his loans. It had threatened editorial reprisals upon a combination of those feared and arrogant advertisers, the department stores, for endeavoring, with signal lack of success, to procure the suppression of certain market news. It became known as independent, honest, unafraid, radical (in Wall Street circles “socialistic” or even “anarchistic”), and, to the profession, as dangerous to provoke. Advertisers were, from time to time, alienated; public men, often of The Patriot’s own trend of thought, opposed. Commercial associations even passed resolutions, until Banneker took to publishing them with such comment as seemed to him good and appropriate. Marrineal uttered no protest, though the unlucky Haring beat his elegantly waistcoated breast and uttered profane if subdued threats of resigning, which were for effect only; for The Patriot’s circulation continued to grow and the fact to which every advertising expert clings as to the one solid hope in a vaporous calling, is that advertising follows circulation.

Opportunity was not lacking for Marrineal to challenge a policy that created powerful enemies for the paper; Banneker, once confident in his support, had struck out boldly. The Patriot, which had initially been a timid and somewhat apologetic defender of the “common people,” had logically evolved under Banneker’s vigorous and outspoken approach into a supporter of labor against capital. It fiercely backed two significant and just local strikes and played a key role in winning one. With equal passion, it promoted a third strike, the fairness of which was questionable at best, making itself unwelcome, even though the strike failed, to an industrial group that genuinely tried to uphold honorable standards. It angered a powerful network of bankers and temporarily put Marrineal in a tough spot regarding his loans. It threatened editorial backlash against a group of feared and arrogant advertisers, the department stores, for trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress certain market news. It became known as independent, honest, unafraid, and radical (labelled as “socialistic” or even “anarchistic” in Wall Street circles), and considered dangerous by the profession. Advertisers were occasionally put off; public figures, often aligned with The Patriot’s views, opposed it. Commercial organizations even passed resolutions, until Banneker started publishing them with comments he deemed fitting. Marrineal made no objections, even though the unfortunate Haring lamented loudly while making subdued yet profane threats of resigning, which were only for show; because The Patriot’s circulation continued to rise, and the one solid truth that every advertising expert clings to in a shaky industry is that advertising follows circulation.

Seldom did Banneker see his employer in the office, but Marrineal often came to the Saturday nights of The House With Three Eyes, which had already attained the fame of a local institution. As the numbers drawn to it increased, it closed its welcoming orbs earlier and earlier, and, once they were darkened, there was admittance only for the chosen few.

Seldom did Banneker see his boss in the office, but Marrineal often showed up on Saturday nights at The House With Three Eyes, which had already become a well-known local spot. As more people were drawn to it, it started closing its doors earlier, and once they were shut, only a select few were allowed inside.

It was a first Saturday in October, New York’s homing month for its indigenous social birds and butterflies, when The House triply blinked itself into darkness at the untimely hour of eleven-forty-five. There was the usual heterogeneous crowd there, alike in one particular alone, that every guest represented, if not necessarily distinction, at least achievement in his own line. Judge Willis Enderby, many times invited, had for the first time come. At five minutes after midnight, the incorruptible doorkeeper sent an urgent message requesting Mr. Banneker’s personal attention to a party who declined politely but firmly to be turned away. The host, answering the summons, found Io. She held out both hands to him.

It was the first Saturday in October, New York’s favorite month for its local social butterflies and birds, when The House abruptly went dark at the ungrateful hour of eleven-forty-five. There was the usual diverse crowd present, united in one respect: each guest represented, if not necessarily uniqueness, at least accomplishment in their field. Judge Willis Enderby, who had been invited many times before, finally showed up for the first time. At five minutes after midnight, the unyielding doorkeeper sent an urgent message asking Mr. Banneker to attend to a guest who politely but firmly refused to be turned away. The host responded to the call and found Io. She reached out both hands to him.

“Say you’re glad to see me,” she said imperatively.

“Say you’re happy to see me,” she said firmly.

“Light up the three eyes,” Banneker ordered the doorman. “Are you answered?” he said to Io.

“Turn on the three lights,” Banneker told the doorman. “Did you get that?” he asked Io.

“Ah, that’s very pretty,” she approved. “It means ‘welcome,’ doesn’t it?”

“Ah, that’s really nice,” she said. “It means ‘welcome,’ right?”

“Welcome,” he assented.

“Welcome,” he agreed.

“Then Herbert and Esther can come in, can’t they? They’re waiting in the car for me to be rejected in disgrace. They’ve even bet on it.”

“Then Herbert and Esther can come in, right? They’re waiting in the car for me to get turned down in shame. They even placed bets on it.”

“They lose,” answered Banneker with finality.

"They're going to lose," Banneker replied decisively.

“And you forgive me for cajoling your big, black Cerberus, because it’s my first visit this year, and if I’m not nicely treated I’ll never come again.”

“And you’ll forgive me for charming your big, black Cerberus, because it’s my first visit this year, and if I’m not treated kindly, I won’t come back.”

“Your welcome includes full amnesty.”

“Your welcome includes total amnesty.”

“Then if you’ll let me have one of my hands back—it doesn’t matter which one, really—I’ll signal the others to come in.”

“Then if you’ll just give me one of my hands back—it doesn’t matter which one, honestly—I’ll signal the others to come in.”

Which, accordingly, she did. Banneker greeted Esther Forbes and Cressey, and waited for the trio until they came down. There was a stir as they entered. There was usually a stir in any room which Io entered. She had that quality of sending waves across the most placid of social pools. Willis Enderby was one of the first to greet her, a quick irradiation of pleasure relieving the austere beauty of his face.

Which, of course, she did. Banneker greeted Esther Forbes and Cressey, and waited for the trio until they came down. There was a buzz as they entered. There was usually a buzz in any room when Io entered. She had a way of sending ripples across the calmest of social gatherings. Willis Enderby was one of the first to greet her, a quick flash of pleasure softening the serious beauty of his face.

“I thought the castle was closed,” he wondered. “How did you cross the inviolable barriers?”

“I thought the castle was closed,” he wondered. “How did you get past the impenetrable barriers?”

“I had the magic password,” smiled Io.

“I had the magic password,” Io said with a smile.

“Youth? Beauty? Or just audacity?”

"Youth? Beauty? Or just boldness?"

“Your Honor is pleased to flatter,” she returned, drooping her eyes at him with a purposefully artificial effect. From the time when she was a child of four she had carried on a violent and highly appreciated flirtation with “Cousin Billy,” being the only person in the world who employed the diminutive of his name.

“Your Honor is enjoying a bit of flattery,” she replied, lowering her eyes at him with a deliberately fake charm. Since she was just four years old, she had maintained a vibrant and much-admired flirtation with “Cousin Billy,” being the only one who used the nickname for him.

“You knew Banneker before? But, of course. Everybody knows Banneker.”

“You knew Banneker before? Of course. Everyone knows Banneker.”

“It’s quite wonderful, isn’t it! He never makes an effort, I’m told. People just come to him. Where did you meet him?”

“It’s really amazing, isn’t it! I’ve heard he never has to try. People just flock to him. Where did you meet him?”

Enderby told her. “We’re allies, in a way. Though sometimes he is against us. He’s doing yeoman work in this reform mayoralty campaign. If we elect Robert Laird, as I think we shall, it will be chiefly due to The Patriot’s editorials.”

Enderby told her, “We’re kind of allies, even if he’s occasionally on the other side. He’s putting in a lot of effort in this reform mayoral campaign. If we elect Robert Laird, which I believe we will, it will mainly be thanks to the editorials in The Patriot.”

“Then you have confidence in Mr. Banneker?” she asked quickly.

“Then you trust Mr. Banneker?” she asked quickly.

“Well—in a way, I have,” he returned hesitantly.

“Well—in a way, I have,” he replied reluctantly.

“But with reservations,” she interpreted. “What are they?”

“But with reservations,” she explained. “What are they?”

“One, only, but a big one. The Patriot itself. You see, Io, The Patriot is another matter.”

“One, only, but a big one. The Patriot itself. You see, Io, The Patriot is a different story.”

“Why is it another matter?”

“Why is it a different issue?”

“Well, there’s Marrineal, for example.”

“Well, there's Marrineal, for instance.”

“I don’t know Mr. Marrineal. Evidently you don’t trust him.”

“I don’t know Mr. Marrineal. Clearly, you don’t trust him.”

“I trust nobody,” disclosed the lawyer, a little sternly, “who is represented by what The Patriot is and does, whether it be Marrineal, Banneker, or another.” His glance, wandering about the room, fell on Russell Edmonds, seated in a corner talking with the Great Gaines. “Unless it be Edmonds over there,” he qualified. “All his life he has fought me as a corporation lawyer; yet I have the queer feeling that I could trust the inmost secret of my life to his honor. Probably I’m an old fool, eh?”

“I trust no one,” the lawyer admitted somewhat sternly, “who is represented by what The Patriot stands for and does, whether it’s Marrineal, Banneker, or someone else.” As his gaze scanned the room, it landed on Russell Edmonds, who was sitting in a corner chatting with the Great Gaines. “Except maybe Edmonds over there,” he added. “He has spent his whole life opposing me as a corporate lawyer; yet I have this strange feeling that I could trust him with the deepest secret of my life. I’m probably just an old fool, right?”

Io devoted a moment’s study to the lined and worn face of the veteran. “No. I think you’re right,” she pronounced.

Io took a moment to look at the lined and worn face of the veteran. “No. I think you’re right,” she said.

“In any case, he isn’t responsible for The Patriot. He can’t help it.”

“In any case, he’s not responsible for The Patriot. He can’t help it.”

“Don’t be so cryptic, Cousin Billy. Can’t help what? What is wrong with the paper?”

“Don’t be so vague, Cousin Billy. Can’t help what? What’s wrong with the paper?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

"You wouldn't get it."

“But I want to understand,” said imperious Io.

“But I want to understand,” said commanding Io.

“As a basis to understanding, you’d have to read the paper.”

“As a foundation for understanding, you need to read the paper.”

“I have. Everyday. All of it.”

“I have. Every day. All of it.”

He gave her a quick, reckoning look which she sustained with a slight deepening of color. “The advertisements, too?” She nodded. “What do you think of them?”

He gave her a quick, assessing look that she held with a slight blush. “The ads, too?” She nodded. “What do you think of them?”

“Some of them are too disgusting to discuss.”

“Some of them are too gross to talk about.”

“Did it occur to you to compare them with the lofty standards of our young friend’s editorials?”

“Have you thought about comparing them to the high standards of our young friend's editorials?”

“What has he to do with the advertisements?” she countered.

“What does he have to do with the ads?” she replied.

“Assume, for the sake of the argument, that he has nothing to do with them. You may have noticed a recent editorial against race-track gambling, with the suicide of a young bank messenger who had robbed his employer to pay his losses as text.”

“Let’s say, just for this discussion, that he has no connection to them. You might have seen a recent editorial criticizing race-track gambling, which mentions the suicide of a young bank messenger who stole from his employer to cover his losses.”

“Well? Surely that kind of editorial makes for good.”

“Well? That kind of editorial has to be good.”

“Being counsel for that bank, I happen to know the circumstances of the suicide. The boy had pinned his faith to one of the race-track tipsters who advertise in The Patriot to furnish a list of sure winners for so much a week.”

“Since I'm the lawyer for that bank, I know the details about the suicide. The boy had trusted one of the race-track tipsters who advertise in The Patriot to provide a list of guaranteed winners for a fee each week.”

“Do you suppose that Mr. Banneker knew that?”

“Do you think Mr. Banneker knew that?”

“Probably not. But he knows that his paper takes money for publishing those vicious advertisements.”

“Probably not. But he knows that his magazine makes money from running those nasty ads.”

“Suppose he couldn’t help it?”

"What if he couldn't help it?"

“Probably he can’t.”

“Maybe he can't.”

“Well, what would you have him do? Stop writing the editorials? I think it is evidence of his courage that he should dare to attack the evils which his own paper fosters.”

“Well, what do you want him to do? Stop writing the editorials? I think it shows his courage that he is willing to confront the problems that his own paper supports.”

“That’s one view of it, certainly,” replied Enderby dryly. “A convenient view. But there are other details. Banneker is an ardent advocate of abstinence, ‘Down with the Demon Rum!’ The columns of The Patriot reek with whiskey ads. The same with tobacco.”

“That's one way to see it, for sure,” Enderby replied curtly. “A convenient perspective. But there are other details. Banneker is a passionate supporter of abstinence, 'Down with the Demon Rum!' The pages of The Patriot are filled with whiskey ads. The same goes for tobacco.”

“But, Cousin Billy, you don’t believe that a newspaper should shut out liquor and tobacco advertisements, do you?”

“But, Cousin Billy, you don’t really think a newspaper should ban liquor and tobacco ads, right?”

The lawyer smiled patiently. “Come back on the track, Io,” he invited. “That isn’t the point. If a newspaper preaches the harm in these habits, it shouldn’t accept money for exploiting them. Look further. What of the loan-shark offers, and the blue-sky stock propositions, and the damnable promises of the consumption and cancer quacks? You can’t turn a page of The Patriot without stumbling on them. There’s a smell of death about that money.”

The lawyer smiled patiently. “Get back on track, Io,” he encouraged. “That’s not the main issue. If a newspaper warns about the dangers of these habits, it shouldn’t take money for promoting them. Look deeper. What about the loan-shark offers, the fake stock deals, and the outrageous promises from the frauds selling cures for consumption and cancer? You can’t turn a page of The Patriot without running into them. There’s a stench of death surrounding that money.”

“Don’t all the newspapers publish the same kind of advertisements?” argued the girl.

“Don’t all the newspapers publish the same type of ads?” the girl argued.

“Certainly not. Some won’t publish an advertisement without being satisfied of its good faith. Others discriminate less carefully. But there are few as bad as The Patriot.”

“Definitely not. Some won’t publish an ad unless they’re sure it’s trustworthy. Others are less picky. But there are few as terrible as The Patriot.”

“If Mr. Banneker were your client, would you advise him to resign?” she asked shrewdly.

“If Mr. Banneker was your client, would you tell him to step down?” she asked cleverly.

Enderby winced and chuckled simultaneously. “Probably not. It is doubtful whether he could find another rostrum of equal influence. And his influence is mainly for good. But since you seem to be interested in newspapers, Io”—he gave her another of his keen glances—“from The Patriot you can make a diagnosis of the disease from which modern journalism is suffering. A deep-seated, pervasive insincerity. At its worst, it is open, shameless hypocrisy. The public feels it, but is too lacking in analytical sense to comprehend it. Hence the unformulated, instinctive, universal distrust of the press. ‘I never believe anything I read in the papers.’ Of course, that is both false and silly. But the feeling is there; and it has to be reckoned with one day. From this arises an injustice, that the few papers which are really upright, honest, and faithful to their own standards, are tainted in the public mind with the double-dealing of the others. Such as The Patriot.”

Enderby winced and chuckled at the same time. “Probably not. It’s doubtful he could find another platform as influential. And his influence is mostly positive. But since you seem to be interested in newspapers, Io”—he gave her another one of his sharp looks—“from The Patriot you can really see the problem modern journalism is facing. A deep-seated, widespread insincerity. At its worst, it’s blatant, shameless hypocrisy. The public senses it but lacks the analytical skills to fully grasp it. Hence the unspoken, instinctive, universal distrust of the press. ‘I never believe anything I read in the papers.’ Of course, that’s both untrue and a bit ridiculous. But the sentiment is there, and it needs to be addressed eventually. As a result, it's unfair that the few papers which are genuinely upright, honest, and true to their own standards get tainted in the public's mind by the deceitfulness of the others. Like The Patriot.”

“You use The Patriot for your purposes,” Io pointed out.

“You're using The Patriot for your own goals,” Io pointed out.

“When it stands for what I believe right. I only wish I could trust it.”

“When it represents what I believe is right. I just wish I could trust it.”

“Then you really feel that you can’t trust Mr. Banneker?”

“Ah; we’re back to that!” thought Enderby with uneasiness. Aloud he said: “It’s a very pretty problem whether a writer who shares the profits of a hypocritical and dishonest policy can maintain his own professional independence and virtue. I gravely doubt it.”

“Ah, we’re back to that!” Enderby thought uneasily. Out loud he said, “It’s a really interesting question whether a writer who benefits from a hypocritical and dishonest policy can keep their own professional independence and integrity. I seriously doubt it.”

“I don’t,” said Io, and there was pride in her avowal.

“I don’t,” said Io, her pride evident in her declaration.

“My dear,” said the Judge gravely, “what does it all mean? Are you letting yourself become interested in Errol Banneker?”

“My dear,” said the Judge seriously, “what does this all mean? Are you starting to have feelings for Errol Banneker?”

Io raised clear and steady eyes to the concerned regard of her old friend. “If I ever marry again, I shall marry him.”

Io raised clear and steady eyes to the worried gaze of her old friend. “If I ever get married again, it will be to him.”

“You’re not going to divorce poor Delavan?” asked the other quickly.

"You're not going to divorce poor Delavan, are you?" the other person asked quickly.

“No. I shall play the game through,” was the quiet reply.

“No. I’m going to see this game through,” was the quiet reply.

For a space Willis Enderby sat thinking. “Does Banneker know your—your intentions?”

For a moment, Willis Enderby sat, lost in thought. “Does Banneker know your—your plans?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

“You mustn’t let him, Io.”

"Don’t let him, Io."

“He won’t know the intention. He may know the—the feeling back of it.” A slow and glorious flush rose in her face, making her eyes starry. “I don’t know that I can keep it from him, Cousin Billy. I don’t even know that I want to. I’m an honest sort of idiot, you know.”

“He won’t understand the intention. He might get the— the feeling behind it.” A slow and beautiful blush spread across her face, making her eyes shine. “I’m not sure I can hide it from him, Cousin Billy. I don’t even know if I want to. I’m a pretty honest idiot, you know.”

“God grant that he may prove as honest!” he half whispered.

“God grant that he may be as honest!” he half-whispered.

Presently Banneker, bearing a glass of champagne and some pâté sandwiches for Io, supplanted the lawyer.

Currently, Banneker, holding a glass of champagne and some pâté sandwiches for Io, replaced the lawyer.

“Are you the devotee of toil that common report believes, Ban?” she asked him lazily. “They say that you write editorials with one hand and welcome your guests with the other.”

“Are you really the hardworking person that everyone talks about, Ban?” she asked him casually. “They say you write editorials with one hand while greeting your guests with the other.”

“Not quite that,” he answered. “To-night I’m not thinking of work. I’m not thinking of anything but you. It’s very wonderful, your being here.”

“Not exactly that,” he replied. “Tonight I’m not focused on work. I’m only thinking about you. It’s really amazing that you’re here.”

“But I want you to think of work. I want to see you in the very act. Won’t you write an editorial for me?”

“But I want you to focus on work. I want to watch you actually doing it. Will you write an editorial for me?”

He shook his head. “This late? That would be cruelty to my secretary.”

He shook his head. “This late? That would be unfair to my assistant.”

“I’ll take it down for you. I’m fairly fast on the typewriter.”

“I’ll write that down for you. I’m pretty quick on the keyboard.”

“Will you give me the subject, too?”

“Will you give me the topic, too?”

“No more than fair,” she admitted. “What shall it be? It ought to be something with memories in it. Books? Poetry?” she groped. “I’ve got it! Your oldest, favorite book. Have you forgotten?”

“No more than fair,” she admitted. “What should we choose? It should be something meaningful. Books? Poetry?” she pondered. “I’ve got it! Your oldest, favorite book. Have you forgotten?”

“The Sears-Roebuck catalogue? I get a copy every season, to renew the old thrill.”

“The Sears-Roebuck catalog? I get a new copy every season to relive the old excitement.”

“What a romanticist you are!” said she softly. “Couldn’t you write an editorial about it?”

“What a romantic you are!” she said softly. “Couldn’t you write an editorial about it?”

“Couldn’t I? Try me. Come up to the den.”

“Couldn’t I? Go ahead, give it a shot. Come to the den.”

He led the way to the remote austerities of the work-room. From a shelf he took down the fat, ornate pamphlet, now much increased in bulk over its prototype of the earlier years. With random finger he parted the leaves, here, there, again and still again, seeking auguries.

He took the lead to the isolated harshness of the workshop. From a shelf, he grabbed the thick, elaborate pamphlet, which had grown significantly since its earlier version. With a casual flick of his finger, he turned the pages, here and there, again and again, looking for signs.

“Ready?” he said. “Now, I shut my eyes—and we’re in the shack again—the clean air of desert spaces—the click of the transmitter in the office that I won’t answer, being more importantly engaged—the faint fragrance of you permeating everything—youth—the unknown splendor of life—Now! Go!”

“Ready?” he said. “Now, I close my eyes—and we’re back in the shack—the fresh air of the desert—the sound of the transmitter in the office that I won’t answer, as I’m more importantly focused on this—the subtle scent of you filling the air—youth—the exciting mystery of life—Now! Go!”

Of that editorial, composed upon the unpromising theme of mail-order merchandising, the Great Gaines afterward said that it was a kaleidoscopic panorama set moving to the harmonic undertones of a song of winds and waters, of passion and the inner meanings of life, as if Shelley had rhapsodized a catalogue into poetic being and glorious significance. He said it was foolish to edit a magazine when one couldn’t trust a cheap newspaper not to come flaming forth into literature which turned one’s most conscientious and aspiring efforts into tinsel. He also said “Damn!”

Of that editorial, written on the unpromising topic of mail-order merchandising, the Great Gaines later said it was like a colorful display animated by the soothing background of a song about winds and waters, passion, and the deeper meanings of life, as if Shelley had transformed a catalog into something poetic and significant. He said it was pointless to edit a magazine when you couldn't trust a cheap newspaper not to burst into literature that reduced your most earnest and ambitious efforts to mere decoration. He also said, “Damn!”

Io Welland (for it was Io Welland and not Io Eyre whom the soothsayer saw before him as he declaimed), instrument and inspiration of the achievement, said no word of direct praise. But as she wrote, her fingers felt as if they were dripping electric sparks. When, at the close, he asked, quite humbly, “Is that what you wanted?” she caught her breath on something like a sob.

Io Welland (it was Io Welland, not Io Eyre, that the soothsayer saw in front of him as he spoke) was the driving force behind the achievement, yet she offered no direct praise. As she wrote, it felt like her fingers were alive with electric sparks. At the end, when he asked, with a sense of humility, “Is that what you wanted?” she barely held back a sob.

“I’ll give you a title,” she said, recovering herself. “Call it ‘If there were Dreams to Sell.’”

“I’ll give you a title,” she said, getting herself together. “Call it ‘If There Were Dreams to Sell.’”

“Ah, that’s good!” he cried. “My readers won’t get it. Pinheads! They get nothing that isn’t plain as the nose on their silly faces. Never mind. It’s good for ’em to be puzzled once in a while. Teaches ’em their place.... I’ll tell you who will understand it, though,” he continued, and laughed queerly.

“Ah, that’s great!” he exclaimed. “My readers won’t understand it. Ignoramuses! They can’t grasp anything that isn’t obvious like the nose on their ridiculous faces. But that’s fine. It’s good for them to be confused every now and then. It teaches them their place... I’ll tell you who will get it, though,” he said, laughing strangely.

“All the people who really matter will.”

“All the people who truly matter will.”

“Some who matter a lot to The Patriot will. The local merchants who advertise with us. They’ll be wild.”

“Some who are important to The Patriot definitely will. The local businesses that advertise with us. They’re going to be furious.”

“Why?”

“They hate the mail-order houses with a deadly fear, because the cataloguers undersell them in a lot of lines. Won’t Rome howl the day after this appears!”

“They absolutely dread the mail-order companies, fearing them intensely, because the catalog sellers offer lower prices on many items. Just wait until Rome reacts the day after this is published!”

“Tell me about the relation between advertising and policy, Ban,” invited Io, and summarized Willis Enderby’s views.

“Tell me about the connection between advertising and policy, Ban,” Io asked, summarizing Willis Enderby’s views.

Banneker had formulated for his own use and comfort the fallacy which has since become standard for all journalists unwilling or unable to face the issue of their own responsibility to the public. He now gave it forth confidently.

Banneker had created for himself a comforting misconception that has since become the norm for all journalists who are either unwilling or unable to confront their own responsibility to the public. He now expressed it with confidence.

“A newspaper, Io, is like a billboard. Any one has a right to hire it for purposes of exploiting and selling whatever he has to sell. In accepting the advertisement, provided it is legal and decent, the publisher accepts no more responsibility than the owner of the land on which a billboard stands. Advertising space is a free forum.”

“A newspaper, Io, is like a billboard. Anyone has the right to rent it for the purpose of promoting and selling whatever they want. By accepting the advertisement, as long as it is legal and appropriate, the publisher takes on no more responsibility than the owner of the land where the billboard is located. Advertising space is an open forum.”

“But when it affects the editorial attitude—”

“But when it impacts the editorial approach—”

“That’s the test,” he put in quickly. “That’s why I’m glad to print this editorial of ours. It’s a declaration of independence.”

“That's the test,” he interjected. “That’s why I'm happy to publish this editorial of ours. It’s a declaration of independence.”

“Yes,” she acquiesced eagerly.

“Yeah,” she agreed eagerly.

“If ever I use the power of my editorials for any cause that I don’t believe in—yes, or for my own advantage or the advantage of my employer—that will be the beginning of surrender. But as long as I keep a free pen and speak as I believe for what I hold as right and against what I hold as wrong, I can afford to leave the advertising policy to those who control it. It isn’t my responsibility.... It’s an omen, Io; I was waiting for it. Marrineal and I are at a deadlock on the question of my control of the editorial page. This ought to furnish a fighting issue. I’m glad it came from you.”

“If I ever use my editorials to support a cause I don’t believe in—whether for my own benefit or for my employer’s—that will be the start of my surrender. But as long as I maintain a free voice and speak out for what I believe is right and against what I believe is wrong, I can leave the advertising policy to those in charge of it. That’s not my job... It’s a sign, Io; I was expecting it. Marrineal and I are at a standstill over the control of the editorial page. This should provide a solid issue to fight over. I’m glad it came from you.”

“Oh, but if it’s going to make trouble for you, I shall be sorry. And I was going to propose that we write one every Saturday.”

“Oh, but if it’s going to cause you trouble, I’ll feel bad about it. I was actually going to suggest that we write one every Saturday.”

“Io!” he cried. “Does that mean—”

“Io!” he exclaimed. “Does that mean—”

“It means that I shall become a regular attendant at Mr. Errol Banneker’s famous Saturday nights. Don’t ask me what more it means.” She rose and delivered the typed sheets into his hands. “I—I don’t know, myself. Take me back to the others, Ban.”

“It means that I’m going to be a regular at Mr. Errol Banneker’s famous Saturday nights. Don’t ask me what else it means.” She stood up and handed the typed sheets to him. “I—I don’t really know myself. Take me back to the others, Ban.”

To Banneker, wakened next morning to a life of new vigor and sweetness, the outcome of the mail-order editorial was worth not one troubled thought. All his mind was centered on Io.

To Banneker, waking up the next morning to a life full of energy and joy, the result of the mail-order editorial wasn’t worth a second of worry. All he could think about was Io.

CHAPTER VII

Explosions of a powerful and resonant nature followed the publication of the fantastic, imaginative, and delightful mail-order catalogue editorial. In none of these senses, except the first, did it appeal to the advertising managers of the various department stores. They looked upon it as an outrage, an affront, a deliberate slap in the face for an established, vested, and prodigal support of the newspaper press. What the devil did The Patriot mean by it; The Patriot which sorely needed just their class of reputable patronage, and, after sundry contortions of rate-cutting, truckling, and offers of news items to back the advertising, was beginning to get it? They asked themselves, and, failing of any satisfactory answer, they asked The Patriot in no uncertain terms. Receiving vague and pained replies, they even went to the length of holding a meeting and sending a committee to wait upon the desperate Haring, passing over the advertising manager who was a mere figurehead in The Patriot office.

Explosions of a powerful and resonant nature followed the publication of the fantastic, imaginative, and delightful mail-order catalog editorial. In none of these senses, except the first, did it appeal to the advertising managers of the various department stores. They viewed it as an outrage, an insult, a deliberate slap in the face for their established, significant support of the newspaper. What on earth did The Patriot mean by this? The Patriot, which desperately needed their kind of reputable patronage, and, after going through various contortions of rate-cutting, flattery, and offers of news items to boost the advertising, was finally starting to get it? They questioned themselves, and, unable to find any satisfactory answer, they directly questioned The Patriot in no uncertain terms. Receiving vague and pained replies, they even went so far as to hold a meeting and send a committee to confront the beleaguered Haring, bypassing the advertising manager who was just a nominal figure in The Patriot office.

Then began one of those scenes of bullying and browbeating to which every newspaper, not at once powerful and honest enough to command the fear and respect of its advertisers, is at some time subjected. Haring, the victim personifying the offending organ, was stretched upon the rack and put to the question. What explanation had he to offer of The Patriot’s breach of faith?

Then started one of those scenes of bullying and intimidation that every newspaper, not strong and honest enough to earn the fear and respect of its advertisers, eventually faces. Haring, the victim representing the offending publication, was put on the spot and interrogated. What explanation could he give for The Patriot’s betrayal?

He had none, had the miserable business manager. No one could regret it more than he. But, really, gentlemen, to call it a breach of faith—

He had none, the poor business manager. No one could regret it more than he did. But really, gentlemen, to call it a breach of faith—

What else was it? Wasn’t the paper turning on its own advertisers?

What else could it be? Wasn’t the paper turning against its own advertisers?

Well; in a sense. But not—

Well; in a way. But not—

But nothing! Wasn’t it trying to undermine their legitimate business?

But nothing! Wasn’t it trying to sabotage their legitimate business?

Not intentionally, Mr. Haring was (piteously) sure.

Not on purpose, Mr. Haring was definitely sure.

Intentionally be damned! Did he expect to carry their advertising on one page and ruin their business on another? Did he think they were putting money into The Patriot—a doubtful medium for their business, at best—to cut their own throats? They’d put it to him reasonably, now; who, after all, paid for the getting out of The Patriot? Wasn’t it the advertisers?

Intentionally be damned! Did he think he could promote their business on one page and destroy it on another? Did he really believe they were investing in The Patriot—a questionable outlet for their business, at best—just to harm themselves? They were going to lay it out for him logically this time; who, after all, was footing the bill for publishing The Patriot? Wasn’t it the advertisers?

Certainly, certainly, gentlemen. Granted.

Sure, sure, gentlemen. Agreed.

Could the paper run a month, a fortnight, a week without advertising?

Could the newspaper survive a month, a couple of weeks, or even a week without advertising?

No; no! It couldn’t. No newspaper could.

No way; no! It couldn't. No newspaper could.

Then if the advertisers paid the paper’s way, weren’t they entitled to some say about it? Didn’t it have a right to give ’em at least a fair show?

Then if the advertisers funded the paper, didn’t they have a right to have a say about it? Shouldn’t it at least give them a fair opportunity?

Indeed, gentlemen, if he, Haring, were in control of the paper—

Indeed, guys, if he, Haring, were in charge of the paper—

Then, why; why the hell was a cub of an editor allowed to cut loose and jump their game that way? They could find other places to spend their money; yes, and get a better return for it. They’d see The Patriot, and so on, and so forth.

Then, why; why the hell was a rookie editor allowed to run wild and disrupt their game like that? They could find better places to spend their money, for sure, and get a better return on it. They’d check out The Patriot, and so on, and so forth.

Mr. Haring understood their feelings, sympathized, even shared them. Unfortunately the editorial page was quite out of his province.

Mr. Haring understood how they felt, empathized with them, and even shared their emotions. Unfortunately, the editorial page was completely outside of his area of responsibility.

Whose province was it, then? Mr. Banneker’s, eh? And to whom was Mr. Banneker responsible? Mr. Marrineal, alone? All right! They would see Mr. Marrineal.

Whose territory was it, then? Mr. Banneker’s, right? And who was Mr. Banneker accountable to? Just Mr. Marrineal? Fine! They would go see Mr. Marrineal.

Mr. Haring was sorry, but Mr. Marrineal was out of town. (Fiction.)

Mr. Haring was sorry, but Mr. Marrineal was away. (Fiction.)

Well, in that case, Banneker. They’d trust themselves to show him which foot he got off on. They’d teach (two of them, in their stress of emotion, said “learn”; they were performing this in chorus) Banneker—

Oh, Mr. Banneker wasn’t there, either. (Haring, very terrified, and having built up an early conception of the Wild West Banneker from the clean-up of the dock gang, beheld in his imagination dejected members of the committee issuing piecemeal from the doors and windows of the editorial office, the process being followed by an even more regrettable exodus of advertising from the pages of The Patriot.)

Oh, Mr. Banneker wasn’t there, either. (Haring, very scared, and having created an early image of the Wild West Banneker from the dock gang's clean-up, envisioned in his mind sad members of the committee trickling out of the doors and windows of the editorial office, followed by an even more unfortunate departure of ads from the pages of The Patriot.)

Striving to be at once explanatory and propitiatory to all and sundry, Haring was reduced to inarticulate, choking interjections and paralytic motions of the hands, when a member of the delegation, hitherto silent, spoke up.

Struggling to be both clear and appeasing to everyone, Haring fell into inarticulate, choking sounds and awkward hand gestures when a previously silent member of the delegation spoke up.

He was the representative of McLean & Swazey, a college graduate of a type then new, though now much commoner, in the developing profession of advertising. He had read the peccant editorial with a genuine relish of its charm and skill, and had justly estimated it for what it was, an intellectual jeu d’esprit, the expression of a passing fancy for a tempting subject, not of a policy to be further pursued.

He was the representative of McLean & Swazey, a college graduate of a type that was new at the time but is much more common now in the growing field of advertising. He had read the flawed editorial with genuine appreciation for its charm and skill, and had accurately recognized it for what it was: an intellectual jeu d’esprit, an expression of a fleeting interest in an enticing topic, not a policy to be continued.

“Enough has been said, I think, to define our position,” said he. “All that we need is some assurance that Mr. Banneker’s wit and skill will not be turned again to the profit of our competitors who, by the way, do not advertise in The Patriot.”

“Enough has been said, I believe, to clarify our stance,” he said. “What we need now is some assurance that Mr. Banneker’s talent and expertise won’t be used to benefit our rivals who, by the way, do not advertise in The Patriot.”

Haring eagerly gave the assurance. He would have given assurance of Banneker’s head on a salver to be rid of these persecuting autocrats. They withdrew, leaving behind an atmosphere of threat and disaster, dark, inglorious clouds of which Haring trailed behind him when he entered the office of the owner with his countenance of woe. His postulate was that Mr. Marrineal should go to his marplot editor and duly to him lay down the law; no more offending of the valuable department-store advertisers. No; nor of any others. Or he, Haring (greatly daring), would do it himself.

Haring eagerly promised. He would have offered up Banneker’s head on a platter to be free of these oppressive rulers. They left, creating a threatening and disastrous atmosphere, dark, shameful clouds that Haring carried with him when he walked into the owner's office with a look of distress on his face. His argument was that Mr. Marrineal should go to his meddling editor and clearly lay down the law; no more offending the important department-store advertisers. No, nor any others. Or he, Haring (taking a big risk), would do it himself.

Beside the sweating and agonizing business manager, Marrineal looked very cool and tolerant and mildly amused.

Beside the sweating and stressed-out business manager, Marrineal appeared very relaxed, understanding, and slightly amused.

“If you did that, Mr. Haring, do you appreciate what the result would be? We should have another editorial worse than the first, as soon as Mr. Banneker could think it out. No; you leave this to me. I’ll manage it.”

“If you did that, Mr. Haring, do you realize what the outcome would be? We’d end up with another editorial that's even worse than the first, as soon as Mr. Banneker figures it out. No; just let me handle this. I’ll take care of it.”

His management took the negative form of a profound silence upon the explicit point. But on the following morning Banneker found upon his desk a complete analytical table showing the advertising revenue of the paper by classes, with a star over the department-store list, indicating a dated withdrawal of twenty-two thousand dollars a year. The date was of that day. Thus was Banneker enabled to figure out, by a simple process, the loss to himself of any class of advertising, or even small group in a class, dropping out of the paper. It was clever of Marrineal, he admitted to himself, and, in a way, disappointing. His proffered gage of battle had been refused, almost ignored. The issue was not to be joined when he was ready, but when Marrineal was ready, and on Marrineal’s own ground. Very well, Banneker could be a good waiter. Meantime he had at least asserted his independence.

His management responded with a deep silence on the specific issue. However, the next morning, Banneker found a detailed chart on his desk outlining the paper's advertising revenue by category, marked with a star next to the department-store list, indicating a recent withdrawal of twenty-two thousand dollars a year. The date was today. This allowed Banneker to easily calculate the loss he’d face if any advertising category, or even a small group within a category, dropped from the paper. He acknowledged to himself that Marrineal was clever, but it was also somewhat disappointing. His challenge had been declined and nearly overlooked. The confrontation wouldn’t happen when he was ready, but rather when Marrineal was ready, and on Marrineal’s terms. That was fine; Banneker could play the part of a good waiter. In the meantime, he had at least demonstrated his independence.

Io called him up by ‘phone, avid of news of the editorial, and he was permitted to take her to luncheon and tell her all about it. In her opinion he had won a victory; established a position. Banneker was far less sanguine; he had come to entertain a considerable respect for Marrineal’s capacity. And he had another and more immediate complication on his mind, which fact his companion, by some occult exercise of divination, perceived.

Io called him on the phone, eager for updates about the editorial, and he was allowed to take her to lunch and fill her in on everything. She believed he had achieved a victory and secured a position. Banneker was much less optimistic; he had developed a significant respect for Marrineal’s abilities. He also had another, more pressing issue on his mind, which his companion somehow sensed through an unexplainable intuition.

“What else is worrying you, Ban?” she asked.

“What else is bothering you, Ban?” she asked.

Banneker did not want to talk about that. He wanted to talk about Io, about themselves. He said so. She shook her head.

Banneker didn’t want to discuss that. He wanted to talk about Io, about themselves. He stated that clearly. She shook her head.

“Tell me about the paper.”

“Tell me about the document.”

“Oh, just the usual complications. There’s nothing to interest you in them.”

“Oh, just the usual complications. There’s nothing here that would interest you.”

“Everything,” she maintained ardently.

"Everything," she insisted passionately.

Banneker caught his breath. Had she given him her lips, it could hardly have meant more—perhaps not meant so much as this tranquil assumption of her right to share in the major concerns of his life.

Banneker took a deep breath. If she had kissed him, it might not have meant as much—maybe it wouldn’t have meant as much as this calm assertion of her right to be involved in the important parts of his life.

“If you’ve been reading the paper,” he began, and waited for her silent nod before going on, “you know our attitude toward organized labor.”

“If you’ve been reading the paper,” he started, waiting for her silent nod before continuing, “you know how we feel about organized labor.”

“Yes. You are for it when it is right and not always against it when it is wrong.”

“Yes. You support it when it’s right and don’t always oppose it when it’s wrong.”

“One can’t split hairs in a matter of editorial policy. I’ve made The Patriot practically the mouthpiece of labor in this city; much more so than the official organ, which has no influence and a small following. Just now I’m specially anxious to hold them in line for the mayoralty campaign. We’ve got to elect Robert Laird. Otherwise we’ll have such an orgy of graft and rottenness as the city has never seen.”

“One can’t get caught up in minor details when it comes to editorial policy. I’ve made The Patriot pretty much the voice of labor in this city; way more than the official paper, which has no impact and a small readership. Right now, I’m especially eager to keep them focused for the mayoral campaign. We need to elect Robert Laird. If we don’t, we’ll experience a level of corruption and decay that the city has never witnessed before.”

“Isn’t the labor element for Laird?”

“Isn’t the work part for Laird?”

“It isn’t against him, except that he is naturally regarded as a silk-stocking. The difficulty isn’t politics. There’s some new influence in local labor circles that is working against me; against The Patriot. I think it’s a fellow named McClintick, a new man from the West.”

“It’s not really about him, except that people see him as a privilege person. The issue isn’t politics. There’s some new influence in the local labor scene that’s working against me; against The Patriot. I think it’s a guy named McClintick, a newcomer from the West.”

“Perhaps he wants to be bought off.”

“Maybe he wants a bribe.”

“You’re thinking of the old style of labor leader,” returned Banneker. “It isn’t as simple as that. No; from what I hear, he’s a fanatic. And he has great influence.”

“You're thinking of the old-school labor leader,” Banneker replied. “It’s not that straightforward. No; from what I’ve heard, he’s a fanatic. And he holds a lot of power.”

“Get hold of him and talk it out with him,” advised Io.

“Reach out to him and have a conversation,” advised Io.

“I intend to.” He brooded for a moment. “There isn’t a man in New York,” he said fretfully, “that has stood for the interests of the masses and against the power of money as I have. Why, Io, before we cut loose in The Patriot, a banker or a railroad president was sacrosanct. His words were received with awe. Wall Street was the holy of holies, not to be profaned by the slightest hint of impiety. Well, we’ve changed all that! Not I, alone. Our cartoons have done more than the editorials. Every other paper in town has had to follow our lead. Even The Ledger.”

“I plan to.” He thought for a moment. “There isn’t a man in New York,” he said irritably, “who has stood for the interests of the people and against the power of money like I have. You know, Io, before we went all out in The Patriot, a banker or a railroad president was untouchable. His words were taken with reverence. Wall Street was the ultimate authority, not to be disrespected by even the slightest challenge. Well, we’ve changed all that! Not just me. Our cartoons have accomplished more than the editorials. Every other paper in town has had to follow our example. Even The Ledger.”

“I like The Ledger,” declared Io.

“I like The Ledger,” said Io.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It has a sort of dignity; the dignity of self-respect.”

“I don’t know. It has a kind of dignity; the dignity of self-respect.”

“Hasn’t The Patriot?” demanded the jealous Banneker.

“Hasn’t The Patriot?” asked the jealous Banneker.

“Not a bit,” she answered frankly, “except for your editorials. They have the dignity of good workmanship, and honesty, and courage, even when you’re wrong.”

“Not at all,” she replied honestly, “except for your editorials. They have the integrity of good craftsmanship, and honesty, and bravery, even when you’re mistaken.”

“Are we so often wrong, Io?” he said wistfully.

“Are we often wrong, Io?” he said with a hint of sadness.

“Dear boy, you can’t expect a girl, brought up as I have been, to believe that society is upside down, and would be better if it were tipped over the other way and run by a lot of hod-carriers and ditch-diggers and cooks. Can you, now?”

“Dear boy, you can’t expect a girl, raised like I have been, to believe that society is all wrong and would be better if it were flipped over and run by a bunch of manual laborers and cooks. Can you?”

“Of course not. Nor is that what I advocate. I’m for the under dog. For fair play. So are you, aren’t you? I saw your name on the Committee List of the Consumers’ League, dealing with conditions in the department stores.”

“Of course not. That’s not what I support. I’m on the side of the underdog. I believe in fair play. You believe that too, right? I noticed your name on the Committee List of the Consumers’ League, which addresses conditions in department stores.”

“That’s different,” she said. “Those girls haven’t a chance in some of the shops. They’re brutalized. The stores don’t even pretend to obey the laws. We are trying to work out some sort of organization, now, for them.”

“That’s different,” she said. “Those girls don’t have a chance in some of the shops. They’re treated terribly. The stores don’t even pretend to follow the laws. We’re trying to set up some kind of organization for them now.”

“Yet you’re hostile to organized labor! Who shall ever understand the feminine mind! Some day you’ll be coming to us for help.”

“Yet you’re against organized labor! Who will ever figure out the female mind! One day you'll be coming to us for help.”

“Very likely. It must be a curious sensation, Ban, to have the consciousness of the power that you wield, and to be responsible to nobody on earth.”

“Very likely. It must be a strange feeling, Ban, to be aware of the power you have and to not be accountable to anyone on earth.”

“To the public that reads us,” he corrected.

“To the public that reads us,” he said.

“Not a real responsibility. There is no authority over you; no appeal from your judgments. Hasn’t that something to do with people’s dislike and distrust of the newspapers; the sense that so much irresponsible power is wrong?”

“Not a real responsibility. You have no authority over you; there's no appeal from your decisions. Doesn't that relate to people’s dislike and distrust of the newspapers; the feeling that so much irresponsible power is wrong?”

“Yet,” he said, “any kind of censorship is worse than the evil it remedies. I’ve never shown you my creed, have I?”

“Yet,” he said, “any form of censorship is worse than the problem it tries to fix. I’ve never shared my beliefs with you, have I?”

His manner was half jocular; there was a smile on his lips, but his eyes seemed to look beyond the petty troubles and problems of his craft to a final and firm verity.

His demeanor was somewhat playful; he had a smile on his lips, but his eyes appeared to gaze beyond the minor issues and challenges of his work to a deeper, unshakeable truth.

“Tell me,” she bade him.

“Tell me,” she said to him.

He drew his watch out and opened the back. For a moment she thought, with confused emotions, that she would see there a picture of herself of which he might have possessed himself somewhere. She closed her eyes momentarily against the fear of that anti-climax. When she opened them, it was to read, in a clear, fine print those high and sure words of Milton’s noblest message:

He took out his watch and opened the back. For a moment, she thought, with mixed emotions, that she would see a picture of herself that he might have somehow gotten. She closed her eyes for a moment, fearing that letdown. When she opened them, it was to read, in a clear, fine print, those strong and assured words of Milton's greatest message:

And though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and prohibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple; who ever knew truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter? Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing.

And even though all sorts of beliefs and ideas are allowed to spread across the earth, as long as truth is out there, we harm ourselves by trying to control and restrict it, doubting its strength. Let truth and falsehood clash; who has ever seen truth lose in a fair and open battle? Her ability to expose falsehood is the best and most reliable way to keep it down.

Twice she read the pregnant message.

Twice she read the meaningful message.

“I have it,” said she gravely. “To keep—for always.”

“I have it,” she said seriously. “To keep—forever.”

“Some day I’ll put it at the head of The Patriot.”

“Someday I'll place it at the top of The Patriot.”

“Why not now?”

“Why not do it now?”

“Not ready. I want to be surer; absolutely sure.”

“Not ready. I want to be more certain; completely certain.”

“I’m sure,” she declared superbly; “of you.”

“I’m sure,” she stated confidently; “of you.”

“You make me sure of myself, Io. But there’s Marrineal.”

“You make me confident, Io. But there’s Marrineal.”

“Yes; there’s Marrineal. You must have a paper of your own, mustn’t you, Ban, eventually?”

“Yes; there’s Marrineal. You must have your own paper, right, Ban, eventually?”

“Perhaps. If I ever get enough money to own it absolutely.”

“Maybe. If I ever have enough money to own it outright.”

“Only four years ago,” she murmured, with apparent irrelevancy. “And now—”

“Only four years ago,” she whispered, seeming off-topic. “And now—”

“When shall I see you again?” he asked anxiously as she rose. “Are you coming Saturday night?”

“When will I see you again?” he asked nervously as she stood up. “Are you coming Saturday night?”

“Of course,” said Io.

"Of course," Io said.

Through the agency of Russell Edmonds, McClintick, the labor leader, came to see Banneker. He was a stooping giant with a deep, melancholy voice, and his attitude toward The Patriot was one of distrustful reticence. Genuine ardor has, however, a warming influence. McClintick’s silence melted by degrees, not into confidence but, surprisingly, into indignation, directed upon all the “capitalistic press” in general, but in particular against The Patriot. Why single out The Patriot, specially, Banneker asked.

Through Russell Edmonds, McClintick, the labor leader, came to see Banneker. He was a tall, stooped figure with a deep, sad voice, and his attitude toward The Patriot was one of cautious distrust. Genuine enthusiasm, however, has a warming effect. McClintick’s silence gradually changed, not into trust but surprisingly into anger, aimed at all the “capitalistic press” in general, but specifically towards The Patriot. Why single out The Patriot in particular, Banneker asked.

“Hypocrite,” muttered the giant.

“Hypocrite,” the giant muttered.

At length the reason came out, under pressure: The Patriot had been (in the words of the labor man) making a big row over the arrest of certain labor organizers, in one of the recurrent outbreaks against the Steel Trust, opposed by that organization’s systematic and tyrannous method of oppression. So far, so good. But why hadn’t the paper said a word about the murder of strikers’ wives and children out at the Veridian Lumber Company’s mills in Oregon; an outrage far surpassing anything ever laid to the account of the Steel Trust? Simple reason, answered Banneker; there had been no news of it over the wires. No; of course there hadn’t. The Amalgamated Wire Association (another tool of capitalism) had suppressed it; wouldn’t let any strike stuff get on the wires that it could keep off. Then how, asked Banneker, could it be expected—? McClintick interrupted in his voice of controlled passion; had Mr. Banneker ever heard of the Chicago Transcript (naming the leading morning paper); had he ever read it? Well, The Transcript—which, he, McClintick, hated strongly as an organ of money—nevertheless did honestly gather and publish news, as he was constrained huskily to admit. It had the Veridian story; was still running it from time to time. Therefore, if Mr. Banneker was interested, on behalf of The Patriot—

At last, the reason came out under pressure: The Patriot had been (in the labor guy's words) making a big fuss over the arrest of certain labor organizers during one of the ongoing protests against the Steel Trust, which was facing that organization’s systematic and brutal oppression. So far, so good. But why hadn’t the paper mentioned the murders of strikers’ wives and children at the Veridian Lumber Company’s mills in Oregon; an outrage that far exceeded anything recorded against the Steel Trust? The simple answer, Banneker explained, was that there had been no news about it over the wires. Of course there hadn’t. The Amalgamated Wire Association (another tool of capitalism) had suppressed it; they wouldn't let any strike-related news get on the wires that they could keep off. So how, Banneker asked, could it be expected—? McClintick interrupted with a controlled passion in his voice; had Mr. Banneker ever heard of the Chicago Transcript (the leading morning paper); had he ever read it? Well, The Transcript—which he, McClintick, strongly disliked as an outlet of wealth—still managed to honestly gather and publish news, as he had to admit with some difficulty. It had the Veridian story and was still running it from time to time. Therefore, if Mr. Banneker was interested, on behalf of The Patriot—

Certainly, The Patriot was interested; would obtain and publish the story in full, if it was as Mr. McClintick represented, with due editorial comment.

Certainly, The Patriot was interested; it would obtain and publish the story in full if it was as Mr. McClintick described, with appropriate editorial commentary.

“Will it?” grumbled McClintick, gave his hat a look of mingled hope and skepticism, put it on, and went away.

“Will it?” grumbled McClintick, gave his hat a look of mixed hope and doubt, put it on, and walked away.

“Now, what’s wrong with that chap’s mental digestion?” Banneker inquired of Edmonds, who had sat quiet throughout the interview. “What is he holding back?”

“Now, what’s up with that guy’s mental processing?” Banneker asked Edmonds, who had been silent throughout the interview. “What’s he keeping inside?”

“Plenty,” returned the veteran in a tone which might have served for echo of the labor man’s gloom.

“Lots,” replied the veteran in a tone that seemed to echo the labor man's sadness.

“Do you know the Veridian story?”

“Yes. I’ve just checked it up.”

“Yes. I just looked it up.”

“What’s the milk in that cocoanut?”

“What’s the milk in that coconut?”

“Sour!” said Edmonds with such energy that Banneker turned to look at him direct. “The principal owner of Veridian is named Marrineal.... Where you going, Ban?”

“Sour!” Edmonds exclaimed with such enthusiasm that Banneker turned to look at him directly. “The main owner of Veridian is named Marrineal.... Where are you going, Ban?”

“To see the principal owner of the name,” said Banneker grimly.

“To see the main owner of the name,” said Banneker grimly.

The quest took him to the big house on upper Fifth Avenue. Marrineal heard his editorial writer with impassive face.

The quest took him to the large house on upper Fifth Avenue. Marrineal listened to his editorial writer with an unexpressive face.

“So the story has got here,” he remarked.

“So the story has reached this point,” he said.

“Yes. Do you own Veridian?”

“No.”

Hope rose within Banneker. “You don’t?”

“My mother does. She’s in Europe. A rather innocent old person. The innocence of age, perhaps. Quite old.” All of this in a perfectly tranquil voice.

“My mom does. She’s in Europe. A pretty innocent old person. Maybe it's the innocence that comes with age. She’s quite old.” All of this in a perfectly calm voice.

“Have you seen The Chicago Transcript? It’s an ugly story.”

“Have you seen The Chicago Transcript? It’s a terrible story.”

“Very. I’ve sent a man out to the camp. There won’t be any more shootings.”

“Very. I’ve sent someone out to the camp. There won’t be any more shootings.”

“It comes rather late. I’ve told McClintick, the labor man who comes from Wyoming, that we’ll carry the story, if we verify it.”

“It comes a bit late. I’ve informed McClintick, the labor guy from Wyoming, that we’ll run the story if we can confirm it.”

Marrineal raised his eyes slowly to Banneker’s stern face. “Have you?” he said coolly. “Now, as to the mayoralty campaign; what do you think of running a page feature of Laird’s reforms, as President of the Board, tracing each one down to its effect and showing what any backward step would mean? By the way, Laird is going to be pretty heavily obligated to The Patriot if he’s elected.”

Marrineal slowly looked up at Banneker’s serious face. “Have you?” he replied calmly. “Now, about the mayoral campaign; what do you think of doing a full-page feature on Laird’s reforms as President of the Board, following each one down to its impact and demonstrating what any regression would mean? By the way, Laird is going to owe The Patriot a lot if he gets elected.”

For half an hour they talked politics, nothing else.

For thirty minutes, they discussed politics and nothing else.

At the office Edmonds was making a dossier of the Veridian reports. It was ready when Banneker returned.

At the office, Edmonds was putting together a file of the Veridian reports. It was ready when Banneker came back.

“Let it wait,” said Banneker.

“Let it wait,” Banneker said.

Prudence ordained that he should throw the troublous stuff into the waste-basket. He wondered if he was becoming prudent, as another man might wonder whether he was becoming old. At any rate, he would make no decision until he had talked it over with Io. Not only did he feel instinctive confidence in her sense of fair play; but also this relationship of interest in his affairs, established by her, was the opportunity of his closest approach; an intimacy of spirit assured and subtle. He hoped that she would come early on Saturday evening.

Prudence dictated that he should toss the troubling stuff into the trash. He wondered if he was becoming more sensible, just like another guy might wonder if he was getting old. Regardless, he wouldn't make any decisions until he discussed it with Io. Not only did he have a natural confidence in her sense of fairness, but this interest she showed in his matters created a chance for him to connect with her on a deeper level; it was a sure and nuanced intimacy of spirit. He hoped she would come over early on Saturday evening.

But she did not. Some dinner party had claimed her, and it was after eleven when she arrived with Archie Densmore. At once Banneker took her aside and laid before her the whole matter.

But she didn't. A dinner party had kept her, and it was after eleven when she showed up with Archie Densmore. Right away, Banneker took her aside and explained the whole situation to her.

“Poor Ban!” she said softly. “It isn’t so simple, having power to play with, is it?”

“Poor Ban!” she said softly. “It's not so easy, having power to mess with, is it?”

“But how am I to handle this?”

“But how am I supposed to deal with this?”

“The mills belong to Mr. Marrineal’s mother, you said?”

“The mills belong to Mr. Marrineal’s mom, you said?”

“Practically they do.”

“Basically they do.”

“And she is—?”

“And who is she—?”

“A silly and vain old fool.”

“A foolish and conceited old man.”

“Is that his opinion of her?”

“Is that what he thinks of her?”

“Necessarily. But he’s fond of her.”

“Of course. But he really likes her.”

“Will he really try to remedy conditions, do you think?”

"Do you really think he'll try to fix things?"

“Oh, yes. So far as that goes.”

“Oh, yeah. As far as that goes.”

“Then I’d drop it.”

"Then I’d let it go."

“Print nothing at all?”

"Don't print anything at all?"

“Not a word.”

"Silence."

“That isn’t what I expected from you. Why do you advise it?”

"That’s not what I expected from you. Why do you suggest that?"

“Loyalty.”

"Faithfulness."

“The paralytic virtue,” said Banneker with such bitterness of conviction that Io answered:

“The paralyzing virtue,” said Banneker with such a strong sense of conviction that Io replied:

“I suppose you don’t mean that to be simply clever.”

“I guess you don’t intend that to be just clever.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

"That's true, right?"

“There’s a measure of truth in it. But, Ban, you can’t use Mr. Marrineal’s own paper to expose conditions in Mr. Marrineal’s mother’s mills. If he’d even directed you to hold off—”

“There’s some truth to it. But, Ban, you can’t use Mr. Marrineal’s own article to reveal the issues in Mr. Marrineal’s mother’s mills. If he’d even told you to wait—”

“That’s his infernal cleverness. I’d have told him to go to the devil.”

“That's his annoying cleverness. I would have told him to go to hell.”

“And resigned?”

"And quit?"

“Of course.”

"Definitely."

“You can resign now,” she pointed out. “But I think you’d be foolish. You can do such big things. You are doing such big things with The Patriot. Cousin Billy Enderby says that if Laird is elected it will be your doing. Where else could you find such opportunity?”

“You can quit now,” she noted. “But I think that would be a mistake. You have the potential to achieve great things. You are achieving great things with The Patriot. Cousin Billy Enderby says if Laird gets elected, it will be because of you. Where else would you find such an opportunity?”

“Tell me this, Io,” he said, after a moment of heavy-browed brooding very unlike his usual blithe certainty of bearing. “Suppose that lumber property were my own, and this thing had broken out.”

“Tell me this, Io,” he said, after a moment of deep thought that was very different from his usual easy confidence. “What if that lumber property were mine, and this situation had come up?”

“Oh, I’d say to print it, every word,” she answered promptly. “Or”—she spoke very slowly and with a tremor of color flickering in her cheeks—“if it were mine, I’d tell you to print it.”

“Oh, I’d definitely say to print it, every word,” she replied quickly. “Or”—she spoke very slowly, with a hint of color rising in her cheeks—“if it were mine, I’d tell you to print it.”

He looked up with a transfigured face. His hand fell on hers, in the covert of the little shelter of plants behind which they sat. “Do you realize what that implies?” he questioned.

He looked up with a transformed expression. His hand rested on hers, in the concealment of the little shelter of plants behind which they sat. “Do you realize what that means?” he asked.

“Perfectly,” she answered in her clear undertone.

“Perfectly,” she replied in her clear tone.

He bent over to her hand, which turned, soft palm up, to meet his lips. She whispered a warning and he raised his head quickly. Ely Ives had passed near by.

He leaned over to her hand, which turned, soft palm up, to meet his lips. She whispered a warning, and he quickly raised his head. Ely Ives had passed nearby.

“Marrineal’s familiar,” said Banneker. “I wonder how he got here. Certainly I didn’t ask him.... Very well, Io. I’ll compromise. But ... I don’t think I’ll put that quotation from the Areopagitica at the head of my column. That will have to wait. Perhaps it will have to wait until I—we get a paper of our own.”

“Marrineal’s companion,” said Banneker. “I’m curious how he ended up here. I definitely didn’t call for him.... Alright, Io. I’ll meet you halfway. But ... I don’t think I’ll use that quote from the Areopagitica at the start of my column. That’ll have to wait. Maybe it’ll have to wait until I—we have our own paper.”

“Poor Ban!” whispered Io.

"Poor Ban!" whispered Io.

CHAPTER VIII

Once a month Marrineal gave a bachelor dinner of Lucullan repute. The company, though much smaller than the gatherings at The House With Three Eyes, covered a broader and looser social range. Having declined several of his employer’s invitations in succession on the well-justified plea of work, Banneker felt it incumbent upon him to attend one of these events, and accordingly found himself in a private dining-room of the choicest of restaurants, tabled with a curiously assorted group of financiers, editors, actors, a small selection of the more raffish members of The Retreat including Delavan Eyre; Ely Ives; an elderly Jewish lawyer of unsavory reputation, enormous income, and real and delicate scholarship; Herbert Cressey, a pair of the season’s racing-kings, an eminent art connoisseur, and a smattering of men-about-town. Seated between the lawyer and one of the racing-men, Banneker, as the dinner progressed, found himself watching Delavan Eyre, opposite, who was drinking with sustained intensity, but without apparent effect upon his debonair bearing. Banneker thought to read a haunting fear in his eyes, and was cogitating upon what it might portend, when his attention was distracted by Ely Ives, who had been requested (as he announced) to exhibit his small skill at some minor sleight-of-hand tricks. The skill, far from justifying its possessor’s modest estimate, was so unusual as to provoke expressions of admiration from Mr. Stecklin, the lawyer on Banneker’s right.

Once a month, Marrineal hosted a bachelor dinner known for its lavish reputation. The guest list, though much smaller than the gatherings at The House With Three Eyes, included a wider and more diverse social mix. Having turned down several invitations from his boss on the reasonable grounds of having work to do, Banneker felt he should attend one of these dinners. He found himself in a private dining room of a top-notch restaurant, seated with a varied group of financiers, editors, actors, and a few of the more questionable members of The Retreat, including Delavan Eyre, Ely Ives, an older Jewish lawyer with a bad reputation but a hefty income and impressive scholarship, Herbert Cressey, a couple of the season's racing stars, a well-known art enthusiast, and a few local socialites. As the dinner went on, Banneker, seated between the lawyer and one of the racing stars, found himself watching Delavan Eyre across the table, who was drinking with intense focus yet managed to maintain his charming demeanor. Banneker thought he could see a subtle fear in Eyre's eyes and was pondering what it might mean when his attention shifted to Ely Ives, who had been asked (as he announced) to show off his limited skills with some minor magic tricks. The performance, far from living up to Ives's modest claims, was impressive enough to elicit admiration from Mr. Stecklin, the lawyer sitting to Banneker’s right.

“Oh, yes; hypnotism too,” said Ely Ives briskly, after twenty minutes of legerdemain. “Child’s play.”

“Oh, sure; hypnotism too,” said Ely Ives cheerfully, after twenty minutes of sleight of hand. “Easy stuff.”

“Now, who suggested hypnotism?” murmured Stecklin in his limpid and confidential undertone, close to Banneker’s ear. “You? I? No! No one, I think.”

“Now, who suggested hypnotism?” Stecklin whispered in his clear and confidential tone, leaning close to Banneker’s ear. “You? Me? No! No one, I think.”

So Banneker thought, and was the more interested in Ives’s procedure. Though the drinking had been heavy at his end of the table, he seemed quite unaffected, was now tripping from man to man, peering into the eyes of each, “to find an appropriate subject,” as he said. Delavan Eyre roused himself out of a semi-torpor as the wiry little prowler stared down at him.

So Banneker thought, and became even more intrigued by Ives's method. Even though the drinking had been heavy on his side of the table, he seemed completely unfazed and was now moving from person to person, looking into each one's eyes, "to find a suitable topic," as he put it. Delavan Eyre snapped out of a bit of a daze as the energetic little wanderer looked down at him.

“What’s the special idea?” he demanded.

“What’s the big idea?” he asked.

“Just a bit of mesmerism,” explained the other. “I’ll try you for a subject. If you’ll stand up, feet apart, eyes closed, I’ll hypnotize you so that you’ll fall over at a movement.”

“Just a little bit of hypnosis,” the other one explained. “I’ll see if you can be a subject. If you stand up, with your feet apart and your eyes closed, I’ll hypnotize you so that you’ll fall over at a gesture.”

“You can’t do it,” retorted Eyre.

“You can’t do it,” replied Eyre.

“For a bet,” Ives came back.

"For a wager," Ives replied.

“A hundred?”

"One hundred?"

“Double it if you like.”

"Double it if you want."

“You’re on.” Eyre, slowly swallowing the last of a brandy-and-soda, rose, reaching into his pocket.

“You’re on.” Eyre, slowly finishing his brandy and soda, stood up and reached into his pocket.

“Not necessary, between gentlemen,” said Ely Ives with a gesture just a little too suave.

“Not needed, between gentlemen,” said Ely Ives with a gesture that was just a bit too smooth.

“Ah, yes,” muttered the lawyer at Banneker’s side. “Between gentlemen. Eck-xactly.”

“Ah, yes,” muttered the lawyer beside Banneker. “Only between gentlemen. Exactly.”

Pursuant to instructions, Eyre stood with his feet a few inches apart and his eyes closed. “At the word, you bring your heels together. Click! And you keep your balance. If you can. For the two hundred. Any one else want in?... No?... Ready, Mr. Eyre. Now! Hep!”

Following the instructions, Eyre stood with his feet a few inches apart and his eyes closed. “When I say the word, you bring your heels together. Click! And you keep your balance. If you can. For the two hundred. Anyone else want to join?... No?... Ready, Mr. Eyre. Now! Hep!”

The heels clicked, but with a stuttering, weak impact. Eyre, bulky and powerful, staggered, toppled to the left.

The heels clicked, but it was a stuttering, weak sound. Eyre, big and strong, stumbled and fell to the left.

“Hold up there!” His neighbor propped him, and was clutched in his grasp.

“Wait a second!” His neighbor stopped him and held onto him tightly.

“Hands off!” said Eyre thickly. “Sorry, Banks! Let me try that again. Oh, the bet’s yours, Mr. Ives,” he added, as that keen gambler began to enter a protest. “Send you a check in the morning—if that’ll be all right.”

“Hands off!” Eyre said with a thick voice. “Sorry, Banks! Let me try that again. Oh, you can take the bet, Mr. Ives,” he added as the eager gambler started to protest. “I’ll send you a check in the morning—if that’s okay.”

Herbert Cressey, hand in pocket, was at his side instantly. “Pay him now, Del,” he said in a tone which did not conceal his contemptuous estimate of Ives. “Here’s money, if you haven’t it.”

Herbert Cressey, with his hand in his pocket, was right by his side. “Pay him now, Del,” he said, his tone revealing his disdain for Ives. “Here’s some cash, if you don’t have it.”

“No; no! A check will be quite all right,” protested Ives. “At your convenience.”

“No; no! A check will be totally fine,” Ives insisted. “Whenever it works for you.”

Others gathered about, curious and interested. Banneker, puzzled by a vague suspicion which he sought to formulate, was aware of a low runnel of commentary at his ear.

Others gathered around, curious and interested. Banneker, confused by a vague suspicion he was trying to clarify, noticed a low stream of comments in his ear.

“Very curious. Shrewd; yes. A clever fellow.... Sad, too.”

“Very curious. Smart; yes. A clever guy.... Sad, too.”

“Sad?” He turned sharply on the lawyer of unsavory suits. “What is sad about it? A fool and his money! Is that tragedy?”

“Sad?” He quickly turned to the lawyer in tacky suits. “What’s sad about it? A fool and his money! Is that a tragedy?”

“Comedy, my friend. Always comedy. This also, perhaps. But grim.... Our friend there who is so clever of hand and eye; he is not perhaps a medical man?”

“Comedy, my friend. Always comedy. This too, maybe. But grim.... Our friend over there, who is so skilled with his hands and eyes; he’s not, perhaps, a doctor?”

“Yes; he is. What connection—Good God!” he cried, as a flood of memory suddenly poured light upon a dark spot in some of his forgotten reading.

“Yes; he is. What connection—Good God!” he exclaimed, as a rush of memories suddenly illuminated a dark spot in some of his forgotten reading.

“Ah? You know? Yes; I have had such a case in my legal practice. Died of an—an error. He made a mistake—in a bottle, which he purchased for that purpose. But this one—he elects to live and face it—”

“Ah? You know? Yes; I've had a case like that in my legal practice. Died from an—an error. He made a mistake—with a bottle he bought for that purpose. But this one—he chooses to live and deal with it—”

“Does he know it?”

"Does he know about it?"

“Obviously. One can see the dread in his eyes. Some of his friends know it—and his family, I am told. But he does not know this interesting little experiment of our friend. Profitable, too, eh? One wonders how he came to suspect. A medical man, though; a keen eye. Of course.”

“Obviously. You can see the fear in his eyes. Some of his friends know it—and his family, I hear. But he doesn’t know about this interesting little experiment of our friend. Profitable too, right? It makes you wonder how he came to suspect. A doctor, though; he has a sharp eye. Of course.”

“Damn him,” said Banneker quietly. “General paralysis?”

“Damn him,” Banneker said quietly. “General paralysis?”

“Eck-xactly. Twelve, maybe fifteen years ago, a little recklessness. A little overheating of the blood. Perhaps after a dinner like this. The poison lies dormant; a snake asleep. Harms no one. Not himself; not another. Until—something here”—he tapped the thick black curls over the base of his brain. “All that ruddy strength, that lusty good-humor passing on courageously—for he is a brave man, Eyre—to slow torture and—and the end. Grim, eh?”

“Exactly. Twelve, maybe fifteen years ago, I was a bit reckless. A little too passionate. Maybe after a dinner like this. The poison is lying dormant; a snake is asleep. It doesn’t harm anyone. Not him; not another person. Until—something here”—he tapped the thick black curls at the back of his head. “All that strength, that lively good humor passing on courageously—because he’s a brave man, Eyre—to slow torture and—and the end. Pretty grim, right?”

Banneker reached for a drink. “How long?” he asked.

“As for that, he is very strong. It might be slow. One prays not.”

“As for that, he's really strong. It might take a while. Let's hope not.”

“At any rate, that little reptile, Ives, shan’t have his profit of it.” Banneker rose and, disdaining even the diplomacy of an excuse, drew Ely Ives aside.

“At any rate, that little reptile, Ives, won’t benefit from it.” Banneker stood up and, disregarding even the courtesy of an apology, pulled Ely Ives aside.

“That bet of yours was a joke, Ives,” he prescribed.

“That bet you made was a joke, Ives,” he said.

Ives studied him in silence, wishing that he had watched, through the dinner, how much drink he took.

Ives watched him quietly, wishing he had paid attention during dinner to how much he was drinking.

“A joke?” he asked coolly. “I don’t understand you.”

“A joke?” he asked casually. “I don’t get you.”

“Try,” advised Banneker with earnestness. “I happen to have read that luetic diagnosis, myself. A joke, Ives, so far as the two hundred goes.”

“Give it a shot,” Banneker suggested earnestly. “I’ve actually read that luetic diagnosis myself. It's a joke, Ives, as far as the two hundred goes.”

“What do you expect me to do?” asked the other.

“What do you expect me to do?” the other person asked.

“Tear up the check, when it comes. Make what explanation your ingenuity can devise. That’s your affair. But don’t cash that check, Ives. For if you do—I dislike to threaten—”

“Tear up the check when it arrives. Come up with whatever explanation you can think of. That’s your business. But don’t cash that check, Ives. Because if you do—I really don’t want to threaten you—”

“You don’t need to threaten me, Mr. Banneker,” interrupted Ives eagerly. “If you think it wasn’t a fair bet, your word is enough for me. That goes. It’s off. I think just that of you. I’m a friend of yours, as I hope to prove to you some day. I don’t lay this up against you; not for a minute.”

“You don’t need to threaten me, Mr. Banneker,” Ives interrupted eagerly. “If you think it wasn’t a fair bet, your word is enough for me. That’s it. It’s off. I think highly of you. I’m your friend, as I hope to show you someday. I’m not holding this against you; not for a second.”

Not trusting himself to make answer to this proffer, Banneker turned away to find his host and make his adieus. As he left, he saw Delavan Eyre, flushed but composed, sipping a liqueur and listening with courteous appearance of appreciation to a vapid and slobbering story of one of the racing magnates. A debauchee, a cumberer of the earth, useless, selfish, scandalous of life—and Banneker, looking at him with pitiful eyes, paid his unstinted tribute to the calm and high courage of the man.

Not trusting himself to respond to the offer, Banneker turned away to find his host and say his goodbyes. As he was leaving, he saw Delavan Eyre, flushed but composed, sipping a liqueur and politely pretending to appreciate a dull and over-the-top story from one of the racing moguls. A hedonist, an unnecessary burden on the world, selfish, and disgraceful in life—and Banneker, looking at him with compassionate eyes, paid full respect to the calm and brave spirit of the man.

Walking slowly home in the cool air, Banneker gave thanks for a drink-proof head. He had need of it; he wanted to think and think clearly. How did this shocking revelation about Eyre affect his own hopes of Io? That she would stand by her husband through his ordeal Banneker never doubted for an instant. Her pride of fair play would compel her to that. It came to his mind that this was her other and secret reason for not divorcing Eyre; for maintaining still the outward form of a marriage which had ceased to exist long before. For a lesser woman, he realized with a thrill, it would have been a reason for divorcing him.... Well, here was a barrier, indeed, against which he was helpless. Opposed by a loyalty such as Io’s he could only be silent and wait.

Walking slowly home in the cool air, Banneker was grateful for his ability to think clearly. He needed it; he wanted to ponder things deeply. How did this shocking news about Eyre impact his own hopes for Io? He never doubted that she would support her husband through his challenges. Her sense of fairness would drive her to do that. It occurred to him that this was her other, hidden reason for not divorcing Eyre; for still keeping up the appearance of a marriage that had really ended long ago. He realized with a jolt that for a lesser woman, this would have been a valid reason to leave him... Well, this was truly a barrier against which he felt powerless. Faced with a loyalty like Io’s, he could only remain silent and wait.

In the next few weeks she was very good to him. Not only did she lunch with him several times, but she came to the Saturday nights of The House With Three Eyes, sometimes with Archie Densmore alone, more often with a group of her own set, after a dinner or a theater party. Always she made opportunity for a little talk apart with her host; talks which any one might have heard, for they were concerned almost exclusively with the affairs of The Patriot, especially in its relation to the mayoralty campaign now coming to a close. Yet, impersonal though the discussions might be, Banneker took from them a sense of ever-increasing intimacy and communion, if it were only from a sudden, betraying quiver in her voice, an involuntary, unconscious look from the shadowed eyes. Whatever of resentment he had cherished for her earlier desertion was now dissipated; he was wholly hers, content, despite all his passionate longing for her, with what she chose to give. In her own time she would be generous, as she was brave and honorable....

In the next few weeks, she treated him really well. Not only did she have lunch with him several times, but she also attended the Saturday nights at The House With Three Eyes, sometimes just with Archie Densmore, but more often with a group of her friends after a dinner or a theater outing. She always found time for a little private conversation with her host; conversations that anyone could have overheard, since they mostly revolved around The Patriot, especially regarding the mayoral campaign that was winding down. Yet, even though the discussions were impersonal, Banneker felt an increasing closeness and connection from the slight, revealing tremor in her voice, or an involuntary, unconscious glance from her shadowed eyes. Any resentment he had held against her for abandoning him earlier had faded away; he was completely devoted to her, content, despite his deep longing for her, with whatever she chose to offer. In her own time, she would be generous, just as she was brave and honorable...

She was warmly interested in the election of Robert Laird to the mayoralty, partly because she knew him personally, partly because the younger element of society had rather “gone in for politics” that year, on the reform side. Banneker had to admit to her, as the day drew close, that the issue was doubtful. Though The Patriot’s fervid support had been a great asset to the cause, it was now, for the moment, a liability to the extent that it was being fiercely denounced in the Socialist organ, The Summons, as treasonable to the interests of the working-classes. The Summons charged hypocrisy, citing the case of the Veridian strike.

She was genuinely interested in Robert Laird's election as mayor, partly because she knew him personally and partly because the younger generation had really gotten into politics that year, especially on the reform side. As the day approached, Banneker had to admit to her that the outcome was uncertain. Even though The Patriot’s passionate support had been a major advantage for the cause, it was now, for the time being, a drawback, as it was being strongly criticized in the Socialist publication, The Summons, for being traitorous to the interests of the working-class. The Summons accused them of hypocrisy, pointing to the case of the Veridian strike.

“That is McClintick?” asked Io.

“Is that McClintick?” asked Io.

“He’s back of it, naturally. But The Summons has been waiting its chance. Jealous of our influence in the field it’s trying to cultivate.”

“Of course, he’s behind it. But The Summons has been waiting for its opportunity. It’s envious of our impact in the area it’s trying to develop.”

“McClintick is right,” remarked Io thoughtfully.

“McClintick is right,” Io said thoughtfully.

Banneker laughed. “Oh, Io! It’s such a relief to get a clear view and an honest one from some one else. There’s no one in the office except Russell Edmonds, and he’s away now.... You think McClintick is right? So do I.”

Banneker laughed. “Oh, Io! It’s such a relief to get a clear view and an honest opinion from someone else. There’s no one in the office except Russell Edmonds, and he’s gone right now... You think McClintick is right? I think so too.”

“But so are you. You had to do as you did about the story. If any one is to blame, it is Mr. Marrineal. Yet how can one blame him? He had to protect his mother. It’s a fearfully complicated phenomenon, a newspaper, isn’t it, Ban?”

“But so are you. You had to act the way you did about the story. If anyone is to blame, it’s Mr. Marrineal. Yet how can we blame him? He had to protect his mother. It’s a really complicated thing, a newspaper, isn’t it, Ban?”

“Io, the soul of man is simple and clear compared with the soul of a newspaper.”

“Io, the human soul is straightforward and easy to understand compared to the soul of a newspaper.”

“If it has a soul.”

“If it has a spirit.”

“Of course it has. It’s got to have. Otherwise what is it but a machine?”

“Of course it has. It has to have. Otherwise, what is it but a machine?”

“Which is The Patriot’s; yours or Mr. Marrineal’s? I can’t,” said Io quaintly, “quite see them coalescing.”

“Which one belongs to The Patriot; yours or Mr. Marrineal’s? I can’t,” said Io charmingly, “really imagine them coming together.”

“I wonder if Marrineal has a soul,” mused Banneker.

“I wonder if Marrineal has a soul,” Banneker thought.

“If he hasn’t one of his own, let him keep his hands off yours!” said Io in a flash of feminine jealousy. “He’s done enough already with his wretched mills. What shall you do about the attack in The Summons?”

“If he doesn’t have one of his own, he should keep his hands off yours!” Io said with a burst of feminine jealousy. “He’s already done enough with his horrible mills. What are you going to do about the attack in The Summons?”

“Ignore it. It would be difficult to answer. Besides, people easily forget.”

“Just let it go. It would be tough to respond. Plus, people quickly forget.”

“A dangerous creed, Ban. And a cynical one. I don’t want you to be cynical.”

“A dangerous belief, Ban. And a jaded one. I don’t want you to be jaded.”

“I never shall be again, unless—”

“I'll never be that way again, unless—”

“Unless?” she prompted.

"Unless?" she prompted.

“It rests with you, Io,” he said quietly.

“It’s up to you, Io,” he said softly.

At once she took flight. “Am I to be keeper of your spirit?” she protested. “It’s bad enough to be your professional adviser. Why don’t you invite a crowd of us down to get the election returns?” she suggested.

At once, she took off. “Am I supposed to be in charge of your spirit?” she asked. “It’s bad enough being your professional adviser. Why don’t you invite a bunch of us over to get the election results?” she suggested.

“Make up your party,” assented Banneker. “Keep it small; say a dozen, and we can use my office.”

“Gather your group,” agreed Banneker. “Keep it small; say about twelve, and we can use my office.”

On the fateful evening there duly appeared Io with a group of a dozen friends. From the first, it was a time of triumph. Laird took the lead and kept it. By midnight, the result was a certainty. In a balcony speech from his headquarters the victor had given generous recognition for his success to The Patriot, mentioning Banneker by name. When the report reached them Esther Forbes solemnly crowned the host with a wreath composed of the “flimsy” on which the rescript of the speech had come in.

On that fateful evening, Io showed up with a group of twelve friends. From the outset, it was a time of celebration. Laird took charge and held onto it. By midnight, the outcome was certain. In a balcony speech from his headquarters, the victorious leader gave generous credit for his success to The Patriot, mentioning Banneker by name. When the news reached them, Esther Forbes solemnly crowned the host with a wreath made from the “flimsy” that the speech had been printed on.

“Skoal to Ban!” she cried. “Maker of kings and mayors and things. Skoal! As you’re a viking or something of the sort, the Norse salutation is appropriate.”

“Skoal to Ban!” she shouted. “Maker of kings and mayors and stuff. Skoal! Since you're a Viking or something like that, the Norse greeting fits well.”

“It ought to be Danish to be accurate,” he smiled.

“It should be Danish to be precise,” he smiled.

“Well, that’s a hardy, seafaring race,” she chattered. “And that reminds me. Come on out to the South Seas with us.”

“Well, that’s a tough, adventurous group,” she said. “And that makes me think. Come join us in the South Seas.”

“Charmed,” he returned. “When do we start? To-morrow?”

“Charmed,” he replied. “When do we start? Tomorrow?”

“Oh, I’m not joking. You’ve certainly earned a vacation. And of course you needn’t enlist for the whole six months if that is too long. Dad has let me have the yacht. There’ll only be a dozen. Io’s going along.”

“Oh, I’m not joking. You’ve definitely earned a vacation. And of course, you don’t have to sign up for the full six months if that’s too long. Dad has let me use the yacht. There will only be a dozen. Io is coming along.”

Banneker shot one startled, incredulous look at Io Eyre, and instantly commanded himself, to the point of controlling his voice to gayety as he replied:

Banneker shot a surprised, disbelieving glance at Io Eyre, and quickly composed himself, managing to sound cheerful as he responded:

“And who would tell the new mayor how he should run the city, if I deserted him? No, Esther, I’m afraid I’m chained to this desk. Ask me sometime when you’re cruising as far as Coney Island.”

“And who would tell the new mayor how to run the city if I left him? No, Esther, I’m afraid I’m tied to this desk. Ask me sometime when you’re cruising all the way to Coney Island.”

Io sat silent, and with a set smile, listening to Herbert Cressey’s account of an election row in the district where he was volunteer watcher. When the party broke up, she went home with Densmore without giving Banneker the chance of a word with her. It seemed to him that there was a mute plea for pardon in her face as she bade him good-night.

Io sat quietly, wearing a fixed smile, listening to Herbert Cressey’s story about a fight during the election in the area where he was a volunteer observer. When the gathering ended, she left with Densmore, not giving Banneker a chance to speak with her. He thought he saw a silent request for forgiveness in her face as she said goodnight to him.

At noon next day she called him on the ‘phone.

At noon the next day, she called him on the phone.

“Just to tell you that I’m coming as usual Saturday evening,” she said.

“Just wanted to let you know that I'm coming as usual Saturday evening,” she said.

“When do you leave on your cruise?” he asked.

“When do you leave for your cruise?” he asked.

“Not until next week. I’ll tell you when I see you. Good-bye.”

“Not until next week. I’ll let you know when I see you. Bye.”

Never had Banneker seen Io in such difficult mood as she exhibited on the Saturday. She had come early to The House With Three Eyes, accompanied by Densmore who looked in just for one drink before going to a much-touted boxing-match in Jersey. Through the evening she deliberately avoided seeing Banneker alone for so much as the space of a query put and answered, dividing her attention between an enraptured master of the violin who had come after his concert, and an aged and bewildered inventor who, in a long career of secluded toil, had never beheld anything like this brilliant creature with her intelligent and quickening interest in what he had to tell her. Rivalry between the two geniuses inspired the musician to make an offer which he would hardly have granted to royalty itself.

Never had Banneker seen Io in such a difficult mood as she was on that Saturday. She had come early to The House With Three Eyes, accompanied by Densmore, who dropped by for just one drink before heading to a highly publicized boxing match in Jersey. Throughout the evening, she intentionally avoided being alone with Banneker, even for a brief exchange, splitting her attention between a captivated master violinist who had arrived after his concert and an elderly and confused inventor who had, after a long career of solitary work, never seen anyone like this brilliant woman, who was so engaged and curious about what he had to say. The competition between the two geniuses drove the musician to make an offer he would hardly have extended to royalty.

“After a time, when zese chatterers are gon-away, I shall play for you. Is zere some one here who can accompany properly?”

“After a while, when these talkers are gone, I will play for you. Is there someone here who can accompany me properly?”

Necessarily Io sent for Banneker to find out. Yes; young Mackey was coming a little later; he was a brilliant amateur and would be flattered at the opportunity. With a direct insistence difficult to deny, Banneker drew Io aside for a moment. Her eyes glinted dangerously as she faced him, alone for the moment, with the question that was the salute before the crossing of blades.

Necessarily, Io called for Banneker to find out. Yes; young Mackey would be arriving a bit later; he was a talented amateur and would appreciate the chance. With a direct insistence that was hard to ignore, Banneker pulled Io aside for a moment. Her eyes sparkled dangerously as she faced him, momentarily alone, with the question that was the prelude to a confrontation.

“Well?”

"What’s up?"

“Are you really going, Io?”

“Are you actually going, Io?”

“Certainly. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I?”

“Say that, for one reason”—he smiled faintly, but resolutely—“The Patriot needs your guiding inspiration.”

“Say that, for one reason”—he smiled faintly, but firmly—“The Patriot needs your guiding inspiration.”

“All The Patriot’s troubles are over. It’s plain sailing now.”

“All the Patriot’s troubles are behind him. It’s smooth sailing from here.”

“What of The Patriot’s editor?”

“What about The Patriot’s editor?”

“Quite able to take care of himself.”

“Totally capable of taking care of himself.”

Into his voice there suffused the first ring of anger that she had ever heard from him; cold and formidable. “That won’t do, Io. Why?”

Into his voice crept the first hint of anger she had ever heard from him; cold and intimidating. “That won’t work, Io. Why?”

“Because I choose.”

"Because it's my choice."

“A child’s answer. Why?”

"A kid's response. Why?"

“Do you want to be flattered?” She raised to his, eyes that danced with an impish and perverse light. “Call it escape, if you wish.”

“Do you want to be flattered?” She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous and twisted brightness. “Call it an escape, if you want.”

“From me?”

“Or from myself. Wouldn’t you like to think that I’m afraid of you?”

“Or from me. Wouldn’t you like to believe that I’m scared of you?”

“I shouldn’t like to think that you’re afraid of anything.”

“I wouldn't want to think that you're scared of anything.”

“I’m not.” But her tone was that of the defiance which seeks to encourage itself.

“I’m not.” But her tone was one of defiance that aimed to boost her own confidence.

“I’d call it a desertion,” he said steadily.

“I'd call it abandoning ship,” he said calmly.

“Oh, no! You’re secure. You need nothing but what you’ve got. Power, reputation, position, success. What more can heart desire?” she taunted.

“Oh, no! You’re all set. You don’t need anything beyond what you already have. Power, reputation, status, success. What else could you possibly want?” she teased.

“You.”

"You."

She quivered under the blunt word, but rallied to say lightly: “Six months isn’t long. Though I may stretch it to a year.”

She shuddered at the harsh word but managed to respond lightly, “Six months isn’t long. Although I might extend it to a year.”

“It’s too long for endurance.”

“It’s too long for stamina.”

“Oh, you’ll do very well without me, Ban.”

“Oh, you’ll be just fine without me, Ban.”

“Shall I? When am I to see you again before you go?”

“Should I? When will I see you again before you leave?”

Her raised eyebrows were like an affront. “Are we to see each other again? Of course, it would be polite of you to come to the train.”

Her raised eyebrows were like an insult. “Are we going to see each other again? Of course, it would be polite of you to come to the train.”

There was a controlled and dangerous gravity in his next question. “Io, have we quarreled?”

There was a serious and risky tension in his next question. “Io, have we argued?”

“How absurd! Of course not.”

“That's ridiculous! Definitely not.”

“Then—”

“If you knew how I dislike fruitless explanations!”

“If you knew how much I hate pointless explanations!”

He rose at once. Io’s strong and beautiful hands, which had been lying in her lap, suddenly interlocked, clenching close together. But her face disclosed nothing. The virtuoso, who had been hopefully hovering in the offing, bore down to take the vacated chair. He would have found the lovely young Mrs. Eyre distrait and irresponsive had he not been too happy babbling of his own triumphs to notice.

He stood up immediately. Io’s strong and beautiful hands, which had been resting in her lap, suddenly intertwined, clenching tightly together. But her face revealed nothing. The skilled performer, who had been eagerly waiting nearby, moved in to take the empty chair. He would have found the lovely young Mrs. Eyre distracted and unresponsive if he hadn't been too caught up in talking about his own successes to notice.

“Soon zey haf growed thin, zis crowd,” said the violinist, who took pride in his mastery of idiom. “Zen, when zere remains but a small few, I play for you. You sit zere, in ze leetle garden of flowers.” He indicated the secluded seat near the stairway, where she had sat with Ban on the occasion of her first visit to The House With Three Eyes. “Not too far; not too near. From zere you shall not see; but you shall think you hear ze stars make for you harmonies of ze high places.”

“Soon they have grown thin, this crowd,” said the violinist, who took pride in his mastery of language. “Then, when only a few remain, I will play for you. You sit there, in the little garden of flowers.” He pointed to the secluded seat near the stairway, where she had sat with Ban on her first visit to The House With Three Eyes. “Not too far; not too near. From there you won’t see; but you will think you can hear the stars creating harmonies for you from the high places.”

Young Mackey, having arrived, commended himself to the condescending master by a meekly worshipful attitude. Barely a score of people remained in the great room. The word went about that they were in for one of those occasional treats which made The House With Three Eyes unique. The fortunate lingerers disposed themselves about the room. Io slipped into the nook designated for her. Banneker was somewhere in the background; her veiled glance could not discover where. The music began.

Young Mackey, having arrived, presented himself to the patronizing master with a submissively worshipful demeanor. Only a few people remained in the large room. News spread that they were in for one of those rare treats that made The House With Three Eyes so special. The lucky few settled themselves around the room. Io slipped into the spot that was reserved for her. Banneker was somewhere in the background; her hidden glance couldn't pinpoint where. The music started.

They played Tschaikowsky first, the tender and passionate “Melodie”; then a lilting measure from Debussy’s “Faun,” followed by a solemnly lovely Brahms arrangement devised by the virtuoso himself. At the dying-out of the applause, the violinist addressed himself to the nook where Io was no more than a vague, faërie figure to his eyes, misty through interlaced bloom and leafage.

They started with Tchaikovsky's sweet and passionate “Melodie”; then they played a gentle piece from Debussy’s “Faun,” followed by a beautifully solemn arrangement by Brahms himself. As the applause faded, the violinist looked towards the spot where Io was just a blurry, fairy-like figure to him, hazy through the tangled flowers and leaves.

“Now, Madame, I play you somezing of a American. Ver’ beautiful, it is. Not for violin. For voice, contralto. I sing it to you—on ze G-string, which weep when it sing; weep for lost dreams. It is called ‘Illusion,’ ze song.”

“Now, Madame, I’ll play you something American. It’s very beautiful. Not for violin. For voice, contralto. I’ll sing it to you—on the G-string, which weeps when it sings; weeps for lost dreams. It’s called ‘Illusion,’ the song.”

He raised his bow, and at the first bar Io’s heart gave a quick, thick sob within her breast. It was the music which Camilla Van Arsdale had played that night when winds and forest leaves murmured the overtones; when earth and heaven were hushed to hear.

He raised his bow, and at the first note, Io's heart let out a quick, heavy sob. It was the music that Camilla Van Arsdale had played that night when the winds and leaves whispered their melodies; when the earth and sky fell silent to listen.

“Oh, Ban!” cried Io’s spirit.

“Oh, Ban!” exclaimed Io’s spirit.

Noiseless and swift, Banneker, answering the call, bent over her. She whispered, softly, passionately, her lips hardly stirring the melody-thrilled air.

Noiseless and swift, Banneker, responding to the call, leaned over her. She whispered, softly, passionately, her lips barely disturbing the melody-filled air.

“How could I hurt you so! I’m going because I must; because I daren’t stay. You can understand, Ban!”

“How could I hurt you like this! I’m leaving because I have to; because I can’t stay. You get it, Ban!”

The music died. “Yes,” said Banneker. Then, “Don’t go, Io!”

The music stopped. “Yeah,” said Banneker. Then, “Don’t leave, Io!”

“I must. I’ll—I’ll see you before. When we’re ourselves. We can’t talk now. Not with this terrible music in our blood.”

“I have to. I’ll—I’ll see you before. When we’re ourselves. We can’t talk now. Not with this awful music in our system.”

She rose and went forward to thank the player with such a light in her eyes and such a fervor in her words that he mentally added another to his list of conquests.

She got up and walked over to thank the player, her eyes shining and her words full of enthusiasm, making him mentally add another name to his list of conquests.

The party broke up. After that magic music, people wanted to be out of the light and the stir; to carry its pure passion forth into the dark places, to cherish and dream it over again.... Banneker sat before the broad fireplace in the laxity of a still grief. Io was going away from him. For a six-month. For a year. For an eternity. Going away from him, bearing his whole heart with her, as she had left him after the night on the river, left him to the searing memory of that mad, sweet cleavage of her lips to his, the passionate offer of her awakened womanhood in uttermost surrender of life at the roaring gates of death....

The party wrapped up. After that enchanting music, everyone wanted to escape the light and the commotion; to take its pure passion into the darkness, to hold it close and relive it.... Banneker sat in front of the wide fireplace, lost in a heavy sadness. Io was leaving him. For six months. For a year. For forever. Leaving him, taking his entire heart with her, just like she had after their night by the river, leaving him with the burning memory of that crazy, sweet moment when her lips met his, the passionate gift of her awakened femininity in total surrender to life at the roaring gates of death....

Footsteps, light, firm, unhesitant, approached across the broad floor from the hallway. Banneker sat rigid, incredulous, afraid to stir, as the sleeper fears to break the spell of a tenuous and lovely dream, until Io’s voice spoke his name. He would have jumped to his feet, but the strong pressure of her hands on his shoulders restrained him.

Footsteps, light, firm, and steady, came across the wide floor from the hallway. Banneker sat frozen, in disbelief, afraid to move, like a sleeper who fears breaking the enchantment of a delicate and beautiful dream, until Io called his name. He would have jumped up, but the firm pressure of her hands on his shoulders held him in place.

“No. Stay as you are.”

“I thought you had gone,” he said thickly.

“I thought you left,” he said heavily.

A great log toppled in the fireplace, showering its sparks in prodigal display.

A big log fell in the fireplace, sending sparks flying in a dazzling show.

“Do you remember our fire, on the river-bank?” said the voice of the girl, Io, across the years.

“Do you remember our fire by the riverbank?” said the voice of the girl, Io, from years ago.

“While I live.”

"While I'm alive."

“Just you and I. Man and woman. Alone in the world. Sometimes I think it has always been so with us.”

“Just you and me. Man and woman. Alone in the world. Sometimes I think it’s always been this way for us.”

“We have no world of our own, Io,” he said sadly.

“We don’t have a world of our own, Io,” he said sadly.

“Heresy, Ban; heresy! Of course we have. An inner world. If we could forget—everything outside.”

“I am not good at forgetting.”

“I’m not good at forgetting.”

He felt her fingers, languid and tremulous, at his throat, her heart’s strong throb against his shoulder as she bent, the sweet breath of her whisper stirring the hair at his temple:

He felt her fingers, soft and shaking, at his throat, her heart beating strongly against his shoulder as she leaned in, the gentle breath of her whisper stirring the hair at his temple:

“Try, Ban.”

"Give it a shot, Ban."

Her mouth closed down upon his, flower-sweet, petal-light, and was withdrawn. She leaned back, gazing at him from half-closed, inscrutable eyes.

Her mouth pressed against his, sweet like a flower, delicate like a petal, and then pulled away. She leaned back, looking at him with half-closed, mysterious eyes.

“That’s for good-bye, Io?” With all his self-control, he could not keep his voice steady.

“Is that a goodbye, Io?” Despite his best efforts, he couldn't keep his voice steady.

“There have been too many good-byes between us,” she murmured.

“There have been way too many good-byes between us,” she murmured.

He lifted his head, attentive to a stir at the door, which immediately passed.

He lifted his head, aware of a sound at the door, which quickly faded away.

“I thought that was Archie, come after you.”

“I thought that was Archie, coming after you.”

“Archie isn’t coming.”

“Archie’s not coming.”

“Then I’ll send for the car and take you home.”

“Then I'll call for the car and take you home.”

“Won’t you understand, Ban? I’m not going home.”

“Don’t you get it, Ban? I’m not going home.”

CHAPTER IX

Io Eyre was one of those women before whom Scandal seems to lose its teeth if not its tongue. She had always assumed the superb attitude toward the world in which she moved. “They say?—What do they say?—Let them say!” might have been her device, too genuinely expressive of her to be consciously contemptuous. Where another might have suffered in reputation by constant companionship with a man as brilliant, as conspicuous, as phenomenal of career as Errol Banneker, Io passed on her chosen way, serene and scatheless.

Io Eyre was one of those women who made Scandal lose its bite, if not its voice. She always carried herself with a remarkable confidence in the world around her. “They say?—What do they say?—Let them say!” could have been her motto, too genuinely reflecting her attitude to be intentionally dismissive. While others might have hurt their reputation by being close to a man as talented, prominent, and incredibly successful as Errol Banneker, Io continued on her path, calm and unaffected.

Tongues wagged, indeed; whispers spread; that was inevitable. But to this Io was impervious. When Banneker, troubled lest any breath should sully her reputation who was herself unsullied, in his mind, would have advocated caution, she refused to consent.

Tongues wagged, for sure; whispers spread; that was bound to happen. But Io was unaffected by it all. When Banneker, worried that any gossip might tarnish the reputation of someone who was, in his eyes, unimpeachable, would have suggested being careful, she refused to agree.

“Why should I skulk?” she said. “I’m not ashamed.”

“Why should I hide?” she said. “I’m not embarrassed.”

So they met and lunched or dined at the most conspicuous restaurants, defying Scandal, whereupon Scandal began to wonder whether, all things considered, there were anything more to it than one of those flirtations which, after a time of faithful adherence, become standardized into respectability and a sort of tolerant recognition. What, after all, is respectability but the brand of the formalist upon standardization?

So they got together and had lunch or dinner at the most noticeable restaurants, ignoring any rumors. Because of this, rumors started to question whether, in the grand scheme of things, there was anything more to it than one of those flings that, after a while of loyal devotion, turn into something acceptable and a kind of mutual acknowledgment. What is respectability, after all, but the label that formalists place on standardization?

With the distaste and effort which Ban always felt in mentioning her husband’s name to Io, he asked her one day about any possible danger from Eyre.

With the annoyance and effort that Ban always felt when mentioning her husband's name to Io, he asked her one day if there was any potential danger from Eyre.

“No,” she said with assurance. “I owe Del nothing. That is understood between us.”

“No,” she said confidently. “I owe Del nothing. We both know that.”

“But if the tittle-tattle that must be going the rounds should come to his ears—”

“But if the gossip that's probably going around reaches him—”

“If the truth should come to his ears,” she replied tranquilly, “it would make no difference.”

“If the truth were to reach him,” she responded calmly, “it wouldn’t change anything.”

Ban looked at her, hesitant to be convinced.

Ban looked at her, unsure if he should be convinced.

“Yes; it’s so,” she asseverated, nodding, “After his outbreak in Paris—it was on our wedding trip—I gave him a choice. I would either divorce him, or I would hold myself absolutely free of him so far as any claim, actual or moral, went. The one thing I undertook was that I would never involve his name in any open scandal.”

“Yes, that’s true,” she insisted, nodding. “After his outburst in Paris—it was during our honeymoon—I gave him an ultimatum. I would either divorce him, or I would free myself completely from any claims, whether actual or moral. The one thing I promised was that I would never let his name get involved in any public scandal.”

“He hasn’t been so particular,” said Ban gloomily.

“He hasn’t been that particular,” Ban said gloomily.

“Of late he has. Since I had Cousin Billy Enderby go to him about the dancer. I won’t say he’s run absolutely straight since. Poor Del! He can’t, I suppose. But, at least, he’s respected the bargain to the extent of being prudent. I shall respect mine to the same extent.”

“Recently he has. Since I sent Cousin Billy Enderby to talk to him about the dancer. I won’t say he’s been perfect since then. Poor Del! I guess he can’t be. But at least he’s kept his part of the deal by being careful. I’ll keep my part of the deal to the same extent.”

“Io,” he burst out passionately, “there’s only one thing in the world I really want; for you to be free of him absolutely.”

“Io,” he exclaimed fervently, “there’s only one thing I truly want in this world: for you to be completely free of him.”

She shook her head. “Oh, Ban’ Can’t you be content—with me? I’ve told you I am free of him. I’m not really his wife.”

She shook her head. “Oh, Ban, can’t you be happy— with me? I’ve told you I’m done with him. I’m not actually his wife.”

“No; you’re mine,” he declared with jealous intensity.

“No; you’re mine,” he said with a jealous intensity.

“Yes; I’m yours.” Her voice trembled, thrilled. “You don’t know yet how wholly I’m yours. Oh, it isn’t that alone, Ban. But in spirit and thought. In the world of shadowed and lovely things that we made for ourselves long ago.”

“Yes; I’m yours.” Her voice shook with excitement. “You don’t realize yet how completely I’m yours. Oh, it’s not just that, Ban. But in spirit and mind. In the realm of hidden and beautiful things that we created for ourselves a long time ago.”

“But to have to endure this atmosphere of secrecy, of stealth, of danger to you,” he fretted. “You could get your divorce.”

“But having to deal with this atmosphere of secrecy, stealth, and danger to you,” he worried. “You could get your divorce.”

“No; I can’t. You don’t understand.”

“No, I can’t. You don’t get it.”

“Perhaps I do understand,” he said gently.

“Maybe I do understand,” he said softly.

“About Del?” She drew a quick breath. “How could you?”

“About Del?” She gasped. “How could you?”

“Wholly through an accident. A medical man, a slimy little reptile, surprised his secret and inadvertently passed it on.”

“Completely by accident. A doctor, a slimy little creep, stumbled upon his secret and unwittingly shared it.”

She leaned forward to him from her corner of the settee, all courage and truth. “I’m glad that you know, though I couldn’t tell you, myself. You’ll see now that I couldn’t leave him to face it alone.”

She leaned forward to him from her corner of the couch, full of courage and honesty. “I’m glad you know, even though I couldn’t say it myself. You’ll understand now that I couldn’t let him deal with it alone.”

“No. You couldn’t. If you did, it wouldn’t be Io.”

“No. You can’t. If you did, it wouldn’t be Io.”

“Ah, and I love you for that, too,” she whispered, her voice and eyes one caress to him. “I wonder how I ever made myself believe that I could get over loving you! Now, I’ve got to pay for my mistake. Ban, do you remember the ‘Babbling Babson’? The imbecile who saw me from the train that day?”

“Ah, and I love you for that, too,” she whispered, her voice and eyes a gentle touch to him. “I wonder how I ever convinced myself that I could stop loving you! Now, I’ve got to pay for my mistake. Ban, do you remember the ‘Babbling Babson’? The clueless person who saw me from the train that day?”

“I remember every smallest thing in any way connected with you.”

“I remember every little thing that's connected to you.”

“I love to hear you say that. It makes up for the bad times, in between. The Babbler has turned up. He’s been living abroad for a few years. I saw him at a tea last week.”

“I love hearing you say that. It makes up for the rough times in between. The Babbler has returned. He’s been living overseas for a few years. I saw him at a tea last week.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Did he say something?”

“Yes. He tried to be coy and facetious. I snubbed him soundly. Perhaps it wasn’t wise.”

“Yes. He tried to be teasing and funny. I shut him down completely. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest move.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

"Why not?"

“Well he used to have the reputation of writing on the sly for The Searchlight.”

“Well, he used to have a reputation for secretly writing for The Searchlight.”

“That sewer-sheet! You don’t think he’d dare do anything of the sort about us? Why, what would he have to go on?”

“That loser! You really think he’d have the guts to pull something like that with us? What does he even have to back it up?”

“What does The Searchlight have to go on in most of its lies, and hints, and innuendoes?”

“What evidence does The Searchlight have for most of its lies, hints, and innuendos?”

“But, Io, even if it did publish—”

“It mustn’t,” she said. “Ban, if it did—it would make it impossible for us to go on as we have been. Don’t you see that it would?”

“It can’t,” she said. “If it did, it would make it impossible for us to continue as we have. Don’t you see that?”

He turned sallow under his ruddy skin. “Then I’ll stop it, one way or another. I’ll put the fear of God into that filthy old worm that runs the blackmail shop. The first thing is to find out, though, whether there’s anything in it. I did hear a hint....” He lost himself in musings, trying to recall an occult remark which the obsequious Ely Ives had made to him sometime before. “And I know where I can do it,” he ended.

He became pale under his healthy skin. “Then I’ll put an end to it, one way or another. I’ll scare that filthy old creep who runs the blackmail operation. But first, I need to find out if there’s any truth to it. I did hear something….” He got lost in thought, trying to remember a cryptic comment that the overly eager Ely Ives had made to him a while back. “And I know where I can do it,” he concluded.

To go to Ives for anything was heartily distasteful to him. But this was a necessity. He cautiously questioned the unofficial factotum of his employer. Had Ives heard anything of a projected attack on him in The Searchlight? Why, yes; Ives had (naturally, since it was he and not Babson who had furnished the material). In fact, he had an underground wire into the office of that weekly of spice and scurrility which might be tapped to oblige a friend.

To go to Ives for anything was really unpleasant for him. But this was a necessity. He carefully asked his employer's unofficial assistant. Had Ives heard anything about a planned attack on him in The Searchlight? Sure, Ives had (of course, since he was the one, not Babson, who provided the information). In fact, he had a secret line into the office of that weekly filled with gossip and scandal that could be used to help a friend.

Banneker winced at the characterization, but confessed that he would be appreciative of any information. In three days a galley proof of the paragraph was in his hands. It confirmed his angriest fears. Publication of it would smear Io’s name with scandal, and, by consequence, direct the leering gaze of the world upon their love.

Banneker flinched at the description but admitted he would be grateful for any details. In three days, he had a galley proof of the paragraph in his hands. It validated his deepest fears. Publishing it would tarnish Io’s reputation with scandal and, as a result, draw the world’s judgment onto their relationship.

“What is this; blackmail?” he asked Ives.

“Might be.”

"Could be."

“Who wrote it?”

“Who wrote this?”

“Reads like the old buzzard’s own style.”

“Looks like the old buzzard’s own style.”

“I’ll go and see him,” said Banneker, half to himself.

“I’ll go see him,” said Banneker, mostly to himself.

“You can go, but I don’t think you’ll see him.” Ives set forth in detail the venerable editor’s procedure as to troublesome callers. It was specific and curious. Foreseeing that he would probably have to fight with his opponent’s weapons, Banneker sought out Russell Edmonds and asked for all the information regarding The Searchlight and its proprietor-editor in the veteran’s possession. Edmonds had a fund of it.

“You can go, but I don’t think you’ll see him.” Ives went into detail about the old editor’s process for dealing with difficult callers. It was specific and odd. Anticipating that he would likely have to use his opponent’s tactics, Banneker sought out Russell Edmonds and asked for all the information he had about The Searchlight and its owner-editor. Edmonds had plenty of it.

“But it won’t smoke him out,” he said. “That skunk lives in a deep hole.”

“But it won’t drive him out,” he said. “That skunk lives in a deep burrow.”

“If I can’t smoke him out, I’ll blast him out,” declared Banneker, and set himself to the composition of an editorial which consumed the remainder of the working day.

“If I can’t smoke him out, I’ll blast him out,” declared Banneker, and got to work on an editorial that took up the rest of the working day.

With a typed copy in his pocket, he called, a little before noon, at the office of The Searchlight and sent in his card to Major Bussey. The Major was not in. When was he expected? As for that, there was no telling; he was quite irregular. Very well, Mr. Banneker would wait. Oh, that was quite useless; was it about something in the magazine; wouldn’t one of the other editors do? Without awaiting an answer, the anemic and shrewd-faced office girl who put the questions disappeared, and presently returned, followed by a tailor-made woman of thirty-odd, with a delicate, secret-keeping mouth and heavy-lidded, deep-hued eyes, altogether a seductive figure. She smiled confidently up at Banneker.

With a typed copy in his pocket, he arrived at the office of The Searchlight just before noon and sent in his card for Major Bussey. The Major wasn't in. When could he be expected? There was no way to know; he was quite inconsistent. Fine, Mr. Banneker would wait. Oh, that was pretty pointless; was it about something in the magazine? Couldn't one of the other editors handle it? Without waiting for a response, the pale and sharp-faced office girl who asked the questions vanished and soon came back, followed by a well-dressed woman in her thirties, with a delicate, secretive smile and heavy-lidded, dark eyes, making her an altogether alluring figure. She confidently smiled up at Banneker.

“I’ve always wanted so much to meet you,” she disclosed, giving him a quick, gentle hand pressure. “So has Major Bussey. Too bad he’s out of town. Did you want to see him personally?”

“I’ve always really wanted to meet you,” she said, giving him a quick, gentle squeeze of his hand. “Major Bussey has too. It’s a shame he’s out of town. Did you want to see him in person?”

“Quite personally.” Banneker returned her smile with one even more friendly and confiding.

“Quite personally.” Banneker smiled back at her with an even friendlier and more trusting grin.

“Wouldn’t I do? Come into my office, won’t you? I represent him in some things.”

“Wouldn’t I do? Come into my office, won’t you? I represent him in some matters.”

“Not in this one, I hope,” he replied, following her to an inner room. “It is about a paragraph not yet published, which might be misconstrued.”

“Not in this one, I hope,” he said, following her to a back room. “It’s about a paragraph that hasn’t been published yet, which could be misunderstood.”

“Oh, I don’t think any one could possibly misconstrue it,” she retorted, with a flash of wicked mirth.

“Oh, I don’t think anyone could possibly misunderstand it,” she shot back, with a spark of mischievous amusement.

“You know the paragraph to which I refer, then.”

“You know the paragraph I'm talking about, then.”

“I wrote it.”

"I made it."

Banneker regarded her with grave and appreciative urbanity. All was going precisely as Ely Ives had prognosticated; the denial of the presence of the editor; the appearance of this alluring brunette as whipping-girl to assume the burden of his offenses with the calm impunity of her sex and charm.

Banneker looked at her with serious and respectful sophistication. Everything was happening just as Ely Ives had predicted: the editor's absence and the arrival of this captivating brunette, ready to take the blame for his mistakes with the easy confidence of her femininity and allure.

“Congratulations,” he said. “It is very clever.”

“Congrats,” he said. “That’s really clever.”

“It’s quite true, isn’t it?” she returned innocently.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” she replied innocently.

“As authentic, let us say, as your authorship of the paragraph.”

“As real, let’s say, as your writing of the paragraph.”

“You don’t think I wrote it? What object should I have in trying to deceive you?”

“You don’t believe I wrote it? What reason would I have to try to trick you?”

“What, indeed! By the way, what is Major Bussey’s price?”

“What, really! By the way, what is Major Bussey’s fee?”

“Oh, Mr. Banneker!” Was it sheer delight in deviltry, or amusement at his direct and unstrategic method that sparkled in her face. “You surely don’t credit the silly stories of—well, blackmail, about us!”

“Oh, Mr. Banneker!” Was it pure joy in mischief, or amusement at his straightforward and unambiguous approach that shone in her expression? “You can’t really believe the ridiculous rumors of—well, blackmail, about us!”

“It might be money,” he reflected. “But, on the whole, I think it’s something else. Something he wants from The Patriot, perhaps. Immunity? Would that be it? Not that I mean, necessarily, to deal.”

“It might be money,” he thought. “But overall, I think it’s something else. Maybe something he wants from The Patriot. Immunity? Could that be it? Not that I necessarily intend to make a deal.”

“What is your proposition?” she asked confidentially.

“What’s your proposal?” she asked in a low voice.

“How can I advance one when I don’t know what your principal wants?”

“How can I help one when I don’t know what your boss wants?”

“The paragraph was written in good faith,” she asserted.

“The paragraph was written honestly,” she asserted.

“And could be withdrawn in equal good faith?”

“And could be retracted in equal good faith?”

Her laugh was silvery clear. “Very possibly. Under proper representations.”

Her laugh was bright and clear. “Very likely. With the right explanations.”

“Then don’t you think I’d better deal direct with the Major?”

“Then don’t you think it’d be better if I spoke directly with the Major?”

She studied his face. “Yes,” she began, and instantly refuted herself. “No. I don’t trust you. There’s trouble under that smooth smile of yours.”

She studied his face. “Yes,” she started, but quickly took it back. “No. I don’t trust you. There’s something off behind that smooth smile of yours.”

“But you’re not afraid of me, surely,” said Banneker. He had found out one important point; her manner when she said “Yes” indicated that the proprietor was in the building. Now he continued: “Are you?”

“But you’re not scared of me, right?” said Banneker. He had figured out one important thing; the way she said “Yes” showed that the owner was in the building. Now he continued, “Are you?”

“I don’t know. I think I am.” There was a little catch in her breath. “I think you’d be dangerous to any woman.”

“I don’t know. I think I am.” There was a slight hitch in her breath. “I think you’d be a threat to any woman.”

Banneker, his eyes fixed on hers, played for time and a further lead with a banality. “You’re pleased to flatter me.”

Banneker, his eyes locked on hers, stalled for time and sought an advantage with a cliché. “You’re just trying to butter me up.”

“Aren’t you pleased to be flattered?” she returned provocatively.

“Aren’t you happy to be complimented?” she replied provocatively.

He put his hand on her wrist. She swayed to him with a slow, facile yielding. He caught her other wrist, and the grip of his two hands seemed to bite into the bone.

He placed his hand on her wrist. She leaned into him with a slow, easy acceptance. He grabbed her other wrist, and the grip of his hands felt like it was digging into her bone.

“So you’re that kind, too, are you!” he sneered, holding her eyes as cruelly as he had clutched her wrists. “Keep quiet! Now, you’re to do as I tell you.”

“So you’re that kind, too, huh!” he mocked, locking onto her gaze as harshly as he had gripped her wrists. “Shut up! Now, you’re going to do what I say.”

(Ely Ives, in describing the watchwoman at the portals of scandal, had told him that she was susceptible to a properly timed bluff. “A woman she had slandered once stabbed her; since then you can get her nerve by a quick attack. Treat her rough.”)

(Ely Ives, describing the watchwoman at the gates of scandal, told him that she was vulnerable to a well-timed bluff. “A woman she had slandered once stabbed her; since then you can rattle her by making a sudden move. Treat her harshly.”)

She stared at him, fearfully, half-hypnotized.

She looked at him, scared and half-hypnotized.

“Is that the door leading to Bussey’s office? Don’t speak! Nod.”

“Is that the door to Bussey’s office? Don’t say anything! Just nod.”

Dumb and stricken, she obeyed.

Dazed and helpless, she obeyed.

“I’m going there. Don’t you dare make a movement or a noise. If you do—I’ll come back.”

“I’m going over there. Don’t you even think about moving or making a sound. If you do—I’ll come back.”

Shifting his grasp, he caught her up and with easy power tossed her upon a broad divan. From its springy surface she shot up, as it seemed to him, halfway to the ceiling, rigid and staring, a ludicrous simulacrum of a glassy-eyed doll. He heard the protesting “ping!” and “berr-rr-rr” of a broken spring as she fell back. The traverse of a narrow hallway and a turn through a half-open door took him into the presence of bearded benevolence making notes at a desk.

Shifting his grip, he picked her up and easily tossed her onto a wide couch. From its springy surface, she shot up, in his eyes, halfway to the ceiling, stiff and staring, like a ridiculous imitation of a glassy-eyed doll. He heard the protesting “ping!” and “berr-rr-rr” of a broken spring as she fell back down. He crossed a narrow hallway and turned through a half-open door, entering the presence of a kindly bearded man who was taking notes at a desk.

“How did you get here? And who the devil are you?” demanded the guiding genius of The Searchlight, looking up irritably. He raised his voice. “Con!” he called.

“How did you get here? And who on earth are you?” demanded the guiding genius of The Searchlight, looking up annoyed. He raised his voice. “Con!” he called.

From a side room appeared a thick, heavy-shouldered man with a feral countenance, who slouched aggressively forward, as the intruder announced himself.

From a side room came a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a wild look on his face, who leaned forward in a threatening way as the intruder introduced himself.

“My name is Banneker.”

"I'm Banneker."

“Cheest!” hissed the thick bouncer in tones of dismay, and stopped short.

“Cheest!” hissed the burly bouncer with a look of shock, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Turning, Banneker recognized him as one of the policemen whom his evidence had retired from the force in the wharf-gang investigation.

Turning, Banneker recognized him as one of the police officers who had been dismissed from the force based on his testimony in the wharf-gang investigation.

“Oh! Banneker,” muttered the editor. His right hand moved slowly, stealthily, toward a lower drawer.

“Oh! Banneker,” mumbled the editor. His right hand moved slowly, secretly, toward a lower drawer.

“Cut it, Major!” implored Con in acute anguish. “Canche’ see he’s gotche’ covered through his pocket!”

“Cut it, Major!” Con begged in deep distress. “Can’t you see he’s got you covered through his pocket!”

The stealthy hand returned to the sight of all men and fussed among some papers on the desk-top. Major Bussey said peevishly:

The sneaky hand came back into view and fiddled with some papers on the desk. Major Bussey said irritably:

“What do you want with me?”

“What do you want from me?”

“Kill that paragraph.”

“Delete that paragraph.”

“What par—”

"What party—"

“Don’t fence with me,” struck in Banneker sharply. “You know what one.”

“Don’t mess with me,” Banneker snapped. “You know what I mean.”

Major Bussey swept his gaze around the room for help or inspiration. The sight of the burly ex-policeman, stricken and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, disconcerted him sadly; but he plucked up courage to say:

Major Bussey looked around the room for help or inspiration. The sight of the muscular ex-cop, looking upset and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, troubled him deeply; but he found the courage to say:

“The facts are well authent—”

“The facts are verified—”

Again Banneker cut him short. “Facts! There isn’t the semblance of a fact in the whole thing. Hints, slurs, innuendoes.”

Again, Banneker interrupted him. “Facts! There isn't a single fact in any of this. Just hints, slurs, and innuendos.”

“Libel does not exist when—” feebly began the editor, and stopped because Banneker was laughing at him.

“Libel doesn’t exist when—” the editor started weakly, and stopped because Banneker was laughing at him.

“Suppose you read that,” said the visitor, contemptuously tossing the typed script of his new-wrought editorial on the desk. “That’s libellous, if you choose. But I don’t think you would sue.”

“Imagine you read that,” said the visitor, dismissively throwing the typed script of his freshly written editorial onto the desk. “That’s defamatory, if you want to call it that. But I doubt you would take legal action.”

Major Bussey read the caption, a typical Banneker eye-catcher, “The Rattlesnake Dies Out; But the Pen-Viper is Still With Us.” “I don’t care to indulge myself with your literary efforts at present, Mr. Banneker,” he said languidly. “Is this the answer to our paragraph?”

Major Bussey read the headline, a classic attention-grabber from Banneker, “The Rattlesnake Dies Out; But the Pen-Viper is Still With Us.” “I’m not in the mood for your writing right now, Mr. Banneker,” he said lazily. “Is this the response to our paragraph?”

“Only the beginning. I propose to drive you out of town and suppress The Searchlight.’”

“Just the start. I plan to get you out of town and shut down 'The Searchlight.'”

“A fair challenge. I’ll accept it.”

"Sounds like a fair challenge. I'm in."

“I was prepared to have you take that attitude.”

“I was ready for you to have that attitude.”

“Really, Mr. Banneker; you could hardly expect to come here and blackmail me by threats—”

“Honestly, Mr. Banneker; you can’t really expect to come here and blackmail me with threats—”

“Now for my alternative,” proceeded the visitor calmly. “You are proposing to publish a slur on the reputation of an innocent woman who—”

“Now for my alternative,” the visitor said calmly. “You’re suggesting publishing a smear on the reputation of an innocent woman who—”

“Innocent!” murmured the Major with malign relish.

“Innocent!” the Major said with a wicked pleasure.

“Look out, Major!” implored Con, the body-guard. “He’s a killer, he is.”

“Watch out, Major!” pleaded Con, the bodyguard. “He’s a killer, he is.”

“I don’t know that I’m particularly afraid of you, after all,” declared the exponent of The Searchlight, and Banneker felt a twinge of dismay lest he might have derived, somewhence, an access of courage. “A Wild West shooting is one thing, and cold-blooded, premeditated murder is another. You’d go to the chair.”

“I don’t think I’m really afraid of you, after all,” said the person from The Searchlight, and Banneker felt a pang of worry that he might have somehow found a boost of courage. “A Wild West shootout is one thing, but cold-blooded, premeditated murder is something else. You’d end up in the electric chair.”

“Cheerfully,” assented Banneker.

“Sure,” agreed Banneker.

Bussey, lifting the typed sheets before him, began to read. Presently his face flushed.

Bussey, picking up the typed pages in front of him, started to read. Soon, his face turned red.

“Why, if you print this sort of thing, you’d have my office mobbed,” he cried indignantly.

“Why, if you publish stuff like this, my office would be swarmed,” he exclaimed angrily.

“It’s possible.”

"That's possible."

“It’s outrageous! And this—if this isn’t an incitement to lynching—You wouldn’t dare publish this!”

“It’s outrageous! And this—if this isn’t a call to lynching—You wouldn’t dare publish this!”

“Try me.”

“Bring it on.”

Major Bussey’s wizened and philanthropic face took on the cast of careful thought. At length he spoke with the manner of an elder bestowing wisdom upon youth.

Major Bussey’s wrinkled and generous face reflected a thoughtful expression. After a moment, he spoke like an elder sharing wisdom with the young.

“A controversy such as this would do nobody any good. I have always been opposed to journalistic backbitings. Therefore we will let this matter lie. I will kill the paragraph. Not that I’m afraid of your threats; nor of your pen, for that matter. But in the best interests of our common profession—”

“A controversy like this wouldn’t help anyone. I’ve always been against gossip in journalism. So we’ll just let this matter rest. I’ll remove the paragraph. It’s not that I’m intimidated by your threats or your writing. But for the sake of our shared profession—”

“Good-day,” said Banneker, and walked out, leaving the Major stranded upon the ebb tide of his platitudes.

“Good day,” said Banneker, and walked out, leaving the Major stranded on the low tide of his clichés.

Banneker retailed the episode to Edmonds, for his opinion.

Banneker shared the story with Edmonds to get his opinion.

“He’s afraid of your gun, a little,” pronounced the expert; “and more of your pen. I think he’ll keep faith in this.”

“He's a little afraid of your gun,” the expert said, “but he's even more afraid of your pen. I believe he'll stay true to this.”

“As long as I hold over him the threat of The Patriot.”

“As long as I have the threat of The Patriot hanging over him.”

“Yes.”

“And no longer?”

"And not anymore?"

“No longer. It’s a vengeful kind of vermin, Ban.”

“No more. It’s a spiteful kind of pest, Ban.”

“Pop, am I a common, ordinary blackmailer? Or am I not?”

“Dad, am I just a regular, everyday blackmailer? Or am I something else?”

The other shook his head, grayed by a quarter-century of struggles and problems. “It’s a strange game, the newspaper game,” he opined.

The other person shook his head, worn down by 25 years of struggles and challenges. “The newspaper business is a strange one,” he said.

CHAPTER X

All had worked out, in the matter of The Searchlight, quite as much to Mr. Ely Ives’s satisfaction as to that of Banneker. From his boasted and actual underground wire into that culture-bed of spiced sewage (at the farther end of which was the facile brunette whom the visiting editor had so harshly treated), he had learned the main details of the interview and reported them to Mr. Marrineal.

All turned out, regarding The Searchlight, just as much to Mr. Ely Ives’s satisfaction as it did to Banneker. From his claimed and actual underground connection into that hub of questionable activities (at the far end of which was the charming brunette whom the visiting editor had treated so poorly), he learned the key details of the interview and reported them to Mr. Marrineal.

“Will Banneker now be good?” rhetorically queried Ives, pursing up his small face into an expression of judicious appreciation. “He will be good!”

“Will Banneker be good now?” Ives asked rhetorically, scrunching up his small face into a look of thoughtful appreciation. “He will be good!”

Marrineal gave the subject his habitual calm and impersonal consideration. “He hasn’t been lately,” he observed. “Several of his editorials have had quite the air of challenge.”

Marrineal approached the topic with his usual calm and objective mindset. “He hasn’t been around much lately,” he noted. “A few of his editorials have definitely had a challenging tone.”

“That was before he turned blackmailer. Blackmail,” philosophized the astute Ives, “is a gun that you’ve got to keep pointed all the time.”

“Before he became a blackmailer. Blackmail,” thought the sharp Ives, “is a weapon you always have to keep aimed at someone.”

“I see. So long as he has Bussey covered by the muzzle of The Patriot, The Searchlight behaves itself.”

“I get it. As long as he has Bussey in his sights with The Patriot, The Searchlight stays in line.”

“It does. But if ever he laid down his gun, Bussey would make hash of him and his lady-love.”

“It does. But if he ever puts down his gun, Bussey would ruin him and his girlfriend.”

“What about her?” interrogated Marrineal. “Do you really think—” His uplifted brows, sparse on his broad and candid forehead, consummated the question.

“What about her?” asked Marrineal. “Do you really think—” His raised eyebrows, thin on his wide and honest forehead, completed the question.

For reply the factotum gave him a succinct if distorted version of the romance in the desert.

For a response, the factotum gave him a brief but twisted version of the romance in the desert.

“She dished him for Eyre,” he concluded, “and now she’s dishing Eyre for him.”

“She broke up with him for Eyre,” he concluded, “and now she’s breaking up with Eyre for him.”

“Bussey’s got all this?” inquired Marrineal, and upon the other’s careless “I suppose so,” added, “It must grind his soul not to be able to use it.”

“Bussey has all this?” Marrineal asked, and after the other’s casual “I guess so,” he added, “It must really bother him not to be able to use it.”

“Or not to get paid for suppressing it,” grinned Ives.

“Or not get paid for keeping it quiet,” Ives grinned.

“But does Banneker understand that it’s fear of his pen, and not of being killed, that binds Bussey?”

“But does Banneker realize that it’s fear of his writing, and not of being killed, that keeps Bussey tied down?”

Ives nodded. “I’ve taken care to rub that in. Told him of other cases where the old Major was threatened with all sorts of manhandling; scared out of his wits at first, but always got over it and came back in The Searchlight, taking his chance of being killed. The old vulture really isn’t a coward, though he’s a wary bird.”

Ives nodded. “I’ve made sure to emphasize that. I told him about other instances when the old Major faced all kinds of intimidation; he was scared out of his mind at first, but he always got through it and returned in The Searchlight, taking the risk of being killed. The old vulture isn’t really a coward, even though he’s a cautious one.”

“Would Banneker really kill him, do you think?”

“Do you think Banneker would actually kill him?”

“I wouldn’t insure his life for five cents,” returned the other with conviction. “Your editor is crazy-mad over this Mrs. Eyre. So there you have him delivered, shorn and helpless, and Delilah doesn’t even suspect that she’s acting as our agent.”

“I wouldn’t insure his life for five cents,” replied the other confidently. “Your editor is completely obsessed with this Mrs. Eyre. So there you have him, vulnerable and exposed, and Delilah doesn’t even realize she’s working for us.”

Marrineal’s eyes fixed themselves in a lifeless sort of stare upon a far corner of the ceiling. Recognizing this as a sign of inward cogitation, the vizier of his more private interests sat waiting. Without changing the direction of his gaze, the proprietor indicated a check in his ratiocination by saying incompletely:

Marrineal’s eyes locked in a vacant stare at a distant corner of the ceiling. Realizing this was a sign of deep thinking, the vizier of his private interests sat patiently. Without shifting his gaze, the proprietor signaled a pause in his thoughts by saying incompletely:

“Now, if she divorced Eyre and married Banneker—”

Ives completed it for him. “That would spike The Searchlight’s guns, you think? Perhaps. But if she were going to divorce Eyre, she’d have done it long ago, wouldn’t she? I think she’ll wait. He won’t last long.”

Ives finished it for him. “You think that would trigger The Searchlight’s guns? Maybe. But if she was going to divorce Eyre, she would have done it a long time ago, right? I think she’ll hold off. He won’t be around for much longer.”

“Then our hold on Banneker, through his ability to intimidate The Searchlight, depends on the life of a paretic.”

“Then our grip on Banneker, thanks to his ability to intimidate The Searchlight, depends on the life of a cripple.”

“Paretic is too strong a word—yet. But it comes to about that. Except—he’ll want a lot of money to marry Io Eyre.”

“He wants a lot, anyway,” smiled Marrineal.

“He wants a lot, anyway,” Marrineal smiled.

“He’ll want more. She’s an expensive luxury.”

“He’ll want more. She’s a costly indulgence.”

“He can get more. Any time when he chooses to handle The Patriot so that it attracts instead of offends the big advertisers.”

“He can get more. Whenever he decides to manage The Patriot in a way that appeals to the big advertisers instead of pushing them away.”

“Why don’t you put the screws on him now, Mr. Marrineal?” smirked Ives with thin-lipped malignancy.

“Why don’t you pressure him now, Mr. Marrineal?” smirked Ives with a thin-lipped malice.

Marrineal frowned. His cold blood inclined him to be deliberate; the ophidian habit, slow-moving until ready to strike. He saw no reason for risking a venture which became safer the further it progressed. Furthermore, he disliked direct, unsolicited advice. Ignoring Ives’s remark he asked:

Marrineal frowned. His cold blood made him cautious; he had a snake-like tendency to move slowly until he was ready to act. He saw no reason to take risks when the situation became safer the longer it went on. Besides, he didn't like direct, unsolicited advice. Ignoring Ives’s comment, he asked:

“How are his investments going?”

“How are his investments doing?”

Ives grinned again. “Down. Who put him into United Thread? Do you know, sir?”

Ives grinned again. “Down. Who put him in United Thread? Do you know, sir?”

“Horace Vanney. He has been tipping it off quietly to the club lot. Wants to get out from under, himself.”

“Horace Vanney. He’s been subtly letting the club know. He wants to escape his situation.”

“There’s one thing about it, though, that puzzles me. If he took old Vanney’s tip to buy for a rise, why did he go after the Sippiac Mills with those savage editorials? They’re mainly responsible for the legislative investigation that knocked eight points off of United Thread.”

“There’s one thing about it that puzzles me, though. If he took old Vanney’s advice to invest for a profit, why did he attack Sippiac Mills with those vicious editorials? They're mainly responsible for the legislative investigation that dropped United Thread’s stock by eight points.”

“Probably to prove his editorial independence.”

"Probably to show he's independent as an editor."

“To whom? You?”

“To who? You?”

“To himself,” said Marrineal with an acumen quite above the shrewdness of an Ives to grasp.

“To himself,” said Marrineal with a perception that was much sharper than what Ives could understand.

But the latter nodded intelligently, and remarked: “If he’s money-crazy you’ve got him, anyway, sooner or later. And now that he’s woman-crazy, too—”

But the latter nodded wisely and said, “If he’s obsessed with money, you’ve got him, sooner or later. And now that he’s obsessed with women, too—”

“You’ll never understand just how sane Mr. Banneker is,” broke in Marrineal coldly. He was a very sane man, himself.

“You’ll never get how rational Mr. Banneker is,” Marrineal interrupted coldly. He was a very rational man, himself.

“Well, a lot of the sane ones get stung on the Street,” moralized Ives. “I guess the only way to beat that game is to get crazy and take all the chances. Mr. Banneker stands to drop half a year’s salary in U.T. alone unless there’s a turn.”

“Well, a lot of the sane ones get stung on the Street,” Ives said thoughtfully. “I guess the only way to win at that game is to go a bit crazy and take all the risks. Mr. Banneker could lose half a year’s salary just in U.T. alone unless something changes.”

Marrineal delivered another well-thought-out bit of wisdom. “If I’m any judge, he wants a paper of his own. Well ... give me three years more of him and he can have it. But I don’t think it’ll make much headway against The Patriot, then.”

Marrineal offered another insightful piece of advice. “If I’m any judge, he wants a paper of his own. Well ... give me three more years of him and he can have it. But I don’t think it’ll make much progress against The Patriot, then.”

“Three years? Bussey and The Searchlight ought to hold him that long. Unless, of course, he gets over his infatuation in the meantime.”

“Three years? Bussey and The Searchlight should keep him occupied for that long. Unless, of course, he gets over his crush before then.”

“In that case,” surmised Marrineal, eyeing him with distaste, “I suppose you think that he would equally lose interest in protecting her from The Searchlight.”

“In that case,” Marrineal guessed, looking at him with dislike, “I suppose you think he would also lose interest in protecting her from The Searchlight.”

“Well, what’s a woman to expect!” said Ives blandly, and took his dismissal for the day.

“Well, what’s a woman supposed to expect!” Ives said casually, and then he took his leave for the day.

It was only recently that Ives had taken to coming to The Patriot office. No small interest and conjecture were aroused among the editorial staff as to his exact status, stimulus to gossip being afforded by the rumor that he had been, from Marrineal’s privy purse, shifted to the office payroll. Russell Edmonds solved and imparted the secret to Banneker.

It was only recently that Ives had started coming to The Patriot office. A lot of curiosity and speculation arose among the editorial staff about his exact status, fueled by the rumor that he had been moved from Marrineal’s private funds to the office payroll. Russell Edmonds figured it out and shared the secret with Banneker.

“Ives? Oh, he’s the office sandbag.”

“Ives? Oh, he’s the office punching bag.”

“Translate, Pop. I don’t understand.”

“Translate, Dad. I don’t understand.”

“It’s an invention of Marrineal’s. Very ingenious. It was devised as a weapon against libel suits. Suppose some local correspondent from Hohokus or Painted Post sends in a story on the Honorable Aminadab Quince that looks to be O.K., but is actually full of bad breaks. The Honorable Aminadab smells money in it and likes the smell. Starts a libel suit. On the facts, he’s got us: the fellow that got pickled and broke up the Methodist revival wasn’t Aminadab at all, but his tough brother. If it gets into court we’re stung. Well, up goes little Weaselfoot Ives to Hohokus. Sniffs around and spooks around and is a good fellow at the hotel, and possibly spends a little money where it’s most needed, and one day turns up at the Quince mansion. ‘Senator, I represent The Patriot.’ ‘Don’t want to see you at all. Talk to my lawyer.’ ‘But he might not understand my errand. It relates to an indictment handed down in 1884 for malversasion of school funds.’ ‘Young man, do you dare to intimate—’ and so forth and so on; bluster and bluff and threat. Says Ives, very cool: ‘Let me have your denial in writing and we’ll print it opposite the certified copy of the indictment.’ The old boy begins to whimper; ‘That’s outlawed. It was all wrong, anyway.’ Ives is sympathetic, but stands pat. Drop the suit and The Patriot will be considerate and settle the legal fees. Aminadab drops, ten times out of ten. The sandbag has put him away.”

“It’s an invention of Marrineal’s. Very clever. It was created as a defense against libel lawsuits. Imagine a local reporter from Hohokus or Painted Post submits a story about the Honorable Aminadab Quince that seems fine but is really full of inaccuracies. The Honorable Aminadab senses an opportunity and likes what he smells. He files a libel suit. Based on the facts, he’s got a case: the guy who got drunk and ruined the Methodist revival wasn’t Aminadab at all, but his hard-nosed brother. If it goes to court, we’re in trouble. Well, in comes little Weaselfoot Ives to Hohokus. He snoops around, charms everyone at the hotel, possibly spends some cash where it’s needed, and one day shows up at the Quince mansion. ‘Senator, I represent The Patriot.’ ‘I don’t want to see you at all. Talk to my lawyer.’ ‘But he might not grasp my purpose. It relates to an indictment handed down in 1884 for mismanagement of school funds.’ ‘Young man, do you dare to imply—’ and so on; bluster and intimidation and threats. Ives says, very calmly: ‘Let me have your denial in writing and we’ll publish it next to the certified copy of the indictment.’ The old guy starts to whine; ‘That’s expired. It was all a mistake, anyway.’ Ives is understanding but holds firm. Drop the suit and The Patriot will be kind enough to settle the legal fees. Aminadab backs down, ten times out of ten. The sandbag has taken him out.”

“But there must be an eleventh case where there’s nothing on the man that’s suing.”

“But there must be an eleventh case where there’s nothing on the guy who’s suing.”

“Say a ninety-ninth. One libel suit in a hundred may be brought in good faith. But we never settle until after Ives has done his little prowl.”

“Say a ninety-ninth. One libel lawsuit out of a hundred might be filed in good faith. But we never settle until after Ives has done his little investigation.”

“It sounds bad, Pop. But is it so bad, after all? We’ve got to protect ourselves against a hold-up.”

“It sounds bad, Dad. But is it really that bad, after all? We need to protect ourselves from a robbery.”

“Dirty work, but somebody’s got to do it: ay—yes? I agree with you. As a means of self-defense it is excusable. But the operations of the sandbag have gone far beyond libel in Ives’s hands.”

“Messy job, but someone has to handle it: right—yes? I agree with you. As a way of protecting oneself, it's understandable. But the way Ives has used the sandbag has gone way past slander.”

“Have they? To what extent?”

“Have they? How much?”

“Any. His little private detective agency—he’s got a couple of our porch-climbing, keyhole reporters secretly assigned to him at call for special work’—looks after any man we’ve got or are likely to have trouble with; advertisers who don’t come across properly, city officials who play in with the other papers too much, politicians—”

“Any. His small private detective agency—he’s got a couple of our porch-climbing, keyhole reporters secretly assigned to him for ‘special work’—takes care of any man we have or may have trouble with; advertisers who don’t pay up properly, city officials who cooperate with the other papers too much, politicians—”

“But that’s rank blackmail!” exclaimed Banneker.

“But that’s outright blackmail!” exclaimed Banneker.

“Carried far enough it is. So far it’s only private information for the private archives.”

“It's been taken far enough. So far, it's just private information kept in private archives.”

“Marrineal’s?”

“Yes. He and his private counsel, old Mark Stecklin, are the keepers of them. Now, suppose Judge Enderby runs afoul of our interests, as he is bound to do sooner or later. Little Weaselfoot gets on his trail—probably is on it already—and he’ll spend a year if necessary watching, waiting, sniffing out something that he can use as a threat or a bludgeon or a bargain.”

“Yes. He and his lawyer, old Mark Stecklin, are the ones in charge of them. Now, let’s say Judge Enderby gets in the way of our interests, which he will eventually. Little Weaselfoot is already onto him—likely has been for a while—and he’ll spend a year if he needs to, watching, waiting, and looking for something he can use as a threat, weapon, or negotiation tool.”

“What quarrel have we got with Enderby?” inquired Banneker with lively interest.

“What issue do we have with Enderby?” Banneker asked with keen interest.

“None, now. But we’ll be after him hot and heavy within a year.”

“None right now. But we’ll be going after him hard within a year.”

“Not the editorial page,” declared Banneker.

“Not the editorial page,” said Banneker.

“Well, I hope not. It would be rather a right-about, wouldn’t it? But Marrineal isn’t afraid of a right-about. You know his creed as to his readers: ‘The public never remembers.’ Of course, you realize what Marrineal is after, politically.”

“Well, I hope not. That would be quite a turnaround, wouldn’t it? But Marrineal isn’t scared of a turnaround. You know his belief about his readers: ‘The public never remembers.’ Of course, you understand what Marrineal is aiming for, politically.”

“No. He’s never said a word to me.”

“No. He’s never said anything to me.”

“Nor to me. But others have. The mayoralty.”

“Not to me. But others have. The mayor's office.”

“For himself?”

“Of course. He’s quietly building up his machine.”

“Sure. He’s quietly working on his setup.”

“But Laird will run for reelection.”

“He’ll knife Laird.”

“He’ll stab Laird.”

“It’s true Laird hasn’t treated us very well, in the matter of backing our policies,” admitted Banneker thoughtfully. “The Combined Street Railway franchise, for instance.”

“Yeah, it’s true Laird hasn’t really supported us when it comes to our policies,” Banneker said thoughtfully. “Take the Combined Street Railway franchise, for example.”

“He was right in that and you were wrong, Ban. He had to follow the comptroller there.”

“He was right about that and you were wrong, Ban. He had to follow the comptroller there.”

“Is that where our split with Enderby is going to come? Over the election?”

“Is that where we’re going to split with Enderby? Over the election?”

“Yes. Enderby is the brains and character back of the Laird administration. He represents the clean government crowd, with its financial power.”

“Yes. Enderby is the brains and personality behind the Laird administration. He represents the clean government movement, with its financial influence.”

Banneker stirred fretfully in his chair. “Damn it!” he growled. “I wish we could run this paper as a newspaper and not as a chestnut rake.”

Banneker stirred restlessly in his chair. “Damn it!” he said. “I wish we could run this paper as a real newspaper and not as a gossip column.”

“How sweet and simple life would be!” mocked the veteran. “Still, you know, if you’re going to use The Patriot as a blunderbuss to point at the heads of your own enemies, you can’t blame the owner if he—”

“How sweet and simple life would be!” scoffed the veteran. “Still, you know, if you’re going to use The Patriot as a weapon to aim at your own enemies, you can’t blame the owner if he—”

“You think Marrineal knows?” interposed Banneker sharply.

“You think Marrineal knows?” Banneker cut in sharply.

“About The Searchlight matter? You can bet on one thing, Ban. Everything that Ely Ives knows, Tertius Marrineal knows. So far as Ives thinks it advisable for him to know, that is. Over and above which Tertius is no fool, himself. You may have noticed that.”

“About the Searchlight situation? You can count on one thing, Ban. Everything that Ely Ives knows, Tertius Marrineal knows too—at least as much as Ives thinks it's smart for him to know. Plus, Tertius isn’t stupid, either. You might have caught onto that.”

“It’s bothered me from time to time,” admitted the other dryly.

“It’s bothered me every once in a while,” the other person admitted dryly.

“It’ll bother both of us more, presently,” prophesied Edmonds.

“It’ll bother both of us more, soon,” predicted Edmonds.

“Then I’ve been playing direct into Marrineal’s hands in attacking Laird on the franchise matter.”

“Then I’ve been playing right into Marrineal’s hands by going after Laird about the franchise issue.”

“Yes. Keep on.”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

“Strange advice from you, Pop. You think my position on that is wrong.”

“That's weird advice from you, Dad. You think I'm wrong about that.”

“What of that? You think it’s right. Therefore, go ahead. Why quit a line of policy just because it obliges your employes? Don’t be over-conscientious, son.”

“What about that? You think it’s okay. So, go for it. Why abandon a policy just because it requires your employees to comply? Don’t be overly conscientious, son.”

“I’ve suspected for some time that the political news was being adroitly manipulated against the administration. Has Marrineal tried to ring you in on that?”

“I’ve been sensing for a while that the political news was being cleverly manipulated against the administration. Has Marrineal tried to bring you into that?”

“No; and he won’t.”

“No way; and he won't.”

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“He knows that, in the main, I’m a Laird man. Laird is giving us what we asked for, an honest administration.”

“He knows that, overall, I’m a Laird supporter. Laird is providing us with what we requested, a genuine administration.”

“Suppose, when Marrineal develops his plans, he comes to you, which would be his natural course, to handle the news end of the anti-Laird campaign. What would you do?”

“Imagine that when Marrineal is working on his plans, he approaches you, which would be the expected move, to manage the news aspect of the anti-Laird campaign. What would you do?”

“Quit.”

“Stop.”

Banneker sighed. “It’s so easy for you.”

“Not so easy as you think, son. Even though there’s a lot of stuff being put over in the news columns that makes me sore and sick. Marrineal’s little theory of using news as a lever is being put into practice pretty widely. Also we’re selling it.”

“Not as easy as you think, son. Even though there’s a lot of stuff being reported in the news that makes me angry and sick. Marrineal’s little idea of using news as leverage is being put into practice quite a bit. Also, we’re selling it.”

“Selling our news columns?”

“Selling our news articles?”

“Some of ’em. For advertising. You’re well out of any responsibility for that department. I’d resign to-morrow if it weren’t for the fact that Marrineal still wants to cocker up the labor crowd for his political purposes, and so gives me a free hand in my own special line. By the way, he’s got the Veridian matter all nicely smoothed out. Oh, my, yes! Fired the general manager, put in all sorts of reforms, recognized the union, the whole programme! That’s to spike McClintick’s guns if he tries to trot out Veridian again as proof that Marrineal is, at heart, anti-labor.”

“Some of them. For advertising. You’re completely off the hook for that department. I'd quit tomorrow if it weren’t for the fact that Marrineal still wants to win over the labor crowd for his political goals, so he lets me do my own thing in my area. By the way, he’s sorted out the Veridian issue really well. Oh, absolutely! He fired the general manager, implemented all kinds of reforms, recognized the union, the whole deal! That’s to take away McClintick’s leverage if he tries to use Veridian again as proof that Marrineal is, deep down, anti-labor.”

“Is he?”

“He’s anti-anything that’s anti-Marrineal, and pro-anything that’s pro-Marrineal. Haven’t you measured him yet? All policy, no principle; there’s Mr. Tertius Marrineal for you.... Ban, it’s really you that holds me to this shop.” Through convolutions of smoke from his tiny pipe, the old stager regarded the young star of journalism with a quaint and placid affection. “Whatever rotten stuff is going on in the business and news department, your page goes straight and speaks clear.... I wonder how long Marrineal will stand for it ... I wonder what he intends for the next campaign.”

“He’s against anything that’s against Marrineal, and for anything that’s for Marrineal. Haven’t you figured him out yet? All policy, no principle; there’s Mr. Tertius Marrineal for you.... Ban, it’s really you that keeps me in this shop.” Through the swirling smoke from his tiny pipe, the old veteran looked at the young journalism star with an old-fashioned and calm affection. “Whatever shady stuff is happening in the business and news department, your page stays honest and clear.... I wonder how long Marrineal will put up with it ... I wonder what he’s planning for the next campaign.”

“If my proprietor runs for office, I can’t very well not support him,” said Banneker, troubled.

“If my boss runs for office, I can’t really not support him,” said Banneker, feeling uneasy.

“Not very well. The pinch will come as to what you’re going to do about Laird. According to my private information, he’s coming back at The Patriot.”

“Not very well. The pressure will be on about what you’re going to do regarding Laird. From what I've heard, he’s coming back at The Patriot.”

“For my editorials on the Combined franchise?”

“For my articles on the Combined franchise?”

“Hardly. He’s too straight to resent honest criticism. No; for some of the crooked stuff that we’re running in our political news. Besides, some suspicious and informed soul in the administration has read between our political lines, and got a peep of the aspiring Tertius girding himself for contest. Result, the city advertising is to be taken from The Patriot.”

“Not at all. He’s too straightforward to hold a grudge against honest criticism. No; it’s for some of the shady things that we’re covering in our political news. Plus, some aware and insightful person in the administration has figured out what we’re really saying politically and caught a glimpse of the ambitious Tertius preparing for a fight. As a result, the city advertising is going to be removed from The Patriot.”

It needed no more than a mechanical reckoning of percentages to tell Banneker that this implied a serious diminution of his own income. Further, such a procedure would be in effect a repudiation of The Patriot and its editorial support.

It took just a quick calculation of percentages for Banneker to realize that this meant a significant reduction in his own income. Moreover, this action would essentially be a rejection of The Patriot and its editorial backing.

“That’s a rotten deal!” he exclaimed.

"That’s a terrible deal!" he exclaimed.

“No. Just politics. Justifiable, too, I should say, as politics go. I doubt whether Laird would do it of his own motion; he plays a higher game than that. But it isn’t strictly within his province either to effect or prevent. Anyhow, it’s going to be done.”

“No. Just politics. Justifiable, too, I should say, as politics go. I doubt Laird would do it on his own; he’s playing a bigger game than that. But it’s not exactly his role to make it happen or stop it either. Anyway, it’s going to happen.”

“If he wants to fight us—” began Banneker with gloom in his eyes.

“If he wants to fight us—” Banneker started, his eyes filled with sadness.

“He doesn’t want to fight anybody,” cut in the expert. “He wants to be mayor and run the city for what seems to him the city’s best good. If he thought Marrineal would carry on his work as mayor, I doubt if he’d oppose him. But our shrewd old friend, Enderby, isn’t of that mind. Enderby understands Marrineal. He’ll fight to the finish.”

“He doesn’t want to fight anyone,” the expert interrupted. “He wants to be mayor and manage the city for what he believes is its best interest. If he thought Marrineal would continue his work as mayor, I doubt he’d oppose him. But our clever old friend, Enderby, doesn’t think that way. Enderby knows Marrineal well. He’ll fight to the end.”

Edmonds left his friend in a glum perturbation of mind. Enderby understood Marrineal, did he? Banneker wished that he himself did. If he could have come to grips with his employer, he would at least have known now where to take his stand. But Marrineal was elusive. No, not even elusive; quiescent. He waited.

Edmonds left his friend feeling down and confused. Enderby understood Marrineal, did he? Banneker wished he did. If he could have figured out his boss, he would at least know where to stand now. But Marrineal was not just hard to pin down; he was inactive. He was just waiting.

As time passed, Banneker’s editorial and personal involvements grew more complex. At what moment might a pressure from above close down on his pen, and with what demand? How should he act in the crisis thus forced, at Marrineal’s slow pleasure? Take Edmonds’s Gordian recourse; resign? But he was on the verge of debt. His investments had gone badly; he prided himself on the thought that it was partly through his own immovable uprightness. Now, this threat to his badly needed percentages! Surely The Patriot ought to be making a greater profit than it showed, on its steadily waxing circulation. Why had he ever let himself be wrenched from his first and impregnable system of a straight payment on increase of circulation? Would it be possible to force Marrineal back into that agreement? No income was too great, surely, to recompense for such trouble of soul as The Patriot inflicted upon its editorial mouthpiece.... Through the murk of thoughts shot, golden-rayed, the vision of Io.

As time went on, Banneker’s editorial and personal affairs became more complicated. At what point would pressure from above stifle his writing, and what demands would come with it? How should he respond in the crisis that was being forced upon him, at Marrineal’s slow whim? Take Edmonds’s straightforward route; resign? But he was on the edge of debt. His investments had not gone well; he took pride in the fact that it was partly due to his own steadfast integrity. Now, this threat to his much-needed profits! Surely The Patriot should be earning more than it was, given its steadily growing circulation. Why had he let himself be pulled away from his original and solid plan of a straightforward payment based on increased circulation? Could he somehow push Marrineal back into that arrangement? No income was too large to compensate for the emotional toll that The Patriot took on its editorial representative.... Through the haze of his thoughts, the vision of Io shone like a golden ray.

No world could be other than glorious in which she lived and loved him and was his.

No world could be anything but amazing where she lived, loved him, and was his.

CHAPTER XI

Sheltered beneath the powerful pen of Banneker, his idyll, fulfilled, lengthened out over radiant months. Io was to him all that dreams had ever promised or portrayed. Their association, flowering to the full amidst the rush and turmoil of the city, was the antithesis to its budding in the desert peace. To see the more of his mistress, Banneker became an active participant in that class of social functions which get themselves chronicled in the papers. Wise in her day and her protective instinct of love, Io pointed out that the more he was identified with her set, the less occasion would there be for comment upon their being seen together. And they were seen together much.

Sheltered under the powerful pen of Banneker, his idyllic days stretched on for radiant months. Io was everything he had ever dreamed of. Their relationship blossomed amidst the chaos of the city, a stark contrast to its quiet beginning in the desert. To spend more time with his beloved, Banneker became an active part of the social events that often made the news. Wise in her time and protective out of love, Io suggested that the more he was associated with her social circle, the less people would talk about them being seen together. And they were seen together a lot.

She lunched with him at his downtown club, dined with him at Sherry’s, met him at The Retreat and was driven back home in his car, sometimes with Archie Densmore for a third, not infrequently alone. Considerate hostesses seated them next each other at dinners: it was deemed an evidence of being “in the know” thus to accommodate them. The openness of their intimacy went far to rob calumny of its sting. And Banneker’s ingrained circumspection of the man trained in the open, applied to les convenances, was a protection in itself. Moreover, there was in his devotion, conspicuous though it was, an air of chivalry, a breath of fragrance from a world of higher romance, which rendered women in particular charitable of judgment toward the pair.

She had lunch with him at his downtown club, dined with him at Sherry’s, met him at The Retreat, and got a ride home in his car, sometimes with Archie Densmore joining them, but often alone. Considerate hostesses seated them next to each other at dinners, as this was seen as a sign of being “in the know.” The openness of their relationship helped reduce the impact of gossip. Banneker’s natural caution, being a man of the outdoors, also kept things proper, which was protective in its own way. Additionally, his obvious devotion had a sense of chivalry and a hint of romance from a more refined world, which made women especially lenient in their judgment of the couple.

Sometimes in the late afternoon Banneker’s private numbered telephone rang, and an impersonal voice delivered a formal message. And that evening Banneker (called out of town, no matter how pressing an engagement he might have had) sat in The House With Three Eyes, now darkened of vision, thrilling and longing for her step in the dim side passage. There was risk of disaster. But Io willed to take it; was proud to take it for her lover.

Sometimes in the late afternoon, Banneker’s private numbered phone would ring, and a distant voice would deliver a formal message. That evening, Banneker (called out of town, no matter how urgent his schedule) sat in The House With Three Eyes, now clouded in darkness, excited and yearning for her footsteps in the dim corridor. There was a chance of disaster. But Io was determined to take that risk; she felt proud to do it for her lover.

Immersed in a happiness and a hope which vivified every motion of his life, Banneker was nevertheless under a continuous strain of watchfulness; the qui vive of the knight who guards his lady with leveled lance from a never-ceasing threat. At the point of his weapon cowered and crouched the dragon of The Searchlight, with envenomed fangs of scandal.

Immersed in happiness and hope that energized everything he did, Banneker was still under constant pressure to stay alert; like a knight on guard protecting his lady from a relentless threat. At the end of his weapon lurked the monster of The Searchlight, with its venomous fangs of scandal.

As the months rounded out to a year, he grew, not less careful, indeed, but more confident. Eyre had quietly dropped out of the world. Hunting big game in some wild corner of Nowhere, said rumor.

As the months passed and approached a year, he became not less cautious, but more self-assured. Eyre had quietly disappeared from society. Rumor had it he was hunting big game in some remote area of Nowhere.

Io had revealed to Banneker the truth; her husband was in a sanitarium not far from Philadelphia. As she told him, her eyes were dim. Swift, with the apprehension of the lover to read the loved one’s face, she saw a smothered jealousy in his.

Io had told Banneker the truth; her husband was in a mental health facility not far from Philadelphia. As she spoke, her eyes were dull. Quick to sense the emotions of the one she loved, she noticed a hidden jealousy in his expression.

“Ah, but you must pity him, too! He has been so game.”

“Ah, but you should feel sorry for him, too! He has been so brave.”

“Has been?”

"Has it been?"

“Yes. This is nearly the end. I shall go down there to be near him.”

“Yes. This is almost the end. I will go down there to be close to him.”

“It’s a long way, Philadelphia,” he said moodily.

“It’s a long way, Philadelphia,” he said with a gloomy expression.

“What a child! Two hours in your car from The Retreat.”

“What a kid! Just two hours in your car from The Retreat.”

“Then I may come down?”

"Can I come down now?"

“May? You must!”

"May? You have to!"

He was still unappeased. “But you’ll be very far away from me most of the time.”

He still wasn't satisfied. “But you’ll be really far away from me most of the time.”

She gleamed on him, her face all joyous for his incessant want of her. “Stupid! We shall see almost as much of each other as before. I’ll be coming over to New York two or three times a week.”

She smiled at him, her face full of joy from his constant desire for her. “Silly! We’ll see each other almost as much as before. I’ll be coming to New York two or three times a week.”

Wherewith, and a promised daily telephone call, he must be content.

Wherewith, and a promised daily phone call, he must be content.

Not at that meeting did he broach the subject nearest his heart. He felt that he must give Io time to adjust herself to the new-developed status of her husband, as of one already passed out of the world. A fortnight later he spoke out. He had gone down to The Retreat for the week-end and she had come up from Philadelphia to meet him, for dinner. He found her in a secluded alcove off the main dining-porch, alone. She rose and came to him, after that one swift, sweet, precautionary glance about her with which a woman in love assures herself of safety before she gives her lips; tender and passionate to the yearning need of her that sprang in his face.

Not at that meeting did he bring up the topic that mattered most to him. He thought it best to give Io time to adjust to her husband’s new reality, as if he had already left this world. Two weeks later, he spoke up. He had gone down to The Retreat for the weekend, and she had come up from Philadelphia to meet him for dinner. He found her in a quiet corner off the main dining porch, alone. She got up and walked over to him, after giving a quick, sweet glance around to make sure she was safe, a cautious move a woman in love makes before she shares a kiss; tender and full of passion, responding to the need he could see in his face.

“Ban, I’ve been undergoing a solemn preachment.”

“Ban, I’ve been going through a serious lecture.”

“From whom?”

"Who from?"

“Archie.”

"Archie."

“Is Densmore here?”

"Is Densmore around?"

“No; he came over to Philadelphia to deliver it.”

“No; he came to Philadelphia to deliver it.”

“About us?”

“Who we are?”

She nodded. “Don’t take it so gloomily. It was to be expected.”

She nodded. “Don’t be so gloomy about it. It was expected.”

He frowned. “It’s on my mind all the time; the danger to you.”

He frowned. “I think about it all the time; the danger to you.”

“Would you end it?” she said softly.

“Would you end it?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

Too confident to misconstrue his reply, she let her hand fall on his, waiting.

Too sure to misinterpret his response, she let her hand rest on his, waiting.

“Io, how long will it be, with Eyre? Before—”

“Io, how long will it be with Eyre? Before—”

“Oh; that!” The brilliance faded from her eager loveliness. “I don’t know. Perhaps a year. He suffers abominably, poor fellow.”

“Oh; that!” The excitement drained from her eager beauty. “I don’t know. Maybe a year. He’s suffering horribly, poor guy.”

“And after—after that, how long before you can marry me?”

“And after—after that, how long until you can marry me?”

She twinkled at him mischievously. “So, after all these years, my lover makes me an offer of marriage. Why didn’t you ask me at Manzanita?”

She sparkled at him playfully. “So, after all these years, my lover is finally proposing. Why didn’t you ask me back at Manzanita?”

“Good God! Would it possibly—”

"OMG! Could it possibly—"

“No; no! I shouldn’t have said it. I was teasing.”

“No; no! I shouldn’t have said that. I was just kidding.”

“You know that there’s never been a moment when the one thing worth living and fighting and striving for wasn’t you.”

“You know that there’s never been a moment when the one thing worth living for, fighting for, and striving for wasn’t you.”

“And success?” she taunted, but with tenderness.

“And success?” she teased, but with a soft touch.

“Another name for you. I wanted it only as the reflex of your wish for me.”

“Another name for you. I wanted it only as a reflection of your desire for me.”

“Even when I’d left you?”

"Even after I left you?"

“Even when you’d left me.”

"Even after you left me."

“Poor Ban!” she breathed, and for a moment her fingers fluttered at his cheek. “Have I made it up to you?”

“Poor Ban!” she sighed, and for a moment her fingers brushed against his cheek. “Have I made it up to you?”

He bent over the long, low chair in which she half reclined. “A thousand times! Every day that I see you; every day that I think of you; with the lightest touch of your hand; the sound of your voice; the turn of your face toward me. I’m jealous of it and fearful of it. Can you wonder that I live in a torment of dread lest something happen to bring it all to ruin?”

He leaned over the long, low chair where she was half reclined. “A thousand times! Every day I see you; every day I think of you; with the lightest touch of your hand; the sound of your voice; the way your face turns toward me. I’m jealous of it and afraid of it. Can you blame me for living in constant fear that something will happen to ruin it all?”

She shook her head. “Nothing could. Unless—No. I won’t say it. I want you to want to marry me, Ban. But—I wonder.”

As they talked, the little light of late afternoon had dwindled, until in their nook they could see each other only as vague forms.

As they chatted, the late afternoon light had faded, and now in their corner, they could only make out each other as blurred shapes.

“Isn’t there a table-lamp there?” she asked. “Turn it on.”

“Isn’t there a lamp over there?” she asked. “Turn it on.”

He found and pulled the chain. The glow, softly shaded, irradiated Io’s lineaments, showing her thoughtful, somber, even a little apprehensive. She lifted the shade and turned it to throw the direct rays upon Banneker. He blinked.

He found and pulled the chain. The soft glow illuminated Io's features, revealing her thoughtful, serious, and slightly anxious expression. She raised the shade and adjusted it to direct the light onto Banneker. He blinked.

“Do you mind?” she asked softly. Even more softly, she added, “Do you remember?”

“Do you mind?” she asked quietly. Even more quietly, she added, “Do you remember?”

His mind veered back across the years, full of struggle, of triumph, of emptiness, of fulfillment, to a night in another world; a world of dreams, magic associations, high and peaceful ambitions, into which had broken a voice and an appeal from the darkness. He had turned the light upon himself then that she might see him for what he was and have no fear. So he held it now, lifting it above his forehead. Hypnotized by the compulsion of memory, she said, as she had said to the unknown helper in the desert shack:

His mind drifted back over the years, filled with struggle, victory, emptiness, and fulfillment, to a night in a different world; a world of dreams, magical connections, lofty and peaceful ambitions, into which a voice and a plea from the darkness had intruded. He had turned the light on himself then so she could see him for who he was and feel no fear. So he held it now, raising it above his forehead. Enchanted by the pull of memory, she said, just as she had said to the mysterious helper in the desert cabin:

“I don’t know you. Do I?”

“Io!”

“Yo!”

“Ah! I didn’t mean to say that. It came back to me, Ban. Perhaps it’s true. Do I know you?”

“Ah! I didn’t mean to say that. It just popped into my head, Ban. Maybe it’s true. Do I really know you?”

As in the long ago he answered her: “Are you afraid of me?”

As he did long ago, he asked her, “Are you afraid of me?”

“Of everything. Of the future. Of what I don’t know in you.”

“Of everything. Of the future. Of what I don’t know about you.”

“There’s nothing of me that you don’t know,” he averred.

“There’s nothing about me that you don’t know,” he said.

“Isn’t there?” She was infinitely wistful; avid of reassurance. Before he could answer she continued: “That night in the rain when I first saw you, under the flash, as I see you now—Ban, dear, how little you’ve changed, how wonderfully little, to the eye!—the instant I saw you, I trusted you.”

“Isn’t there?” She looked longingly; eager for reassurance. Before he could reply, she went on: “That night in the rain when I first saw you, in the flash, just like I see you now—Ban, dear, how little you’ve changed, how wonderfully little, to the eye!—the moment I saw you, I trusted you.”

“Do you trust me now?” he asked for the delight of hearing her declare it.

“Do you trust me now?” he asked, clearly enjoying her answer.

Instead he heard, incredulously, the doubt in her tone. “Do I? I want to—so much! I did then. At first sight.”

Instead he heard, in disbelief, the doubt in her voice. “Do I? I want to—so much! I did back then. At first sight.”

He set down the lamp. She could hear him breathing quick and stressfully. He did not speak.

He put the lamp down. She could hear him breathing fast and anxiously. He didn’t say anything.

“At first sight,” she repeated. “And—I think—I loved you from that minute. Though of course I didn’t know. Not for days. Then, when I’d gone, I found what I’d never dreamed of; how much I could love.”

“At first sight,” she repeated. “And—I think—I loved you from that moment. Even though I didn’t realize it. Not for days. Then, when I was gone, I discovered something I never imagined; how deeply I could love.”

“And now?” he whispered.

"And now?" he whispered.

“Ah, more than then!” The low cry leapt from her lips. “A thousand times more.”

“Ah, way more than that!” The quiet exclamation escaped her lips. “A thousand times more.”

“But you don’t trust me?”

"But you don't believe in me?"

“Why don’t I, Ban?” she pleaded. “What have you done? How have you changed?”

“Why can’t I, Ban?” she begged. “What did you do? How have you changed?”

He shook his head. “Yet you’ve given me your love. Do you trust yourself?”

He shook his head. “But you’ve given me your love. Do you trust yourself?”

“Yes,” she answered with a startling quietude of certainty. “In that I do. Absolutely.”

“Yes,” she replied with a surprising calmness that radiated confidence. “In that case, I do. Totally.”

“Then I’ll chance the rest. You’re upset to-night, aren’t you, Io? You’ve let your imagination run away with you.”

“Then I’ll take my chances. You’re upset tonight, aren’t you, Io? You’ve let your imagination get the best of you.”

“This isn’t a new thing to me. It began—I don’t know when it began. Yes; I do. Before I ever knew or thought of you. Oh, long before! When I was no more than a baby.”

“This isn’t new to me. It started—I don’t know when it started. Actually, I do. Long before I ever knew or thought about you. Oh, way before! When I was just a baby.”

“Rede me your riddle, love,” he said lightly.

“Tell me your riddle, love,” he said playfully.

“It’s so silly. You mustn’t laugh; no, you wouldn’t laugh. But you mustn’t be angry with me for being a fool. Childhood impressions are terribly lasting things, Ban.... Yes, I’m going to tell you. It was a nurse I had when I was only four, I think; such a pretty, dainty Irish creature, the pink-and-black type. She used to cry over me and say—I don’t suppose she thought I would ever understand or remember—‘Beware the brown-eyed boys, darlin’. False an’ foul they are, the brown ones. They take a girl’s poor heart an’ witch it away an’ twitch it away, an’ toss it back all crushed an’ spoilt.’ Then she would hug me and sob. She left soon after; but the warning has haunted me like a superstition.... Could you kiss it away, Ban? Tell me I’m a little fool!”

“It’s so silly. You shouldn’t laugh; no, you wouldn’t laugh. But please don’t be mad at me for being a fool. Childhood impressions stick with you, Ban.... Yes, I’m going to tell you. I had a nurse when I was about four, I think; she was such a pretty, delicate Irish girl, the pink-and-black type. She used to cry over me and say—I don’t think she figured I’d ever understand or remember—‘Watch out for the brown-eyed boys, darling. They’re deceptive and nasty, the brown ones. They take a girl’s poor heart, enchant it, pull it apart, and then toss it back all crushed and ruined.’ Then she’d hug me and sob. She left soon after; but that warning has stuck with me like a superstition.... Could you kiss it away, Ban? Tell me I’m a little fool!”

Approaching footsteps broke in upon them. The square bulk of Jim Maitland appeared in the doorway.

Approaching footsteps interrupted them. The solid figure of Jim Maitland appeared in the doorway.

“What ho! you two. Ban, you’re scampin’ your polo practice shamefully. You’ll be crabbin’ the team if you don’t look out. Dinin’ here?”

“What’s up, you two? Ban, you’re slacking off on your polo practice big time. You’re going to hurt the team if you’re not careful. Eating here?”

“Yes,” said Io. “Is Marie down?”

“Yes,” said Io. “Is Marie here?”

“Comin’ presently. How about a couple of rubbers after dinner?”

“Coming right away. How about a couple of condoms after dinner?”

To assent seemed the part of tact. Io and Ban went to their corner table, reserved for three, the third, Archie Densmore, being a prudent fiction. People drifted over to them, chatted awhile, were carried on and away by uncharted but normal social currents. It was a tribute to the accepted status between them that no one settled into the third chair. The Retreat is the dwelling-place of tact. All the conversationalists having come and gone, Io reverted over the coffee to the talk of their hearts.

To agree seemed like the polite thing to do. Io and Ban went to their corner table, reserved for three, the third, Archie Densmore, being a sensible illusion. People wandered over to them, chatted for a bit, and were swept along by the usual social flow. It showed the established understanding between them that no one took the third chair. The Retreat is a place where politeness thrives. Once the conversations had come and gone, Io returned to discussing what was truly on their minds over coffee.

“I can’t expect you to understand me, can I? Especially as I don’t understand myself. Don’t sulk, Ban, dearest. You’re so un-pretty when you pout.”

“I can’t expect you to get me, can I? Especially since I don’t even get myself. Don’t sulk, Ban, my dear. You look so unattractive when you pout.”

He refused to accept the change to a lighter tone. “I understand this, Io; that you have begun unaccountably to mistrust me. That hurts.”

He wouldn’t accept the switch to a lighter tone. “I get it, Io; you’ve started to inexplicably mistrust me. That hurts.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I’d rather hurt myself; a thousand times rather. Oh, I will marry you, of course, when the time comes! And yet—”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I’d rather hurt myself; a thousand times more. Oh, I will definitely marry you when the time comes! And yet—”

“Yet?”

"Really?"

“Isn’t it strange, that deep-seated misgiving! I suppose it’s my woman’s dread of any change. It’s been so perfect between us, Ban.” Her speech dropped to its lowest breath of pure music:

“Isn’t it weird, that deep-seated worry! I guess it’s my woman’s fear of any change. It’s been so perfect between us, Ban.” Her voice fell to its softest tone of pure music:

“‘This test for love:—in every kiss, sealed fast To feel the first kiss and forebode the last’—

‘This test of love:—in every kiss, securely to feel the first kiss and anticipate the last’—

So it has been with us; hasn’t it, my lover?”

So it has been with us; hasn’t it, my love?”

“So it shall always be,” he answered, low and deep.

“So it will always be,” he replied, in a low and deep voice.

Her eyes dreamed. “How could any man feel what he put in those lines?” she murmured.

Her eyes were lost in thought. “How could any man feel what he wrote in those lines?” she whispered.

“Some woman taught him,” said Banneker.

“Some woman taught him,” Banneker said.

She threw him a fairy kiss. “Why haven’t we ‘The Voices’ here! You should read to me.... Do you ever wish we were back in the desert?”

She blew him a playful kiss. “Why don’t we have ‘The Voices’ here! You should read it to me.... Do you ever wish we were back in the desert?”

“We shall be, some day.”

"We will be, someday."

She shuddered a little, involuntarily. “There’s a sense of recall, isn’t there! Do you still love it?”

She shuddered slightly, without meaning to. “There’s a feeling of nostalgia, right? Do you still love it?”

“It’s the beginning of the Road to Happiness,” he said. “The place where I first saw you.”

“It’s the start of the Road to Happiness,” he said. “The spot where I first saw you.”

“You don’t care for many things, though, Ban.”

“You don’t care about many things, though, Ban.”

“Not many. Only two, vitally. You and the paper.”

“Not many. Just two, really. You and the paper.”

She made a curious reply pregnant of meanings which were to come back upon him afterward. “I shan’t be jealous of that. Not as long as you’re true to it. But I don’t think you care for The Patriot, for itself.”

She gave a curious reply full of meanings that would come back to him later. “I won’t be jealous of that. As long as you’re committed to it. But I don’t think you really care for The Patriot, for its own sake.”

“Oh, don’t I!”

“Oh, yes I do!”

“If you do, it’s only because it’s part of you; your voice; your power. Because it belongs to you. I wonder if you love me mostly for the same reason.”

“If you do, it’s only because it’s a part of you; your voice; your power. Because it’s yours. I wonder if you love me mostly for the same reason.”

“Say, the reverse reason. Because I belong so entirely to you that nothing outside really matters except as it contributes to you. Can’t you realize and believe?”

“Look, here’s the opposite. Because I’m so completely yours that nothing else matters to me except how it relates to you. Can’t you see and believe that?”

“No; I shouldn’t be jealous of the paper,” she mused, ignoring his appeal. Then, with a sudden transition: “I like your Russell Edmonds. Am I wrong or is there a kind of nobility of mind in him?”

“No; I shouldn’t be jealous of the paper,” she thought, ignoring his request. Then, shifting gears abruptly: “I like your Russell Edmonds. Am I wrong, or does he have a certain nobility of spirit?”

“Of mind and soul. You would be the one to see it.

“Of mind and soul. You would be the one to notice it.

.............the nobleness that lies Sleeping but never dead in other men, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own’”—

‘.............the greatness that lies dormant but never gone in other people will awaken in glory to greet your own’”—

he quoted, smiling into her eyes.

he said with a smile, looking into her eyes.

“Do you ever talk over your editorials with him?”

“Do you ever discuss your editorials with him?”

“Often. He’s my main and only reliance, politically.”

“Often. He’s my primary and only source of support, politically.”

“Only politically? Does he ever comment on other editorials? The one on Harvey Wheelwright, for instance?”

“Only politically? Does he ever talk about other editorials? Like the one on Harvey Wheelwright, for example?”

Banneker was faintly surprised. “No. Why should he? Did you discuss that with him?”

Banneker was slightly surprised. “No. Why would he? Did you talk to him about that?”

“Indeed not! I wouldn’t discuss that particular editorial with any one but you.”

“Definitely not! I wouldn’t talk about that specific editorial with anyone else but you.”

He moved uneasily. “Aren’t you attaching undue importance to a very trivial subject? You know that was half a joke, anyway.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Aren’t you making a big deal out of something pretty trivial? You know that was mostly a joke, right?”

“Was it?” she murmured. “Probably I take it too seriously. But—but Harvey Wheelwright came into one of our early talks, almost our first about real things. When I began to discover you; when ‘The Voices’ first sang to us. And he wasn’t one of the Voices, exactly, was he?”

“Was it?” she whispered. “I guess I take it too seriously. But—Harvey Wheelwright came into one of our early conversations, almost our first about real stuff. When I started to understand you; when ‘The Voices’ first spoke to us. And he wasn’t exactly one of the Voices, was he?”

“He? He’s a bray! But neither was Sears-Roebuck one of the Voices. Yet you liked my editorial on that.”

“He? He’s an idiot! But Sears-Roebuck was never one of the Voices. Still, you liked my piece on that.”

“I adored it! You believed what you were writing. So you made it beautiful.”

“I loved it! You really believed in what you were writing. That’s why you made it so beautiful.”

“Nothing could make Harvey Wheelwright beautiful. But, at least, you’ll admit I made him—well, appetizing.” His face took on a shade. “Love’s labor lost, too,” he added. “We never did run the Wheelwright serial, you know.”

“Nothing could make Harvey Wheelwright beautiful. But, at least, you’ll admit I made him—well, appealing.” His face flushed. “Love’s labor lost, too,” he added. “We never did run the Wheelwright serial, you know.”

“Why?”

"Why?"

“Because the infernal idiot had to go and divorce a perfectly respectable, if plain and middle-aged wife, in order to marry a quite scandalous Chicago society flapper.”

“Because the idiotic fool had to go and divorce a perfectly respectable, if plain and middle-aged wife, to marry a totally scandalous Chicago society flapper.”

“What connection has that with the serial?”

“What does that have to do with the series?”

“Don’t you see? Wheelwright is the arch-deacon of the eternal proprieties and pieties. Purity of morals. Hearth and home. Faithful unto death, and so on. Under that sign he conquers—a million pious and snuffy readers, per book. Well, when he gets himself spread in the Amalgamated Wire dispatches, by a quick divorce and a hair-trigger marriage, puff goes his piety—and his hold on his readers. We just quietly dropped him.”

“Don’t you get it? Wheelwright is the archdeacon of eternal propriety and piety. Purity of morals. Home and family. Faithful until death, and all that. That’s how he wins over a million pious and stuffy readers with each book. But once he shows up in the Amalgamated Wire reports with a quick divorce and a hasty marriage, his piety goes up in smoke—and so does his grip on his readers. We just quietly moved on from him.”

“But his serial was just as good or as bad as before, wasn’t it?”

“But his series was just as good or as bad as before, right?”

“Certainly not! Not for our purposes. He was a dead wolf with his sheep’s wool all smeared and spotted. You’ll never quite understand the newspaper game, I’m afraid, lady of my heart.”

“Definitely not! Not for what we need. He was a dead wolf with his sheep's wool all messy and stained. You’ll never really get the newspaper business, I’m afraid, dear lady.”

“How brown your eyes are, Ban!” said Io.

CHAPTER XII

Politics began to bubble in The Patriot office with promise of hotter upheavals to come. The Laird administration had shown its intention of diverting city advertising, and Marrineal had countered in the news columns by several minor but not ineffective exposures of weak spots in the city government. Banneker, who had on the whole continued to support the administration in its reform plans, decided that a talk with Willis Enderby might clarify the position and accordingly made an evening appointment with him at his house. Judge Enderby opened proceedings with typical directness of attack.

Politics started to heat up in The Patriot office with the promise of bigger changes ahead. The Laird administration had shown it wanted to redirect city advertising, and Marrineal had responded in the news columns with several minor but effective critiques of the city government's weaknesses. Banneker, who had mostly supported the administration's reform plans, decided that a conversation with Willis Enderby might help clarify things, so he scheduled an evening meeting with him at his home. Judge Enderby began the discussion with his usual straightforward approach.

“When are you going to turn on us, Banneker?”

“When are you going to betray us, Banneker?”

“That’s a cheerful question,” retorted the young man good-humoredly, “considering that it is you people who have gone back on The Patriot.”

“That’s a cheerful question,” the young man replied with a smile, “especially since it’s you guys who have turned your backs on The Patriot.”

“Were any pledges made on our part?” queried Enderby.

“Did we make any promises?” Enderby asked.

Banneker replied with some spirit: “Am I talking with counsel under retainer or with a personal friend?”

Banneker responded with some energy, “Am I speaking to a lawyer or a personal friend?”

“Quite right. I apologize,” said the imperturbable Enderby. “Go on.”

“That's true. I'm sorry,” said the calm Enderby. “Continue.”

“It isn’t the money loss that counts, so much as the slap in the face to the paper. It’s a direct repudiation. You must realize that.”

“It’s not really about losing money; it’s more about the slap in the face to the paper. It’s a clear rejection. You need to understand that.”

“I’m not wholly a novice in politics.”

“I’m not a complete beginner in politics.”

“But I am, practically.”

“But I pretty much am.”

“Not so much that you can’t see what Marrineal would be at.”

“Not so much that you can’t see what Marrineal could become.”

“Mr. Marrineal has not confided in me.”

“Mr. Marrineal hasn’t opened up to me.”

“Nor in me,” stated the lawyer grimly. “I don’t need his confidence to perceive his plans.”

“Not in me,” the lawyer said seriously. “I don’t need his trust to understand his plans.”

“What do you believe them to be?”

“What do you think they are?”

No glimmer of a smile appeared on the visage of Judge Enderby as he countered, “Am I talking with a representative of The Patriot or—”

No hint of a smile showed on Judge Enderby's face as he replied, “Am I speaking with a representative of The Patriot or—”

“All right,” laughed Banneker. “Touché! Assume that Marrineal has political ambitions. Surely that lies within the bounds of propriety.”

“All right,” laughed Banneker. “Touché! Let’s say Marrineal has political ambitions. That’s definitely within the realm of possibility.”

“Depends on how he pushes them. Do you read The Patriot, Banneker?”

“Depends on how he influences them. Have you read The Patriot, Banneker?”

The editor of The Patriot smiled.

“Do you approve its methods in, let us say, the political articles?”

“Do you approve of its methods in, let's say, the political articles?”

“I have no control over the news columns.”

“I can’t control the news articles.”

“Don’t answer my question,” said the lawyer with a fine effect of patience, long-suffering and milky-mild, “if it in any way discommodes you.”

“Don’t answer my question,” said the lawyer with an air of patience, endurance, and gentle calm, “if it bothers you in any way.”

“It all comes to this,” disclosed Banneker. “If the mayor turns on us, we can’t lie down under the whip and we won’t. We’ll hit back.”

“It all comes down to this,” Banneker said. “If the mayor turns against us, we can’t just take it and we won’t. We’ll fight back.”

“Of course.”

"Absolutely."

“Editorially, I mean.”

"From an editorial perspective."

“I understand. At least the editorials will be a direct method of attack, and an honest one. I may assume that much?”

“I get it. At least the editorials will be a straightforward and honest way to address this. Can I take that as a given?”

“Have you ever seen anything in the editorial columns of The Patriot that would lead you to assume otherwise?”

“Have you ever seen anything in the editorial columns of The Patriot that would make you think differently?”

“Answering categorically I would have to say ‘No.’

“Answering directly, I would have to say ‘No.’”

“Answer as you please.”

“Answer as you wish.”

“Then I will say,” observed the other, speaking with marked deliberation, “that on one occasion I have failed to see matter which I thought might logically appear there and the absence of which afforded me food for thought. Do you know Peter McClintick?”

“Then I will say,” the other replied, speaking with noticeable intention, “that once, I didn’t see something I thought would logically be there, and the lack of it gave me something to ponder. Do you know Peter McClintick?”

“Yes. Has he been talking to you about the Veridian killings?”

“Yes. Has he been talking to you about the Veridian murders?”

Enderby nodded. “One could not but contrast your silence on that subject with your eloquence against the Steel Trust persecutions, consisting, if I recall, in putting agitators in jail for six months. Quite wrongly, I concede. But hardly as bad as shooting them down as they sleep, and their families with them.”

Enderby nodded. “You can't help but compare your silence on that topic with your passionate speeches against the Steel Trust's actions, which, if I remember correctly, involved throwing agitators in jail for six months. I agree that's wrong. But it’s not nearly as terrible as shooting them while they sleep, along with their families.”

“Tell me what you would have done in my place, then.” Banneker stated the case of the Veridian Mills strike simply and fairly. “Could I turn the columns of his own paper on Marrineal for what was not even his fault?”

“Tell me what you would have done if you were in my shoes, then.” Banneker presented the situation of the Veridian Mills strike clearly and justly. “Could I really blame Marrineal in my own paper for something that wasn’t even his fault?”

“Impossible. Absurd, as well,” acknowledged the other

“Impossible. Absurd, too,” agreed the other.

“Can you even criticize Marrineal?”

“Can you really criticize Marrineal?”

The jurist reared his gaunt, straight form up from his chair and walked across to the window, peering out into the darkness before he answered with a sort of restrained passion.

The lawyer straightened his thin, upright body from his chair and walked over to the window, looking out into the darkness before he replied with a kind of controlled intensity.

“God o’ mercies, Banneker! Do you ask me to judge other men’s acts, outside the rules of law? Haven’t I enough problems in reconciling my own conscience to conserving the interests of my clients, as I must, in honor, do? No; no! Don’t expect me to judge, in any matter of greater responsibilities. I’m answerable to a small handful of people. You—your Patriot is answerable to a million. Everything you print, everything you withhold, may have incalculable influence on the minds of men. You can corrupt or enlighten them with a word. Think of it! Under such a weight Atlas would be crushed. There was a time long ago—about the time when you were born—when I thought that I might be a journalist; thought it lightly. To-day, knowing what I know, I should be terrified to attempt it for a week, a day! I tell you, Banneker, one who moulds the people’s beliefs ought to have the wisdom of a sage and the inspiration of a prophet and the selflessness of a martyr.”

“God of mercy, Banneker! Are you asking me to judge other people’s actions without the law? Don’t I have enough trouble reconciling my own conscience while looking out for my clients' interests, as I have to honorably do? No; no! Don’t expect me to pass judgment on matters with greater responsibilities. I’m accountable to just a few people. You—your Patriot is accountable to a million. Everything you publish, everything you hold back, can have an immeasurable impact on people's minds. You can either corrupt or enlighten them with a single word. Think about it! Under that kind of pressure, even Atlas would crumble. There was a time long ago—around when you were born—when I thought I might become a journalist; I considered it lightly. Today, knowing what I know, I would be terrified to try it for a week, or even a day! I tell you, Banneker, anyone who shapes public beliefs should have the wisdom of a sage, the inspiration of a prophet, and the selflessness of a martyr.”

A somber depression veiled Banneker. “One must have the sense of authority, too,” he said at length with an effort. “If that is undermined, you lose everything. I’ll fight for that.”

A heavy sadness hung over Banneker. “You have to feel a sense of authority as well,” he finally said with difficulty. “If that goes away, you lose everything. I’ll stand up for that.”

With an abrupt motion his host reached up and drew the window shade, as it might be to shut out a darkness too deep for human penetration.

With a sudden motion, his host pulled down the window shade, as if to block out a darkness too deep for anyone to penetrate.

“What does your public care about whether The Patriot loses the city advertising; or even know about it?”

“What does your audience care if The Patriot loses the city advertising, or even know about it?”

“Not the public. But the other newspapers. They’ll know, and they’ll use it against us.... Enderby, we can beat Bob Laird for reelection.”

“Not the public. But the other newspapers. They’ll find out, and they’ll use it against us.... Enderby, we can win against Bob Laird for reelection.”

“If that’s a threat,” returned the lawyer equably, “it is made to the wrong person. I couldn’t control Laird in this matter if I wanted to. He’s an obstinate young mule—for which Heaven be praised!”

“If that’s a threat,” replied the lawyer calmly, “it’s directed at the wrong person. I couldn’t control Laird in this matter even if I wanted to. He’s a stubborn young mule— for which thank goodness!”

“No; it isn’t a threat. It’s a declaration of war, if you like.”

“No; it isn’t a threat. It’s a declaration of war, if you want to call it that.”

“You think you can beat us? With Marrineal?”

“You really think you can take us on? With Marrineal?”

“Mr. Marrineal isn’t an avowed candidate, is he?” evaded Banneker.

“Mr. Marrineal isn’t a declared candidate, right?” Banneker dodged.

“I fancy that you’ll see some rapidly evolving activity in that quarter.”

“I think you’ll notice some quickly changing action in that area.”

“Is it true that Laird has developed social tendencies, and is using the mayoralty to climb?”

“Is it true that Laird has become more social and is using the mayor's office to get ahead?”

“A silly story of his enemies,” answered Enderby contemptuously. “Just the sort of thing that Marrineal would naturally get hold of and use. In so far as Laird has any social relations, they are and always have been with that element which your society reporters call ‘the most exclusive circles,’ because that is where he belongs by birth and association.”

“A ridiculous story about his enemies,” Enderby replied with disdain. “It's exactly the kind of thing Marrineal would latch onto and exploit. As far as Laird has any social connections, they are, and always have been, with the group your society reporters refer to as ‘the most exclusive circles,’ because that’s where he naturally fits in by birth and association.”

“Russell Edmonds says that social ambition is the only road on which one climbs painfully downhill.”

“Russell Edmonds says that social ambition is the only path where you struggle to go backwards.”

The other paid the tribute of a controlled smile to this. “Edmonds? A Socialist. He has a gnarled mind. Good, hard-grained wood, though. I suppose no man more thoroughly hates and despises what I represent—or what he thinks I represent, the conservative force of moneyed power—than he does. Yet in any question of professional principles, I would trust him far; yes, and of professional perceptions, too, I think; which is more difficult. A crack-brained sage; but wise. Have you talked over the Laird matter with him?”

The other person managed a controlled smile in response. “Edmonds? A Socialist. He has a twisted perspective. Good, solid character, though. I guess no one hates and looks down on what I stand for—or what he believes I stand for, the conservative force of wealthy power—more than he does. Yet in any matter of professional ethics, I would trust him completely; yes, and I think I would also trust him when it comes to professional insights, which is even trickier. A bit of a crazy philosopher; but still wise. Have you discussed the Laird situation with him?”

“Yes. He’s for Laird.”

“Stick to Edmonds, Banneker. You can’t find a better guide.”

“Stick with Edmonds, Banneker. You won’t find a better guide.”

There was desultory talk until the caller got up to go. As they shook hands, Enderby said:

There was some scattered conversation until the caller got up to leave. As they shook hands, Enderby said:

“Has any one been tracking you lately?”

“Has anyone been following you lately?”

“No. Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Nope. Not that I’ve seen.”

“There was a fellow lurking suspiciously outside; heavy-set, dark clothes, soft hat. I thought that he might be watching you.”

“There was a guy hanging around outside, looking suspicious; he was big, wearing dark clothes and a soft hat. I thought he might be watching you.”

For a man of Banneker’s experience of the open, to detect the cleverest of trailing was easy. Although this watcher was sly and careful in his pursuit, which took him all the way to Chelsea Village, his every move was clear to the quarry, until the door of The House With Three Eyes closed upon its owner. Banneker went to bed very uneasy. On whose behoof was he being shadowed? Should he warn Io?... In the morning there was no trace of the man, nor, though Banneker trained every sharpened faculty to watchfulness, did he see him again.... While he was mentally engrossed in wholly alien considerations, the solution materialized out of nothing to his inner vision. It was Willis Enderby who was being watched, and, as a side issue, any caller upon him. That evening a taxi, occupied by a leisurely young man in evening clothes, drove through East 68th Street, where stood the Enderby house, dim, proud, and stiff. The taxi stopped before a mansion not far away, and the young man addressed a heavy-bodied individual who stood, with vacant face uplifted to the high moon, as if about to bay it. Said the young man:

For someone like Banneker, who was experienced in the outdoors, it was easy to spot the cleverest of stalkers. Even though this watcher was sneaky and careful in his pursuit, which took him all the way to Chelsea Village, every move he made was obvious to the person he was following, until the door of The House With Three Eyes shut behind its owner. Banneker went to bed feeling very uneasy. Who was behind the shadowing? Should he alert Io? By morning, there was no sign of the man, and despite Banneker being fully alert, he didn’t see him again. As he was lost in completely different thoughts, the answer suddenly appeared in his mind. It was Willis Enderby who was being watched, and, as a side note, anyone who came to visit him. That evening, a taxi with a relaxed young man in evening attire drove down East 68th Street, where the Enderby house stood, dim, proud, and rigid. The taxi stopped in front of a nearby mansion, and the young man spoke to a heavyset individual who stood there, his vacant face turned up to the bright moon, as if he were about to howl at it. The young man said:

“Mr. Ives wishes you to report to him at once.”

“Mr. Ives wants you to go see him right now.”

“Huh?” ejaculated the other, lowering his gaze.

“Huh?” the other replied, looking down.

“At the usual place,” pursued the young man.

“At the usual place,” the young man continued.

“Oh! Aw-right.”

“Oh! Alright.”

His suspicions fully confirmed, Banneker drove away. It was now Ives’s move, he remarked to himself, smiling. Or perhaps Marrineal’s. He would wait. Within a few days he had his opportunity. Returning to his office after luncheon, he found a penciled note from Ives on his desk, notifying him that Miss Raleigh had called him on the ‘phone.

His suspicions were totally confirmed, so Banneker drove away. It was now Ives’s turn, he thought to himself, smiling. Or maybe Marrineal’s. He would wait. A few days later, he got his chance. When he returned to his office after lunch, he found a handwritten note from Ives on his desk, letting him know that Miss Raleigh had called him on the phone.

Inquiring for the useful Ives, Banneker learned that he was closeted with Marrineal. Such conferences were regarded in the office as inviolable; but Banneker was in uncompromising mood. He entered with no more of preliminary than a knock. After giving his employer good-day he addressed Ives.

Inquiring about the useful Ives, Banneker learned that he was meeting with Marrineal. Such meetings were considered private in the office, but Banneker was in no mood to back down. He stepped in with nothing more than a knock. After greeting his employer, he turned to Ives.

“I found a note from you on my desk.”

“Yes. The message came half an hour ago.”

“Yes. The message arrived half an hour ago.”

“Through the office?”

"Through the office?"

“No. On your ‘phone.”

“No. On your phone.”

“How did you get into my room?”

“The door was open.”

“The door is open.”

Banneker reflected. This was possible, though usually he left his door locked. He decided to accept the explanation. Later he had occasion to revise it.

Banneker thought about it. This could happen, even though he usually kept his door locked. He chose to accept the explanation. Later, he had a reason to rethink it.

“Much obliged. By the way, on whose authority did you put a shadow on Judge Enderby?”

“Thanks a lot. By the way, whose authority allowed you to put a shadow on Judge Enderby?”

“On mine,” interposed Marrineal. “Mr. Ives has full discretion in these matters.”

“On my side,” interjected Marrineal. “Mr. Ives has complete discretion in these matters.”

“But what is the idea?”

“But what's the idea?”

Ives delivered himself of his pet theory. “They’ll all bear watching. It may come in handy some day.”

Ives shared his pet theory. “They’ll all be worth keeping an eye on. It might come in handy someday.”

“What may?”

"What could that be?"

“Anything we can get.”

"Anything we can grab."

“What on earth could any but an insane man expect to get on Enderby?” contemptuously asked Banneker.

“What on earth could anyone but an insane person expect to gain in Enderby?” Banneker asked contemptuously.

Shooting a covert look at his principal, Ives either received or assumed a permission. “Well, there was some kind of an old scandal, you know.”

Shooting a discreet glance at his boss, Ives either got or thought he got permission. “Well, there was some sort of old scandal, you know.”

“Was there?” Banneker’s voice was negligent. “That would be hard to believe.”

“Was there?” Banneker asked, sounding disinterested. “That would be hard to believe.”

“Hard to get hold of in any detail. I’ve dug some of it out through my Searchlight connection. Very useful line, that.”

“It's tough to find detailed information. I've managed to uncover some of it through my Searchlight connection. That line is really useful.”

Ives ventured a direct look at Banneker, but diverted it from the cold stare it encountered.

Ives made a bold attempt to meet Banneker's gaze, but quickly looked away from the icy glare he faced.

“Some woman scrape,” he explicated with an effort at airiness.

“Some women scrape,” he explained, trying to sound casual.

Banneker turned a humiliating back on him. “The Patriot is beginning to get a bad name on Park Row for this sort of thing,” he informed Marrineal.

Banneker turned his back on him in disgust. “The Patriot is starting to gain a bad reputation on Park Row because of this kind of thing,” he told Marrineal.

“This isn’t a Patriot matter. It is private.”

“This isn’t a Patriot issue. It’s personal.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Banneker in disgust. “After all, it doesn’t matter. You’ll have your trouble for your pains,” he prophesied, and returned to phone Betty Raleigh.

“Ugh!” Banneker exclaimed in disgust. “In the end, it doesn’t matter. You’ll just get a headache for your efforts,” he predicted, and went back to call Betty Raleigh.

What had become of Banneker, Betty’s gay and pure-toned voice demanded over the wire. Had he eschewed the theater and all its works for good? Too busy? Was that a reason also for eschewing his friends? He’d never meant to do that? Let him prove it then by coming up to see her.... Yes; at once. Something special to be talked over.

What happened to Banneker, Betty’s cheerful and clear voice asked over the phone. Had he completely given up on the theater and everything related to it? Too busy? Was that also an excuse for avoiding his friends? He’d never intended to do that. So, he should prove it by coming to see her.... Yes; right away. There was something important to discuss.

It was a genuine surprise to Banneker to find that he had not seen the actress for nearly two months. Certainly he had not specially missed her, yet it was keenly pleasurable to be brought into contact again with that restless, vital, outgiving personality. She looked tired and a little dispirited and—for she was of that rare type in which weariness does not dim, but rather qualifies and differentiates its beauty—quite as lovely as he had ever seen her. The query which gave him his clue to her special and immediate interest was:

It genuinely surprised Banneker to realize that he hadn't seen the actress for almost two months. He hadn’t particularly missed her, but it was truly enjoyable to reconnect with her vibrant, outgoing personality. She looked tired and a bit down, and since she belonged to that rare type where weariness enhances rather than dulls her beauty, she was just as lovely as he had ever seen her. The question that gave him insight into her specific and immediate interest was:

“Why is Haslett leaving The Patriot?” Haslett was the Chicago critic transplanted to take Gurney’s place.

“Why is Haslett leaving The Patriot?” Haslett was the Chicago critic brought in to take Gurney’s spot.

“Is he? I didn’t know. You ought not to mourn his loss, Betty.”

“Is he? I didn’t know. You shouldn’t mourn his loss, Betty.”

“But I do. At least, I’m afraid I’m going to. Do you know who the new critic is?”

“But I do. At least, I’m worried I will. Do you know who the new critic is?”

“No. Do you? And how do you? Oh, I suppose I ought to understand that, though,” he added, annoyed that so important a change should have been kept secret from him.

“No. Do you? And how do you? Oh, I guess I should understand that, though,” he added, frustrated that such an important change had been kept a secret from him.

With characteristic directness she replied, “You mean Tertius Marrineal?”

With her usual straightforwardness, she replied, “You mean Tertius Marrineal?”

“Naturally.”

"Of course."

“That’s all off.”

"That’s all canceled."

“Betty! Your engagement to him?”

"Betty! You're engaged to him?"

“So far as there ever was any.”

“Is it really off? Or have you only quarreled?”

“Is it really over? Or have you just had a fight?”

“Oh, no. I can’t imagine myself quarreling with Tertius. He’s too impersonal. For the same reason, and others, I can’t see myself marrying him.”

“Oh, no. I can’t picture myself arguing with Tertius. He’s just too distant. For that reason, and others, I can’t see myself marrying him.”

“But you must have considered it, for a time.”

“But you must have thought about it at some point.”

“Not very profoundly. I don’t want to marry a newspaper. Particularly such a newspaper as The Patriot. For that matter, I don’t want to marry anybody, and I won’t!”

“Not very deeply. I don’t want to marry a newspaper. Particularly not one like The Patriot. Honestly, I don’t want to marry anyone, and I won’t!”

“That being disposed of, what’s the matter with The Patriot? It’s been treating you with distinguished courtesy ever since Marrineal took over charge.”

“Now that we’ve settled that, what’s up with The Patriot? It’s been showing you exceptional courtesy ever since Marrineal took over.”

“It has. That’s part of his newspaperishness.”

“It has. That’s part of his newspaper vibe.”

“From our review of your new play I judge that it was written by the shade of Shakespeare in collaboration with the ghost of Molière, and that your acting in it combines all the genius of Rachel, Kean, Booth, Mrs. Siddons, and the Divine Sarah.”

“From our review of your new play, I believe it was written by the spirit of Shakespeare working alongside the ghost of Molière, and that your performance in it combines all the talent of Rachel, Kean, Booth, Mrs. Siddons, and the Divine Sarah.”

“This is no laughing matter,” she protested. “Have you seen the play?”

"This isn't a joke," she protested. "Have you seen the play?"

“No. I’ll go to-night.”

"No. I'll go tonight."

“Don’t. It’s rotten.”

“Don’t. It’s spoiled.”

“Heavens!” he cried in mock dismay. “What does this mean? Our most brilliant young—”

“Heavens!” he exclaimed in feigned shock. “What does this mean? Our brightest young—”

“And I’m as bad as the play—almost. The part doesn’t fit me. It’s a fool part.”

“And I'm just as bad as the play—almost. The role doesn't suit me. It's a foolish role.”

“Are you quarreling with The Patriot because it has tempered justice with mercy in your case?”

“Are you arguing with The Patriot because it has balanced justice with mercy in your situation?”

“Mercy? With slush. Slathering slush.”

“Mercy? With slush. Covering slush.”

“Come to my aid, Memory! Was it not a certain Miss Raleigh who aforetime denounced the ruffian Gurney for that he vented his wit upon a play in which she appeared. And now, because—”

“Come help me out, Memory! Wasn’t it a certain Miss Raleigh who previously criticized the jerk Gurney for mocking a play she was in? And now, because—”

“Yes; it was. I’ve no use for the smart-aleck school of criticism. But, at least, what Gurney wrote was his own. And Haslett, even if he is an old grouch, was honest. You couldn’t buy their opinions over the counter.”

“Yes; it was. I have no patience for the snarky type of criticism. But at least what Gurney wrote was genuinely his. And Haslett, even if he is kind of a grump, was honest. You couldn’t buy their opinions off the shelf.”

Banneker frowned. “I think you’d better explain, Betty.”

Banneker frowned. “I think you should explain, Betty.”

“Do you know Gene Zucker?”

"Do you know Gene Zucker?"

“Never heard of him.”

"Never heard of him."

“He’s a worm. A fat, wiggly, soft worm from Boston. But he’s got an idea.”

“He’s a loser. A chubby, squirmy, soft loser from Boston. But he’s got an idea.”

“And that is?”

"And what's that?"

“I’ll tell you in a moment.” She leaned forward fixing him with the honest clarity of her eyes. “Ban, if I tell you that I’m really devoted to my art, that I believe in it as—as a mission, that the theater is as big a thing to me as The Patriot is to you, you won’t think me an affected little prig, will you?”

“I’ll tell you in a second.” She leaned in, looking at him with the sincerity of her eyes. “Ban, if I say that I’m truly dedicated to my art, that I see it as a mission, that the theater means as much to me as The Patriot does to you, you won’t think I’m just some pretentious little snob, right?”

“Of course not, Betty. I know you.”

"Of course not, Betty. I know you."

“Yes. I think you do. But you don’t know your own paper. Zucker’s big idea, which he sold to Tertius Marrineal together with his precious self, is that the dramatic critic should be the same identical person as the assistant advertising manager in charge of theater advertising, and that Zucker should be both.”

“Yeah. I think you do. But you don’t understand your own work. Zucker’s big idea, which he pitched to Tertius Marrineal along with his valuable self, is that the drama critic should also be the same person as the assistant advertising manager responsible for theater ads, and that Zucker should handle both roles.”

“Hell!” snapped Banneker. “I beg your pardon, Betty.”

“Damn it!” snapped Banneker. “I’m sorry, Betty.”

“Don’t. I quite agree with you. Isn’t it complete and perfect? Zucker gets his percentage of the advertising revenue which he brings in from the theaters. Therefore, will he be kind to those attractions which advertise liberally? And less kind to those which fail to appreciate The Patriot as a medium? I know that he will! Pay your dollar and get your puff. Dramatic criticism strictly up to date.”

“Don’t. I totally agree with you. Isn’t it completely perfect? Zucker takes his cut from the advertising revenue he brings in from the theaters. So, will he be supportive of the attractions that advertise generously? And less supportive of those that don’t recognize The Patriot as a platform? I know he will! Pay your dollar and get your hype. Dramatic criticism brought right up to date.”

Banneker looked at her searchingly. “Is that why you broke with Marrineal, Betty?”

Banneker looked at her intently. “Is that why you ended things with Marrineal, Betty?”

“Not exactly. No. This Zucker deal came afterward. But I think I had begun to see what sort of principles Tertius represented. You and I aren’t children, Ban: I can talk straight talk to you. Well, there’s prostitution on the stage, of course. Not so much of it as outsiders think, but more than enough. I’ve kept myself free of any contact with it. That being so, I’m certainly not going to associate myself with that sort of thing in another field. Ban, I’ve made the management refuse Zucker admittance to the theater. And he gave the play a wonderful send-off, as you know. Of course, Tertius would have him do that.”

“Not really. No. This Zucker deal happened later. But I think I started to understand what kind of principles Tertius stands for. You and I aren’t kids, Ban: I can speak honestly with you. Well, there’s some level of exploitation on stage, of course. Not as much as outsiders believe, but definitely more than enough. I've managed to stay away from it. With that in mind, I’m certainly not going to get involved with that kind of thing in another area. Ban, I had the management ban Zucker from the theater. And he gave the play an amazing launch, as you know. Naturally, Tertius would have had him do that.”

Rising, Banneker walked over and soberly shook the girl’s hand. “Betty, you’re a fine and straight and big little person. I’m proud to know you. And I’m ashamed of myself that I can do nothing. Not now, anyway. Later, perhaps....”

Rising, Banneker walked over and seriously shook the girl’s hand. “Betty, you’re a wonderful and honest and strong young person. I’m proud to know you. And I’m ashamed that I can’t do anything. Not right now, anyway. Maybe later....”

“No, I suppose you can’t,” she said listlessly. “But you’ll be interested in seeing how the Zucker system works out; a half-page ad. in the Sunday edition gets a special signed and illustrated feature article, a quarter-page only a column of ordinary press stuff. A full page—I don’t know what he’ll offer for that. An editorial by E.B. perhaps.”

“No, I guess you can’t,” she said without enthusiasm. “But you’ll want to see how the Zucker system turns out; a half-page ad in the Sunday edition gets a special signed and illustrated feature article, a quarter-page only gets a column of standard press material. A full page—I’m not sure what he’ll offer for that. Maybe an editorial by E.B.”

“Betty!”

"Betty!"

“Forgive me, Ban. I’m sick at heart over it all. Of course, I know you wouldn’t.”

“Forgive me, Ban. I'm really upset about everything. Of course, I know you wouldn't.”

Going back in his car, Banneker reflected with profound distaste that the plan upon which he was hired was not essentially different from the Zucker scheme, in Marrineal’s intent. He, too, was—if Marrineal’s idea worked out—to draw down a percentage varying in direct ratio to his suppleness in accommodating his writings to “the best interests of the paper.” He swore that he would see The Patriot and its proprietor eternally damned before he would again alter jot or tittle of his editorial expression with reference to any future benefit.

As he drove back, Banneker thought with deep disgust that the plan he was hired for was not really different from the Zucker scheme, in Marrineal’s purpose. He, too, was—if Marrineal's idea panned out—going to earn a percentage that would depend directly on how well he adjusted his writing to “the best interests of the paper.” He vowed that he would see The Patriot and its owner forever cursed before he would change even a single word of his editorial stance for any future gain.

It did not take long for Mr. Zucker to manifest his presence to Banneker through a line asking for an interview, written in a neat, small hand upon a card reading:

It didn't take long for Mr. Zucker to get in touch with Banneker through a note requesting an interview, written in a neat, small handwriting on a card that said:

The Patriot—Special Theatrical Features E. Zucker, Representative.

Mr. Zucker, being sent for, materialized as a buoyant little person, richly ornamented with his own initials in such carefully chosen locations as his belt-buckle, his cane, and his cigarettes. He was, he explained, injecting some new and profitable novelties into the department of dramatic criticism.

Mr. Zucker, being called for, appeared as a cheerful little man, adorned with his initials in carefully selected spots like his belt buckle, his cane, and his cigarettes. He explained that he was bringing some fresh and profitable ideas into the field of dramatic criticism.

“Just a moment,” quoth Banneker. “I thought that Allan Haslett had come on from Chicago to be our dramatic critic.”

“Just a moment,” said Banneker. “I thought that Allan Haslett had come from Chicago to be our drama critic.”

“Oh, he and the business office didn’t hit it off very well,” said little Zucker carelessly.

“Oh, he and the business office didn’t get along too well,” said little Zucker casually.

“Oh! And do you hit it off pretty well with the business office?”

“Oh! And do you get along pretty well with the business office?”

“Naturally. It was Mr. Haring brought me on here; I’m a special departmental manager in the advertising department.”

“Of course. It was Mr. Haring who brought me in here; I'm a special departmental manager in the advertising department.”

“Your card would hardly give the impression. It suggests the news rather than the advertising side.”

“Your card hardly makes an impression. It leans more towards conveying information than promoting anything.”

“I’m both,” stated Mr. Zucker, brightly beaming. “I handle the criticism and the feature stuff on salary, and solicit the advertising, on a percentage. It works out fine.”

“I’m both,” Mr. Zucker said, smiling brightly. “I manage the criticism and the feature stuff on a salary, and bring in the advertising on a commission. It all works out great.”

“So one might suppose.” Banneker looked at him hard. “The idea being, if I get it correctly, that a manager who gives you a good, big line of advertising can rely on considerate treatment in the dramatic column of The Patriot.”

“So one might think.” Banneker stared at him intently. “The idea being, if I understand it right, that a manager who gives you a solid, extensive advertisement can expect fair coverage in the dramatic section of The Patriot.”

“Well, there’s no bargain to that effect. That wouldn’t be classy for a big paper like ours,” replied the high-if somewhat naïve-minded Mr. Zucker. “Of course, the managers understand that one good turn deserves another, and I ain’t the man to roast a friend that helps me out. I started the scheme in Boston and doubled the theater revenue of my paper there in a year.”

“Well, there’s no deal like that. That wouldn’t be classy for a major publication like ours,” replied the somewhat naïve Mr. Zucker. “Of course, the managers know that one good deed deserves another, and I’m not the type to betray a friend who helps me. I started the plan in Boston and doubled my paper’s theater revenue there in a year.”

“I’m immensely interested,” confessed Banneker. “But what is your idea in coming to me about this?”

“I’m really interested,” Banneker admitted. “But what’s your reason for coming to me about this?”

“Big stuff, Mr. Banneker,” answered the earnest Zucker. He laid a jeweled hand upon the other’s knee, and removed it because some vestige of self-protective instinct warned him that that was not the proper place for it. “You may have noticed that we’ve been running a lot of special theater stuff in the Sunday.” Banneker nodded. “That’s all per schedule, as worked out by me. An eighth of a page ad. gets an article. A quarter page ad. gets a signed special by me. Haffa page wins a grand little send-off by Bess Breezely with her own illustrations. Now, I’m figuring on full pages. If I could go to a manager and say: ‘Gimme a full-page ad. for next Sunday and I’ll see if I can’t get Mr. Banneker to do an editorial on the show’—if I could say that, why, nothin’ to it! Nothin’ at-tall! Of course,” he added ruminatively, “I’d have to pick the shows pretty careful.”

“Big stuff, Mr. Banneker,” replied the sincere Zucker. He placed a jeweled hand on the other’s knee but quickly removed it because some instinct warned him that it wasn’t the right place for it. “You may have noticed that we’ve been running a lot of special theater features on Sundays.” Banneker nodded. “That’s all part of the plan I developed. An eighth-page ad gets an article. A quarter-page ad gets a special signed by me. Half a page gets a nice little feature from Bess Breezely, complete with her own illustrations. Now, I’m thinking about going for full pages. If I could go to a manager and say, ‘Give me a full-page ad for next Sunday and I’ll see if I can get Mr. Banneker to write an editorial about the show’—if I could do that, then it’d be easy! No problem at all! Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “I’d have to be pretty careful about which shows to pick.”

“Perhaps you’d like to write the editorials, too,” suggested Banneker with baleful mildness.

“Maybe you’d want to write the editorials as well,” suggested Banneker with a serious kindness.

“I thought of that,” admitted the other. “But I don’t know as I could get the swing of your style. You certainly got a style, Mr. Banneker.”

“I thought about that,” the other person admitted. “But I’m not sure I could get the hang of your style. You definitely have a style, Mr. Banneker.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, what do you say?”

"Well, what do you think?"

“Why, this. I’ll look over next Sunday’s advertising, particularly the large ads., and if there is a good subject in any of the shows, I’ll try to do something about it.”

“Here’s the plan. I’ll check out next Sunday’s ads, especially the big ones, and if there’s an interesting topic in any of the shows, I’ll see what I can do about it.”

“Fine!” enthused the unsuspecting pioneer of business-dramatic criticism. “It’s a pleasure to work with a gentleman like you, Mr. Banneker.”

“Great!” exclaimed the unsuspecting trailblazer of business-drama criticism. “It’s a pleasure to work with a gentleman like you, Mr. Banneker.”

Withdrawing, even more pleased with himself than was his wont, Mr. Zucker confided to Haring that the latter was totally mistaken in attributing a stand-offish attitude to Banneker. Why, you couldn’t ask for a more reasonable man. Saw the point at once.

Withdrawing, even more impressed with himself than usual, Mr. Zucker told Haring that he was completely wrong in thinking Banneker was standoffish. Honestly, you couldn’t ask for a more reasonable guy. He got the point right away.

“Don’t you go making any fool promises on the strength of what Banneker said to you,” commented Haring.

“Don’t go making any foolish promises just because of what Banneker told you,” Haring remarked.

With malign relish, Banneker looked up in the Sunday advertising the leading theater display, went to the musical comedy there exploited, and presently devoted a column to giving it a terrific and only half-merited slashing for vapid and gratuitous indecency. The play, which had been going none too well, straightway sold out a fortnight in advance, thereby attesting the power of the press as well as the appeal of pruriency to an eager and jaded public. Zucker left a note on the editorial desk warmly thanking his confrère for this evidence of coöperation.

With malicious glee, Banneker checked the Sunday advertisements for the main theater showcase, attended the musical comedy being promoted there, and quickly wrote a column delivering a scathing review that was only half-deserved for being dull and unnecessarily indecent. The play, which hadn’t been doing well, immediately sold out two weeks in advance, proving both the power of the press and the allure of scandal to an eager yet weary audience. Zucker left a note on the editorial desk, expressing his gratitude to his colleague for this show of collaboration.

Life was practicing its lesser ironies upon Banneker whilst maturing its greater ones.

Life was playing its minor ironies on Banneker while developing its major ones.

CHAPTER XIII

In the regular course of political events, Laird was renominated on a fusion ticket. Thereupon the old ring, which had so long battened on the corruption or local government, put up a sleek and presentable figurehead. Marrineal nominated himself amidst the Homeric laughter of the professional politicians. How’s he goin’ to get anywhere, they demanded with great relish of the joke, when he ain’t got any organization at-tall! Presently the savor oozed out of that joke. Marrineal, it appeared, did have an organization, of sorts; worse, he had gathered to him, by methods not peculiarly his own, the support of the lesser East-Side foreign language press, which may or may not have believed in his protestations of fealty to the Common People, but certainly did appreciate the liberality of his political advertising appropriation, advertising, in this sense, to be accorded its freest interpretation. Worst of all, he had Banneker.

In the usual course of political events, Laird was renominated on a combined ticket. Then, the old group, which had long thrived on the corruption of local government, put up a polished and presentable figurehead. Marrineal nominated himself amidst the booming laughter of the professional politicians. “How’s he going to get anywhere?” they asked with great amusement at the joke when he didn’t have any organization at all! Soon, the humor faded. It turned out that Marrineal did have some sort of organization; worse, he had managed to secure the support of the smaller East-Side foreign-language press, which may or may not have believed in his claims of loyalty to the Common People, but definitely appreciated the generosity of his political advertising budget—advertising here being interpreted in the broadest sense. Most troubling of all, he had Banneker.

Banneker’s editorials, not upon Marrineal himself (for he was too shrewd for that), but upon the cause of which Marrineal was standard-bearer, were persuasive, ingenious, forceful, and, to the average mind, convincing. Was Banneker himself convinced? It was a question which he resolutely refused to follow to its logical conclusion. Of the justice of the creed which The Patriot upheld, he was perfectly confident. But did Marrineal represent that creed? Did he represent anything but Marrineal? Stifling his misgivings, Banneker flung himself the more determinedly into the fight. It became apparent that he was going to swing an important fraction of the labor vote, despite the opposition of such clear-eyed leaders as McClintick. To this extent he menaced the old ring rather than the forces of reform, led by Laird and managed by Enderby. On the other hand, he was drawing from Laird, in so far as he still influenced the voters who had followed The Patriot in its original support of the reform movement. That Marrineal could not be elected, both of his opponents firmly believed; and in this belief, notwithstanding his claims of forthcoming victory, the independent candidate privately concurred. It would be enough, for the time, to defeat decisively whichever rival he turned his heaviest guns upon in the final onset; that would insure his future political prestige. Thus far, in his speeches, he had hit out impartially at both sides, denouncing the old ring for its corruption, girding at Laird as a fake reformer secretly committed to Wall Street through Judge Enderby, corporation lawyer, as intermediary.

Banneker’s editorials focused not on Marrineal himself (he was too clever for that), but rather on the cause that Marrineal was championing. They were persuasive, clever, powerful, and, to the average person, convincing. Was Banneker himself convinced? It’s a question he stubbornly refused to consider fully. He was completely confident in the justice of the beliefs upheld by The Patriot. But did Marrineal truly represent those beliefs? Did he represent anything other than himself? Suppressing his doubts, Banneker threw himself even more determinedly into the fight. It became clear that he was going to sway a significant portion of the labor vote, despite the opposition from clear-sighted leaders like McClintick. In this way, he posed a threat to the old guard rather than to the reform forces led by Laird and managed by Enderby. At the same time, he was pulling support from Laird, at least among those voters who still remembered The Patriot’s initial support for the reform movement. Both of Marrineal’s opponents firmly believed he could not be elected; even the independent candidate privately agreed with this, despite his claims of an impending victory. For now, it would be enough to decisively defeat whichever rival he focused his strongest attacks on in the final push; that would secure his future political influence. So far, in his speeches, he had criticized both sides equally, condemning the old guard for its corruption and attacking Laird as a fake reformer secretly tied to Wall Street through Judge Enderby, a corporate lawyer acting as an intermediary.

Herein Banneker had refrained from following him. Ever the cat at the hole’s mouth, the patient lurker, the hopeful waiter upon the event, the proprietor of The Patriot forbore to press his editorial chief. He still mistrusted the strength of his hold upon Banneker; feared a defiance when he could ill afford to meet it. What he most hoped was some development which would turn Banneker’s heavy guns upon Laird so that, with the defeat of the fusion ticket candidate, the public would say, “The Patriot made him and The Patriot broke him.”

Here, Banneker held back from following him. Always the cautious observer, the patient lurker, the hopeful person waiting for something to happen, the owner of The Patriot refrained from pushing his editorial boss. He still doubted how much control he really had over Banneker; he worried about a rebellion that he could hardly afford to face. What he mostly hoped for was some event that would turn Banneker’s powerful arguments against Laird so that, with the downfall of the candidate from the fusion ticket, the public would say, “The Patriot made him and The Patriot broke him.”

Laird played into Marrineal’s hands. Indignant at what he regarded as a desertion of principles by The Patriot, the fusion nominee, in one of his most important addresses, devoted a stinging ten minutes to a consideration of that paper, its proprietor, and its editorial writer, in its chosen role of “friend of labor.” His text was the Veridian strike, his information the version which McClintick furnished him; he cited Banneker by name, and challenged him as a prostituted mind and a corrupted pen. Though Laird had spoken as he honestly believed, he did not have the whole story; McClintick, in his account, had ignored the important fact that Marrineal, upon being informed of conditions, had actually (no matter what his motive) remedied them. Banneker, believing that Laird was fully apprised, as he knew Enderby to be, was outraged. This alleged reformer, this purist in politics, this apostle of honor and truth, was holding him up to contumely, through half-truths, for a course which any decent man must, in conscience, have followed. He composed a seething editorial, tore it up, substituted another wherein he made reply to the charges, in a spirit of ingenuity rather than ingenuousness, for The Patriot case, while sound, was one which could not well be thrown open to The Patriot’s public; and planned vengeance when the time should come.

Laird played right into Marrineal’s hands. Upset by what he saw as a betrayal of principles by The Patriot, the fusion nominee took ten minutes in one of his key speeches to criticize that publication, its owner, and its editorial writer, who claimed to be a “friend of labor.” He focused on the Veridian strike, using information provided by McClintick; he even named Banneker and accused him of being a corrupted thinker and a compromised writer. Although Laird spoke from his honest beliefs, he didn’t have the full story; McClintick had left out the crucial detail that Marrineal, once he learned about the situation, actually did (regardless of his motives) fix it. Banneker, believing Laird was fully informed, as he knew Enderby to be, was furious. This so-called reformer, this political purist, this champion of honor and truth, was publicly shaming him with half-truths for a decision that any decent person would have made in good conscience. He wrote a furious editorial, ripped it up, then created another where he responded to the accusations with cleverness rather than honesty, because while The Patriot’s case was solid, it couldn’t be fully aired to the publication’s audience; he also plotted his revenge for when the right moment arrived.

Io, on a brief trip from Philadelphia, lunched with him that week, and found him distrait.

Io, on a quick trip from Philadelphia, had lunch with him that week and found him distracted.

“It’s only politics,” he said. “You’re not interested in politics,” and, as usual, “Let’s talk about you.”

“It’s just politics,” he said. “You don’t care about politics,” and, as usual, “Let’s talk about you.”

She gave him that look which was like a smile deep in the shadows of her eyes. “Ban, do you know the famous saying of Terence?”

She gave him that look that was like a smile hidden in the shadows of her eyes. “Ban, do you know the famous saying by Terence?”

He quoted the “Homo sum.” “That one?” he asked.

He quoted, “Homo sum.” “That one?” he asked.

She nodded. “Now, hear my version: ‘I am a woman; nothing that touches my man is alien to my interests.’”

She nodded. “Now, listen to my side: ‘I’m a woman; anything that affects my man is important to me.’”

He laughed. But there was a note of gratitude in his voice, almost humble, as he said: “You’re the only woman in the world, Io, who can quote the classics and not seem a prig.”

He laughed. But there was a hint of gratitude in his voice, almost humble, as he said: “You’re the only woman in the world, Io, who can quote the classics and not come off as a snob.”

“That’s because I’m beautiful,” she retorted impudently. “Tell me I’m beautiful, Ban!”

“That’s because I’m beautiful,” she replied sassily. “Tell me I’m beautiful, Ban!”

“You’re the loveliest witch in the world,” he cried.

“You’re the most beautiful witch in the world,” he exclaimed.

“So much for flattery. Now—politics.”

“So much for compliments. Now—politics.”

He recounted the Laird charges.

He recounted the Laird fees.

“No; that wasn’t fair,” she agreed. “It was most unfair. But I don’t believe Bob Laird knew the whole story. Did you ask him?”

“No; that wasn’t fair,” she agreed. “It was really unfair. But I don’t think Bob Laird knew the whole story. Did you ask him?”

“Ask him? I certainly did not. You don’t understand much about politics, dearest.”

“Ask him? I definitely did not. You don’t know much about politics, darling.”

“I was thinking of it from the point of view of the newspaper. If you’re going to answer him in The Patriot, I should think you’d want to know just what his basis was. Besides, if he’s wrong, I believe he’d take it back.”

“I was considering it from the newspaper's perspective. If you're going to respond to him in The Patriot, I think you'd want to understand exactly what his reasoning was. Besides, if he's mistaken, I'm sure he'd retract it.”

“After all the damage has been done. He won’t get the chance.” Banneker’s jaw set firm.

“After all the damage has been done, he won’t get the chance.” Banneker clenched his jaw tightly.

“What shall you do now?”

“What will you do now?”

“Wait my chance, load my pen, and shoot to kill.”

“Wait for my opportunity, grab my pen, and go for the win.”

“Let me see the editorial before you print it.”

“Let me see the article before you publish it.”

“All right, Miss Meddlesome. But you won’t let your ideas of fair play run away with you and betray me to the enemy? You’re a Laird man, aren’t you?”

“All right, Miss Meddlesome. But you won’t let your ideas of fair play lead you to betray me to the enemy, will you? You’re on my side, right?”

Her voice fell to a caressing half-note. “I’m a Banneker woman—in everything. Won’t you ever remember that?”

Her voice softened to a gentle tone. “I’m a Banneker woman—in every way. Won’t you ever remember that?”

“No. You’ll never be that. You’ll always be Io; yourself; remote and unattainable in the deeper sense.”

“No. You’ll never be that. You’ll always be Io; yourself; distant and unreachable in the more profound sense.”

“Do you say that?” she answered.

“Do you say that?” she replied.

“Oh, don’t think that I complain. You’ve made life a living glory for me. Yet”—his face grew wistful—“I suppose—I don’t know how to say it—I’m like the shepherd in the poem,

“Oh, don’t think that I’m complaining. You’ve made life a living joy for me. Yet”—his expression turned nostalgic—“I guess—I’m not sure how to put it—I’m like the shepherd in the poem,

Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade.’

'Still holding on to the unbreakable hope, Still grasping the untouchable shade.'

Io, why do I always think in poetry, when I’m with you?”

"Io, why do I always think in poems when I'm with you?"

“I want you always to,” she said, which was a more than sufficient answer.

“I want you to always,” she said, which was more than enough of an answer.

Io had been back in Philadelphia several days, and had ‘phoned Banneker that she was coming over on the following Tuesday, when, having worked at the office until early evening, he ran around the corner to Katie’s for dinner. At the big table “Bunny” Fitch of The Record was holding forth.

Io had been back in Philadelphia for a few days and had called Banneker to let him know she was coming over the next Tuesday. After working at the office until early evening, he went around the corner to Katie’s for dinner. At the big table, “Bunny” Fitch from The Record was talking animatedly.

Fitch was that invaluable type of the political hack-writer, a lackey of the mind, instinctively subservient to his paper’s slightest opinion, hating what it hates, loving what it loves, with the servile adherence of a medieval churchman. As The Record was bitter upon reform, its proprietor having been sadly disillusioned in youth by a lofty but abortive experiment in perfecting human nature from which he never recovered, Bunny lost no opportunity to damn all reformers.

Fitch was that invaluable type of political hack-writer, a lackey of the mind, instinctively obedient to his paper’s every opinion, hating what it hates, loving what it loves, with the servile loyalty of a medieval churchman. Since The Record was harsh on reform, its owner having been sadly disillusioned in youth by an idealistic yet failed attempt to perfect human nature from which he never recovered, Bunny seized every chance to criticize all reformers.

“Can’t you imagine the dirty little snob,” he was saying, as Banneker entered, “creeping and fawning and cringing for their favors? Up for membership at The Retreat. Dines with Poultney Masters, Jr., at his club. Can’t you hear him running home to wifie all het up and puffed like a toad, and telling her about it?”

“Can’t you just picture that stuck-up snob,” he said as Banneker walked in, “sneaking around, trying to kiss up to them for their approval? He’s trying to join The Retreat. He has dinner with Poultney Masters, Jr., at his club. Can’t you just hear him rushing home to his wife all worked up and puffed up like a toad, bragging about it?”

“Who’s all this, Bunny?” inquired Banneker, who had taken in only the last few words.

“Who’s all this, Bunny?” asked Banneker, who had only caught the last few words.

“Our best little society climber, the Honorable Robert Laird,” returned the speaker, and reverted to his inspirational pen-picture: “Runs home to wifie and crows, ‘What do you think, my dear! Junior Masters called me ‘Bob’ to-day!”

"Our favorite little social climber, the Honorable Robert Laird," replied the speaker and went back to his motivational description: "He rushes home to his wife and brags, 'Guess what, my dear! The Junior Masters called me 'Bob' today!'"

In a flash, the murderous quality of the thing bit into Banneker’s sensitive brain. “Junior Masters called me ‘Bob’ to-day.” The apotheosis of snobbery! Swift and sure poison for the enemy if properly compounded with printer’s ink. How pat it fitted in with the carefully fostered conception, insisted upon in every speech by Marrineal, of the mayor as a Wall Street and Fifth Avenue tool and toady!

In an instant, the violent nature of the situation struck Banneker’s sensitive mind. “Junior Masters called me ‘Bob’ today.” The peak of snobbery! A quick and effective poison for the adversary if mixed well with printer’s ink. How perfectly it aligned with the carefully nurtured idea, emphasized in every speech by Marrineal, of the mayor as a pawn and sycophant of Wall Street and Fifth Avenue!

But what exactly had Bunny Fitch said? Was he actually quoting Laird? If so, direct or from hearsay? Or was he merely paraphrasing or perhaps only characterizing? There was a dim ring in Banneker’s cerebral ear of previous words, half taken in, which would indicate the latter—and ruin the deadly plan, strike the poison-dose from his hand. Should he ask Fitch? Pin him down to the details?

But what exactly did Bunny Fitch say? Was he really quoting Laird? If so, was it direct or secondhand? Or was he just paraphrasing or maybe just giving a description? Banneker had a faint memory of past words, partially remembered, that suggested the latter—and could derail the deadly plan, knocking the poison from his hand. Should he confront Fitch? Press him for the details?

The character-sketcher was now upon the subject of Judge Enderby. “Sly old wolf! Wants to be senator one of these days. Or maybe governor. A receptive’ candidate! Wah! Pulls every wire he can lay hand on, and then waits for the honor to be forced upon him.... Good Lord! It’s eight o’clock. I’m late.”

The character-sketcher was now discussing Judge Enderby. “Sneaky old wolf! He wants to be a senator someday. Or maybe governor. A ‘receptive’ candidate! Ugh! He pulls every string he can get his hands on, and then just waits for the honor to be handed to him... Good Lord! It’s eight o’clock. I’m late.”

Dropping a bill on the table he hurried out. Half-minded to stop him, Banneker took a second thought. Why should he? His statement had been definite. Anyway, he could be called up on the morrow. Dining hastily and in deep, period-building thought, Banneker returned to the office, locked himself in, and with his own hand drafted the editorial built on that phrase of petty and terrific import: “Junior Masters called me Bob’ to-day.”

Dropping a bill on the table, he rushed out. With a fleeting thought of stopping him, Banneker reconsidered. Why should he? His statement had been clear. Besides, he could be summoned the next day. After eating quickly and lost in deep, productive thought, Banneker returned to the office, locked himself in, and with his own hand wrote the editorial based on that phrase of both minor and major significance: “Junior Masters called me ‘Bob’ today.”

After it was written he would not for the world have called up Fitch to verify the central fact. He couldn’t risk it. He scheduled the broadside for the second morning following.... But there was Io! He had promised. Well, he was to meet her at a dinner party at the Forbes’s. She could see it then, if she hadn’t forgotten.... No; that, too, was a subterfuge hope. Io never forgot.

After it was written, he definitely wouldn’t have called Fitch to check the main fact for anything. He couldn’t take that chance. He planned to release the article on the second morning after.... But there was Io! He had made a promise. Well, he was going to meet her at a dinner party at the Forbes’s. She could see it then, if she hadn't forgotten.... No; that was just a false hope. Io never forgot.

As if to assure the resumption of their debate, the talk of the Forbes dinner table turned to the mayoralty fight. Shrewd judges of events and tendencies were there; Thatcher Forbes, himself, not the least of them; it was the express opinion that Laird stood a very good chance of victory.

As if to guarantee they would continue their debate, the conversation at the Forbes dinner table shifted to the mayoral race. There were some sharp observers of events and trends present; Thatcher Forbes himself was among them; they all clearly believed that Laird had a strong chance of winning.

“Unless they can definitely pin the Wall Street label on him,” suggested some one.

“Unless they can definitely label him as part of Wall Street,” suggested someone.

“That might beat him; it’s the only thing that could,” another opined.

“That's probably the only thing that could beat him,” another person said.

Hugging his withering phrase to his heart, Banneker felt a growing exultation.

Hugging his fading words to his heart, Banneker felt a rising sense of joy.

“Nobody but The Patriot—” began Mrs. Forbes contemptuously, when she abruptly recalled who was at her table. “The newspapers are doing their worst, but I think they won’t make people believe much of it,” she amended.

“Nobody but The Patriot—” started Mrs. Forbes, rolling her eyes, when she suddenly remembered who was at her table. “The newspapers are at it again, but I don’t think they’ll convince people of much,” she corrected.

“Is Laird really the Wall Street candidate?” inquired Esther Forbes.

“Is Laird really the Wall Street candidate?” asked Esther Forbes.

Parley Welland, Io’s cousin, himself an amateur politician, answered her: “He is or he isn’t, according as you look at it. Masters and his crowd are mildly for him, because they haven’t any objection to a decent, straight city government, at present. Sometimes they have.”

Parley Welland, Io’s cousin and an amateur politician, replied to her: “He is or he isn’t, depending on how you see it. Masters and his group are somewhat in favor of him because they don’t mind a decent, straightforward city government right now. Sometimes they do.”

“On that principle, Horace Vanney must have,” remarked Jim Maitland. “He’s fighting Laird, tooth and nail, and certainly he represents one phase of Wall Street activity.”

“Based on that principle, Horace Vanney must have,” said Jim Maitland. “He’s battling Laird fiercely, and he definitely represents one aspect of Wall Street activity.”

“My revered uncle,” drawled Herbert Cressey, “considers that the present administration is too tender of the working-man—or, rather, working-woman—when she strikes. Don’t let ’em strike; or, if they do strike, have the police bat ’em on the head.”

“My respected uncle,” drawled Herbert Cressey, “believes that the current administration is too soft on the working man—or, more accurately, the working woman—when she goes on strike. Don’t allow them to strike; or, if they do strike, have the police hit them on the head.”

“What’s this administration got to do with Vanney’s mills? I thought they were in Jersey,” another diner asked.

“What does this administration have to do with Vanney’s mills? I thought they were in Jersey,” another diner asked.

“So they are, the main ones. But he’s backing some of the local clothing manufacturers, the sweat-shop lot. They’ve been having strikes. That interferes with profits. Uncle wants the good old days of the night-stick and the hurry-up wagon back. He’s even willing to spend a little money on the good cause.”

“So they are, the main ones. But he’s supporting some of the local clothing manufacturers, the sweatshop guys. They’ve been having strikes. That’s messing with profits. Uncle wants the good old days of the nightstick and the paddy wagon back. He’s even willing to spend a little money on the right cause.”

Io, seated on Banneker’s left, turned to him. “Is that true, Ban?”

Io, sitting to Banneker’s left, turned to him. “Is that real, Ban?”

“I’ve heard rumors to that effect,” he replied evasively.

“I’ve heard rumors about that,” he replied vaguely.

“Won’t it put The Patriot in a queer position, to be making common cause with an enemy of labor?”

“Won’t it put The Patriot in a weird position to be teaming up with an enemy of workers?”

“It isn’t a question of Horace Vanney, at all,” he declared. “He’s just an incident.”

“It’s not about Horace Vanney at all,” he declared. “He’s just an incident.”

“When are you going to write your Laird editorial?”

“All written. I’ve got a proof in my pocket.”

“All written. I have a proof in my pocket.”

She made as if to hold out her hand; but withdrew it. “After dinner,” she said. “The little enclosed porch off the conservatory.”

She reached out her hand, but then pulled it back. “After dinner,” she said. “The small enclosed porch next to the conservatory.”

Amused and confirmatory glances followed them as they withdrew together. But there was no ill-natured commentary. So habituated was their own special set to the status between them that it was accepted with tolerance, even with the good-humored approval with which human nature regards a logical inter-attraction.

Amused and confirming looks followed them as they left together. But there was no negative talk. Their own group was so used to the relationship between them that it was accepted with tolerance, even with the good-natured approval that people generally have for a natural attraction.

“Are you sure that you want to plunge into politics, Io?” Banneker asked, looking down at her as she seated herself in the cushioned chaise longue.

“Are you sure you want to dive into politics, Io?” Banneker asked, looking down at her as she settled into the cushioned chaise longue.

Her mouth smiled assent, but her eyes were intent and serious. He dropped the proof into her lap, bending over and kissing her lips as he did so. For a moment her fingers interlaced over his neck.

Her mouth smiled in agreement, but her eyes were focused and serious. He dropped the proof into her lap, leaning over and kissing her lips as he did. For a moment, her fingers intertwined around his neck.

“I’ll understand it,” she breathed, interpreting into his caress a quality of pleading.

“I’ll get it,” she breathed, sensing a hint of urgency in his touch.

Before she had read halfway down the column, she raised to him a startled face. “Are you sure, Ban?” she interrogated.

Before she had read halfway down the column, she looked up at him with a shocked expression. “Are you sure, Ban?” she asked.

“Read the rest,” he suggested.

“Check out the rest,” he suggested.

She complied. “What a terrible power little things have,” she sighed. “That would make me despise Laird.”

She agreed. “What a terrible power tiny things have,” she sighed. “That would make me hate Laird.”

“A million other people will feel the same way to-morrow.”

“A million other people will feel the same way tomorrow.”

“To-morrow? Is it to be published so soon?”

“Tomorrow? Is it really going to be published that soon?”

“In the morning’s issue.”

“In this morning's edition.”

“Ban; is it true? Did he say that?”

“Ban; is that true? Did he really say that?”

“I have it from a man I’ve known ever since I came to New York. He’s reliable.”

“I heard it from a guy I’ve known since I got to New York. He’s trustworthy.”

“But it’s so unlike Bob Laird.”

“But it’s so not like Bob Laird.”

“Why is it unlike him?” he challenged with a tinge of impatience. “Hasn’t he been playing about lately with the Junior Masters?”

“Why is it out of character for him?” he challenged, a bit impatient. “Hasn’t he been messing around with the Junior Masters recently?”

“Do you happen to know,” she replied quietly, “that Junior and Bob Laird were classmates and clubmates at college, and that they probably always have called each other by their first names?”

“Do you happen to know,” she replied softly, “that Junior and Bob Laird were classmates and club members in college, and they probably have always called each other by their first names?”

“No. Have you ever heard them?” Angry regret beset him the instant the question had passed his lips. If she replied in the affirmative—

“No. Have you ever heard them?” He was hit with a wave of angry regret the moment the question left his mouth. If she answered yes—

“No; I’ve never happened to hear them,” she admitted; and he breathed more freely.

“No, I’ve never actually heard them,” she admitted; and he let out a sigh of relief.

“Then my evidence is certainly more direct than yours,” he pointed out.

“Then my evidence is definitely more direct than yours,” he noted.

“Ban; that charge once made public is going to be unanswerable, isn’t it? Just because the thing itself is so cheap and petty?”

“Ban; once that accusation is made public, it’s going to be impossible to defend, right? Just because the issue itself is so trivial and insignificant?”

“Yes. You’ve got the true journalistic sense, Io.”

“Yes. You really have the true journalistic instinct, Io.”

“Then there’s the more reason why you shouldn’t print it unless you know it to be true.”

“Then there’s even more reason why you shouldn’t print it unless you know it’s true.”

“But it is true.” Almost he had persuaded himself that it was; that it must be.

“But it is true.” He almost convinced himself that it was; that it had to be.

“The Olneys are having the Junior Masters to dine this evening. I know because I was asked; but of course I wanted to be here, where you are. Let me call Junior on the ‘phone and ask him.”

“The Olneys are having the Junior Masters over for dinner tonight. I know because I was invited; but of course I wanted to be here, with you. Let me call Junior on the phone and ask him.”

Banneker flushed. “You can’t do that, Io.”

Banneker blushed. “You can’t do that, Io.”

“Why not?”

"Why not?"

“Why, it isn’t the sort of thing that one can very well do,” he said lamely.

“Why, it’s not really the kind of thing you can do,” he said weakly.

“Not ask Junior if he and Bob Laird are old chums and call each other by their first names?”

“Not ask Junior if he and Bob Laird are good friends and call each other by their first names?”

“How silly it would sound!” He tried to laugh the proposal away. “In any case, it wouldn’t be conclusive. Besides, it’s too late by this time.”

“How ridiculous that would sound!” He tried to laugh off the idea. “Anyway, it wouldn’t prove anything. Plus, it’s too late for that now.”

“Too late?”

"Is it too late?"

“Yes. The forms are closed.”

"Yes. The forms are done."

“You couldn’t change it?”

"You couldn't fix it?"

“Why, I suppose I could, in an extreme emergency. But, dearest, it’s all right. Why be so difficult?”

“Honestly, I guess I could, in a really tough situation. But, darling, it’s fine. Why make things so complicated?”

“It isn’t playing the game, Ban.”

“It’s not playing the game, Ban.”

“Indeed, it is. It’s playing the game as Laird has elected to play it. Did he make inquiries before he attacked us on the Veridian strike?”

“Yeah, it is. It’s playing the game the way Laird chose to play it. Did he ask questions before he went after us on the Veridian strike?”

“That’s true,” she conceded.

"That's true," she admitted.

“And my evidence for this is direct. You’ll have to trust me and my professional judgment, Io.”

"And my evidence for this is direct. You'll have to trust me and my professional judgment, Io."

She sighed, but accepted this, saying, “If he is that kind of a snob it ought to be published. Suppose he sues for libel?”

She sighed but accepted this, saying, “If he is that much of a snob, it should be published. What if he sues for libel?”

“He’d be laughed out of court. Why, what is there libelous in saying that a man claims to have been called by his first name by another man?” Banneker chuckled.

“He’d be laughed out of court. What’s so libelous about saying that a man says another man called him by his first name?” Banneker chuckled.

“Well, it ought to be libelous if it isn’t true,” asserted Io warmly. “It isn’t fair or decent that a newspaper can hold a man up as a boot-licker and toady, if he isn’t one, and yet not be held responsible for it.”

“Well, it should be considered libel if it isn’t true,” asserted Io passionately. “It’s not fair or decent for a newspaper to label a man as a boot-licker and sycophant if he isn’t one, and still not face any consequences for it.”

“Well, dearest, I didn’t make the libel laws. They’re hard enough as it is.” His thought turned momentarily to Ely Ives, the journalistic sandbag, and he felt a momentary qualm. “I don’t pretend to like everything about my job. One of these days I’ll have a newspaper of my own, and you shall censor every word that goes in it.”

“Well, dear, I didn’t create the libel laws. They’re tough enough as it is.” His thoughts briefly drifted to Ely Ives, the journalistic bully, and he felt a brief pang of doubt. “I don’t claim to like everything about my job. One of these days, I’ll have my own newspaper, and you can censor every word that goes in it.”

“Help! Help!” she laughed. “I shouldn’t have the time for anything else; not even for being in love with the proprietor. Ban,” she added wistfully, “does it cost a very great deal to start a new paper?”

“Help! Help!” she laughed. “I shouldn’t have time for anything else; not even for being in love with the owner. Ban,” she added with a hint of longing, “does it cost a lot to start a new newspaper?”

“Yes. Or to buy an old one.”

“Yes. Or to buy a used one.”

“I have money of my own, you know,” she ventured.

“I have my own money, you know,” she said.

He fondled her hand. “That isn’t even a temptation,” he replied.

He held her hand gently. “That’s not even tempting,” he replied.

But it was. For a paper of his own was farther away from him than it had ever been. That morning he had received his statement from his broker. To date his losses on Union Thread were close to ninety thousand dollars.

But it was. For a paper of his own was farther away from him than it had ever been. That morning he had received his statement from his broker. To date, his losses on Union Thread were close to ninety thousand dollars.

Who shall measure the spreading and seeding potentialities of a thistle-down or a catchy phrase? Within twenty-four hours after the appearance of Banneker’s editorial, the apocryphal boast of Mayor Laird to his wife had become current political history. Current? Rampant, rather. Messenger boys greeted each other with “Dearie, Mr. Masters calls me Bob.” Brokers on ‘Change shouted across a slow day’s bidding, “What’s your cute little pet name? Mine’s Bobbie.” Huge buttons appeared with miraculous celerity in the hands of the street venders inscribed,

Who can measure the spreading and seeding potential of a dandelion seed or a catchy phrase? Within twenty-four hours of Banneker’s editorial being published, Mayor Laird's exaggerated claim to his wife had turned into current political history. Current? More like out of control. Messenger boys greeted each other with “Hey, Mr. Masters calls me Bob.” Brokers on the trading floor shouted across a slow day’s bidding, “What’s your cute little nickname? Mine’s Bobbie.” Huge buttons appeared almost instantly in the hands of street vendors inscribed,

“Call me Bob but Vote for Marrineal”

“Call me Bob, but vote for Marrineal.”

Vainly did Judge Enderby come out with a statement to the press, declaring the whole matter a cheap and nasty fabrication, and challenging The Patriot to cite its authority. The damage already done was irreparable. Sighting Banneker at luncheon a few days later, Horace Vanney went so far as to cross the room to greet and congratulate him.

“A master-stroke,” he said, pressing Banneker’s hand with his soft palm. “We’re glad to have you with us. Won’t you call me up and lunch with me soon?”

“A brilliant move,” he said, pressing Banneker’s hand with his gentle palm. “We’re really happy to have you here. Will you give me a call and have lunch with me soon?”

At The Retreat, after polo, that Saturday, the senior Masters met Banneker face to face in a hallway, and held him up.

At The Retreat, after polo that Saturday, the senior Masters ran into Banneker in a hallway and stopped him.

“Politics is politics. Eh?” he grunted.

“Politics is politics. Right?” he grunted.

“It’s a great game,” returned the journalist.

“It’s an awesome game,” replied the journalist.

“Think up that ‘call-me-Bob’ business yourself?”

“Did you come up with that ‘call-me-Bob’ thing on your own?”

“I got it from a reliable source.”

“I got it from a trusted source.”

“Damn lie,” remarked Poultney Masters equably. “Did the work, though. Banneker, why didn’t you let me know you were in the market?”

“Damn lie,” said Poultney Masters calmly. “Did the work, though. Banneker, why didn’t you tell me you were looking to buy?”

“In the stock-market? What has that—”

“In the stock market? What does that—”

“You know what market I mean,” retorted the great man with unconcealed contempt. “What you don’t know is your own game. Always seek the highest bidder before you sell, my boy.”

You know which market I’m talking about,” replied the important man with obvious disdain. “What you don’t understand is your own strategy. Always look for the highest bidder before you sell, my boy.”

“I’ll take that from no man—” began Banneker hotly.

“I won’t take that from anyone—” started Banneker fiercely.

Immediately he was sensible of a phenomenon. His angry eyes, lifted to Poultney Masters’s glistening little beads, were unable to endure the vicious amusement which he read therein. For the first time in his life he was stared down. He passed on, followed by a low and scornful hoot.

Immediately, he noticed something unusual. His furious gaze, directed at Poultney Masters's shiny little eyes, couldn't handle the cruel amusement that he saw in them. For the first time in his life, he felt like he was being stared down. He moved on, followed by a quiet, mocking hoot.

Meeting Willis Enderby while charge and counter-charge still rilled the air, Io put the direct query to him:

Meeting Willis Enderby while the tension still filled the air, Io asked him directly:

“Cousin Billy, what is the truth about the Laird-Masters story?”

“Cousin Billy, what’s the real story behind the Laird-Masters?”

“Made up out of whole cloth,” responded Enderby.

“Totally made up,” replied Enderby.

“Who made it up?”

"Who invented it?"

Comprehension and pity were in his intonation as he replied: “Not Banneker, I understand. It was passed on to him.”

Comprehension and sympathy were in his tone as he replied: “Not Banneker, I get it. It was handed down to him.”

“Then you don’t think him to blame?” she cried eagerly.

“Then you don’t think he’s to blame?” she asked eagerly.

“I can’t exculpate him as readily as that. Such a story, considering its inevitable—I may say its intended—consequences, should never have been published without the fullest investigation.”

“I can’t clear him of blame that easily. Given the inevitable—I'd say the intended—consequences of such a story, it should never have been published without a thorough investigation.”

“Suppose”—she hesitated—“he had it on what he considered good authority?”

“Suppose”—she paused—“he heard it from what he thought was a reliable source?”

“He has never even cited his authority.”

“He hasn’t even mentioned his source.”

“Couldn’t it have been confidential?” she pleaded.

“Couldn’t it have been kept private?” she pleaded.

“Io, do you know his authority? Has he told you?”

“Hey, do you know what his authority is? Has he said anything to you?”

“No.”

“Nope.”

Enderby’s voice was very gentle as he put his next question. “Do you trust Banneker, my dear?”

Enderby's voice was very soft as he asked his next question. “Do you trust Banneker, my dear?”

She met his regard, unflinchingly, but there was a piteous quiver about the lips which formed the answer. “I have trusted him. Absolutely.”

She met his gaze without hesitation, but there was a sad tremble in her lips as she replied, “I have trusted him. Completely.”

“Ah; well! I’ve seen too much good and bad too inextricably mingled in human nature, to judge on part information.”

“Ah, well! I've seen too much good and bad so tightly mixed together in human nature to pass judgment based on partial information.”

Election day came and passed. On the evening of it the streets were ribald with crowds gleefully shrieking! “Call me Dennis, wifie. I’m stung!” Laird had been badly beaten, running far behind Marrineal. Halloran, the ring candidate, was elected. Banneker did it.

Election day came and went. That evening, the streets were lively with crowds joyfully shouting! “Call me Dennis, wifey. I’m buzzing!” Laird had been soundly defeated, trailing far behind Marrineal. Halloran, the candidate from the party, was elected. Banneker made it happen.

As he looked back on the incidents of the campaign and its culminating event with a sense of self-doubt poisoning his triumph, that which most sickened him of his own course was not the overt insult from the financial emperor, but the soft-palmed gratulation of Horace Vanney.

As he reflected on the events of the campaign and its final outcome, feeling a sense of self-doubt tainting his victory, what troubled him most about his own path was not the blatant insult from the financial mogul, but the insincere congratulations from Horace Vanney.

CHAPTER XIV

Ambition is the most conservative of influences upon a radical mind. No sooner had Tertius Marrineal formulated his political hopes than there were manifested in the conduct of The Patriot strange symptoms of a hankering after respectability. Essentially Marrineal was not respectable, any more than he was radical. He was simply and singly selfish. But, having mapped out for himself a career which did not stop short of a stately and deep-porticoed edifice in Washington’s Pennsylvania Avenue (for his conception of the potential leverage of a great newspaper increased with The Patriot’s circulation), he deemed it advisable to moderate some of the more blatant features, on the same principle which had induced him to reform the Veridian lumber mill abuses, lest they be brought up to his political detriment later. A long-distance thinker, Tertius Marrineal.

Ambition is the most conservative influence on a radical mind. No sooner had Tertius Marrineal set his political aspirations than The Patriot started showing odd signs of wanting to be respected. At his core, Marrineal was neither respectable nor radical. He was simply selfish. However, having planned a career that aimed for a grand and prestigious building on Washington’s Pennsylvania Avenue (as his vision of the potential power of a major newspaper grew with The Patriot’s circulation), he thought it wise to tone down some of the more obvious issues, similar to how he had addressed the problems at the Veridian lumber mill, to avoid any political backlash later. Tertius Marrineal was a long-term thinker.

Operating through invisible channels and by a method which neither Banneker nor Edmonds ever succeeded in fathoming, his influence now began to be felt for the better tone of the news columns. They became less glaringly sensational. Yet the quality of the news upon which the paper specialized was the same; it was the handling which was insensibly altered. That this was achieved without adversely affecting circulation was another proof, added to those already accumulated, of Marrineal’s really eminent journalistic capacities. The change was the less obvious, because The Patriot’s competitors in the Great Three-Ringed Circus of Sensation had found themselves being conducted, under that leadership, farther along the primrose path of stimulation and salaciousness than they had realized, and had already modified their policies.

Operating through unseen channels and using a method that neither Banneker nor Edmonds could ever fully understand, his influence began to improve the quality of the news columns. They became less glaringly sensational. However, the type of news the paper specialized in remained the same; it was the presentation that was subtly changed. The fact that this was accomplished without negatively impacting circulation was yet another testament to Marrineal's truly remarkable journalistic skills. The change was less noticeable because The Patriot’s competitors in the Great Three-Ringed Circus of Sensation found themselves, under that leadership, being led further down the primrose path of sensationalism and scandal than they had realized, and had already adjusted their policies.

Even under the new policy, however, The Patriot would hardly have proven, upon careful analysis, more decent or self-respecting. But it was less obvious; cleverer in avoiding the openly offensive. Capron had been curbed in his pictorial orgies. The copy-readers had been supplied with a list of words and terms tabooed from the captions. But the influence of Severance was still potent in the make-up of the news. While Banneker was relieved at the change, he suspected its impermanency should it prove unsuccessful. To neither his chief editorial writer nor Russell Edmonds had the proprietor so much as hinted at the modification of scheme. His silence to these two was part of his developing policy of separating more widely the different departments of the paper in order that he might be the more quietly and directly authoritative over all.

Even with the new policy, The Patriot still wouldn’t have seemed, upon closer inspection, more decent or self-respecting. It just became less obvious; smarter in dodging the openly offensive. Capron had been restrained in his graphic displays. The copy-editors had received a list of words and terms banned from the captions. But Severance's influence was still strong in shaping the news. While Banneker felt relieved by the change, he worried it wouldn’t last if it didn’t work out. He hadn’t hinted at the change in direction to either his chief editorial writer or Russell Edmonds. His silence with them was part of his growing strategy to separate the different departments of the paper more clearly so he could maintain quieter and more direct control over everything.

The three men were lunching late at Delmonico’s, and talking politics, when Edmonds leaned forward in his seat to look toward the entrance.

The three men were having a late lunch at Delmonico’s and discussing politics when Edmonds leaned forward in his seat to look at the entrance.

“There’s Severance,” said he. “What’s the matter with him?”

“There's Severance,” he said. “What's wrong with him?”

The professional infuser of excitements approached walking carefully among the tables. His eyes burned in a white face.

The professional excitement infuser walked carefully among the tables. His eyes blazed on his pale face.

“On one of his sprees,” diagnosed Banneker. “Oh, Severance! Sit down here.”

“On one of his escapades,” diagnosed Banneker. “Oh, Severance! Sit down here.”

“I beg your p-p-pardon.” Severance spoke with marked deliberation and delicacy, but with a faint stammer. “These not b-being office hours, I have not the p-pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“I beg your pardon.” Severance spoke with noticeable care and sensitivity, but had a slight stammer. “Since this isn’t during office hours, I don’t have the pleasure of knowing you.”

Marrineal smiled.

“The p-pale rictus of the damned,” observed Severance. “As one damned soul to another, I c-confess a longing for companionship of m-my own sort. Therefore I accept your invitation. Waiter, a Scotch h-highball.”

“The pale grin of the damned,” noted Severance. “As one damned soul to another, I admit I long for the company of my own kind. So, I accept your invitation. Waiter, a Scotch highball.”

“We were talking of—” began Banneker, when the newcomer broke in:

“We were talking about—” started Banneker, when the newcomer interrupted:

“Talk of m-me. Of me and m-my work. I exult in my w-work. L-like Mr. Whitman, I celebrate myself. I p-point with pride. What think you, gentlemen, of to-day’s paper in honor of which I have t-taken my few drinks?”

“Talk about me. About me and my work. I take great pride in my work. Like Mr. Whitman, I celebrate myself. I point with pride. What do you think, gentlemen, of today’s paper that I have had a few drinks in honor of?”

“If you mean the Territon story,” growled Edmonds, “it’s rotten.”

“If you’re talking about the Territon story,” Edmonds grumbled, “it’s terrible.”

“Precisely. I thank you for your g-golden opinion. Rotten. Exactly as intended.”

“Exactly. I appreciate your valuable opinion. Terrible. Just as planned.”

“Put a woman’s good name on trial and sentence it on hearsay without appeal or recourse.”

“Put a woman’s reputation on trial and judge it based on rumors without any chance to appeal or seek help.”

“There is always the danger of going too far along those lines,” pointed out Marrineal judicially.

“There’s always the risk of going too far in that direction,” Marrineal pointed out wisely.

“Pardon me, all-wise Proprietor. The d-danger lies in not going far enough. The frightful p-peril of being found dull.”

“Excuse me, all-wise Owner. The danger lies in not going far enough. The terrifying risk of being considered boring.”

“The Territon story assays too thin in facts, as we’ve put it out. If Mrs. Territon doesn’t leave her husband now for McLaurin,” opined Marrineal, “we are in a difficult position. I happen to know her and I very much doubt—”

“The Territon story lacks substance in facts, as we've released it. If Mrs. Territon doesn’t leave her husband now for McLaurin,” Marrineal said, “we're in a tough spot. I know her personally, and I really doubt—”

“Doubt not at all, d-doubting Tertius. The very fact of our publishing the story will force her hand. It’s an achievement, that story. No other p-paper has a line of it.”

“Don’t doubt it for a second, doubting Tertius. Just the fact that we’re publishing the story will make her act. It’s a great piece, that story. No other publication has a single line of it.”

“Not more than one other would touch it, in its present form,” said Banneker. “It’s too raw.”

“Not more than one other person would handle it in its current state,” said Banneker. “It’s too rough.”

“The more virtue to us. I r-regard that story as an inspiration. Nobody could have brought it off b-but me. ‘A god, a god their Severance ruled,’” punned the owner of the name.

“The more virtue to us. I r-regard that story as an inspiration. Nobody could have pulled it off b-but me. ‘A god, a god their Severance ruled,’” joked the owner of the name.

“Beelzebub, god of filth and maggots,” snarled Edmonds.

“Beelzebub, the god of dirt and maggots,” spat Edmonds.

“Bacchus, god of all true inspiration!” cried Severance. “Waiter, slave of B-Bacchus, where is my Scotch?”

“Bacchus, god of all true inspiration!” shouted Severance. “Waiter, servant of B-Bacchus, where's my Scotch?”

“Severance, you’re going too far along your chosen line,” declared Banneker bluntly.

“Severance, you’re going too far down your chosen path,” Banneker stated directly.

“Yes; we must tone down a little,” agreed Marrineal.

“Yes, we should tone it down a bit,” agreed Marrineal.

The sensationalist lifted calmly luminous eyes to his chief. “Why?” he queried softly. “Are you meditating a change? Does the journalistic l-lady of easy virtue begin to yearn f-for the paths of respectability?”

The sensationalist lifted his calm, bright eyes to his boss. “Why?” he asked softly. “Are you thinking about making a change? Is the journalism woman of easy morals starting to crave the routes of respectability?”

“Steady, Severance,” warned Edmonds.

"Easy, Severance," warned Edmonds.

At the touch of the curb the other flamed into still, white wrath. “If you’re going to be a whore,” he said deliberately, “play the whore’s game. I’m one and I know it. Banneker’s one, but hasn’t the courage to face it. You’re one, Edmonds—no, you’re not; not even that. You’re the hallboy that f-fetches the drinks—”

At the touch of the curb, the other person erupted into a quiet, white rage. “If you’re going to be a whore,” he said intentionally, “play the whore’s game. I’m one, and I admit it. Banneker is one too, but he doesn’t have the guts to own it. You’re one, Edmonds—no, you’re not; not even that. You’re just the hallboy who gets the drinks—”

Marrineal had risen. Severance turned upon him.

Marrineal had gotten up. Severance faced him.

“I salute you, Madam of our high-class establishment. When you take your p-price, you at least look the business in the face. No illusions for M-Madam Marrineal.... By the w-way, I resign from the house.”

“I salute you, Madam of our high-class establishment. When you take your price, you at least look the business in the face. No illusions for Madam Marrineal.... By the way, I resign from the house.”

“Are you coming, Mr. Edmonds?” said Marrineal. “You’ll sign the check for me, will you, Mr. Banneker?”

“Are you coming, Mr. Edmonds?” Marrineal asked. “You’ll sign the check for me, right, Mr. Banneker?”

Left alone with the disciple of Bacchus and Beelzebub, the editor said:

Left alone with the followers of Bacchus and Beelzebub, the editor said:

“Better get home, Severance. Come in to-morrow, will you?”

“Better get home, Severance. Can you come in tomorrow?”

“No. I’m q-quite in earnest about resigning. No further use for the damned j-job now.”

“No. I’m really serious about quitting. There's no point in the damn job now.”

“I never could see why you had any use for it in the first place. Was it money?”

“I never understood why you needed it in the first place. Was it for money?”

“Of course.”

"Definitely."

“Oh, I see.”

“Oh, got it.”

“You d-don’t see at all. I wanted the m-money for a purpose. The purpose was a woman. I w-wanted to keep pace with her and her s-set. It was the set to which I rightly belonged, but I’d dropped out. I thought I p-preferred drink. I didn’t after she got hold of me. I d-don’t know why the d-devil I’m telling you all this.”

“You don’t see at all. I wanted the money for a reason. The reason was a woman. I wanted to keep up with her and her group. It was the group I should have been a part of, but I stepped away. I thought I preferred drinking. I didn’t after she got involved with me. I don’t know why the hell I’m telling you all this.”

“I’m sorry, Severance,” said Banneker honestly.

“I’m sorry, Severance,” Banneker said sincerely.

The other raised his glass. “Here’s to her,” he said. He drank. “I wish her nothing w-worse than she’s got. Her name is—”

The other lifted his glass. “Here’s to her,” he said. He took a drink. “I wish her nothing worse than what she already has. Her name is—”

“Wait a moment, Severance,” cut in Banneker sharply. “Don’t say anything that you’ll regret. Naming of names—”

“Hold on a second, Severance,” Banneker interrupted sharply. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret. Naming names—”

“Oh, there’s no harm in this, n-now,” said Severance wearily. “Hers is smeared in filth all over our third page. It is Maud Territon. What do you think of P-Patriotic journalism, anyway, Banneker?”

CHAPTER XV

With the accession to political control of Halloran and the old ring, the influence of Horace Vanney and those whom he represented, became as potent as it was secret. “Salutary measures” had been adopted toward the garment-workers; a “firm hand” on the part of the police had succeeded in holding down the strike through the fall and winter; but in the early spring it was revived and spread throughout the city, even to the doors of the shopping district. In another sense than the geographical it was nearing the great department stores, for quiet efforts were being made by some of the strike leaders to organize and unionize the underpaid salesmen and saleswomen of the shops. Inevitably this drew into active hostility to the strikers the whole power of the stores with their immense advertising influence.

With Halloran and the old crew taking political control, the influence of Horace Vanney and his associates became as powerful as it was hidden. "Helpful measures" were put in place for the garment workers; a "strong approach" from the police managed to suppress the strike through the fall and winter. But in early spring, the strike reignited and spread across the city, even reaching the shopping district. In a sense beyond just geography, it was getting close to the big department stores, as some strike leaders quietly worked to organize and unionize the underpaid salesmen and saleswomen in the shops. This inevitably rallied the full power of the stores against the strikers, backed by their massive advertising reach.

Very little news of the strike got into the papers except where some clash with the police was of too great magnitude to be ignored; then the trend of the articles was generally hostile to the strikers. The Sphere published the facts briefly, as a matter of journalistic principle; The Ledger published them with violent bias, as a matter of journalistic habit; the other papers, including The Patriot, suppressed or minimized to as great an extent as they deemed feasible.

Very little news about the strike made it into the papers unless there was a clash with the police that was too significant to ignore; when that happened, the articles were usually negative towards the strikers. The Sphere reported the facts briefly, sticking to journalistic principles; The Ledger reported them with a strong bias, which was a regular practice for them; other papers, including The Patriot, downplayed or minimized the news as much as they felt they could.

That the troubles of some thousands of sweated wage-earners, employed upon classes of machine-made clothing which would never come within the ken of the delicately clad women of her world, could in any manner affect Io Eyre, was most improbable. But the minor fate who manipulates improbabilities elected that she should be in a downtown store at the moment when a squad of mounted police charged a crowd of girl-strikers. Hearing the scream of panic, she ran out, saw ignorant, wild-eyed girls, hardly more than children, beaten down, trampled, hurried hither and thither, seized upon and thrown into patrol wagons, and when she reached her car, sick and furious, found an eighteen-year-old Lithuanian blonde flopping against the rear fender in a dead faint. Strong as a young panther, Io picked up the derelict in her arms, hoisted her into the tonneau, and bade the disgusted chauffeur, “Home.” What she heard from the revived girl, in the talk which followed, sent her, hot-hearted, to the police court where the arrests would be brought up for primary judgment.

That the struggles of some thousands of underpaid workers, making clothes that would never be seen by the elegantly dressed women of her world, could in any way impact Io Eyre was highly unlikely. But fate decided she would be in a downtown store when a group of mounted police charged at a crowd of girl strikers. Hearing the panicked screams, she rushed outside and saw confused, wide-eyed girls, barely more than children, being beaten down, trampled, and hurried around, grabbed and thrown into police vans. When she finally reached her car, feeling sick and furious, she found an eighteen-year-old Lithuanian blonde slumped against the rear fender, unconscious. Strong like a young panther, Io picked up the girl and lifted her into the backseat, then told the annoyed chauffeur, “Home.” What she heard from the revived girl in their conversation afterward drove her, with a passionate heart, to the police court where the arrests would be processed for initial judgment.

The first person that she met there was Willis Enderby.

The first person she met there was Willis Enderby.

“If you’re on this strike case, Cousin Billy,” she said, “I’m against you, and I’m ashamed of you.”

“You probably aren’t the former, and you needn’t be the latter,” he replied.

“You probably aren’t the first, and you don’t have to be the second,” he replied.

“Aren’t you Mr. Vanney’s lawyer? And isn’t he interested in the strike?”

“Not openly. It happens that I’m here for the strikers.”

"Not openly. I'm actually here for the strikers."

Io stared, incredulous. “For the strikers? You mean that they’ve retained you?”

Io stared, unable to believe it. “For the strikers? You mean they actually kept you?”

“Oh, no. I’m really here in my capacity as President of the Law Enforcement Society; to see that these women get the full protection of the law, to which they are entitled. There is reason to believe that they haven’t had it. And you?”

“Oh, no. I’m actually here as the President of the Law Enforcement Society; to ensure these women receive the full protection of the law that they deserve. It seems they haven’t had that. What about you?”

Io told him.

“Are you willing to go on the stand?”

“Will you testify?”

“Certainly; if it will do any good.”

“Sure; if it will be helpful.”

“Not much, so far as the case goes. But it will force it into the newspapers. ‘Society Leader Takes Part of Working-Girls,’ and so-on. The publicity will be useful.”

“Not much, as far as the case goes. But it will get it into the newspapers. ‘Society Leader Involves Herself with Working Girls,’ and so on. The publicity will be helpful.”

The magistrate on the bench was lenient; dismissed most of the prisoners with a warning against picketing; fined a few; sent two to jail. He seemed surprised and not a little impressed by the distinguished Mrs. Delavan Eyre’s appearance in the proceedings, and sent word out to the reporters’ room, thereby breaking up a game of pinochle at its point of highest interest. There was a man there from The Patriot.

The judge on the bench was merciful; he let most of the prisoners go with a warning about picketing, fined a few, and sent two to jail. He seemed surprised and somewhat impressed by the presence of the notable Mrs. Delavan Eyre in the court, and sent a message to the reporters’ room, interrupting a game of pinochle at its most exciting moment. A man from The Patriot was there.

With eager expectation Io, back in her Philadelphia apartment, sent out for a copy of the New York Patriot. Greatly to her disgust she found herself headlined, half-toned, described; but with very little about the occasion of her testimony, a mere mention of the strike and nothing whatsoever regarding the police brutalities which had so stirred her wrath. Io discovered that she had lost her taste for publicity, in a greater interest. Her first thought was to write Banneker indignantly; her second to ask explanations when he called her on the ‘phone as he now did every noon; her third to let the matter stand until she went to New York and saw him. On her arrival, several days later, she went direct to his office. Banneker’s chief interest, next to his ever-thrilling delight in seeing her, was in the part played by Willis Enderby.

With eager anticipation, Io, back in her Philadelphia apartment, ordered a copy of the New York Patriot. To her dismay, she found herself prominently featured, with half-toned photos and descriptions, but very little about the reason for her testimony—just a brief mention of the strike and nothing at all about the police brutality that had angered her so much. Io realized that her interest in publicity had faded, replaced by something deeper. Her first impulse was to angrily message Banneker; her second was to ask for explanations when he called her on the phone, which he now did every noon; her third was to let the matter wait until she went to New York and saw him in person. When she arrived several days later, she went straight to his office. Banneker’s main interest, besides his constant joy in seeing her, was the role played by Willis Enderby.

“What is he doing in that galley?” he wondered.

“What’s he doing in that kitchen?” he wondered.

To her explanation he shook his head. Something more than that, he was sure. Asking Io’s permission he sent for Russell Edmonds.

To her explanation, he shook his head. He was sure there was something more to it. After getting Io’s permission, he called for Russell Edmonds.

“Isn’t this a new role for Enderby?” he asked.

“Not at all. He’s been doing this sort of thing always. Usually on the quiet.”

“Not at all. He’s always been doing stuff like this. Usually quietly.”

“The fact that this is far from being on the quiet suggests politics, doesn’t it? Making up to the labor vote?”

“The fact that this is far from quiet suggests there’s some politics at play, doesn’t it? Trying to win over the labor vote?”

“What on earth should Cousin Billy care for the labor vote?” demanded Io. “Mr. Laird is dead politically, isn’t he?”

“What should Cousin Billy care about the labor vote?” demanded Io. “Mr. Laird is politically finished, right?”

“But Judge Enderby isn’t. Mr. Edmonds will tell you that much.”

“But Judge Enderby isn’t. Mr. Edmonds will tell you that for sure.”

“True enough. Enderby is a man to be reckoned with. Particularly if—” Edmonds paused, hesitant.

“True enough. Enderby is someone you should take seriously. Especially if—” Edmonds paused, unsure.

“If—” prompted Banneker. “Fire ahead, Pop.”

“If—” Banneker urged. “Go ahead, Pop.”

“If Marrineal should declare in on the race for the governorship, next fall.”

“If Marrineal decides to enter the race for governor next fall.”

“Without any state organization? Is that probable?” asked Banneker.

“Without any state organization? Is that likely?” asked Banneker.

“Only in case he should make a combination with the old ring crowd, who are, naturally, grateful for his aid in putting over Halloran for them. It’s quite within the possibilities.”

“Only if he teams up with the old ring crowd, who are, of course, thankful for his help in getting Halloran in for them. It’s definitely a possibility.”

“After the way The Patriot and Mr. Marrineal himself have flayed the ring?” exclaimed Io. “It isn’t possible. How could he so go back on himself?”

“After the way The Patriot and Mr. Marrineal himself have criticized the ring?” exclaimed Io. “That can’t be true. How could he go back on his word like that?”

Edmonds turned his fine and serious smile upon her. “Mr. Marrineal’s guiding principle of politics and journalism is that the public never remembers. If he persuades the ring to nominate him, Enderby is the logical candidate against him. In my belief he’s the only man who could beat him.”

Edmonds directed his sincere and confident smile at her. “Mr. Marrineal’s main principle in politics and journalism is that the public never remembers. If he manages to convince the group to nominate him, Enderby is the obvious candidate to run against him. In my opinion, he’s the only person who could defeat him.”

“Do you really think, Mr. Edmonds, that Judge Enderby’s help to the arrested women is a political move?”

“Do you really think, Mr. Edmonds, that Judge Enderby helping the arrested women is just a political move?”

“That’s the way it would be interpreted by all the politicians. Personally, I don’t believe it.”

"That’s how all the politicians would interpret it. Personally, I don’t buy it."

“His sympathies, professional and personal, are naturally on the other side,” pointed out Banneker.

“His sympathies, both in his work and personal life, are obviously with the other side,” Banneker noted.

“But not yours, surely Ban!” cried Io. “Yours ought to be with them. If you could have seen them as I did, helpless and panic-stricken, with the horses pressing in on them—”

“But not yours, surely, Ban!” cried Io. “Yours should have been with them. If you could have seen them like I did, helpless and in a panic, with the horses closing in on them—”

“Of course I’m with them,” warmly retorted Banneker. “If I controlled the news columns of the paper, I’d make another Sippiac Mills story of this.” No sooner had he said it than he foresaw to what reply he had inevitably laid himself open. It came from Io’s lips.

“Of course I’m with them,” Banneker replied warmly. “If I controlled the news columns of the paper, I’d turn this into another Sippiac Mills story.” As soon as he said it, he realized what kind of reply he was inviting. It came from Io’s lips.

“You control the editorial column, Ban.”

“You're in charge of the editorial column, Ban.”

“It’s a subject to be handled in the news, not the editorials,” he said hastily.

“It’s something to be addressed in the news, not in the editorials,” he said quickly.

The silence that fell was presently relieved by Edmonds. “It’s also being handled in the advertising columns. Have you seen the series of announcements by the Garment Manufacturers’ Association? There are four of ’em now in proof.”

The silence that settled was soon broken by Edmonds. “It’s also being addressed in the advertising sections. Have you seen the series of announcements from the Garment Manufacturers’ Association? There are four of them in proof now.”

“No. I haven’t seen them,” answered Banneker.

“They’re able. But on the whole they aren’t as able as the strikers’ declaration in rebuttal, offered us to-day, one-third of a page at regular advertising rates, same as the manufacturers’.”

“They're capable. But overall, they're not as capable as the strikers' statement in response, which we received today, taking up one-third of a page at standard advertising rates, just like the manufacturers’.”

“Enderby?” queried Banneker quickly.

“Enderby?” asked Banneker quickly.

“I seem to detect his fine legal hand in it.”

"I can see his skilled legal touch in it."

Banneker’s face became moody. “I suppose Haring refused to publish it.”

Banneker's expression turned dark. "I guess Haring decided not to publish it."

“No. Haring’s for taking it.”

“No. Haring’s for getting it.”

“How is that?” said the editor, astonished. “I thought Haring—”

“How is that?” the editor said, surprised. “I thought Haring—”

“You think of Haring as if Haring thought as you and I think. That isn’t fair,” declared Edmonds. “Haring’s got a business mind, straight within its limitations. He accepts this strike stuff just as he accepts blue-sky mine fakes and cancer cures in which he has no belief, because he considers that a newspaper is justified in taking any ad. that is offered—and let the reader beware. Besides, it goes against his grain to turn down real money.”

“You see Haring like he thinks the same way we do. That’s not right,” Edmonds stated. “Haring has a practical business mindset, within its limits. He takes this strike issue just like he takes ads for fake blue-sky mining schemes and miracle cancer cures that he doesn’t believe in, because he thinks a newspaper is justified in accepting any ad that comes its way—and it’s up to the reader to be cautious. Plus, it really bothers him to turn down actual cash.”

“Will it appear in to-morrow’s paper?” questioned Io.

“Will it be in tomorrow’s paper?” asked Io.

“Probably, if it appears at all.”

“Probably, if it shows up at all.”

“Why the ‘if’?” said Banneker. “Since Haring has passed it—”

“Why the ‘if’?” Banneker asked. “Since Haring has already passed it—”

“There is also Marrineal.”

"There's also Marrineal."

“Haring sent it to him?”

"Haring sent it to him?"

“Not at all. The useful and ubiquitous Ives, snooping as usual, came upon it. Hence it is now in Marrineal’s hands. Likely to remain there, I should think.”

“Not at all. The handy and ever-present Ives, snooping as usual, stumbled upon it. So now it’s in Marrineal’s hands. I imagine it’ll stay there.”

“Mr. Marrineal won’t let it be published?” asked Io.

“Mr. Marrineal won’t allow it to be published?” asked Io.

“That’s my guess,” returned the veteran.

"That's my guess," said the veteran.

“And mine,” added Banneker.

"And mine," Banneker added.

He felt her eyes of mute appeal fixed on him and read her meaning.

He sensed her silent gaze on him and understood what she meant.

“All right, Io,” he promised quietly. “If Mr. Marrineal won’t print it in advertising, I’ll print it as editorial.”

“All right, Io,” he promised softly. “If Mr. Marrineal won’t publish it in advertising, I’ll publish it as an editorial.”

“When?” Io and Edmonds spoke in one breath.

“When?” Io and Edmonds said at the same time.

“Day after to-morrow.”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“That’s war,” said Edmonds.

"That's war," Edmonds said.

“In a good cause,” declared Io proudly.

“The cause of the independence of Errol Banneker,” said the veteran. “It was bound to come. Go in and win, son. I’ll get you a proof of the ad.”

“The reason for Errol Banneker's independence,” said the veteran. “It was inevitable. Go in and win, kid. I’ll get you a copy of the ad.”

“Ban!” said Io with brightened regard.

“Ban!” said Io, looking more hopeful.

“Well?”

"What's up?"

“Will you put something at the head of your column for me, if that editorial appears?”

“Can you put something at the top of your column for me if that editorial gets published?”

“What? Wait! I know. The quotation from the Areopagitica. Is that it?”

“What? Hold on! I know. The quote from the Areopagitica. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Fine! I’ll do it.”

“Okay! I’ll do it.”

On the following morning The Patriot appeared as usual. The first of the Manufacturers’ Association arguments to the public was conspicuously displayed. Of the strikers’ reply—not a syllable. Banneker went to Haring’s office; found the business manager gloomy, but resigned.

On the next morning, The Patriot showed up as usual. The first argument from the Manufacturers’ Association was prominently displayed. There was not a word about the strikers’ response. Banneker went to Haring’s office and found the business manager in a gloomy but accepting mood.

“Mr. Marrineal turned it down. He’s got the right. That’s all there is to it,” was his version.

“Mr. Marrineal turned it down. He’s got that right. That’s all there is to it,” was his take.

“Not quite,” remarked Banneker, and went home to prove it.

“Not quite,” Banneker said, and went home to show it.

Into the editorial which was to constitute the declaration of Errol Banneker’s independence went much thinking, and little writing. The pronunciamento of the strikers, prefaced by a few words of explanation, and followed by some ringing sentences as to the universal right to a fair field, was enough. At the top of the column the words of Milton, in small, bold print. Across the completed copy he wrote “Thursday. Must.”

Into the editorial that was meant to declare Errol Banneker’s independence, there was a lot of thought and little writing. The statement from the strikers, introduced by a brief explanation and followed by some powerful sentences about the universal right to a fair chance, was sufficient. At the top of the column were the words of Milton, in small, bold print. Across the finished copy, he wrote “Thursday. Must.”

Never had Banneker felt in finer fettle for war than when he awoke that Thursday morning. Contrary to his usual custom, he did not even look at the copy of The Patriot brought to his breakfast table; he wanted to have that editorial fresh to eye and mind when Marrineal called him to account for it. For this was a challenge which Marrineal could not ignore. He breakfasted with a copy of “The Undying Voices” propped behind his coffee cup, refreshing himself before battle with the delights of allusive memory, bringing back the days when he and lo had read and discovered together. It was noon when he reached the office.

Banneker had never felt more ready for a fight than when he woke up that Thursday morning. Unlike his usual routine, he didn't even glance at the copy of The Patriot that was brought to his breakfast table; he wanted to keep that editorial fresh in his mind for when Marrineal confronted him about it. This was a challenge that Marrineal couldn't overlook. He enjoyed breakfast with a copy of “The Undying Voices” propped up behind his coffee cup, refreshing his mind for the battle ahead with the joy of nostalgic memories, recalling the days when he and Io had read and discovered together. It was noon by the time he got to the office.

From the boy at the entrance he learned that Mr. Marrineal had come in. Doubtless he would find a summons on his desk. None was there. Perhaps Marrineal would come to him. He waited. Nothing. Taking up the routine of the day, he turned to his proofs, with a view to laying out his schedule.

From the boy at the entrance, he learned that Mr. Marrineal had arrived. He was sure he would find a notice on his desk. There wasn’t one. Maybe Marrineal would come to see him. He waited. Nothing. Getting back to his daily routine, he turned to his proofs, planning out his schedule.

The top one was his editorial on the strikers’ cause.

The top one was his editorial about the strikers’ cause.

Across it was blue-penciled the word “Killed.”

Banneker snatched up the morning’s issue. The editorial was not there. In its place he read, from the top of the column: “And though all the winds of doctrine blow”—and so on, to the close of Milton’s proud challenge, followed by:

Banneker grabbed that morning's paper. The editorial was missing. Instead, he read at the top of the column: “And though all the winds of doctrine blow”—and continued on, until the end of Milton’s bold challenge, followed by:

“Would You Let Your Baby Drink Carbolic?”

For the strike editorial had been substituted one of Banneker’s typical “mother-fetchers,” as he termed them, very useful in their way, and highly approved by the local health authorities. This one was on the subject of pure milk. Its association with the excerpt from the Areopagitica (which, having been set for a standing head, was not cut out by the “Killed”) set the final touch of irony upon the matter. Even in his fury Banneker laughed.

For the strike editorial, one of Banneker’s typical “mother-fetchers,” as he called them, was used instead. These pieces were quite useful and highly regarded by the local health authorities. This one was about pure milk. Its connection with the excerpt from the Areopagitica (which, having been prepared as a standing head, wasn't removed by the “Killed”) added the final ironic touch to the situation. Even in his anger, Banneker laughed.

He next considered the handwriting of the blue-penciled monosyllable. It was not Marrineal’s blunt, backhand script. Whose was it? Haring’s? Trailing the proof in his hand he went to the business manager’s room.

He then thought about the handwriting of the blue-penciled single word. It wasn't Marrineal’s rough, backhand style. Whose was it? Haring’s? With the proof in his hand, he walked to the business manager’s office.

“Did you kill this?”

“Did you do this?”

“Yes.” Haring got to his feet, white and shaking. “For God’s sake, Mr. Banneker—”

“Yes.” Haring stood up, pale and trembling. “For God’s sake, Mr. Banneker—”

“I’m not going to hurt you—yet. By what right did you do it?”

“I’m not going to hurt you—at least not yet. Who gave you the right to do that?”

“Orders.”

"Requests."

“Marrineal’s?”

"Marrineal's?"

“Yes.”

"Yeah."

With no further word, Banneker strode to the owner’s office, pushed open the door, and entered. Marrineal looked up, slightly frowning.

With no more words, Banneker walked to the owner’s office, opened the door, and stepped inside. Marrineal looked up, a slight frown on his face.

“Did you kill this editorial?”

“Did you write this editorial?”

Marrineal’s frown changed to a smile. “Sit down, Mr. Banneker.”

Marrineal’s frown turned into a smile. “Have a seat, Mr. Banneker.”

“Marrineal, did you kill my editorial?”

“Marrineal, did you delete my editorial?”

“Isn’t your tone a trifle peremptory, for an employee?”

“Isn’t your tone a bit too commanding for an employee?”

“It won’t take more than five seconds for me to cease to be an employee,” said Banneker grimly.

“It won’t take more than five seconds for me to stop being an employee,” said Banneker grimly.

“Ah? I trust you’re not thinking of resigning. By the way, some reporter called on me last week to confirm a rumor that you were about to resign. Let me see; what paper? Ah; yes; it wasn’t a newspaper, at least, not exactly. The Searchlight. I told her—it happened to be a woman—that the story was quite absurd.”

“Ah? I hope you’re not considering resigning. By the way, a reporter contacted me last week to check on a rumor that you were planning to resign. Let me think; what publication was it? Ah, yes; it wasn’t a newspaper, at least not exactly. The Searchlight. I told her—it was a woman—that the story was totally ridiculous.”

Something in the nature of a cold trickle seemed to be flowing between Banneker’s brain and his tongue. He said with effort, “Will you be good enough to answer my question?”

Something like a cold trickle seemed to be flowing between Banneker’s brain and his tongue. He said with effort, “Could you please answer my question?”

“Certainly. Mr. Banneker, that was an ill-advised editorial. Or, rather, an ill-timed one. I didn’t wish it published until we had time to talk it over.”

“Of course. Mr. Banneker, that was a poorly thought-out editorial. Or, more accurately, poorly timed. I didn’t want it published until we had a chance to discuss it.”

“We could have talked it over yesterday.”

“We could've talked about it yesterday.”

“But I understood that you were busy with callers yesterday. That charming Mrs. Eyre, who, by the way, is interested in the strikers, isn’t she? Or was it the day before yesterday that she was here?”

“But I realized you were tied up with visitors yesterday. That lovely Mrs. Eyre, who, by the way, is interested in the strikers, right? Or was it the day before yesterday that she came by?”

The Searchlight! And now Io Eyre! No doubt of what Marrineal meant. The cold trickle had passed down Banneker’s spine, and settled at his knees making them quite unreliable. Inexplicably it still remained to paralyze his tongue.

The Searchlight! And now Io Eyre! There was no question about what Marrineal meant. A cold shiver ran down Banneker’s spine and settled in his knees, making them shaky. Somehow, it still left him unable to speak.

“We’re reasonable men, you and I, Mr. Banneker,” pursued Marrineal in his quiet, detached tones. “This is the first time I have ever interfered. You must do me the justice to admit that. Probably it will be the last. But in this case it was really necessary. Shall we talk it over later?”

“We're reasonable guys, you and I, Mr. Banneker,” continued Marrineal in his calm, cool tone. “This is the first time I've ever stepped in like this. You have to give me credit for that. Probably it will be the last. But in this case, it was genuinely necessary. Can we discuss it later?”

“Yes,” said Banneker listlessly.

“Yes,” said Banneker wearily.

In the hallway he ran into somebody, who cursed him, and then said, oh, he hadn’t noticed who it was; Pop Edmonds. Edmonds disappeared into Marrineal’s office. Banneker regained his desk and sat staring at the killed proof. He thought vaguely that he could appreciate the sensation of a man caught by an octopus. Yet Marrineal didn’t look like an octopus.... What did he look like? What was that subtle resemblance which had eluded him in the first days of their acquaintanceship? That emanation of chill quietude; those stagnant eyes?

In the hallway, he bumped into someone who cursed at him, then added that he hadn’t realized who it was—Pop Edmonds. Edmonds went into Marrineal’s office. Banneker returned to his desk and sat there, staring at the ruined proof. He thought vaguely that he could understand what it felt like to be caught by an octopus. Yet, Marrineal didn’t look like an octopus... What did he look like? What was that subtle resemblance he had missed in the early days of knowing him? That aura of cold calm; those lifeless eyes?

He had it now! It dated back to his boyhood days. A crawling terror which, having escaped from a menagerie, had taken refuge in a pool, and there fixed its grip upon an unfortunate calf, and dragged—dragged—dragged the shrieking creature, until it went under. A crocodile.

He had it now! It went back to his childhood days. A creeping terror that, having gotten loose from a zoo, had found safety in a pond and there seized an unsuspecting calf, pulling—pulling—pulling the screaming animal under until it disappeared. A crocodile.

His reverie was broken by the irruption of Russell Edmonds. An inch of the stem of the veteran’s dainty little pipe was clenched firmly between his teeth; but there was no bowl.

His daydream was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Russell Edmonds. A small piece of the stem of the veteran’s delicate little pipe was clamped tightly between his teeth, but there was no bowl.

“Where’s the rest of your pipe?” asked Banneker, stupefied by this phenomenon.

“Where’s the rest of your pipe?” asked Banneker, stunned by this situation.

“I’ve resigned,” said Edmonds.

“I quit,” said Edmonds.

“God! I wish I could,” muttered Banneker.

“God! I wish I could,” Banneker mumbled.

CHAPTER XVI

Explanations were now due to two people, Io and Willis Enderby. As to Io, Banneker felt an inner conviction of strength. Hopeless though he was of making his course appear in any other light than that of surrender, nevertheless he could tell himself that it was really done for her, to protect her name. But he could not tell her this. He knew too well what the answer of that high and proud spirit of hers would be; that if their anomalous relationship was hampering his freedom, dividing his conscience, the only course of honor was for them to stop seeing each other at no matter what cost of suffering; let Banneker resign, if that were his rightful course, and tell The Searchlight to do its worst. Yes; such would be Io’s idea of playing the game. He could not force it. He must argue with her, if at all, on the plea of expediency. And to her forthright and uncompromising fearlessness, expediency was in itself the poorest of expedients. At the last, there was her love for him to appeal to. But would Io love where she could not trust?... He turned from that thought.

Explanations were now needed from two people, Io and Willis Enderby. Regarding Io, Banneker felt a strong inner resolve. Even though he felt hopeless about making his actions seem anything but surrender, he could convince himself it was truly for her sake, to protect her reputation. However, he couldn't say this to her. He knew too well what her proud and independent spirit would respond; if their unusual relationship was limiting his freedom and dividing his conscience, the honorable thing to do would be to stop seeing each other, no matter the suffering it caused. He should resign if that was what he ought to do and tell The Searchlight to do its worst. Yes, that would be Io’s idea of playing fair. He couldn't force it. If he was going to discuss it with her at all, it had to be on the basis of practicality. But to her straightforward and uncompromising boldness, practicality was the worst option. In the end, he could appeal to her love for him. But would Io love where she couldn't have trust?... He pushed that thought away.

As an alternative subject for consideration, Willis Enderby was hardly more assuring and even more perplexing. True, Banneker owed no explanation to him; but for his own satisfaction of mind he must have it out with the lawyer. He had a profound admiration for Enderby and knew that this was in a measure reciprocated by a patent and almost wistful liking, curious in a person as reserved as Enderby. He cherished a vague impression that somehow Enderby would understand. Or, at least, that he would want to understand. Consequently he was not surprised when the lawyer called him up and asked him to come that evening to the Enderby house. He went at once to the point.

As an alternative subject to think about, Willis Enderby was hardly more reassuring and even more confusing. True, Banneker didn’t owe him any explanation; but for his own peace of mind, he needed to talk things over with the lawyer. He had a deep admiration for Enderby, and he knew that this feeling was somewhat mutual, shown by an obvious and almost nostalgic fondness, which was unusual for someone as reserved as Enderby. He had a vague feeling that, somehow, Enderby would get it. Or, at least, that he would want to get it. So, he wasn’t surprised when the lawyer called him and asked him to come over to the Enderby house that evening. He got straight to the point.

“Banneker, do you know anything of an advertisement by the striking garment-workers, which The Patriot first accepted and afterward refused to print?”

“Banneker, do you know anything about an ad from the striking garment workers that The Patriot first agreed to print and then decided not to?”

“Yes.”

"Yep."

“Are you at liberty to tell me why?”

"Can you explain why?"

“In confidence.”

“In secret.”

“That is implied.”

"That's implied."

“Mr. Marrineal ordered it killed.”

“Mr. Marrineal had it killed.”

“Ah! It was Marrineal himself. The advocate of the Common People! The friend of Labor!”

“Wow! It was Marrineal himself. The champion of the Common People! The ally of Labor!”

“Admirable campaign material,” observed Banneker composedly, “if it were possible to use it.”

“Great campaign material,” Banneker said calmly, “if it could actually be used.”

“Which, of course, it isn’t; being confidential,” Enderby capped the thought. “I hear that Russell Edmonds has resigned.”

“Which, of course, it isn’t; being confidential,” Enderby finished the thought. “I heard that Russell Edmonds has resigned.”

“That is true.”

"That's true."

“In consequence of the rejected advertisement?”

“In response to the rejected advertisement?”

Banneker sat silent so long that his host began: “Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked that—”

Banneker sat in silence for so long that his host finally said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that—”

“I’m going to tell you exactly what occurred,” said Banneker quietly, and outlined the episode of the editorial, suppressing, however, Marrineal’s covert threat as to Io and The Searchlight. “And I haven’t resigned. So you see what manner of man I am,” he concluded defiantly.

“I’m going to tell you exactly what happened,” Banneker said quietly, and he recounted the events of the editorial, leaving out Marrineal’s hidden threat about Io and The Searchlight. “And I haven’t resigned. So you see what kind of man I am,” he finished defiantly.

“You mean a coward? I don’t think it.”

“You mean a coward? I don’t see it that way.”

“I wish I were sure!” burst out Banneker.

“I wish I was sure!” Banneker exclaimed.

“Ah? That’s hard, when the soul doesn’t know itself. Is it money?” The crisp, clear voice had softened to a great kindliness. “Are you in debt, my boy?”

“Hmm? That’s tough when the soul doesn’t understand itself. Is it about money?” The sharp, clear voice had turned warm and kind. “Are you in debt, my boy?”

“No. Yes; I am. I’d forgotten. That doesn’t matter.”

“No. Yes; I am. I forgot. That doesn’t matter.”

“Apparently not.” The lawyer’s heavy brows went up, “More serious than money,” he commented.

“Looks like not.” The lawyer raised his heavy eyebrows, “This is more serious than just money,” he said.

Banneker recognized the light of suspicion, comprehension, confirmation in the keen and fine visage turned upon him. Enderby continued:

Banneker noticed the glimmer of suspicion, understanding, and validation in the sharp and refined face looking at him. Enderby went on:

“Well, there are matters that can be talked of and other matters that can’t be talked of. But if you ever feel that you want the advice of a man who has seen human nature on a good many sides, and has learned not to judge too harshly of it, come to me. The only counsel I ever give gratis to those who can pay for it”—he smiled faintly—“is the kind that may be too valuable to sell.”

“Well, there are things you can talk about and things you can’t. But if you ever feel like you want advice from someone who has seen human nature in many different ways and has learned not to judge it too harshly, come to me. The only advice I ever give for free to those who can afford it”—he smiled slightly—“is the kind that might be too valuable to charge for.”

“But I’d like to know,” said Banneker slowly, “why you don’t think me a yellow dog for not resigning.”

“But I’d like to know,” Banneker said slowly, “why you don’t think I’m a coward for not resigning.”

“Because, in your heart you don’t think yourself one. Speaking of that interesting species, I suppose you know that your principal is working for the governorship.”

“Because, deep down, you don’t see yourself as one. Speaking of that intriguing group, I assume you know that your principal is running for governor.”

“Will he get the nomination?”

“Will he receive the nomination?”

“Quite possibly. Unless I can beat him for it. I’ll tell you privately I may be the opposing candidate. Not that the party loves me any too much; but I’m at least respectable, fairly strong up-State, and they’ll take what they have to in order to beat Marrineal, who is forcing himself down their throats.”

“Probably. Unless I can outdo him for it. I’ll tell you privately that I might be the other candidate. Not that the party really likes me; but I’m at least respectable, fairly strong upstate, and they’ll accept what they need to in order to defeat Marrineal, who is pushing himself onto them.”

“A pleasant prospect for me,” gloomed Banneker. “I’ll have to fight you.”

“A nice situation for me,” frowned Banneker. “I guess I’ll have to fight you.”

“Go ahead and fight,” returned the other heartily. “It won’t be the first time.”

“Go ahead and fight,” the other replied warmly. “It won’t be the first time.”

“At least, I want you to know that it’ll be fair fight.”

“At the very least, I want you to know that it’ll be a fair fight.”

“No ‘Junior-called-me-Bob’ trick this time?” smiled Enderby.

“No ‘Junior-called-me-Bob’ trick this time?” Enderby smiled.

Banneker flushed and winced. “No,” he answered. “Next time I’ll be sure of my facts. Good-night and good luck. I hope you beat us.”

Banneker blushed and flinched. “No,” he replied. “Next time I’ll double-check my facts. Good night and good luck. I hope you win against us.”

As he turned the corner into Fifth Avenue a thought struck him. He made the round of the block, came up the side of the street opposite, and met a stroller having all the ear-marks of the private detective. To think of a man of Judge Enderby’s character being continuously “spotted” for the mean design of an Ely Ives filled Banneker with a sick fury. His first thought was to return and tell Enderby. But to what purpose? After all, what possible harm could Ives’s plotting and sneaking do to a man of the lawyer’s rectitude? Banneker returned to The House With Three Eyes and his unceasing work.

As he turned the corner onto Fifth Avenue, a thought hit him. He made his way around the block, came up the opposite side of the street, and encountered a person who looked like a private detective. The idea of someone like Judge Enderby being constantly watched for the shady purposes of Ely Ives filled Banneker with a deep anger. His first instinct was to go back and tell Enderby. But what would be the point? After all, how could Ives’s scheming and spying possibly harm a man of the lawyer’s integrity? Banneker returned to The House With Three Eyes and his endless work.

The interview with Enderby had lightened his spirit. The older man’s candor, his tolerance, his clear charity of judgment, his sympathetic comprehension were soothing and reassuring. But there was another trouble yet to be faced. It was three days since the editorial appeared and he had heard no word from Io. Each noon when he called on the long-distance ‘phone, she had been out, an unprecedented change from her eager waiting to hear the daily voice on the wire. Should he write? No; it was too difficult and dangerous for that. He must talk it out with her, face to face, when the time came.

The interview with Enderby had lifted his spirits. The older man's honesty, patience, generous judgment, and understanding nature were comforting and reassuring. But there was another issue still looming. It had been three days since the editorial was published, and he hadn’t heard anything from Io. Each day at noon, when he tried to call her on the long-distance phone, she was unavailable—this was a huge change from her usual enthusiasm to hear his voice daily. Should he write to her? No; that felt too complicated and risky. He needed to talk to her in person when the time was right.

Meantime there was Russell Edmonds. He found the veteran cleaning out his desk preparatory to departure.

Meantime, there was Russell Edmonds. He found the veteran cleaning out his desk in preparation for leaving.

“You can’t know how it hurts to see you go, Pop,” he said sadly. “What’s your next step?”

“You can’t imagine how much it hurts to see you leave, Dad,” he said sadly. “What’s your next move?”

“The Sphere. They want me to do a special series, out around the country.”

“The Sphere. They want me to do a special series, traveling around the country.”

“Aren’t they pretty conservative for your ideas?”

“Aren't they pretty traditional for your ideas?”

Edmonds, ruminating over a pipe even smaller and more fragile than the one sacrificed to his rage and disgust, the day of his resignation, gave utterance to a profound truth:

Edmonds, thinking over a pipe even smaller and more delicate than the one he had destroyed in his anger and frustration on the day he quit, expressed a deep truth:

“What’s the difference whether a newspaper is radical or conservative, Ban, if it tells the truth? That’s the whole test and touchstone; to give news honestly. The rest will take care of itself. Compared to us The Sphere crowd are conservative. But they’re honest. And they’re not afraid.”

“What’s the difference if a newspaper is radical or conservative, Ban, as long as it tells the truth? That’s the main test and standard; to report the news honestly. Everything else will sort itself out. Compared to us, the Sphere crowd is conservative. But they’re honest. And they’re not afraid.”

“Yes. They’re honest, and not afraid—because they don’t have to be,” said Banneker, in a tone so somber that his friend said quickly:

“Yes. They’re honest and unafraid—because they don’t have to be,” Banneker said, in a tone so serious that his friend quickly replied:

“I didn’t mean that for you, son.”

“I didn’t mean that for you, kid.”

“Well, if I’ve gone wrong, I’ve got my punishment before me,” pursued the other with increased gloom. “Having to work for Marrineal and further his plans, after knowing him as I know him now—that’s a refined species of retribution, Pop.”

“Well, if I’ve messed up, I’m already facing my punishment,” the other continued with growing gloom. “Having to work for Marrineal and support his plans, after knowing him like I do now—that’s a pretty twisted form of payback, Pop.”

“I know; I know. You’ve got to stick and wait your chance, and hold your following until you can get your own newspaper. Then,” said Russell Edmonds with the glory of an inspired vision shining in his weary eyes, “you can tell ’em all to go to hell. Oh, for a paper of our own kind that’s really independent; that don’t care a hoot for anything except to get the news and get it straight, and interpret it straight; that don’t have to be afraid of anything but not being honest!”

“I get it; I get it. You have to stay patient and wait for your opportunity, and build your audience until you can launch your own newspaper. Then,” Russell Edmonds said, with the spark of an inspired vision shining in his tired eyes, “you can tell everyone to go to hell. Oh, for a newspaper that’s truly independent; one that doesn’t care about anything except delivering the news and delivering it accurately, and interpreting it honestly; that doesn’t have to fear anything except not being truthful!”

“Pop,” said Banneker, spiritlessly, “what’s the use? How do we know we aren’t chasing a rainbow? How do we know people want an honest paper or would know one if they saw it?”

“Pop,” said Banneker, flatly, “what's the point? How do we know we aren’t just chasing a dream? How do we know people want a truthful newspaper or would even recognize one if they came across it?”

“My God, son! Don’t talk like that,” implored the veteran. “That’s the one heresy for which men in our game are eternally damned—and deserve it.”

“My God, son! Don’t talk like that,” pleaded the veteran. “That’s the one sin that can get men like us forever cursed—and we deserve it.”

“All right. I know it. I don’t mean it, Pop. I’m not adopting Marrineal’s creed. Not just yet.”

“All right. I get it. I don’t really mean it, Dad. I’m not adopting Marrineal’s beliefs. Not just yet.”

“By the way, Marrineal was asking for you this morning.”

“By the way, Marrineal was looking for you this morning.”

“Was he? I’ll look him up. Perhaps he’s going to fire me. I wish he would.”

“Was he? I’ll check him out. Maybe he’s planning to fire me. I hope he does.”

“Catch him!” grunted the other, reverting to his task. “More likely going to raise your salary.”

“Catch him!” huffed the other, going back to his work. “You’re probably just going to get a raise.”

As between the two surmises, Edmonds’s was the nearer the truth. Urbane as always, the proprietor of The Patriot waved his editor to a seat, remarking, “I hope you’ll sit down this time,” the slightly ironical tinge to the final words being, in the course of the interview, his only reference to their previous encounter. Wondering dully whether Marrineal could have any idea of the murderous hatred which he inspired, Banneker took the nearest chair and waited. After some discussion as to the policy of the paper in respect to the strike, which was on the point of settlement by compromise, Marrineal set his delicate fingers point to point and said:

Between the two guesses, Edmonds’s was closer to the truth. As always, the owner of The Patriot waved his editor to a seat, saying, “I hope you’ll sit down this time,” with a slightly ironic tone in his last words, which would be the only mention of their previous meeting during the interview. Banneker wondered dully if Marrineal had any idea of the intense hatred he inspired, then took the closest chair and waited. After discussing the paper's stance on the strike, which was about to be settled through compromise, Marrineal pointed his delicate fingers together and said:

“I want to talk to you about the future.”

“I want to talk to you about what's coming next.”

“I’m listening,” returned Banneker uncompromisingly.

“I’m listening,” Banneker replied firmly.

“Your ultimate ambition is to own and control a newspaper of your own, isn’t it?”

“Your ultimate goal is to own and run your own newspaper, right?”

“Why do you think that?”

"Why do you feel that?"

Marrineal’s slow, sparse smile hardly moved his lips. “It’s in character that you should. What else is there for you?”

Marrineal’s slow, thin smile barely shifted his lips. “It’s your character that makes it necessary. What other options do you have?”

“Well?”

"What's up?"

“Have you ever thought of The Patriot?”

“Have you ever thought about The Patriot?”

Involuntarily Banneker straightened in his chair. “Is The Patriot in the market?”

Involuntarily, Banneker sat up straight in his chair. “Is The Patriot for sale?”

“Hardly. That isn’t what I have in mind.”

“Not at all. That’s not what I’m thinking.”

“Will you kindly be more explicit?”

“Could you please be more clear?”

“Mr. Banneker, I intend to be the next governor of this State.”

“Mr. Banneker, I plan to be the next governor of this state.”

“I might quote a proverb on that point,” returned the editor unpleasantly.

“I could mention a saying about that,” the editor replied, not very pleasantly.

“Yes; and I might cap your cup-and-lip proverb with another as to the effect of money as a stimulus in a horse-race.”

“Yes; and I might top your cup-and-lip saying with another about how money acts as a motivator in a horse race.”

“I have no doubts as to your financial capacity.”

"I have no doubts about your financial ability."

“My organization is building up through the State. I’ve got the country newspapers in a friendly, not to say expectant, mood. There’s just one man I’m afraid of.”

“My organization is gaining traction through the State. I've got the local newspapers in a friendly, if not a bit expectant, mood. There's just one guy I'm worried about.”

“Judge Enderby?”

"Judge Enderby?"

“Exactly.”

"Exactly."

“I should think he would be an admirable nominee.”

“I think he would be an excellent nominee.”

“As an individual you are at liberty to hold such opinions as you please. As editor of The Patriot—”

“As an individual, you’re free to have whatever opinions you want. As the editor of The Patriot—”

“I am to support The Patriot candidate and owner. Did you send for me to tell me that, Mr. Marrineal? I’m not altogether an idiot, please remember.”

“I’m here to support the Patriot candidate and owner. Did you call me to say that, Mr. Marrineal? I’m not completely clueless, just so you know.”

“You are a friend of Judge Enderby.”

“You’re a friend of Judge Enderby.”

“If I am, that is a personal, not a political matter. No matter how much I might prefer to see him the candidate of the party”—Banneker spoke with cold deliberation—“I should not stultify myself or the paper by supporting him against the paper’s owner.”

“If I am, that’s a personal issue, not a political one. No matter how much I might want to see him as the party’s candidate,” Banneker spoke with a calm certainty, “I shouldn’t compromise myself or the paper by backing him against the paper’s owner.”

“That is satisfactory.” Marrineal swallowed the affront without a gulp. “To continue. If I am elected governor, nothing on earth can prevent my being the presidential nominee two years later.”

"That's acceptable." Marrineal took the insult without flinching. "To continue. If I become governor, nothing will stop me from being the presidential nominee two years later."

Equally appalled and amused by the enormous egotism of the man thus suddenly revealed, Banneker studied him in silence.

Equally shocked and entertained by the man's huge ego that had just been exposed, Banneker observed him quietly.

“Nothing in the world,” repeated the other. “I have the political game figured out to an exact science. I know how to shape my policies, how to get the money backing I need, how to handle the farmer and labor. It may be news to you to know that I now control eight of the leading farm journals of the country and half a dozen labor organs. However, this is beside the question. My point with you is this. With my election as governor, my chief interest in The Patriot ceases. The paper will have set me on the road; I’ll do the rest. Reserving only the right to determine certain very broad policies, I purpose to turn over the control of The Patriot to you.”

“Nothing in the world,” the other repeated. “I’ve figured out the political game down to a science. I know how to shape my policies, secure the funding I need, and manage both the farmers and labor groups. You might be surprised to learn that I currently control eight of the leading farm journals in the country and half a dozen labor publications. But that’s beside the point. What I’m getting at is this: with my election as governor, my main interest in The Patriot will come to an end. The paper has paved the way for me; I’ll handle the rest. I’ll only keep the right to decide on some very broad policies, but I plan to hand over control of The Patriot to you.”

“To me!” said Banneker, thunderstruck.

"To me!" exclaimed Banneker, stunned.

“Provided I am elected governor,” said Marrineal. “Which depends largely—yes, almost entirely—on the elimination of Judge Enderby.”

“Assuming I get elected governor,” said Marrineal. “Which depends mostly—yes, almost completely—on getting rid of Judge Enderby.”

“What are you asking me to do?” demanded Banneker, genuinely puzzled.

“What do you want me to do?” Banneker asked, truly confused.

“Absolutely nothing. As my right-hand man on the paper, you are entitled to know my plans, particularly as they affect you. I can add that when I reach the White House”—this with sublime confidence—“the paper will be for sale and you may have the option on it.”

“Absolutely nothing. As my right-hand man at the paper, you have the right to know my plans, especially since they impact you. I can also say that when I get to the White House”—this with complete confidence—“the paper will be for sale and you can have the option to buy it.”

Banneker’s brain seemed filled with flashes of light, as he returned to his desk. He sat there, deep-slumped in his chair, thinking, planning, suspecting, plumbing for the depths of Marrineal’s design, and above all filled with an elate ambition. Not that he believed for a moment in Marrineal’s absurd and megalomaniacal visions of the presidency. But the governorship; that indeed was possible enough; and that would mean a free hand for Banneker for the term. What might he not do with The Patriot in that time!... An insistent and obtrusive disturbance to his profound cogitation troubled him. What was it that seemed to be setting forth a claim to divide his attention? Ah, the telephone. He thrust it aside, but it would not be silenced. Well ... what.... The discreet voice of his man said that a telegram had come for him. All right (with impatience); read it over the wire. The message, thus delivered in mechanical tones, struck from his mind the lesser considerations which a moment before had glowed with such shifting and troublous glory.

Banneker's mind felt like it was bursting with ideas as he returned to his desk. He sank deep into his chair, thinking, planning, and trying to figure out Marrineal's intentions, all while being fueled by a strong sense of ambition. He didn’t believe for a second in Marrineal’s ridiculous and grandiose dreams of becoming president. But the governorship? That was definitely within reach. It would give Banneker the freedom to act during his term. Just imagine what he could do with The Patriot in that time!... An annoying distraction broke through his deep thoughts. What was it that was demanding his attention? Oh, the phone. He pushed it aside, but it kept ringing. Well... what... The familiar voice of his assistant informed him that a telegram had arrived for him. Fine (with impatience); just read it over the wire. The message, delivered in robotic tones, erased the smaller worries that had just moments ago seemed so vibrant and pressing.

D. died this morning. Will write. I.

D. passed away this morning. I'll write. I.

CHAPTER XVII

Work, incessant and of savage ardor, now filled Banneker’s life. Once more he immersed himself in it as assuagement to the emptiness of long days and the yearning of longer nights. For, in the three months since Delavan Eyre’s death, Banneker had seen Io but once, and then very briefly. Instead of subduing her loveliness, the mourning garb enhanced and enriched it, like a jet setting to a glowing jewel. More irresistibly than ever she was

Work, relentless and driven by intense passion, now consumed Banneker's life. He threw himself into it again to numb the emptiness of long days and the aching loneliness of longer nights. In the three months since Delavan Eyre’s death, Banneker had only seen Io once, and that encounter was very brief. Rather than dulling her beauty, her mourning attire highlighted and deepened it, like a jet contrasting with a brilliant jewel. She was more captivating than ever.

“............ that Lady Beauty in whose praise The voice and hand shake still”—

“............ that Lady Beauty, who is still praised by voice and hand”—

but there was something about her withdrawn, aloof of spirit, which he dared not override or even challenge. She spoke briefly of Eyre, without any pretense of great sorrow, dwelling with a kindled eye on that which she had found admirable in him; his high and steadfast courage through atrocious suffering until darkness settled down on his mind. Her own plans were definite; she was going away with the elder Mrs. Eyre to a rest resort. Of The Patriot and its progress she talked with interest, but her questions were general and did not touch upon the matter of the surrendered editorial. Was she purposely avoiding it or had it passed from her mind in the stress of more personal events? Banneker would have liked to know, but deemed it better not to ask. Once he tried to elicit from her some indication of when she would marry him; but from this decision she exhibited a covert and inexplicable shrinking. This he might attribute, if he chose, to that innate and sound formalism which would always lead her to observe the rules of the game; if from no special respect for them as such, then out of deference to the prejudices of others. Nevertheless, he experienced a gnawing uncertainty, amounting to a half-confessed dread.

but there was something about her withdrawn, distant nature that he dared not ignore or challenge. She briefly mentioned Eyre, without any pretense of deep sorrow, focusing with bright eyes on what she had admired in him; his strong and unwavering courage through immense suffering until darkness clouded his mind. Her plans were clear; she was going away with the older Mrs. Eyre to a resort. She talked with interest about The Patriot and its progress, but her questions were general and didn't address the issue of the surrendered editorial. Was she intentionally avoiding it or had it slipped her mind amidst more personal events? Banneker wished he knew, but he thought it best not to ask. Once he tried to get her to hint at when she would marry him; but she showed a subtle and confusing reluctance to this idea. He could attribute this, if he wanted, to her inherent and strong sense of formalism that would always lead her to follow the rules of the game; if not out of actual respect for them, then out of consideration for others' biases. Still, he felt a nagging uncertainty that felt like a half-acknowledged fear.

Yet, at the moment of parting, she came to his arms, clung to him, gave him her lips passionately, longingly; bade him write, for his letters would be all that there was to keep life radiant for her....

Yet, at the moment of parting, she ran into his arms, clung to him, passionately and longingly kissed him; told him to write, because his letters would be all that would keep her life vibrant....

Through some perverse kink in his mental processes, he found it difficult to write to Io, in the succeeding weeks and months, during which she devotedly accompanied the failing Mrs. Eyre from rest cure to sanitarium, about his work on The Patriot. That interplay of interest between them in his editorial plans and purposes, which had so stimulated and inspired him, was checked. The mutual current had ceased to flash; at least, so he felt. Had the wretched affair of his forfeited promise in the matter of the strike announcement destroyed one bond between them? Even were this true, there were other bonds, of the spirit and therefore irrefragable, to hold her to him; thus he comforted his anxious hopes.

Through some strange twist in his thinking, he found it hard to write to Io in the weeks and months that followed, while she faithfully accompanied the ailing Mrs. Eyre from rest cure to sanitarium, about his work on The Patriot. The connection they shared regarding his editorial plans and goals, which had inspired him so much, was interrupted. The mutual spark had faded; at least, that’s how he felt. Had the unfortunate incident of his broken promise regarding the strike announcement severed one link between them? Even if that were true, there were other deep, spiritual connections that would keep her tied to him; this thought eased his troubled hopes.

Because their community of interest in his work had lapsed, Banneker found the savor oozing out of his toil. Monotony sang its dispiriting drone in his ears. He flung himself into polo with reawakened vim, and roused the hopes of The Retreat for the coming season, until an unlucky spill broke two ribs and dislocated a shoulder. Restless in the physical idleness of his mending days, he took to drifting about in the whirls and ripples and backwaters of the city life, out of which wanderings grew a new series of the “Vagrancies,” more quaint and delicate and trenchant than the originals because done with a pen under perfected mastery, without losing anything of the earlier simplicity and sympathy. In this work, Banneker found relief; and in Io’s delight in it, a reflected joy that lent fresh impetus to his special genius. The Great Gaines enthusiastically accepted the new sketches for his magazine.

Because the interest in his work had faded, Banneker felt the excitement draining from his efforts. Monotony droned in his ears, bringing him down. He threw himself into polo with renewed energy, lifting the hopes of The Retreat for the upcoming season, until an unfortunate fall broke two ribs and dislocated a shoulder. Restless during his recovery, he started wandering through the bustling life of the city, and from those explorations came a new series of the “Vagrancies,” which were more unique, delicate, and sharp than the originals because they were crafted with a pen in full control, while still maintaining the earlier simplicity and warmth. In this work, Banneker found relief; and in Io’s joy about it, he found a reflected happiness that inspired his creativity. The Great Gaines eagerly accepted the new sketches for his magazine.

Whatever ebbing of fervor from his daily task Banneker might feel, his public was conscious of no change for the worse. Letters of commendation, objection, denunciation, and hysteria, most convincing evidence of an editor’s sway over the public mind, increased weekly. So, also, did the circulation of The Patriot, and its advertising revenue. Its course in the garment strike had satisfied the heavy local advertisers of its responsibility and repentance for sins past; they testified, by material support, to their appreciation. Banneker’s strongly pro-labor editorials they read with the mental commentary that probably The Patriot had to do that kind of thing to hold its circulation; but it could be depended upon to be “right” when the pinch came. Marrineal would see to that.

Whatever decrease in enthusiasm Banneker might feel toward his daily work, his audience noticed no decline in quality. Letters of praise, criticism, condemnation, and outrage—strong indicators of an editor's influence over public opinion—increased each week. So did the circulation of The Patriot and its ad revenue. Its position during the garment strike had reassured the major local advertisers of its accountability and contrition for past mistakes; they showed their appreciation through financial support. They read Banneker’s strongly pro-labor editorials with the thought that The Patriot probably needed to do that to maintain its circulation; however, they trusted it would be “right” when it mattered most. Marrineal would ensure that.

Since the episode of the killed proof, Marrineal had pursued a hands-off policy with regard to the editorial page. The labor editorials suited him admirably. They were daily winning back to the paper the support of Marrineal’s pet “common people” who had been alienated by its course in the strike, for McClintick and other leaders had been sedulously spreading the story of the rejected strikers’ advertisement. But, it appeared, Marrineal’s estimate of the public’s memory was correct: “They never remember.” Banneker’s skillful and vehement preachments against Wall Street, money domination of the masses, and the like, went far to wipe out the inherent anti-labor record of the paper and its owner. Hardly a day passed that some working-man’s union or club did not pass resolutions of confidence and esteem for Tertius C. Marrineal and The Patriot. It amused Marrineal almost as much as it gratified him. As a political asset it was invaluable. His one cause of complaint against the editorial page was that it would not attack Judge Enderby, except on general political or economic principles. And the forte of The Patriot in attack did not consist in polite and amenable forensics. Its readers were accustomed to the methods of the prize-ring rather than the debating platform. However, Marrineal made up for his editorial writer’s lukewarmness, by the vigor of his own attacks upon Enderby. For, by early summer, it became evident that the nomination (and probable election) lay between these two opponents. Enderby was organizing a strong campaign. So competent and unbiased an observer of political events as Russell Edmonds, now on The Sphere, believed that Marrineal would be beaten. Shrewd, notwithstanding his egotism, Marrineal entertained a growing dread of this outcome himself. Through roundabout channels, he let his chief editorial writer understand that, when the final onset was timed, The Patriot’s editorial page would be expected to lead the charge with the “spear that knows no brother.” Banneker would appreciate that his own interests, almost as much as his chief’s, were committed to the overthrow of Willis Enderby.

Since the incident with the killed proof, Marrineal had taken a hands-off approach to the editorial page. The labor editorials worked perfectly for him. They were gradually winning back the support of Marrineal's beloved "common people," who had felt alienated by the paper's stance during the strike, thanks to McClintick and other leaders who had diligently spread the story of the rejected strikers’ advertisement. But it seemed that Marrineal’s view of the public's memory was right: "They never remember." Banneker's skillful and passionate arguments against Wall Street, the money control over the masses, and similar topics helped to erase the paper's and its owner's longstanding anti-labor reputation. Not a day went by without some workers' union or club passing resolutions of confidence and support for Tertius C. Marrineal and The Patriot. This amused Marrineal just as much as it pleased him. It was an invaluable political asset. His only complaint about the editorial page was that it wouldn’t go after Judge Enderby, except on broad political or economic issues. The Patriot's method of attack was not known for being polite and respectful in debates; its readers were used to the tactics of the boxing ring rather than formal discussions. Nonetheless, Marrineal compensated for his editorial writer’s hesitance with the intensity of his own attacks on Enderby. By early summer, it became clear that the nomination (and likely election) was a contest between these two opponents. Enderby was building a strong campaign. A keen and unbiased observer of political events like Russell Edmonds, now at The Sphere, believed that Marrineal would lose. Despite his arrogance, Marrineal started to feel a growing fear of this possibility. Through indirect channels, he made sure his lead editorial writer understood that when the final attack was set, The Patriot’s editorial page would need to spearhead the charge with the “spear that knows no brother.” Banneker would realize that his own interests, just as much as his boss's, were tied to taking down Willis Enderby.

It was not a happy time for the Editor of The Patriot.

It wasn't a good time for the Editor of The Patriot.

Happiness promised for the near future, however. Wearied of chasing a phantom hope of health from spot to spot, the elder Mrs. Eyre had finally elected to settle down for the summer at her Westchester place. For obvious reasons, Io did not wish Banneker to come there. But she would plan to see him in town. Only, they must be very discreet; perhaps even to the extent of having a third person dine with them, her half-brother Archie, or Esther Forbes. Any one, any time, anywhere, Banneker wrote back, provided only he could see her again!

Happiness was promised for the near future, though. Tired of chasing the elusive hope of health from one place to another, the elder Mrs. Eyre had finally decided to settle down for the summer at her Westchester home. For obvious reasons, Io didn’t want Banneker to come there. But she planned to see him in the city. They just needed to be very discreet; maybe even to the point of having a third person join them for dinner, like her half-brother Archie or Esther Forbes. Any time, any place, Banneker wrote back, as long as he could see her again!

The day that she came to town, having arranged to meet Banneker for dinner with Esther, fate struck from another and unexpected quarter. Such was Banneker’s appearance when he came forward to greet her that Io cried out involuntarily, asking if he were ill.

The day she arrived in town to meet Banneker for dinner with Esther, something unexpected happened. When Banneker stepped up to greet her, Io blurted out, asking if he was sick.

“I’m not,” he answered briefly. Then, with a forced smile of appeal to the third member, “Do you mind, Esther, if I talk to Io on a private matter?”

I'm not, he replied shortly. Then, with a strained smile directed at the third person, “Do you mind, Esther, if I speak to Io about something private?”

“Go as near as you like,” returned that understanding young person promptly. “I’m consumed with a desire to converse with Elsie Maitland, who is dining in that very farthest corner. Back in an hour.”

“Go as close as you want,” that perceptive young person replied quickly. “I’m really eager to talk to Elsie Maitland, who is dining in that farthest corner over there. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“It’s Camilla Van Arsdale,” said Banneker as the girl left.

“It’s Camilla Van Arsdale,” Banneker said as the girl walked away.

“You’ve heard from her?”

“Have you heard from her?”

“From Mindle who looks after my shack there. He says she’s very ill. I’ve got to go out there at once.”

“From Mindle, who takes care of my cabin out there. He says she’s really sick. I need to get out there right away.”

“Oh, Ban!”

“I know, dearest, and after all these endless weeks of separation. But you wouldn’t have me do otherwise. Would you?”

“I know, my dear, especially after all these long weeks apart. But you wouldn’t want me to do anything different. Would you?”

“Of course not,” she said indignantly. “When do you start?”

“Of course not,” she said angrily. “When do you start?”

“At midnight.”

“At 12 AM.”

“And your work?”

“What's your job?”

“I’ll send my stuff in by wire.”

“I'll send my stuff online.”

“How long?”

“How long will it take?”

“I can’t tell until I get there.”

“I won’t know until I get there.”

“Ban, you mustn’t go,” she said with a changed tone.

“Ban, you can't go,” she said with a different tone.

“Not go? To Miss Camilla? There’s nothing—”

“Not going? To Miss Camilla? There’s nothing—”

“I’ll go.”

"I'm on my way."

“You!”

“Why not? If she’s seriously ill, she needs a woman, not a man with her.”

“Why not? If she’s really sick, she needs a woman with her, not a man.”

“But—but, Io, you don’t even like her.”

“Heaven give you understanding, Ban,” she retorted with a bewitching pretext of enforced patience. “She’s a woman, and she was good to me in my trouble. And if that weren’t enough, she’s your friend whom you love.”

“God help you understand, Ban,” she shot back with a charming facade of forced patience. “She’s a woman, and she was kind to me in my time of need. And if that’s not enough, she’s your friend whom you care about.”

“I oughtn’t to let you,” he hesitated.

“I shouldn’t let you,” he hesitated.

“You’ve got to let me. I’d go, anyway. Get Esther back. She must help me pack. Get me a drawing-room if you can. If not, I’ll take your berth.”

“You have to let me. I’m going, no matter what. Get Esther back. She needs to help me pack. Try to get me a drawing room if you can. If not, I’ll take your cabin.”

“You’re going to leave to-night?”

“You’re leaving tonight?”

“Of course. What would you suppose?” She gave him her lustrous smile. “I’ll love it,” she said softly, “because it’s partly for you.”

“Of course. What do you think?” She flashed him her radiant smile. “I’ll love it,” she said softly, “because it’s partly for you.”

The rest of the evening was consumed for Banneker in writing and wiring, arranging reservations through his influence with a local railroad official whom he pried loose from a rubber of bridge at his club; while Io and Esther, dinnerless except for a hasty box of sandwiches, were back in Westchester packing and explaining to Mrs. Eyre. When the three reconvened in Io’s drawing-room the traveler was prepared for an indefinite stay.

The rest of the evening for Banneker was spent writing and sending messages, arranging reservations through his connections with a local railroad official he persuaded to help during a game at his club. Meanwhile, Io and Esther, having only a quick box of sandwiches for dinner, were back in Westchester packing and explaining things to Mrs. Eyre. When the three of them met up again in Io’s living room, the traveler was ready for a long stay.

“If her condition is critical I’ll wire for you,” promised lo. “Otherwise you mustn’t come.”

“If her condition is critical, I’ll wire you,” promised Lo. “Otherwise, you shouldn’t come.”

With that he must make shift to be content; that and a swift clasp of her arms, a clinging pressure of her lips, and her soft “Good-bye. Oh, good-bye! Love me every minute while I’m gone,” before the tactful Esther Forbes, somewhat miscast in the temporary role of Propriety, returned from a conversation with the porter to say that they really must get off that very instant or be carried westward to the eternal scandal of society which would not understand a triangular elopement.

With that, he had to manage to be okay; that and a quick hug from her, a lingering press of her lips, and her soft “Goodbye. Oh, goodbye! Love me every moment I’m gone,” before the tactful Esther Forbes, a bit miscast in the temporary role of Properness, came back from talking to the porter to say that they really needed to leave right away or risk being carried westward to the eternal scandal of society, which wouldn’t understand a love triangle escape.

Loneliness no longer beset Banneker, even though Io was farther separated from him than before in the unimportant reckoning of geographical miles; for now she was on his errand. He held her by the continuous thought of a vital common interest. In place of the former bereavement of spirit was a new and consuming anxiety for Camilla Van Arsdale. Io’s first telegram from Manzanita went far to appease that. Miss Van Arsdale had suffered a severe shock, but was now on the road to recovery: Io would stay indefinitely: there was no reason for Banneker’s coming out for the present: in fact, the patient definitely prohibited it: letter followed.

Loneliness no longer troubled Banneker, even though Io was farther away than before in the insignificant measure of miles; now she was on his mission. He was linked to her by the constant thought of a shared important interest. Instead of the previous feeling of loss, he was now filled with a deep concern for Camilla Van Arsdale. Io’s first telegram from Manzanita helped ease that worry. Miss Van Arsdale had experienced a serious shock but was now on the path to recovery: Io would stay for as long as needed: there was no reason for Banneker to come out for now: in fact, the patient explicitly requested that he didn’t: a letter followed.

The letter, when it came, forced a cry, as of physical pain, from Banneker’s throat. Camilla Van Arsdale was going blind. Some obscure reflex of the heart trouble had affected the blood supply of the eyes, and the shock of discovering this had reacted upon the heart. There was no immediate danger; but neither was there ultimate hope of restored vision. So much the eminent oculist whom Io had brought from Angelica City told her.

The letter, when it arrived, made Banneker cry out as if he were in physical pain. Camilla Van Arsdale was going blind. Some unknown aspect of her heart condition had impacted the blood flow to her eyes, and the shock of this revelation took a toll on his heart. There was no immediate danger, but there wasn't much hope for her vision to be restored. That’s what the renowned eye doctor, whom Io had brought from Angelica City, told her.

Your first thought (wrote Io) will be to come out here at once. Don’t. It will be much better for you to wait until she needs you more; until you can spend two or three weeks or a month with her. Now I can help her through the days by reading to her and walking with her. You don’t know how happy it makes me to be here where I first knew you, to live over every event of those days. Your movable shack is almost as it used to be, though there is no absurd steel boat outside for me to stumble into.

Your first instinct (wrote Io) will be to come out here right away. Don’t. It’s much better for you to wait until she really needs you; until you can spend two or three weeks or a month with her. Right now, I can help her through the days by reading to her and walking with her. You don’t know how happy it makes me to be here where I first met you, reliving every moment from those days. Your portable cabin is almost the same as it used to be, except there’s no ridiculous steel boat outside for me to trip over.

Would you believe it; the new station-agent has a Sears-Roebuck catalogue! I borrowed it of him to read. What, oh, what should a sensible person—yes, I am a sensible person, Ban, outside of my love for you—and I’d scorn to be sensible about that—Where was I? Oh, yes; what should a sensible person find in these simple words “Two horse-power, reliable and smooth-running, economical of gasoline,” and so on, to make her want to cry? Ban, send me a copy of “The Voices.”

Can you believe it? The new station agent has a Sears-Roebuck catalog! I borrowed it from him to read. What, oh, what should a sensible person—yes, I am a sensible person, Ban, aside from my love for you—and I’d never be sensible about that—Where was I? Oh, right; what should a sensible person find in these simple words “Two horsepower, reliable and smooth-running, economical on gas,” and so on, that makes her want to cry? Ban, send me a copy of “The Voices.”

He sent her “The Undying Voices” and other books to read, and long, impassioned letters, and other letters to be read to Camilla Van Arsdale whose waning vision must be spared in every possible way.

He sent her “The Undying Voices” and other books to read, along with long, passionate letters, and additional letters to be read to Camilla Van Arsdale, whose fading eyesight needed to be protected in every way possible.

Hour after hour (wrote Io) she sits at the piano and makes her wonderful music, and tries to write it down. There I can be of very little help to her. Then she will go back into her room and lie on the big couch near the window where the young, low pines brush the wall, with Cousin Billy’s photograph in her hands, and be so deathly quiet that I sometimes get frightened and creep up to the door to peer in and be sure that she is all right. To-day when I looked in at the door I heard her say, quite softly to herself: “I shall die without seeing his face again.” I had to hold my breath and run out into the forest. Ban, I didn’t know that it was in me to cry so—not since that night on the train when I left you.... This all seems so wicked and wrong and—yes—wasteful. Think of what these two splendid people could be to each other! She craves him so, Ban; just the sound of his voice, a word from him; but she won’t break her own word. Sometimes I think I shall do it. Write me all you can about him, Ban, and send papers: all the political matter. You can’t imagine what it is to her only to hear about him.

Hour after hour, she sits at the piano, creating her beautiful music and trying to write it down. I can't be of much help to her. Then she goes back to her room and lies on the big couch near the window where the young, low pines brush against the wall, holding Cousin Billy’s photograph in her hands. She becomes so eerily quiet that I sometimes get scared and creep up to the door to check on her. Today, when I looked in, I heard her softly say to herself, “I will die without seeing his face again.” I had to hold my breath and ran out into the forest. Ban, I didn’t realize I could cry like that—not since that night on the train when I left you... This all feels so wrong and—yes—wasteful. Just think of what these two amazing people could mean to each other! She longs for him so much, Ban; just hearing his voice, a word from him would mean everything; but she won’t break her promise to herself. Sometimes I think I might do it. Write me everything you can about him, Ban, and send the news: all the political stuff. You can’t imagine how much it means to her just to hear about him.

So Banneker had clippings collected, wrote a little daily political bulletin for Io; even went out of his way editorially to pay an occasional handsome tribute to Judge Enderby’s personal character, whilst adducing cogent reasons why, as the “Wall Street and traction candidate,” he should be defeated. But his personal opinion, expressed for the behoof of his correspondents in Manzanita, was that he probably could not be defeated; that his brilliant and aggressive campaign was forcing Marrineal to a defensive and losing fight.

So Banneker gathered clippings, wrote a daily political update for Io, and even took the time to give a few nice mentions of Judge Enderby’s character while making strong arguments for why, as the "Wall Street and traction candidate," he should lose. However, his personal opinion, shared with his contacts in Manzanita, was that he probably couldn’t be beaten; that his impressive and assertive campaign was putting Marrineal on the defensive in a losing battle.

“It is a great asset in politics,” wrote Banneker to Miss Camilla, “to have nothing to hide or explain. If we’re going to be licked, there is no man in the world whom I’d as gladly have win as Judge Enderby.”

“It’s a huge advantage in politics,” Banneker wrote to Miss Camilla, “to have nothing to hide or explain. If we’re going to lose, there’s no one in the world I’d rather see win than Judge Enderby.”

All this, of course, in the manner of one having interesting political news of no special import to the receiver of the news, to deliver; and quite without suggestion of any knowledge regarding her personal concern in the matter.

All of this, of course, was delivered like someone sharing interesting political news that holds no real significance for the person receiving it, and without any hint of awareness about her personal stake in the situation.

But between the lines of Io’s letters, full of womanly pity for Camilla Van Arsdale, of resentment for her thwarted and hopeless longing, Banneker thought to discern a crystallizing resolution. It would be so like Io’s imperious temper to take the decision into her own hands, to bring about a meeting between the long-sundered lovers, to cast into the lonely and valiant woman’s darkening life one brief and splendid glow of warmth and radiance. For to Io, a summons for Willis Enderby to come would be no more than a defiance of the conventions. She knew nothing of the ruinous vengeance awaiting any breach of faith on his part, at the hands of a virulent and embittered wife; she did not even know that his coming would be a specific breach of faith, for Banneker, withheld by his promise of secrecy to Russell Edmonds, had never told her. Nor had he betrayed to her the espionage under which Enderby constantly moved; he shrank, naturally, from adding so ignoble an item to the weight of disrepute under which The Patriot already lay, in her mind. Sooner or later he must face the question from her of why he had not resigned rather than put his honor in pawn to the baser uses of the newspaper and its owner’s ambitions. To that question there could be no answer. He could not throw the onus of it upon her, by revealing to her that the necessity of protecting her name against the befoulment of The Searchlight was the compelling motive of his passivity. That was not within Banneker’s code.

But hidden in Io’s letters, filled with a woman’s sympathy for Camilla Van Arsdale and frustration over her unfulfilled and desperate longing, Banneker thought he could see a growing determination. It would be so typical of Io's dominant nature to take matters into her own hands, to arrange a meeting between the long-separated lovers, and to introduce a moment of warmth and brightness into the lonely and brave woman’s darkening life. For Io, asking Willis Enderby to come would just be a bold challenge to societal norms. She had no idea of the destructive revenge that awaited him if he betrayed his vows, courtesy of a bitter and vindictive wife; she didn’t even realize that his arrival would be a definite betrayal, since Banneker, bound by his promise of secrecy to Russell Edmonds, had never told her. He also hadn’t revealed to her the surveillance that Enderby constantly faced; he naturally hesitated to add such a shameful detail to the already tarnished reputation of The Patriot in her eyes. Sooner or later, she would undoubtedly ask him why he hadn’t resigned instead of risking his honor for the questionable interests of the newspaper and its owner’s ambitions. There could be no answer to that question. He couldn’t shift the blame to her by admitting that the need to protect her name from the taint of The Searchlight was the driving force behind his inaction. That was not part of Banneker’s principles.

What, meantime, should be his course? Should he write and warn Io about Enderby? Could he make himself explicable without explaining too much? After all, what right had he to assume that she would gratuitously intermeddle in the disastrous fates of others? A rigorous respect for the rights of privacy was written into the rules of the game as she played it. He argued, with logic irrefutable as it was unconvincing, that this alone ought to stay her hand; yet he knew, by the power of their own yearning, one for the other, that in the great cause of love, whether for themselves or for Camilla Van Arsdale and Willis Enderby, she would resistlessly follow the impulse born and matured of her own passion. Had she not once before denied love ... and to what end of suffering and bitter enlightenment and long waiting not yet ended! Yes; she would send for Willis Enderby.

What should he do in the meantime? Should he write and warn Io about Enderby? Could he make himself understandable without revealing too much? After all, what right did he have to think she would freely involve herself in the unfortunate situations of others? A strict respect for privacy was part of the rules of the game as she played it. He argued, with logic that was undeniable but not convincing, that this alone should keep her from acting; yet he knew, driven by their mutual desire for each other, that in the grand pursuit of love, whether for themselves or for Camilla Van Arsdale and Willis Enderby, she would inevitably follow the urge fueled by her own passion. Had she not once before turned away from love... and to what end of suffering and harsh lessons and a long wait that was still ongoing! Yes; she would reach out to Willis Enderby.

Thus, with the insight of love, he read the heart of the loved one. Self-interest lifted its specious voice now, in contravention. If she did send, and if Judge Enderby went to Camilla Van Arsdale, as Banneker knew surely that he would, and if Ely Ives’s spies discovered it, the way was made plain and peaceful for Banneker. For, in that case, the blunderbuss of blackmail would be held to Enderby’s head: he must, perforce, retire from the race on whatever pretext he might devise, under threat of a scandal which, in any case, would drive him out of public life. Marrineal would be nominated, probably elected; control of The Patriot would pass into Banneker’s hands; The Searchlight would thus be held at bay until he and Io were married, for he could not really doubt that she would marry him, even though there lay between them an unexplained doubt and a seeming betrayal; and he could remould the distorted and debased policies of The Patriot to his heart’s desire of an honest newspaper fearlessly presenting and supporting truth as he saw it.

So, with the clarity of love, he understood the feelings of the one he loved. Self-interest now raised its deceptive voice in opposition. If she did reach out, and if Judge Enderby went to Camilla Van Arsdale, as Banneker knew he would, and if Ely Ives’s spies found out, then the path would be clear and simple for Banneker. In that case, the threat of blackmail would be pointed at Enderby: he would have to drop out of the race under whatever excuse he could come up with, facing a scandal that would push him out of public life regardless. Marrineal would likely be nominated and elected; control of The Patriot would fall into Banneker’s hands; The Searchlight would be kept at bay until he and Io were married, as he couldn’t really doubt that she would marry him, even though there was an unexplained doubt and an apparent betrayal between them; and he could reshape the twisted and corrupted policies of The Patriot into a genuine newspaper that boldly presented and supported the truth as he saw it.

All this at no price of treachery; merely by leaving matters which were, in fact, no concern of his, to the arbitrament of whatever fates might concern themselves with such troublous matters; it was just a matter of minding his own business and assuming that Io Eyre would do likewise. So argued self-interest, plausible, persuasive. He went to bed with the argument still unsettled, and, because it seethed in his mind, reached out to his reading-stand to cool his brain with the limpid philosophies of Stevenson’s “Virginibus Puerisque.”

All this without any betrayal; just by leaving issues that weren’t really his business to whatever fates might deal with such troubling matters. It was simply about minding his own affairs and assuming that Io Eyre would do the same. So reasoned self-interest, convincing and appealing. He went to bed still caught up in this thought, and, because it kept swirling in his mind, he reached for his reading stand to clear his head with the clear philosophies in Stevenson’s “Virginibus Puerisque.”

“The cruellest lies are often told in silence,” he read—the very letters of the words seemed to scorch his eyes with prophetic fires. “A man may have sat in a room for hours and not opened his teeth and yet come out of that room a disloyal friend or a vile calumniator. And how many loves have perished, because from—”

“The cruelest lies are often told in silence,” he read—the very letters of the words seemed to burn his eyes with prophetic intensity. “A person may sit in a room for hours without saying a word and still come out of that room as a disloyal friend or a nasty slanderer. And how many loves have died, because from—”

Banneker sprang from his bed, shaking. He dressed himself, consulted his watch, wrote a brief, urgent line to Io, after ‘phoning for a taxi; carried it to the station himself, assured, though only by a few minutes’ margin, of getting it into the latest Western mail, returned to bed and slept heavily and dreamlessly.... Not over the bodies of a loved friend and an honored foe would Errol Banneker climb to a place of safety for Io and triumph for himself.

Banneker jumped out of bed, trembling. He got dressed, checked his watch, quickly wrote a short, urgent note to Io after calling for a taxi; he took it to the station himself, confident, even if only by a few minutes, that he’d get it into the last Western mail, then returned to bed and slept deeply and without dreams.... Not even over the bodies of a dear friend and a respected enemy would Errol Banneker reach a safe place for Io and victory for himself.

Mail takes four days to reach Manzanita from New York.

Mail takes four days to get to Manzanita from New York.

Through the hot months The House With Three Eyes had kept its hospitable orbs darkened of Saturday nights. Therefore, Banneker was free to spend his week-ends at The Retreat, and his Friday and Saturday mail were forwarded to the nearest country post-office, whither he sent for it, or picked it up on his way back to town. It was on Saturday evening that he received the letter from Io, saying that she had written to Willis Enderby to come on to Manzanita and let the eyes, for which he had filled life’s whole horizon since first they met his, look on him once more before darkness shut down on them forever. Her letter had crossed Banneker’s.

Through the hot months, The House With Three Eyes had kept its welcoming lights off on Saturday nights. So, Banneker was free to spend his weekends at The Retreat, and his Friday and Saturday mail was sent to the nearest country post office, where he would either request it or pick it up on his way back to town. It was on Saturday evening that he received the letter from Io, saying that she had asked Willis Enderby to come to Manzanita and let the eyes that had filled his entire horizon since they first met look at him once more before darkness closed in on them forever. Her letter had crossed paths with Banneker’s.

“I know that he will come,” she wrote. “He must come. It would be too cruel ... and I know his heart.”

“I know he will come,” she wrote. “He has to come. It would be too cruel ... and I know his heart.”

Eight-thirty-six in the evening! And Io’s letter to Enderby must have reached him in New York that morning. He would be taking the fast train for the West leaving at eleven. Banneker sent in a call on the long-distance ‘phone for Judge Enderby’s house. The twelve-minute wait was interminable to his grilling impatience. At length the placid tones of Judge Enderby’s man responded. Yes; the Judge was there. No; he couldn’t be disturbed on any account; very much occupied.

Eight-thirty-six in the evening! Io’s letter to Enderby must have reached him in New York that morning. He would be catching the fast train to the West that left at eleven. Banneker made a long-distance call to Judge Enderby’s house. The twelve-minute wait felt endless with his growing impatience. Finally, the calm voice of the Judge’s assistant answered. Yes; the Judge was there. No; he couldn’t be disturbed for any reason; he was very busy.

“This is Mr. Banneker. I must speak to him for just a moment. It’s vital.”

“This is Mr. Banneker. I need to talk to him for a minute. It’s important.”

“Very sorry, sir,” responded the unmoved voice. “But Judge Enderby’s orders was absloot. Not to be disturbed on any account.”

“Really sorry, sir,” replied the unfeeling voice. “But Judge Enderby’s orders were absolute. He’s not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

“Tell him that Mr. Banneker has something of the utmost importance to say to him before he leaves.”

“Tell him that Mr. Banneker has something extremely important to say to him before he leaves.”

“Sorry, sir. It’d be as much as my place is worth.”

“Sorry, sir. That would be about how much my place is worth.”

Raging, Banneker nevertheless managed to control himself. “He is leaving on a trip to-night, is he not?”

Raging, Banneker still managed to keep his composure. “He’s leaving for a trip tonight, isn’t he?”

After some hesitation the voice replied austerely: “I believe he is, sir. Good-bye.”

After a moment of hesitation, the voice replied sternly, “I think he is, sir. Goodbye.”

Banneker cursed Judge Enderby for a fool of rigid methods. It would be his own fault. Let him go to his destruction, then. He, Banneker, had done all that was possible. He sank into a sort of lethargy, brooding over the fateful obstacles which had obstructed him in his self-sacrificing pursuit of the right, as against his own dearest interests. He might telegraph Io; but to what purpose? An idea flashed upon him; why not telegraph Enderby at his home? He composed message after message; tore them up as saying too much or too little; ultimately devised one that seemed to be sufficient, and hurried to his car, to take it in to the local operator. When he reached the village office it was closed. He hurried to the home of the operator. Out. After two false trails, he located the man at a church sociable, and got the message off. It was then nearly ten o’clock. He had wasted precious moments in brooding. Well, he had done all and more than could have been asked of him, let the event be what it would.

Banneker cursed Judge Enderby for being a fool with his strict ways. It was his own fault. Let him head for his own downfall, then. Banneker had done everything that could be done. He fell into a kind of stupor, dwelling on the fateful obstacles that had blocked him in his selfless fight for what was right, despite it being against his own best interests. He could send a telegram to Io; but what would be the point? An idea struck him; why not send a telegram to Enderby at home? He wrote message after message, ripping them up for being either too much or too little; finally, he crafted one that seemed just right and rushed to his car to take it to the local operator. When he arrived at the village office, it was closed. He hurried to the operator's house. No one was home. After two dead ends, he found the man at a church gathering and got the message sent. It was nearly ten o'clock now. He had wasted valuable time in contemplation. Well, he had done all and more than could have been expected of him, whatever the outcome might be.

His night was a succession of forebodings, dreamed or half-wakeful. Spent and dispirited, he rose at an hour quite out of accord with the habits of The Retreat, sped his car to New York, and put his inquiry to Judge Enderby’s man.

His night was filled with unsettling feelings, whether in dreams or while half-awake. Exhausted and disheartened, he got up at a time that didn’t match the routine at The Retreat, drove his car to New York, and asked Judge Enderby’s assistant about his inquiry.

Yes; the telegram had arrived. In time? No; it was delivered twenty minutes after the Judge had left for his train.

Yes; the telegram had arrived. On time? No; it was delivered twenty minutes after the Judge had left for his train.

CHAPTER XVIII

Sun-lulled into immobility, the desert around the lonely little station of Manzanita smouldered and slumbered. Nothing was visibly changed from five years before, when Banneker left, except that another agent, a disillusioned-appearing young man with a corn-colored mustache, came forth to meet the slow noon local, chuffing pantingly in under a bad head of alkali-water steam. A lone passenger, obviously Eastern in mien and garb, disembarked, and was welcomed by a dark, beautiful, harassed-looking girl who had just ridden in on a lathered pony. The agent, a hopeful soul, ambled within earshot.

Sun-kissed and still, the desert around the lonely little station of Manzanita lingered in a lazy heat. Nothing looked different from five years ago when Banneker left, except that a new agent, a disillusioned young man with a light-colored mustache, stepped forward to greet the sluggish noon train, puffing along under a thick cloud of alkali-water steam. A single passenger, clearly from the East in both appearance and clothing, got off and was met by a dark, beautiful girl who looked exhausted from her ride on a sweaty pony. The agent, ever the optimist, wandered closer.

“How is she?” he heard the man say, with the intensity of a single thought, as the girl took his hand. Her reply came, encouragingly.

“How is she?” he heard the man ask, with the focus of a single thought, as the girl took his hand. Her response came, reassuringly.

“As brave as ever. Stronger, a little, I think.”

“As brave as ever. I think I'm a bit stronger now.”

“And she—the eyes?”

"And her—what about the eyes?"

“She will be able to see you; but not clearly.”

“She will be able to see you, but not very clearly.”

“How long—” began the man, but his voice broke. He shook in the bitter heat as if from some inner and deadly chill.

“How long—” started the man, but his voice cracked. He trembled in the scorching heat as if he were experiencing some deep and fatal cold.

“Nobody can tell. She hoards her sight.”

“Nobody knows. She keeps her vision to herself.”

“To see me?” he cried eagerly. “Have you told her?”

"To see me?" he exclaimed excitedly. "Have you told her?"

“No.”

“Is that wise?” he questioned. “The shock—”

“Is that a good idea?” he asked. “The shock—”

“I think that she suspects; she senses your coming. Her face has the rapt expression that I have seen only when she plays. Has had since you started. Yet there is no possible way in which she could have learned.”

“I think she suspects; she feels you coming. Her face has that intense expression I've only seen when she plays. She’s had it since you started. Yet there’s no way she could have found out.”

“That is very wonderful,” said the stranger, in a hushed voice. Then, hesitantly, “What shall I do, Io?”

“That is really amazing,” said the stranger, in a quiet voice. Then, unsure, “What should I do, Io?”

“Nothing,” came the girl’s clear answer. “Go to her, that is all.”

“Nothing,” the girl said clearly. “Just go to her, that’s it.”

Another horse was led forward and the pair rode away through the glimmering heat.

Another horse was brought forward, and the two of them rode away through the shimmering heat.

It was a silent ride for Willis Enderby and Io. The girl was still a little daunted at her own temerity in playing at fate with destinies as big as these. As for Enderby, there was no room within his consciousness for any other thought than that he was going to see Camilla Van Arsdale again.

It was a quiet ride for Willis Enderby and Io. The girl was still a bit nervous about her boldness in messing with fates this significant. As for Enderby, he couldn't think of anything else but the fact that he was going to see Camilla Van Arsdale again.

He heard her before he saw her. The rhythms of a song, a tender and gay little lyric which she had sung to crowded drawing-rooms, but for him alone, long years past, floated out to him, clear and pure, through the clear, pure balm of the forest. He slipped quietly from his horse and saw her, through the window, seated at her piano.

He heard her before he saw her. The rhythm of a song, a sweet and cheerful little tune that she had sung in crowded living rooms, but just for him, many years ago, floated out to him, clear and pure, through the fresh, soothing air of the forest. He quietly got off his horse and saw her through the window, sitting at her piano.

Unchanged! To his vision the years had left no impress on her. And Io, at his side, saw too and marveled at the miracle. For the waiting woman looked out of eyes as clear and untroubled as those of a child, softened only with the questioning wistfulness of darkening vision. Suffering and fortitude had etherealized the face back to youth, and that mysterious expectancy which had possessed her for days had touched the curves of her mouth to a wonderful tenderness, the softness of her cheek to a quickening bloom. She turned her head slowly toward the door. Her lips parted with the pressure of swift, small breaths.

Unchanged! To his eyes, the years had made no mark on her. And Io, next to him, noticed this too and marveled at the miracle. The waiting woman had eyes as clear and untroubled as a child's, softened only by a questioning longing from her fading eyesight. Suffering and strength had transformed her face back to youth, and the mysterious anticipation she had felt for days had added a wonderful tenderness to her lips and a fresh bloom to her cheeks. She slowly turned her head toward the door. Her lips parted as she took quick, small breaths.

Io felt the man’s tense body, pressed against her as if for support, convulsed with a tremor which left him powerless.

Io felt the man's tense body pressed against her for support, shaking with a tremor that left him powerless.

“I have brought some one to you, Miss Camilla,” she said clearly: and in the same instant of speaking, her word was crossed by the other’s call:

“I've brought someone to see you, Miss Camilla,” she said clearly; and at the same moment she spoke, her words were interrupted by the other’s call:

“Willis!”

"Willis!"

Sightless though she was, as Io knew, for anything not close before her eyes, she came to him, as inevitably, as unerringly as steel to the magnet, and was folded in his arms. Io heard his deep voice, vibrant between desolation and passion:

Sightless as she was, as Io understood, for anything that wasn’t right in front of her, she moved toward him, as inevitably and unerringly as steel to a magnet, and was embraced in his arms. Io heard his deep voice, resonating between despair and passion:

“Fifteen years! My God, fifteen years!”

“Fifteen years! Oh my God, fifteen years!”

Io ran away into the forest, utterly glad with the joy of which she had been minister.

Io ran away into the forest, completely happy with the joy she had experienced.

Willis Enderby stayed five days at Manzanita; five days of ecstasy, of perfect communion, bought from the rapacious years at the price of his broken word. For that he was willing to pay any price exacted, asking only that he might pay it alone, that the woman of his long and self-denying love might not be called upon to meet any smallest part of the debt. She walked with him under the pines: he read to her: and there were long hours together over the piano. It was then that there was born, out of Camilla Van Arsdale’s love and faith and coming abnegation, her holy and deathless song for the dead, to the noble words of the “Dominus Illuminatio Mea,” which to-day, chanted over the coffins of thousands, brings comfort and hope to stricken hearts.

Willis Enderby spent five days at Manzanita; five days of bliss, of perfect connection, bought with the price of his broken promises from the selfish years. He was ready to pay whatever it took, wanting only to shoulder the cost himself, ensuring that the woman he had loved selflessly for so long wouldn't have to contribute even a little to the burden. They walked together beneath the pines: he read to her, and they shared long hours at the piano. It was during this time that Camilla Van Arsdale’s love, faith, and impending self-sacrifice gave rise to her sacred and timeless song for the deceased, inspired by the noble words of the “Dominus Illuminatio Mea,” which today, sung over the coffins of many, provides comfort and hope to grieving hearts.

“In the hour of death, after this life’s whim, When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim, And pain has exhausted every limb— The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.”

“In the moment of death, after life's fleeting pleasures, when the heart beats slowly, and the eyes lose their light, and pain has worn down every part of the body— the lover of the Lord will place their trust in Him.”

On the last day she told him that they would not meet again. Life had given to her all and more than all she had dared ask for. He must go back to his work in the world, to the high endeavor that was laid upon him as an obligation of his power, and now of their love. He must write her; she could not do without that, now; but guardedly, for other eyes than hers must read his words to her.

On the last day, she told him they wouldn't meet again. Life had given her everything and even more than she ever dared to ask for. He needed to return to his work in the world, to the high calling that was his responsibility due to his power and now also because of their love. He had to write to her; she couldn't do without that now, but carefully, because other eyes besides hers would need to read his words to her.

“Think what it is going to be to me,” she said, “to follow your course; to be able to pray for you, fighting. I shall take all the papers. And any which haven’t your name in shall be burned at once! How I shall be jealous even of your public who love and admire you! But you have left me no room for any other jealousy....”

“Just think about what it means for me,” she said, “to support you in this way; to be able to pray for you while you’re out there fighting. I’ll take all the papers. Any that don’t have your name will be burned immediately! I’ll be so jealous, even of the public who love and admire you! But you’ve left me no space for any other jealousy....”

“I am coming back to you,” he said doggedly, at the final moment of parting. “Sometime, Camilla.”

“I’ll be back,” he said firmly at the last moment of saying goodbye. “Someday, Camilla.”

“You will be here always, in the darkness, with me. And I shall love my blindness because it shuts out anything but you,” she said.

“You'll always be here, in the darkness, with me. And I'll embrace my blindness because it keeps anything else out except for you,” she said.

Io rode with him to the station. On the way they discussed ways and means, the household arrangements when Io should have to leave, the finding of a companion, who should be at once nurse, secretary, and amanuensis for Royce Melvin’s music.

Io rode with him to the station. On the way, they talked about plans and logistics, the household setup when Io would have to leave, and finding a companion who could serve as a caregiver, secretary, and assistant for Royce Melvin’s music.

“How she will sing now!” said Io.

“How is she going to sing now?” said Io.

As they drew near to the station, she put her hand on his horse’s bridle.

As they got closer to the station, she placed her hand on the horse's bridle.

“Did I do wrong to send for you, Cousin Billy?” she asked.

“Did I make a mistake by calling for you, Cousin Billy?” she asked.

He turned to her a visage transfigured.

He turned to her with a transformed face.

“You needn’t answer,” she said quickly. “I should know, anyway. It’s her happiness I’m thinking of. It can’t have been wrong to give so much happiness, for the rest of her life.”

“You don’t have to answer,” she said quickly. “I should know, anyway. I’m thinking of her happiness. It can’t be wrong to give so much happiness for the rest of her life.”

“The rest of her life,” he echoed, in a hushed accent of dread.

“The rest of her life,” he repeated, in a quiet tone of fear.

While Enderby was getting his ticket, Io waited on the front platform. A small, wiry man came around the corner of the station, glanced at her, and withdrew. Io had an uneasy notion of having seen him before somewhere. But where, and when? Certainly the man was not a local habitant. Had his presence, then, any significance for her or hers? Enderby returned, and the two stood in the hard morning sunlight beneath the broad sign inscribed with the station’s name.

While Enderby was getting his ticket, Io waited on the front platform. A small, wiry man appeared around the corner of the station, looked at her, and quickly left. Io had a strange feeling that she had seen him before, but where and when? He definitely wasn’t from around here. Did his presence mean anything for her or for her family? Enderby came back, and the two of them stood in the bright morning sun beneath the large sign with the station’s name on it.

The stranger appeared from behind a freight-car on a siding, and hurried up to within a few yards of them. From beneath his coat he slipped a blackish oblong. It gave forth a click, and, after swift manipulation, a second click. Enderby started toward the snap-shotter who turned and ran.

The stranger emerged from behind a freight car on a siding and quickly approached them. He pulled a black, rectangular object from under his coat. It made a clicking sound, followed by a second click after some quick adjustments. Enderby moved towards the person with the camera, who then turned and fled.

“Do you know that man?” he asked, whirling upon Io.

“Do you know that guy?” he asked, turning to Io.

A gray veil seemed to her drawn down over his features. Or was it a mist of dread upon Io’s own vision?

A gray veil appeared to be drawn over his features. Or was it a fog of fear clouding Io’s own vision?

“I have seen him before,” she answered, groping.

“I've seen him before,” she replied, feeling around.

“Who is he?”

"Who’s he?"

Memory flashed one of its sudden and sure illuminations upon her: a Saturday night at The House With Three Eyes; this little man coming in with Tertius Marrineal; later, peering into the flowerful corner where she sat with Banneker.

Memory flashed one of its sudden and clear insights at her: a Saturday night at The House With Three Eyes; this little guy coming in with Tertius Marrineal; later, looking into the colorful corner where she sat with Banneker.

“He has something to do with The Patriot,” she answered steadily.

“He’s connected to The Patriot,” she replied firmly.

“How could The Patriot know of my coming here?’

“How could The Patriot know I was coming here?”

“I don’t know,” said Io. She was deadly pale with a surmise too monstrous for utterance.

"I don’t know," said Io. She was extremely pale with a suspicion too terrifying to speak.

He put it into words for her.

He told her.

“Io, did you tell Errol Banneker that you were sending for me?”

“Io, did you tell Errol Banneker that you were going to call me?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

Even in the midst of the ruin which he saw closing in upon his career—that career upon which Camilla Van Arsdale had newly built her last pride and hope and happiness—he could feel for the agony of the girl before him.

Even in the middle of the disaster that he saw closing in on his career—that career on which Camilla Van Arsdale had recently placed her last pride, hope, and happiness—he could empathize with the pain of the girl in front of him.

“He couldn’t have betrayed me!” cried Io: but, as she spoke, the memory of other treacheries overwhelmed her.

“He couldn’t have betrayed me!” cried Io, but as she spoke, the memory of other betrayals flooded her mind.

The train rumbled in. Enderby stooped and kissed her forehead.

The train rolled in. Enderby bent down and kissed her forehead.

“My dear,” he said gently, “I’m afraid you’ve trusted him once too often.”

“My dear,” he said softly, “I’m afraid you’ve trusted him one too many times.”

CHAPTER XIX

Among his various amiable capacities, Ely Ives included that of ceremonial arranger. Festivities were his delight; he was ever on the lookout for occasions of celebration: any excuse for a gratulatory function sufficed him. Before leaving on his chase to Manzanita, he had conceived the festal notion of a dinner in honor of Banneker, not that he cherished any love for him since the episode of the bet with Delavan Eyre, but because his shrewd foresight perceived in it a closer binding of the editor to the wheels of the victorious Patriot. Also it might indirectly redound to the political advantage of Marrineal. Put thus to that astute and aspiring public servant, it enlisted his prompt support. He himself would give the feast: no, on better thought, The Patriot should give it. It would be choice rather than large: a hundred guests or so; mainly journalistic, the flower of Park Row, with a sprinkling of important politicians and financiers. The occasion? Why, the occasion was pat to hand! The thousandth Banneker editorial to be published in The Patriot, the date of which came early in the following month.

Among his many friendly talents, Ely Ives took on the role of event planner. He loved celebrations and was always looking for reasons to throw a party; any excuse for a congratulatory event worked for him. Before he left for his trip to Manzanita, he came up with the idea of hosting a dinner to honor Banneker, not because he had any affection for him after the bet with Delavan Eyre, but because he smartly saw it as a way to tie the editor more closely to the workings of the victorious Patriot. Plus, it could indirectly benefit Marrineal politically. Presenting this to that clever and ambitious public servant won his immediate support. He would host the feast himself, or maybe, on second thought, The Patriot should host it. It would be more about quality than quantity: around a hundred guests, mostly journalists, the elite of Park Row, with a few significant politicians and financiers sprinkled in. The occasion? Well, the occasion was right around the corner! It would be the thousandth Banneker editorial to be published in The Patriot, which would come out early the following month.

Had Ives himself come to Banneker with any such project, it would have been curtly rejected. Ives kept in the background. The proposal came from Marrineal, and in such form that for the recipient of the honor to refuse it would have appeared impossibly churlish. Little though he desired or liked such a function, Banneker accepted with a good grace, and set himself to write an editorial, special to the event. Its title was, “What Does Your Newspaper Mean to You?” headed with the quotation from the Areopagitica: and he compressed into a single column all his dreams and idealities of what a newspaper might be and mean to the public which it sincerely served. Specially typed and embossed, it was arranged as the dinner souvenir.

Had Ives himself approached Banneker with any such project, it would have been promptly turned down. Ives stayed in the background. The proposal came from Marrineal, and it was presented in such a way that refusing the honor would have seemed incredibly rude. Even though he didn’t want or enjoy such an event, Banneker graciously accepted and set out to write an editorial specifically for the occasion. Its title was, “What Does Your Newspaper Mean to You?” featuring a quote from the Areopagitica, and he condensed all his dreams and ideals of what a newspaper could be and mean to the public it genuinely served into a single column. Specially typed and embossed, it was prepared as the dinner souvenir.

As the day drew near, Banneker had less and less taste for the ovation. Forebodings had laid hold on his mind. Enderby had been back for five days, and had taken no part whatever in the current political activity. Conflicting rumors were in the air. The anti-Marrineal group was obviously in a state of confusion and doubt: Marrineal’s friends were excited, uncertain, expectant.

As the day approached, Banneker became increasingly disinterested in the celebration. He was plagued by bad vibes. Enderby had been back for five days and hadn’t gotten involved in any of the ongoing political activities. There were mixed rumors circulating. The anti-Marrineal group was clearly confused and uncertain, while Marrineal’s supporters were thrilled, anxious, and full of hope.

For three days Banneker had had no letter from Io.

For three days, Banneker hadn't received any letters from Io.

The first intimation of what had actually occurred came to him just before he left the office to dress for the dinner in his honor. Willis Enderby had formally withdrawn from the governorship contest. His statement given out for publication in next morning’s papers, was in the office. Banneker sent for it. The reason given was formal and brief; nervous breakdown; imperative orders from his physician. The whole thing was grisly plain to Banneker, but he must have confirmation. He went to the city editor. Had any reporter been sent to see Judge Enderby?

The first hint of what really happened hit him just before he left the office to get ready for the dinner thrown in his honor. Willis Enderby had officially dropped out of the governor's race. His statement, set to be published in the next morning's newspapers, was in the office. Banneker asked for it. The reason given was straightforward and concise: nervous breakdown; urgent orders from his doctor. The whole situation was clearly grim to Banneker, but he needed confirmation. He went to the city editor. Had any reporter been sent to check on Judge Enderby?

Yes: Dilson, one of the men frequently assigned to do Marrineal’s and Ives’s special work had been sent to Enderby’s on the previous day with specific instructions to ask a single question: “When was the Judge going to issue his formal withdrawal”: Yes: that was the precise form of the question: not, “Was he going to withdraw,” but “When was he,” and so on.

Yes: Dilson, one of the guys often tasked with handling Marrineal’s and Ives’s special jobs, had been sent to Enderby’s the day before with clear instructions to ask just one question: “When is the Judge going to officially step down?” Yes: that was the exact wording of the question: not, “Is he going to step down,” but “When is he,” and so on.

The Judge would not answer, except to say that he might have a statement to make within twenty-four hours. This afternoon (continued the city editor) Enderby, it was understood, had telephoned to The Sphere and asked that Russell Edmonds come to his house between four and five. No one else would do. Edmonds had gone, had been closeted with Enderby for an hour, and had emerged with the brief typed statement for distribution to all the papers. He would not say a word as to the interview. Judge Enderby absolutely denied himself to all callers. Physician’s orders again.

The Judge wouldn’t say anything except that he might have a statement to make in the next twenty-four hours. This afternoon (the city editor added), Enderby had called The Sphere and requested that Russell Edmonds come to his house between four and five. No one else would do. Edmonds went, he was with Enderby for an hour, and then he came out with a short typed statement to be sent to all the papers. He wouldn’t say a word about the meeting. Judge Enderby completely shut himself off from all visitors. Doctor’s orders again.

Banneker reflected that if the talk between Edmonds and Enderby had been what he could surmise, the veteran would hardly attend the dinner in his (Banneker’s) honor. Honor and Banneker would be irreconcilable terms, to the stern judgment of Pop Edmonds. Had they, indeed, become irreconcilable terms? It was a question which Banneker, in the turmoil of his mind, could not face. On his way along Park Row he stopped and had a drink. It seemed to produce no effect, so presently he had another. After the fourth, he clarified and enlarged his outlook upon the whole question, which he now saw in its entirety. He perceived himself as the victim of unique circumstances, forced by the demands of honor into what might seem, to unenlightened minds, dubious if not dishonorable positions, each one of them in reality justified: yes, necessitated! Perhaps he was at fault in his very first judgment; perhaps, had he even then, in his inexperience, seen what he now saw so clearly in the light of experience, the deadly pitfalls into which journalism, undertaken with any other purpose than the simple setting forth of truth, beguiles its practitioners—perhaps he might have drawn back from the first step of passive deception and have resigned rather than been a party to the suppression of the facts about the Veridian killings. Resigned? And forfeited all his force for education, for enlightenment, for progress of thought and belief, exerted upon millions of minds through The Patriot?... Would that not have been the way of cowardice?... He longed to be left to himself. To think it all out. What would Io say, if she knew everything? Io whose silence was surrounding him with a cold terror.... He had to get home and dress for that cursed dinner!

Banneker thought that if the conversation between Edmonds and Enderby was what he suspected, the veteran wouldn’t show up for the dinner held in his (Banneker’s) honor. Honor and Banneker would be completely at odds, according to Pop Edmonds’ harsh judgment. Had they really become incompatible? It was a question that Banneker, lost in his thoughts, couldn’t confront. While walking along Park Row, he stopped for a drink. It seemed to have no effect, so he had another. After the fourth, he found clarity and expanded his view on the whole issue, which he now understood in full. He saw himself as a victim of unusual circumstances, pushed by the demands of honor into what might appear, to those who didn’t understand, as questionable, if not dishonorable, positions—each one of them actually justified: yes, even necessary! Maybe he was wrong in his original judgment; perhaps if he had recognized what he now saw so clearly, through the clarity of experience, the dangerous traps journalism creates when it’s pursued for anything other than simply presenting the truth—maybe he could have stepped back from the first act of subtle deception and chosen to resign instead of being complicit in hiding the facts about the Veridian killings. Resign? And give up all his influence for education, enlightenment, and the progress of thought and belief that he exerted on millions through The Patriot?... Wouldn’t that have been cowardly?... He wished to be alone. To figure it all out. What would Io say if she knew everything? Io, whose silence surrounded him with an icy dread.... He had to get home and get ready for that dreaded dinner!

Marrineal had done the thing quite royally. The room was superb with flowers; the menu the best devisable; the wines not wide of range, but choice of vintage. The music was by professionals of the first grade, willing to give their favors to these powerful men of the press. The platform table was arranged for Marrineal in the presiding chair, flanked by Banneker and the mayor: Horace Vanney, Gaines, a judge of the Supreme Court, two city commissioners, and an eminent political boss. The Masters, senior and junior, had been invited, but declined, the latter politely, the former quite otherwise. Below were the small group tables, to be occupied by Banneker’s friends and contemporaries of local newspaperdom, and a few outsiders, literary, theatrical, and political. When Banneker appeared in the reception-room where the crowd awaited, smiling, graceful, vigorous, and splendid as a Greek athlete, the whole assemblage rose in acclaim—all but one. Russell Edmonds, somber and thoughtful, kept his seat. His leonine head drooped over his broad shirt-bosom.

Marrineal had pulled off the event in grand style. The room was filled with beautiful flowers; the menu was top-notch; the wine selection, though limited, was of high quality. The music was performed by top-tier professionals, eager to please these influential press figures. The main table was set for Marrineal in the head chair, flanked by Banneker and the mayor: Horace Vanney, Gaines, a Supreme Court judge, two city commissioners, and a prominent political boss. The Masters, senior and junior, had been invited but declined—the younger one politely, the elder one less so. Below were smaller tables for Banneker's friends and peers from local journalism, along with a few outsiders from the literary, theatrical, and political worlds. When Banneker entered the reception room to a waiting crowd, smiling, graceful, energetic, and impressive like a Greek athlete, everyone stood in applause—except for one person. Russell Edmonds, serious and contemplative, remained seated. His lion-like head leaned over his broad shirt front.

Said Mallory of The Ledger, bending over him:

Said Mallory from The Ledger, leaning over him:

“Look at Ban, Pop!”

“Check out Ban, Pop!”

“I’m looking,” gloomed Edmonds.

“I’m looking,” sighed Edmonds.

“What’s behind that smile? Something frozen. What’s the matter with him?” queried the observant Mallory.

“What’s up with that smile? It seems fake. What’s wrong with him?” asked the observant Mallory.

“Too much success.”

"Overwhelming success."

“It’ll be too much dinner if he doesn’t look out,” remarked the other. “He’s trying to match cocktails with every one that comes up.”

“It’ll be way too much food if he’s not careful,” remarked the other. “He’s trying to pair cocktails with every dish that comes out.”

“Won’t make a bit of difference,” muttered the veteran. “He’s all steel. Cold steel. Can’t touch him.”

“Won’t make any difference,” the veteran grumbled. “He’s all metal. Cold metal. You can’t get to him.”

Marrineal led the way out of the ante-room to the banquet, escorting Banneker. Never had the editor of The Patriot seemed to be more completely master of himself. The drink had brightened his eyes, brought a warm flush to the sun-bronze of his cheek, lent swiftness to his tongue. He was talking brilliantly, matching epigrams with the Great Gaines, shrewdly poking good-natured fun at the stolid and stupid mayor, holding his and the near-by tables in spell with reminiscences in which so many of them shared. Some wondered how he would have anything left for his speech.

Marrineal led the way out of the waiting room to the banquet, guiding Banneker. The editor of The Patriot had never seemed more in control of himself. The drink had brightened his eyes, gave a warm flush to his sun-kissed cheeks, and made his words flow quickly. He was speaking brilliantly, exchanging sharp quips with the Great Gaines, playfully teasing the dull and clueless mayor, captivating both his table and the nearby ones with stories that many of them could relate to. Some wondered how he would have anything left for his speech.

While the game course was being served, Ely Ives was summoned outside. Banneker, whose faculties had taken on a preternatural acuteness, saw, when he returned, that his face had whitened and sharpened; watched him write a note which he folded and pinned before sending it to Marrineal. In the midst of a story, which he carried without interruption, the guest of honor perceived a sort of glaze settle over his chief’s immobile visage; the next moment he had very slightly shaken his head at Ives. Banneker concluded his story. Marrineal capped it with another. Ives, usually abstemious as befits one who practices sleight-of-hand and brain, poured his empty goblet full of champagne and emptied it in long, eager draughts. The dinner went on.

While the game was being served, Ely Ives was called outside. Banneker, whose senses had become unusually sharp, noticed when he came back that Ives's face had grown pale and sharp; he watched him write a note, which he folded and pinned before sending it to Marrineal. In the middle of a story he was telling without pause, the guest of honor noticed a kind of glaze settle over his chief’s expressionless face; the next moment, Ives had very slightly shaken his head at him. Banneker finished his story. Marrineal added another. Ives, usually moderate as someone who practices sleight-of-hand and mental tricks, poured his empty goblet full of champagne and drank it in big, eager gulps. The dinner continued.

The ices were being cleared away when a newspaper man, not in evening clothes, slipped in and talked for a moment with Mr. Gordon of The Ledger. Presently another quietly appropriated a seat next to Van Cleve of The Sphere. The tidings, whatever they were, spread. Then, the important men of the different papers gathered about Russell Edmonds. They seemed to be putting to him brief inquiries, to which he answered with set face and confirming nods. With his quickened faculties, Banneker surmised one of those inside secrets of journalism so often sacredly kept, though a hundred men know them, of which the public reads only the obvious facts, the empty shell. Now and again he caught a quick and veiled glance of incomprehension of doubt, of incredulity, cast at him.

The ice was being cleared away when a newspaper guy, not in evening attire, slipped in and chatted for a moment with Mr. Gordon from The Ledger. Soon after, another person quietly took a seat next to Van Cleve from The Sphere. The news, whatever it was, began to spread. Then, the key players from different papers gathered around Russell Edmonds. They seemed to be asking him quick questions, to which he responded with a serious face and confirming nods. With his sharper instincts, Banneker guessed one of those insider secrets of journalism that are often tightly held, even though a hundred people know them, and the public only reads the obvious facts, the empty shell. Now and then, he caught a quick, subtle glance of confusion, doubt, or disbelief directed at him.

He chattered on. Never did he talk more brilliantly.

He kept talking. He had never spoken more brilliantly.

Coffee. Presently there would be cigars. Then Marrineal would introduce him, and he would say to these men, this high and inner circle of journalism, the things which he could not write for his public, which he could present to them alone, since they alone would understand. It was to be his magnum opus, that speech. For a moment he had lost physical visualization in mental vision. When again he let his eyes rest on the scene before him, he perceived that a strange thing had happened. The table at which Van Cleve had sat, with seven others, was empty. In the same glance he saw Mr. Gordon rise and quietly walk out, followed by the other newspaper men in the group. Two politicians were left. They moved close to each other and spoke in whispers, looking curiously at Banneker.

Coffee. Soon there would be cigars. Then Marrineal would introduce him, and he would say to these men, this elite group of journalists, the things he couldn't write for his audience, things he could share with them alone, since they would understand. It was meant to be his magnum opus, that speech. For a moment, he lost track of the physical scene while deep in thought. When he finally focused on the scene again, he noticed something strange had happened. The table where Van Cleve had sat with seven others was empty. In that same moment, he saw Mr. Gordon stand up and quietly walk out, followed by the other reporters in the group. Two politicians remained. They moved closer together and spoke in whispers, casting curious glances at Banneker.

What manner of news could that have been, brought in by the working newspaper man, thus to depopulate a late-hour dining-table? Had the world turned upside down?

What kind of news could that have been, brought in by the working journalist, to clear out a late-night dining table? Had the world flipped upside down?

Below him, and but a few paces distant, Tommy Burt was seated. When he, too, got slowly to his feet, Banneker leaned across the strewn, white napery toward him.

Below him, just a few steps away, Tommy Burt was sitting. When he slowly stood up, Banneker leaned over the scattered, white tablecloth toward him.

“What’s up, Tommy?”

"Hey, Tommy!"

For an instant the star reporter stopped, seemed to turn an answer over in his mind, then shook his head, and, with an unfathomable look of incredulity and shrinking, went his way. Bunny Fitch followed; Fitch, the slave of his paper’s conventions, the man without standards other than those which were made for him by the terms of his employment, who would go only because his proprietors would have him go: and the grin which he turned up to Banneker was malignant and scornful. Already the circle about Ely Ives, who was still drinking eagerly, had melted away. Glidden, Mallory, Gale, Andreas, and a dozen others of his oldest associates were at the door, not talking as they would have done had some “big story” broken at that hour, but moving in a chill silence and purposefully like men seeking relief from an unendurable atmosphere. The deadly suspicion of the truth struck in upon the guest of honor; they, his friends, were going because they could no longer take part in honoring him. His mind groped, terrified and blind, among black shadows.

For a moment, the star reporter paused, seemed to ponder an answer in his mind, then shook his head and, with an unreadable expression of disbelief and withdrawal, continued on his way. Bunny Fitch followed; Fitch, trapped by the rules of his newspaper, a man with no standards other than those set by his job, who would only leave because his bosses wanted him to: and the smile he flashed at Banneker was spiteful and contemptuous. The group around Ely Ives, who was still drinking eagerly, had already dispersed. Glidden, Mallory, Gale, Andreas, and a dozen others from his longtime circle were at the door, not chatting as they would have if some “big story” had broken at that moment, but moving in a cold silence with purpose, like men looking for escape from an unbearable atmosphere. The grim awareness of the truth hit the guest of honor; his friends were leaving because they could no longer participate in honoring him. His mind flailed, frightened and lost, among dark shadows.

Marrineal, for once allowing discomposure to ruffle his imperturbability, rose to check the exodus.

Marrineal, for once letting his calmness be disturbed, got up to stop the departure.

“Gentlemen! One moment, if you please. As soon as—”

“Gentlemen! Just a moment, if you don’t mind. As soon as—”

The rest was lost to Banneker as he beheld Edmonds rear his spare form up from his chair a few paces away. Reckless of ceremony now, the central figure of the feast rose.

The rest was lost on Banneker as he watched Edmonds lift his thin body up from his chair a few steps away. Ignoring formalities now, the main person at the feast stood up.

“Edmonds! Pop!”

"Edmonds! Let's go!"

The veteran stopped, turning the slow, sad judgment of his eyes upon the other.

The veteran stopped, casting the slow, sorrowful judgment of his gaze on the other.

“What is it?” appealed Banneker. “What’s happened? Tell me.”

“What is it?” Banneker asked. “What happened? Tell me.”

“Willis Enderby is dead.”

“Willis Enderby has passed away.”

The query, which forced itself from Banneker’s lips, was a self-accusation. “By his own hand?”

The question that slipped from Banneker's lips was a self-blame. “By his own hand?”

“By yours,” answered Edmonds, and strode from the place.

“By yours,” replied Edmonds, and walked away from the spot.

Groping, Banneker’s fingers encountered a bottle, closed about it, drew it in. He poured and drank. He thought it wine. Not until the reeking stab of brandy struck to his brain did he realize the error.... All right. Brandy. He needed it. He was going to make a speech. What speech? How did it begin.... What was this that Marrineal was saying? “In view of the tragic news.... Call off the speech-making?” Not at all! He, Banneker, must have his chance. He could explain everything.

Groping around, Banneker’s fingers found a bottle, grabbed it, and pulled it close. He poured some and took a drink. He thought it was wine. It wasn't until the sharp hit of brandy hit his brain that he realized his mistake.... Fine. Brandy. He needed it. He was about to give a speech. What kind of speech? How did it start.... What was Marrineal saying? “Given the tragic news.... Should we cancel the speech?” Not at all! He, Banneker, had to have his moment. He could explain everything.

Brilliantly, convincingly to his own mind, he began. It was all right; only the words in their eagerness to set forth the purity of his motives, the unimpeachable rectitude of his standards, became confused. Somebody was plucking at his arm. Ives? All right? Ives was a good fellow, after all.... Yes: he’d go home—with Ives. Ives would understand.

Brilliantly, convincingly to himself, he started. It was fine; it was just that the words, in their eagerness to express the purity of his motives and the unquestionable righteousness of his standards, got tangled up. Someone was tugging at his arm. Ives? All good? Ives was a decent guy, after all.... Yes: he’d go home—with Ives. Ives would get it.

All the way back to The House With Three Eyes he explained himself; any fair-minded man would see that he had done his best. Ives was fair-minded; he saw it. Ives was a man of judgment. Therefore, when he suggested bed, he must be right. Very weary, Banneker was. He felt very, very wretched about Enderby. He’d explain it all to Enderby in the morning—no: couldn’t do that, though. Enderby was dead. Queer idea, that! What was it that violent-minded idiot, Pop Edmonds, had said? He’d settle with Pop in the morning. Now he’d go to sleep....

All the way back to The House With Three Eyes, he justified himself; any reasonable person would see that he had tried his hardest. Ives was reasonable; he understood. Ives had good judgment. So, when he suggested going to bed, he had to be right. Banneker was very tired. He felt really awful about Enderby. He’d explain everything to Enderby in the morning—no: he couldn’t do that. Enderby was gone. Strange thought, that! What was that hot-headed guy, Pop Edmonds, saying? He’d deal with Pop in the morning. Now he’d go to sleep...

He woke to utter misery. In the first mail came the letter, now expected, from Io. It completed the catastrophe in which his every hope was swept away.

He woke up to complete misery. In the first mail was the letter he had been expecting from Io. It confirmed the disaster that had dashed all his hopes.

I have tried to make myself believe (she wrote) that you could not have Betrayed him; that you would not, at least, have let me, who loved you, be, unknowingly, the agent of his destruction. But the black record comes back to me. The Harvey Wheelwright editorial, which seemed so light a thing, then. The lie that beat Robert Laird. The editorial that you dared not print, after promising. All of one piece. How could I ever have trusted you!

I’ve tried to convince myself (she wrote) that you couldn’t have betrayed him; that you wouldn’t, at least, have allowed me, who loved you, to be, unknowingly, the cause of his downfall. But the harsh truth keeps coming back to me. The Harvey Wheelwright editorial, which felt so trivial at the time. The lie that took down Robert Laird. The editorial you refused to publish, even after promising. All connected. How could I have ever trusted you!

Oh, Ban, Ban! When I think of what we have been to each other; how gladly, how proudly, I gave myself to you, to find you unfaithful! Is that the price of success? And unfaithful in such a way! If you had been untrue to me in the conventional sense, I think it would have been a small matter compared to this betrayal. That would have been a thing of the senses, a wound to the lesser part of our love. But this—Couldn’t you see that our relation demanded more of faith, of fidelity, than marriage, to justify it and sustain it; more idealism, more truth, more loyalty to what we were to each other? And now this!

Oh, Ban, Ban! When I think about what we meant to each other; how willingly, how proudly, I gave myself to you, only to find you unfaithful! Is that the cost of success? And unfaithful in such a way! If you had been untrue to me in the usual sense, I think it would have been a minor issue compared to this betrayal. That would have been a physical thing, a hurt to the lesser part of our love. But this—Couldn’t you see that our relationship required more faith, more fidelity, than marriage to justify and sustain it; more idealism, more truth, more loyalty to what we were to each other? And now this!

If it were I alone that you have betrayed, I could bear my own remorse; perhaps even think it retribution for what I have done. But how can I—and how can you—bear the remorse of the disaster that will fall upon Camilla Van Arsdale, your truest friend? What is there left to her, now that the man she loves is to be hounded out of public life by blackmailers? I have not told her. I have not been able to tell her. Perhaps he will write her, himself. How can she bear it! I am going away, leaving a companion in charge of her.

If it were just me that you betrayed, I could handle my own guilt; maybe even see it as payback for my own actions. But how can I—and how can you—deal with the guilt of the tragedy that will strike Camilla Van Arsdale, your closest friend? What is left for her now that the man she loves is being driven out of public life by blackmailers? I haven't told her. I haven't been able to. Maybe he will reach out to her himself. How can she handle this? I'm leaving and will have a companion look after her.

Camilla Van Arsdale! One last drop of bitterness in the cup of suffering. Neither she nor Io had, of course, learned of Enderby’s death, and could not for several days, until the newspapers reached them. Banneker perceived clearly the thing that was laid upon him to do. He must go out to Manzanita and take the news to her. That was part of his punishment. He sent a telegram to Mindle, his factotum on the ground.

Camilla Van Arsdale! Just one more dose of bitterness in the cup of suffering. Neither she nor Io had, of course, heard about Enderby’s death, and they couldn’t for several days until the newspapers arrived. Banneker clearly recognized the task he had to undertake. He had to go out to Manzanita and deliver the news to her. That was part of his punishment. He sent a telegram to Mindle, his assistant on the ground.

Hold all newspapers from Miss C. until I get there, if you have to rob mails. E.B.

Hold all newspapers from Miss C. until I arrive, even if it means stealing mail. E.B.

Without packing his things, without closing his house, without resigning his editorship, he took the next train for Manzanita. Io, coming East, and still unaware of the final tragedy, passed him, halfway.

Without packing his stuff, without closing up his house, without quitting his job as editor, he took the next train to Manzanita. Io, coming from the East and still unaware of the final tragedy, passed him halfway.

While the choir was chanting, over the body of Willis Enderby, the solemn glory of Royce Melvin’s funeral hymn, the script of which had been found attached to his last statement, Banneker, speeding westward, was working out, in agony of soul, a great and patient penance, for his own long observance, planning the secret and tireless ritual through which Camilla Van Arsdale should keep intact her pure and long delayed happiness while her life endured.

While the choir was singing over Willis Enderby’s body, the solemn beauty of Royce Melvin’s funeral hymn, the text of which had been found with his last statement, Banneker, rushing westward, was enduring a deep and patient penance for his own long observations, planning the secret and relentless ritual through which Camilla Van Arsdale could preserve her pure and long-delayed happiness for as long as she lived.

CHAPTER XX

A dun pony ambled along the pine-needle-carpeted trail leading through the forest toward Camilla Van Arsdale’s camp, comfortably shaded against the ardent power of the January sun. Behind sounded a soft, rapid padding of hooves. The pony shied to the left with a violence which might have unseated a less practiced rider, as, with a wild whoop, Dutch Pete came by at full gallop. Pete had been to a dance at the Sick Coyote on the previous night which had imperceptibly merged itself into the present morning, and had there imbibed enough of the spirit of the occasion to last him his fifteen miles home to his ranch. Now he pulled up and waited for the slower rider to overtake him.

A dun pony walked casually along the trail carpeted with pine needles, making its way through the forest toward Camilla Van Arsdale’s camp, comfortably shaded from the intense January sun. Behind, there was a quick, soft sound of hooves. The pony jumped to the left with a force that could have thrown a less experienced rider off, as Dutch Pete came rushing past at full speed with a loud shout. Pete had been at a dance at the Sick Coyote the night before, which had seamlessly blended into the current morning, and he had enjoyed enough of the festivities to keep him going for his fifteen-mile ride home to his ranch. Now he stopped and waited for the slower rider to catch up.

“Howdy, Ban!”

"Hey, Ban!"

“Hello, Pete.”

"Hey, Pete."

“How’s the lady gettin’ on?”

“How’s the lady doing?”

“Not too well.”

“Not doing too great.”

“Can’t see much of anythin’, huh?”

“Can’t see much of anything, huh?”

“No: and never will again.”

“Nope: and never will again.”

“Sho! Well, I don’t figger out as I’d want to live long in that fix. How long does the doc give her, Ban?”

“Sho! Well, I don’t think I’d want to live long in that situation. How long does the doctor say she has, Ban?”

“Perhaps six months; perhaps a year. She isn’t afraid to die; but she’s hanging to life just as long as she can. She’s a game one, Pete.”

“Maybe six months; maybe a year. She’s not afraid to die; but she’s holding on to life for as long as she can. She’s a tough one, Pete.”

“And how long will you be with us, Ban?”

“And how long will you be staying with us, Ban?”

“Oh, I’m likely to be around quite a while yet.”

“Oh, I’ll probably be around for a long time.”

Dutch Pete, thoroughly understanding, reflected that here was another game one. But he remarked only that he’d like to drop in on Miss K’miller next time he rode over, with a bit of sage honey that he’d saved out for her.

Dutch Pete, fully aware, thought about how this was just another game. But he only mentioned that he’d like to stop by and see Miss K’miller the next time he rode over, bringing along a bit of sage honey he had saved for her.

“She’ll be glad to see you,” returned the other. “Only, don’t forget, Pete; not a word about anything except local stuff.”

“She’ll be happy to see you,” replied the other. “Just remember, Pete; don’t say a word about anything except local stuff.”

“Sure!” agreed Pete with that unquestioning acceptance of another’s reasons for secrecy which marks the frontiersman. “Say, Ban,” he added, “you ain’t much of an advertisement for Manzanita as a health resort, yourself. Better have that doc stick his head in your mouth and look at your insides.”

“Sure!” Pete replied, showing that typical frontiersman trust in others' reasons for keeping things under wraps. “Hey, Ban,” he continued, “you’re not exactly selling Manzanita as a health spot either. Maybe you should let that doctor take a look inside your mouth and see what's going on.”

Banneker raised tired eyes and smiled. “Oh, I’m all right,” he replied listlessly.

Banneker lifted his weary eyes and smiled. “Oh, I’m fine,” he responded absentmindedly.

“Come to next Saturday’s dance at the Coyote; that’ll put dynamite in your blood,” prescribed the other as he spurred his horse on.

“Come to next Saturday’s dance at the Coyote; that’ll get your adrenaline pumping,” suggested the other as he urged his horse forward.

Banneker had no need to turn the dun pony aside to the branch trail that curved to the door of his guest; the knowing animal took it by habitude, having traversed it daily for a long time. It was six months since Banneker had bought him: six months and a week since Willis Enderby had been buried. And the pony’s rider had in his pocket a letter, of date only four days old, from Willis Enderby to Camilla Van Arsdale. It was dated from the Governor’s Mansion, Albany, New York. Banneker had written it himself, the night before. He had also composed nearly a column of supposed Amalgamated Wire report, regarding the fight for and against Governor Enderby’s reform measures, which he would read presently to Miss Van Arsdale from the dailies just received. As he dismounted, the clear music of her voice called:

Banneker didn't need to steer the dun pony onto the side trail that led to his guest's door; the well-trained animal took the route out of habit, having traveled it daily for a long time. It had been six months since Banneker bought him: six months and a week since Willis Enderby was buried. And the pony’s rider had a letter in his pocket, dated only four days ago, from Willis Enderby to Camilla Van Arsdale. It was sent from the Governor’s Mansion in Albany, New York. Banneker had written it himself the night before. He had also put together nearly a column of a supposed Amalgamated Wire report, discussing the debate over Governor Enderby’s reform measures, which he planned to read to Miss Van Arsdale from the daily papers he had just received. As he got off the pony, the clear sound of her voice called:

“Any mail, Ban?”

"Any mail, dude?"

“Yes. Letter from Albany.”

"Yes. Letter from Albany."

“Let me open it myself,” she cried jealously.

“Let me open it myself,” she said, feeling jealous.

He delivered it into her hands: this was part of the ritual. She ran her fingers caressingly over it, as if to draw from it the hidden sweetness of her lover’s strength, which must still be only half-expressed, because the words were to be translated through another’s reading; then returned it to its real author.

He handed it to her: this was part of the ritual. She gently ran her fingers over it, as if trying to extract the hidden sweetness of her lover’s strength, which must still be only partially expressed since the words were meant to be interpreted through someone else's reading; then she gave it back to its true author.

“Read it slowly, Ban,” she commanded softly.

“Read it slowly, Ban,” she said gently.

Having completed the letter, his next process was to run through the papers, giving in full any news or editorials on State politics. This was a task demanding the greatest mental concentration and alertness, for he had built up a contemporary history out of his imagination, and must keep all the details congruous and logical. Several times, with that uncanny retentiveness of memory developed in the blind, she had all but caught him; but each time his adroitness saved the day. Later, while he was at work in the room which she had set aside for his daily writing, she would answer the letter on the typewriter, having taught herself to write by position and touch, and he would take her reply for posting. Her nurse and companion, an elderly woman with a natural aptitude for silence and discretion, was Banneker’s partner in the secret. The third member of the conspiracy was the physician who came once a week from Angelica City because he himself was a musician and this slowly and courageously dying woman was Royce Melvin. Between them they hedged her about with the fiction that victoriously defied grief and defeated death.

After finishing the letter, his next step was to go through the papers, fully covering any news or editorials on State politics. This required intense focus and alertness, as he had created a contemporary history from his imagination and needed to keep all the details consistent and logical. Several times, with that incredible memory developed in the blind, she nearly caught him; but each time, his cleverness saved him. Later, while he worked in the room she had set up for his daily writing, she would type out a response to the letter, having taught herself to type by touch. He would then take her reply to be mailed. Her nurse and companion, an older woman who was naturally quiet and discreet, was Banneker’s partner in the secret. The third member of the conspiracy was the doctor who came once a week from Angelica City because he was a musician, and this slowly but bravely dying woman was Royce Melvin. Together, they surrounded her with a fiction that defiantly confronted grief and conquered death.

Camilla Van Arsdale got up from her couch and walked with confident footsteps to the piano.

Camilla Van Arsdale stood up from her couch and walked confidently to the piano.

“Ban,” she said, seating herself and letting her fingers run over the keys, “can’t you substitute another word for ‘muffled’ in the third line? It comes on a high note—upper g—and I want a long, not a short vowel sound.”

“Ban,” she said, sitting down and letting her fingers glide over the keys, “can’t you use a different word instead of ‘muffled’ in the third line? It hits a high note—upper g—and I want a long, not a short vowel sound.”

“How would ‘silenced’ do?” he offered, after studying the line.

“How about ‘silenced’?” he suggested, after looking over the line.

“Beautifully. You’re a most amiable poet! Ban, I think your verses are going to be more famous than my music.”

“Beautifully. You’re a really friendly poet! Ban, I think your poems are going to be more famous than my music.”

“Never that,” he denied. “It’s the music that makes them.”

“Never that,” he said. “It’s the music that creates them.”

“Have you heard from Mr. Gaines yet about the essays?”

“Have you heard from Mr. Gaines about the essays yet?”

“Yes. He’s taking them. He wants to print two in each issue and call them ‘Far Perspectives.’”

“Oh, good!” she cried. “But, Ban, fine as your work is, it seems a terrible waste of your powers to be out here. You ought to be in New York, helping the governor put through his projects.”

“Oh, great!” she exclaimed. “But, Ban, as impressive as your work is, it feels like such a waste of your talents to be out here. You should be in New York, helping the governor with his projects.”

“Well, you know, the doctor won’t give me my release.”

“Well, you know, the doctor won't let me go.”

(Presently he must remember to have a coughing spell. He coughed hollowly and well, thanks to assiduous practice. This was part of the grim and loving comedy of deception: that he had been peremptorily ordered back to Manzanita on account of “weak lungs,” with orders to live in his open shack until he had gained twenty pounds. He was gaining, but with well-considered slowness.)

(Presently he must remember to have a coughing fit. He coughed hollowly and convincingly, thanks to diligent practice. This was part of the grim and loving comedy of deception: he had been abruptly ordered back to Manzanita because of “weak lungs,” with instructions to live in his open shack until he had gained twenty pounds. He was gaining weight, but doing so with carefully thought-out slowness.)

“But when you can, you’ll go back and help him, even if I’m not here to know about it, won’t you?”

“But when you can, you'll go back and help him, even if I'm not around to know about it, right?”

“Oh, yes: I’ll go back to help him when I can,” he promised, as heartily as if he had not made the same promise each time that the subject came up. There was still a good deal of the wistful child about the dying woman.

“Oh, yes: I’ll go back to help him when I can,” he promised, just as genuinely as he had every time this topic came up. The dying woman still had a lot of the longing child in her.

Out from that forest hermitage where the two worked, one in serene though longing happiness, the other under the stern discipline of loss and self-abnegation, had poured, in six short months, a living current of song which had lifted the fame of Royce Melvin to new heights: her fame only, for Banneker would not use his name to the words that rang with a pure and vivid melody of their own. Herein, too, he was paying his debt to Willis Enderby, through the genius of the woman who loved him; preserving that genius with the thin, lustrous, impregnable fiction of his own making against threatening and impotent truth.

Out from that forest retreat where the two worked, one in peaceful but yearning happiness, the other under the strict discipline of loss and self-denial, had emerged, in just six months, a vibrant flow of song that had elevated Royce Melvin's fame to new heights: her fame only, since Banneker refused to attach his name to the words that resonated with a pure and striking melody of their own. In doing so, he was also honoring his debt to Willis Enderby, through the talent of the woman who loved him; safeguarding that talent with the delicate, shining, impenetrable fiction of his own creation against the looming and powerless truth.

Once, when Banneker had brought her a lyric, alive with the sweetness of youth and love in the great open spaces, she had said:

Once, when Banneker had brought her a poem, filled with the joy of youth and love in the vast open spaces, she had said:

“Ban, shall we call it ‘Io?’”

“Ban, should we call it ‘Io?’”

“I don’t think it would do,” he said with an effort.

“I don’t think it would work,” he said with some effort.

“Where is she?”

"Where's she?"

“Traveling in the tropics.”

"Tropical travel."

“You try so hard to keep the sadness out of your voice when you speak of her,” said Camilla sorrowfully. “But it’s always there. Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“You try so hard to keep the sadness out of your voice when you talk about her,” Camilla said sadly. “But it’s always there. Is there anything I can do?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing anybody can do.”

“Nothing. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

The blind woman hesitated. “But you care for her still, don’t you, Ban?”

The blind woman paused. “But you still care for her, right, Ban?”

“Care! Oh, my God!” whispered Banneker.

“Care! Oh my God!” whispered Banneker.

“And she cares. I know she cared when she was here. Io isn’t the kind of woman to forget easily. She tried once, you know.” Miss Van Arsdale smiled wanly. “Why doesn’t she ever say anything of you in her letters?”

“And she cares. I know she cared when she was here. Io isn’t the kind of woman to forget easily. She tried once, you know.” Miss Van Arsdale smiled weakly. “Why doesn’t she ever mention you in her letters?”

“She does.”

"She does."

“Very little.” (Io’s letters, passing through Banneker’s hands were carefully censored, of necessity, to forefend any allusion to the tragedy of Willis Enderby, often to the extent of being rewritten complete. It now occurred to Banneker that he had perhaps overdone the matter of keeping his own name out of them.) “Ban,” she continued wistfully, “you haven’t quarreled, have you?”

“Very little.” (Io’s letters, going through Banneker’s hands, were carefully censored out of necessity to avoid any mention of the tragedy of Willis Enderby, often to the point of being completely rewritten. It suddenly struck Banneker that he might have gone too far in keeping his own name out of them.) “Ban,” she continued with a hint of longing, “you haven’t argued, have you?”

“No, Miss Camilla. We haven’t quarreled.”

“No, Miss Camilla. We haven't fought.”

“Then what is it, Ban? I don’t want to pry; you know me well enough to be sure of that. But if I could only know before the end comes that you two—I wish I could read your face. It’s a helpless thing, being blind.” This was as near a complaint as he had ever heard her utter.

“Then what is it, Ban? I don’t want to intrude; you know me well enough to be sure of that. But if I could just know before the end comes that you two—I wish I could read your expression. It’s a frustrating thing, being blind.” This was as close to a complaint as he had ever heard her say.

“Io’s a rich woman, Miss Camilla,” he said desperately.

“Io’s a wealthy woman, Miss Camilla,” he said urgently.

“What of it?”

"So what?"

“How could I ask her to marry a jobless, half-lunged derelict?”

“How could I ask her to marry a jobless, half-lunged bum?”

“Have you asked her?”

“Have you asked her?”

He was silent.

He was quiet.

“Ban, does she know why you’re here?”

“Ban, does she know why you're here?”

“Oh, yes; she knows.”

“Oh, yes; she gets it.”

“How bitter and desolate your voice sounds when you say that! And you want me to believe that she knows and still doesn’t come to you?”

“How harsh and empty your voice sounds when you say that! And you expect me to believe that she knows and still doesn’t reach out to you?”

“She doesn’t know that I’m—ill,” he said, hating himself for the necessity of pretense with Camilla Van Arsdale.

“She doesn’t know that I’m—sick,” he said, hating himself for having to pretend with Camilla Van Arsdale.

“Then I shall tell her.”

“Then I’ll tell her.”

“No,” he controverted with finality, “I won’t allow it.”

"No," he replied definitively, "I won't allow it."

“Suppose it turned out that this were really the right path for you to travel,” she said after a pause; “that you were going to do bigger things here than you ever could do with The Patriot? I believe it’s going to be so, Ban; that what you are doing now is going to be your true success.”

“Imagine if this actually turned out to be the right path for you to take,” she said after a pause; “that you were going to achieve bigger things here than you ever could with The Patriot? I really think that’s going to happen, Ban; that what you’re doing now is going to be your real success.”

“Success!” he cried. “Are you going to preach success to me? If ever there was a word coined in hell—I’m sorry, Miss Camilla,” he broke off, mastering himself.

“Success!” he shouted. “Are you really going to preach success to me? If there’s ever been a word made in hell—I’m sorry, Miss Camilla,” he paused, regaining his composure.

She groped her way to the piano, and ran her fingers over the keys. “There is work, anyway,” she said with sure serenity.

She felt her way to the piano and ran her fingers over the keys. “At least there's work to be done,” she said with calm confidence.

“Yes; there’s work, thank God!”

“Yeah; there’s work, thank goodness!”

Work enough there was for him, not only in his writing, for which he had recovered the capacity after a long period of stunned inaction, but in the constant and unwearied labor of love in building and rebuilding, fortifying and extending, that precarious but still impregnable bulwark of falsehood beneath whose protection Camilla Van Arsdale lived and was happy and made the magic of her song. Illusion! Banneker wondered whether any happiness were other than illusion, whether the illusion of happiness were not better than any reality. But in the world of grim fact which he had accepted for himself was no palliating mirage. Upon him “the illusive eyes of hope” were closed.

There was plenty of work for him, not only in his writing, which he had finally been able to resume after a long period of feeling paralyzed, but also in the constant and tireless labor of building and rebuilding, strengthening and expanding, that delicate but still strong barrier of falsehood under which Camilla Van Arsdale lived, found happiness, and created the magic of her song. Illusion! Banneker wondered if any happiness was anything more than an illusion, and if the illusion of happiness might be better than any reality. But in the harsh world of facts that he had accepted for himself, there was no comforting illusion. For him, “the illusive eyes of hope” were closed.

While Banneker was practicing his elaborate deceptions, Miss Van Arsdale had perpetrated a lesser one of her own, which she had not deemed it wise to reveal to him in their conversation about Io. Some time before that she had written to her former guest a letter tactfully designed to lay a foundation for resolving the difficulty or misunderstanding between the lovers. In the normal course of events this would have been committed for mailing to Banneker, who would, of course, have confiscated it. But, as it chanced, it was hardly off the typewriter when Dutch Pete dropped in for a friendly call while Banneker was at the village, and took the missive with him for mailing. It traveled widely, amassed postmarks and forwarding addresses, and eventually came to its final port.

While Banneker was busy with his complicated tricks, Miss Van Arsdale had pulled off a smaller trick of her own, which she hadn’t thought it wise to mention during their talk about Io. Some time earlier, she had written a letter to her former guest, carefully crafted to start fixing the misunderstanding between the lovers. Normally, this letter would have been sent to Banneker, who would have, of course, taken it away. But, as luck would have it, it was barely off the typewriter when Dutch Pete dropped by for a friendly visit while Banneker was in the village and took the letter with him to send. It traveled a long way, collected postmarks and forwarding addresses, and eventually reached its final destination.

Worn out with the hopeless quest of forgetfulness in far lands, Io Eyre came back to New York. It was there that the long pursuit of her by Camilla Van Arsdale’s letter ended. Bewilderment darkened Io’s mind as she read, to be succeeded by an appalled conjecture; Camilla Van Arsdale’s mind had broken down under her griefs. What other hypothesis could account for her writing of Willis Enderby as being still alive? And of her having letters from him? To the appeal for Banneker which, concealed though it was, underlay the whole purport of the writing, Io closed her heart, seared by the very sight of his name. She would have torn the letter up, but something impelled her to read it again; some hint of a pregnant secret to be gleaned from it, if one but held the clue. Hers was a keen and thoughtful mind. She sent it exploring through the devious tangle of the maze wherein she and Banneker, Camilla Van Arsdale and Willis Enderby had been so tragically involved, and as she patiently studied the letter as possible guide there dawned within her a glint of the truth. It began with the suspicion, soon growing to conviction, that the writer of those inexplicable words was not, could not be insane; the letter breathed a clarity of mind, an untroubled simplicity of heart, a quiet undertone of happiness, impossible to reconcile with the picture of a shattered and grief-stricken victim. Yet Io had, herself, written to Miss Van Arsdale as soon as she knew of Judge Enderby’s death, pouring out her heart for the sorrow of the woman who as a stranger had stood her friend, whom, as she learned to know her in the close companionship of her affliction, she had come to love; offering to return at once to Manzanita. To that offer had come no answer; later she had had a letter curiously reticent as to Willis Enderby. (Banneker, in his epistolary personification of Miss Van Arsdale had been perhaps overcautious on this point.) Io began to piece together hints and clues, as in a disjected puzzle:—Banneker’s presence in Manzanita—Camilla’s blindness.—Her inability to know, except through the medium of others, the course of events.—The bewildering reticence and hiatuses in the infrequent letters from Manzanita, particularly in regard to Willis Enderby.—This calm, sane, cheerful view of him as a living being, a present figure in his old field of action.—The casual mention in an early letter that all of Miss Van Arsdale’s reading and most of her writing was done through the nurse or Banneker, mainly the latter, though she was mastering the art of touch-writing on the typewriter. The very style of the earlier letters, as she remembered them, was different. And just here flashed the thought which set her feverishly ransacking the portfolio in which she kept her old correspondence. There she found an envelope with a Manzanita postmark dated four months earlier. The typing of the two letters was not the same.

Worn out from the hopeless search for forgetfulness in distant places, Io Eyre returned to New York. It was there that Camilla Van Arsdale’s letter finally caught up with her. Confusion clouded Io’s mind as she read, followed by a shocking realization: Camilla Van Arsdale had lost her grip on reality due to her grief. What other explanation could account for her claiming that Willis Enderby was still alive? And that she had letters from him? To the underlying request for Banneker, which was subtly woven into the message, Io shut her heart, wounded by the very sight of his name. She almost tore up the letter but felt compelled to read it again, searching for a hint of a significant secret hidden within, if only she could find the clue. She had a sharp and thoughtful mind. She sent it on a journey through the complicated mess in which she, Banneker, Camilla Van Arsdale, and Willis Enderby had been so tragically entangled. As she carefully analyzed the letter as a possible guide, a glimmer of truth began to emerge within her. It started with the suspicion, which soon turned into conviction, that the writer of those puzzling words was not, and could not be, insane; the letter conveyed a clarity of thought, an untroubled simplicity of heart, a subtle hint of happiness that was impossible to reconcile with the image of a shattered and grief-stricken victim. Yet Io had herself written to Miss Van Arsdale as soon as she learned of Judge Enderby’s death, pouring out her heart for the sorrow of the woman who had stood by her as a friend despite being a stranger, someone she had grown to love through their shared suffering; she offered to return immediately to Manzanita. There had been no response to that offer; later, she received a letter that was oddly reserved regarding Willis Enderby. (Banneker, in his personification of Miss Van Arsdale in letters, might have been overly cautious about this matter.) Io began to piece together hints and clues like a disjointed puzzle:—Banneker’s presence in Manzanita—Camilla’s blindness.—Her inability to know the events unfolding around her except through others.—The confusing reticence and gaps in the sparse letters from Manzanita, particularly about Willis Enderby.—This calm, rational, cheerful view of him as a living person, a current figure in his old sphere of action.—The casual mention in an early letter that most of Miss Van Arsdale’s reading and writing was done through the nurse or Banneker, mainly the latter, although she was learning to touch-type. The very style of the earlier letters, as she recalled, felt different. And it was at this moment that the thought struck her, prompting her to feverishly search through the portfolio where she kept her old correspondence. There, she found an envelope postmarked from Manzanita, dated four months earlier. The typing of the two letters was not the same.

Groping for some aid in the murk, Io went to the telephone and called up the editorial office of The Sphere, asking for Russell Edmonds. Within two hours the veteran had come to her.

Groping for help in the darkness, Io went to the phone and called the editorial office of The Sphere, asking for Russell Edmonds. Within two hours, the veteran had arrived to see her.

“I have been wanting to see you,” he said at once.

“I’ve been wanting to see you,” he said right away.

“About Mr. Banneker?” she queried eagerly.

“About Mr. Banneker?” she asked eagerly.

“No. About The Searchlight.”

“No. About the Searchlight.”

“The Searchlight? I don’t understand, Mr. Edmonds.”

“The Searchlight? I don’t get it, Mr. Edmonds.”

“Can’t we be open with each other, Mrs. Eyre?”

“Can't we be honest with each other, Mrs. Eyre?”

“Absolutely, so far as I am concerned.”

“Definitely, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Then I want to tell you that you need have no fear as to what The Searchlight may do.”

“Then I want to let you know that you don’t need to worry about what The Searchlight might do.”

“Still I don’t understand. Why should I fear it?”

“Still, I don’t get it. Why should I be afraid of it?”

“The scandal—manufactured, of course—which The Searchlight had cooked up about you and Mr. Banneker before Mr. Eyre’s death.”

“The scandal—obviously made up—which The Searchlight had created about you and Mr. Banneker before Mr. Eyre’s death.”

“Surely there was never anything published. I should have heard of it.”

“Surely nothing like that was ever published. I would have heard about it.”

“No; there wasn’t. Banneker stopped it.”

“Ban?”

“Do you mean to say that you knew nothing of this, Mrs. Eyre?” he said, the wonder in his face answering the bewilderment in hers. “Didn’t Banneker tell you?”

“Are you saying you knew nothing about this, Mrs. Eyre?” he asked, the surprise on his face matching her confusion. “Didn’t Banneker mention it to you?”

“Never a word.”

"Not a word."

“No; I suppose he wouldn’t,” ruminated the veteran. “That would be like Ban—the old Ban,” he added sadly. “Mrs. Eyre, I loved that boy,” he broke out, his stern and somber face working. “There are times even now when I can scarcely make myself believe that he did what he did.”

“No; I guess he wouldn't,” thought the veteran. “That would be like Ban—the old Ban,” he said with a hint of sadness. “Mrs. Eyre, I loved that boy,” he exclaimed, his serious and gloomy face contorting. “There are times even now when I can hardly believe he did what he did.”

“Wait,” pleaded Io. “How did he stop The Searchlight?”

“Wait,” Io begged. “How did he stop The Searchlight?”

“By threatening Bussey with an exposé that would have blown him out of the water. Blackmail, if you like, Mrs. Eyre, and not of the most polite kind.”

“By threatening Bussey with an exposé that would have completely taken him down. Blackmail, if you want to call it that, Mrs. Eyre, and not the most polite kind.”

“For me,” whispered Io.

"For me," Io whispered.

“He held that old carrion-buzzard, Bussey, up at the muzzle of The Patriot as if it were a blunderbuss. It was loaded to kill, too. And then,” pursued Edmonds, “he paid the price. Marrineal got out his little gun and held him up.”

“He held that old buzzard, Bussey, up at the muzzle of The Patriot as if it were a shotgun. It was loaded to kill, too. And then,” Edmonds continued, “he paid the price. Marrineal took out his little gun and held him up.”

“Held Ban up? What for? How could he do that? All this is a riddle to me, Mr. Edmonds.”

“Held Ban up? Why? How could he do that? This is all a mystery to me, Mr. Edmonds.”

“Do you think you really want to know?” asked the other with a touch of grimness. “It won’t be pleasant hearing.”

“Do you really think you want to know?” asked the other, sounding a bit grim. “It won’t be nice to hear.”

“I’ve got to know. Everything!”

"I need to know everything!"

“Very well. Here’s the situation. Banneker points his gun, The Patriot, at Bussey. ‘Be good or I’ll shoot,’ he says. Marrineal learns of it, never mind how. He points his gun at Ban. ‘Be good, or I’ll shoot,’ says he. And there you are!”

“Alright. Here’s what’s happening. Banneker aims his gun, The Patriot, at Bussey. ‘Behave, or I’ll shoot,’ he says. Marrineal finds out about this, no matter how. He aims his gun at Ban. ‘Behave, or I’ll shoot,’ he says. And that’s the situation!”

“But what was his gun? And why need he threaten Ban?”

“But what was his gun? And why did he need to threaten Ban?”

“Why, you see, Mrs. Eyre, about that time things were coming to an issue between Ban and Marrineal. Ban was having a hard fight for the independence of his editorial page. His strongest hold on Marrineal was Marrineal’s fear of losing him. There were plenty of opportunities open to a Banneker. Well, when Marrineal got Ban where he couldn’t resign, Ban’s hold was gone. That was Marrineal’s gun.”

“Look, Mrs. Eyre, around that time things were really heating up between Ban and Marrineal. Ban was struggling hard to keep his editorial page independent. His biggest advantage over Marrineal was Marrineal’s fear of losing him. There were lots of opportunities out there for a Banneker. So when Marrineal got Ban in a position where he couldn’t resign, Ban lost his leverage. That was Marrineal’s trump card.”

“Why couldn’t he resign?” asked Io, white-lipped.

“Why couldn’t he just resign?” asked Io, her lips pale.

“If he quit The Patriot he could no longer hold Bussey, and The Searchlight could print what it chose. You see?”

“If he left The Patriot, he wouldn't be able to keep Bussey, and The Searchlight could publish whatever it wanted. Got it?”

“I see,” said Io, very low. “Oh, why couldn’t I have seen before!”

“I get it,” said Io, barely above a whisper. “Oh, why couldn’t I have realized this sooner!”

“How could you, if Ban told you nothing?” reasoned Edmonds. “The blame of the miserable business isn’t yours. Sometimes I wonder if it’s anybody’s; if the newspaper game isn’t just too strong for us who try to play it. As for The Searchlight, I’ve since got another hold on Bussey which will keep him from making any trouble. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“How could you, if Ban didn't tell you anything?” Edmonds reasoned. “You’re not to blame for this awful situation. Sometimes I wonder if anyone really is; maybe the newspaper world is just too tough for us folks trying to navigate it. As for The Searchlight, I’ve since gained another grip on Bussey that will stop him from causing any problems. That’s what I wanted to share with you.”

“Oh, what does it matter! What does it matter!” she moaned. She crossed to the window, laid her hot and white face against the cool glass, pressed her hands in upon her temples, striving to think connectedly. “Then whatever he did on The Patriot, whatever compromises he yielded to or—or cowardices—” she winced at the words—“were done to save his place; to save me.”

“Oh, what does it even matter! What does it even matter!” she complained. She walked to the window, pressed her hot, pale face against the cool glass, and put her hands on her temples, trying to think clearly. “So whatever he did on The Patriot, whatever compromises he made or—or weaknesses—” she winced at the words—“were done to keep his position; to protect me.”

“I’m afraid so,” returned the other gently.

“I’m afraid so,” the other replied softly.

“Do you know what he’s doing now?” she demanded.

“Do you know what he’s up to now?” she asked.

“I understand he’s back at Manzanita.”

“I heard he’s back at Manzanita.”

“He is. And from what I can make out,” she added fiercely, “he is giving up his life to guarding Miss Van Arsdale from breaking her heart, as she will do, if she learns of Judge Enderby’s death—Oh!” she cried, “I didn’t mean to say that! You must forget that there was anything said.”

“He is. And from what I can tell,” she added fiercely, “he’s sacrificing his life to protect Miss Van Arsdale from getting her heart broken, which she will if she finds out about Judge Enderby’s death—Oh!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t mean to say that! You have to forget that anything was mentioned.”

“No need. I know all that story,” he said gravely. “That is what I couldn’t forgive in Ban. That he should have betrayed Miss Van Arsdale, his oldest friend. That is the unpardonable treachery.”

“No need. I know that whole story,” he said seriously. “That’s what I couldn’t forgive in Ban. That he would betray Miss Van Arsdale, his oldest friend. That is the unforgivable treachery.”

“To save me,” said Io.

"To help me," said Io.

“Not even for that. He owed more to her than to you.”

“Not even for that. He owed her more than he owed you.”

“I can’t believe that he did it!” she wailed. “To use my letter to set spies on Cousin Billy and ruin him—it isn’t Ban. It isn’t!”

“I can’t believe he actually did it!” she cried. “Using my letter to have spies follow Cousin Billy and destroy him—it’s not right. It’s just not!”

“He did it, and, when it was too late, he tried to stop it.”

“He did it, and by the time he realized his mistake, it was too late to stop it.”

“To stop it?” She looked her startled query at him. “How do you know that?”

“To stop it?” She gave him a surprised look. “How do you know that?”

“Last week,” explained Edmonds, “Judge Enderby’s partner sent for me. He had been going over some papers and had come upon a telegram from Banneker urging Enderby not to leave without seeing him. The telegram must have been delivered very shortly after the Judge left for the train.”

“Last week,” Edmonds explained, “Judge Enderby’s partner called me in. He’d been looking over some documents and found a telegram from Banneker urging Enderby not to leave without meeting him. The telegram must have been delivered right after the Judge headed to the train.”

“Telegram? Why a telegram? Wasn’t Ban in town?”

“Telegram? Why send a telegram? Wasn’t Ban here?”

“No. He was down in Jersey. At The Retreat.”

“Wait!” gasped Io. “At The Retreat! Then my letter would have been forwarded to him there. He couldn’t have got it at the same time that Cousin Billy got the one I sent him.” She gripped Russell Edmonds’s wrists in fierce, strong hands. “What if he hadn’t known in time? What if, the moment he did know, he did his best to stop Cousin Billy from starting, with that telegram?” Suddenly the light died out of her face. “But then how would that loathsome Mr. Ives have known that he was going, unless Ban betrayed him?”

“Wait!” Io exclaimed, catching her breath. “At The Retreat! Then my letter must have been sent to him there. He couldn't have received it at the same time that Cousin Billy got the one I sent him.” She grabbed Russell Edmonds's wrists with fierce, strong hands. “What if he didn’t find out in time? What if, as soon as he did find out, he tried his hardest to stop Cousin Billy from leaving with that telegram?” Suddenly, the light faded from her face. “But then how could that terrible Mr. Ives have known that he was going, unless Ban betrayed him?”

“Easily enough,” returned the veteran. “He had a report from his detectives, who had been watching Enderby for months.... Mrs. Eyre, I wish you’d give me a drink. I feel shaky.”

“Sure thing,” replied the veteran. “He got a report from his detectives, who had been keeping an eye on Enderby for months.... Mrs. Eyre, could you please get me a drink? I’m feeling a bit shaky.”

She left him to give the order. When she returned, they had both steadied down. Carefully, and with growing conviction, they gathered the evidence into something like a coherent whole. At the end, Io moaned:

She walked away to give the order. When she came back, they had both calmed down. Carefully, and with increasing confidence, they pieced the evidence together into something resembling a coherent whole. In the end, Io groaned:

“The one thing I can’t bear is that Cousin Billy died, believing that of Ban.”

“The one thing I can’t stand is that Cousin Billy died, believing that about Ban.”

She threw herself upon the broad lounge, prone, her face buried in her arms. The veteran of hundreds of fights, brave and blind, righteous and mistaken, crowned with fleeting victories, tainted with irremediable errors, stood silent, perplexed, mournful. He walked slowly over to where the girl was stretched, and laid a clumsy, comforting hand on her shoulder.

She collapsed onto the wide couch, lying face down with her arms wrapped around her head. The experienced fighter, who had faced countless battles—fearless yet oblivious, just and misguided, marked by temporary wins and lasting mistakes—stood quietly, confused and sorrowful. He walked slowly over to where the girl lay and placed an awkward but comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I wish you’d cry for me, too,” he said huskily. “I’m too old.”

“I wish you’d cry for me, too,” he said hoarsely. “I’m too old.”

CHAPTER XXI

Every Saturday the distinguished physician from Angelica City came to Manzanita on the afternoon train, spent two or three hours at Camilla Van Arsdale’s camp, and returned in time to catch Number Seven back. No imaginable fee would have induced him to abstract one whole day from his enormous practice for any other patient. But he was himself an ardent vocal amateur, and to keep Royce Melvin alive and able to give forth her songs to the world was a special satisfaction to his soul. Moreover, he knew enough of Banneker’s story to take pride in being partner in his plan of deception and self-sacrifice. He pretended that it was a needed holiday for him: his bills hardly defrayed the traveling expense.

Every Saturday, the distinguished doctor from Angelica City arrived in Manzanita on the afternoon train, spent two or three hours at Camilla Van Arsdale’s camp, and left in time to catch Number Seven back. No fee imaginable could’ve convinced him to take a whole day away from his busy practice for any other patient. But he was a passionate amateur singer himself, and keeping Royce Melvin alive so she could share her songs with the world brought him deep satisfaction. Plus, he knew enough about Banneker’s story to take pride in being part of his plan of deception and self-sacrifice. He pretended that it was a much-needed vacation for him, although his earnings hardly covered the travel costs.

Now, riding back with Banneker, he meditated a final opinion, and out of that opinion came speech.

Now, riding back with Banneker, he reflected on a final thought, and from that thought came his words.

“Mr. Banneker, they ought to give you and me a special niche in the Hall of Fame,” he said.

“Mr. Banneker, you and I deserve our own special spot in the Hall of Fame,” he said.

A rather wan smile touched briefly Banneker’s lips. “I believe that my ambitions once reached even that far,” he said.

A faint smile crossed Banneker’s lips for a moment. “I think my ambitions used to reach that far,” he said.

The other reflected upon the implied tragedy of a life, so young, for which ambition was already in the past tense, as he added:

The other thought about the sad reality of a life, so young, where ambition was already something of the past, as he added:

“In the musical section. We’ve got our share in the nearest thing to great music that has been produced in the America of our time. You and I. Principally you.”

“In the musical section. We’ve got our share of the closest thing to great music that has been produced in America during our time. You and I. Mainly you.”

Banneker made a quick gesture of denial.

Banneker quickly shook his head.

“I don’t know what you owe to Camilla Van Arsdale, but you’ve paid the debt. There won’t be much more to pay, Banneker.”

“I’m not sure what you owe Camilla Van Arsdale, but you’ve settled that debt. There won’t be much left to pay, Banneker.”

Banneker looked up sharply.

Banneker looked up quickly.

“No.” The visitor shook his graying head. “We’ve performed as near a miracle as it is given to poor human power to perform. It can’t last much longer.”

“No.” The visitor shook his graying head. “We’ve done almost a miracle, given what limited power we humans have. It won’t last much longer.”

“How long?”

“How long is it?”

“A matter of weeks. Not more. Banneker, do you believe in a personal immortality?”

“A matter of weeks. No more. Banneker, do you believe in personal immortality?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“I don’t know. How about you?”

“I don’t know, either. I was thinking.... If it were so; when she gets across, what she will feel when she finds her man waiting for her. God!” He lifted his face to the great trees that moved and murmured overhead. “How that heart of hers has sung to him all these years!”

“I don’t know either. I was thinking... If that's the case; when she makes it across, how will she feel when she finds her man waiting for her? Wow!” He lifted his face to the tall trees that swayed and rustled above. “How her heart has been singing to him all these years!”

He lifted his voice and sent it rolling through the cathedral aisles of the forest, in the superb finale of the last hymn.

He raised his voice and let it echo through the cathedral-like aisles of the forest, in the magnificent ending of the last hymn.

“For even the purest delight may pall, And power must fail, and the pride must fall And the love of the dearest friends grow small— But the glory of the Lord is all in all.”

“For even the purest joy can become boring, And power will falter, and pride will fade, And the love of the closest friends can diminish— But the glory of the Lord is everything.”

The great voice was lost in the sighing of the winds. They rode on, thoughtful and speechless. When the physician turned to his companion again, it was with a brisk change of manner.

The powerful voice was drowned out by the whispering winds. They continued on, deep in thought and silent. When the doctor looked back at his friend, it was with a sudden shift in attitude.

“And now we’ll consider you.”

“And now we’ll take you into account.”

“Nothing to consider,” declared Banneker.

"Nothing to think about," said Banneker.

“Is your professional judgment better than mine?” retorted the other. “How much weight have you lost since you’ve been out here?”

“Is your professional judgment really better than mine?” the other person shot back. “How much weight have you lost since you got out here?”

“I don’t know.”

"I don't know."

“Find out. Don’t sleep very well, do you?”

“Find out. You don’t sleep well, do you?”

“Not specially.”

"Not particularly."

“What do you do at night when you can’t sleep? Work?”

“What do you do at night when you can't sleep? Work?”

“No.”

"Nope."

“Well?”

"What's up?"

“Think.”

"Think about it."

The doctor uttered a non-professional monosyllable. “What will you do,” he propounded, waving his arm back along the trail toward the Van Arsdale camp, “when this little game of yours is played out?”

The doctor said a casual one-syllable word. “What are you going to do,” he asked, gesturing back along the path toward the Van Arsdale camp, “when this little game of yours comes to an end?”

“God knows!” said Banneker. It suddenly struck him that life would be blank, empty of interest or purpose, when Camilla Van Arsdale died, when there was no longer the absorbing necessity to preserve, intact and impregnable, the fortress of love and lies wherewith he had surrounded her.

“God knows!” said Banneker. It suddenly hit him that life would be dull, without any interest or purpose, when Camilla Van Arsdale died, when there was no longer the intense need to keep intact and safe the fortress of love and lies that he had built around her.

“When this chapter is finished,” said the other, “you come down to Angelica City with me. Perhaps we’ll go on a little camping trip together. I want to talk to you.”

“When this chapter is finished,” said the other, “you come down to Angelica City with me. Maybe we’ll go on a little camping trip together. I want to talk to you.”

The train carried him away. Oppressed and thoughtful, Banneker walked slowly across the blazing, cactus-set open toward his shack. There was still the simple housekeeping work to be done, for he had left early that morning. He felt suddenly spiritless, flaccid, too inert even for the little tasks before him. The physician’s pronouncement had taken the strength from him. Of course he had known that it couldn’t be very long—but only a few weeks!

The train took him away. Overwhelmed and reflective, Banneker walked slowly across the hot, cactus-filled landscape towards his shack. There was still some basic housekeeping to finish, since he had left early that morning. He suddenly felt drained, lethargic, too sluggish even for the small tasks ahead of him. The doctor’s verdict had taken the life out of him. He had known it wouldn’t be much longer—but only a few weeks!

He was almost at the shack when he noticed that the door stood half ajar.

He was almost at the shack when he saw that the door was half open.

But here, where everything had been disorder, was now order. The bed was made, the few utensils washed, polished, and hung up; on the table a handful of the alamo’s bright leaves in a vase gave a touch of color.

But here, where everything had been a mess, there was now order. The bed was made, the few utensils were washed, polished, and hung up; on the table, a handful of the alamo’s bright leaves in a vase added a splash of color.

In the long chair (7 T 4031 of the Sears-Roebuck catalogue) sat Io. A book lay on her lap, the book of “The Undying Voices.” Her eyes were closed. Banneker reached out a hand to the door lintel for support.

In the long chair (7 T 4031 from the Sears-Roebuck catalog) sat Io. A book lay on her lap, the book of “The Undying Voices.” Her eyes were shut. Banneker reached out a hand to the door frame for support.

A light tremor ran through Io’s body. She opened her eyes, and fixed them on Banneker. She rose slowly. The book fell to the floor and lay open between them. Io stood, her arms hanging straitly at her side, her whole face a lovely and loving plea.

A slight tremor passed through Io's body. She opened her eyes and focused on Banneker. She stood up slowly. The book dropped to the floor and lay open between them. Io stood there, her arms hanging straight at her sides, her entire face an expression of beauty and affection.

“Please, Ban!” she said, in a voice so little that it hardly came to his ears.

“Please, Ban!” she said, in a voice so soft that it barely reached his ears.

Speech and motion were denied him, in the great, the incredible surprise of her presence.

Speech and movement were taken from him in the overwhelming, astonishing surprise of her presence.

“Please, Ban, forgive me.” She was like a child, beseeching. Her firm little chin quivered. Two great, soft, lustrous tears welled up from the shadowy depths of the eyes and hung, gleaming, above the lashes. “Oh, aren’t you going to speak to me!” she cried.

“Please, Ban, forgive me.” She sounded like a child, pleading. Her determined little chin trembled. Two large, soft, shiny tears formed from the dark depths of her eyes and hung, sparkling, above her lashes. “Oh, aren’t you going to talk to me!” she exclaimed.

At that the bonds of his languor were rent. He leapt to her, heard the broken music of her sob, felt her arms close about him, her lips seek his and cling, loath to relinquish them even for the passionate murmurs of her love and longing for him.

At that, the hold of his fatigue was broken. He jumped to her, heard the shattered sound of her sobs, felt her arms wrap around him, her lips searching for his and clinging, unwilling to let go even for the passionate whispers of her love and desire for him.

“Hold me close, Ban! Don’t ever let me go again! Don’t ever let me doubt again!”

“Hold me close, Ban! Never let me go again! Never let me doubt again!”

When, at length, she gently released herself, her foot brushed the fallen book. She picked it up tenderly, and caressed its leaves as she adjusted them.

When she finally let go, her foot brushed against the fallen book. She picked it up gently and ran her fingers over its pages as she straightened them out.

“Didn’t the Voices tell you that I’d come back, Ban?” she asked.

He shook his head. “If they did, I couldn’t hear them.”

He shook his head. “If they were, I wouldn’t be able to hear them.”

“But they sang to you,” she insisted gently. “They never stopped singing, did they?”

“But they sang to you,” she insisted softly. “They never stopped singing, right?”

“No. No. They never stopped singing.”

“Ah; then you ought to have known, Ban. And I ought to have known that you couldn’t have done what I believed you had. Are you sure you forgive me, Ban?”

“Ah, then you should have known, Ban. And I should have known that you couldn’t have done what I thought you did. Are you sure you forgive me, Ban?”

She told him of what she had discovered, of the talk with Russell Edmonds (“I’ve a letter from him for you, dearest one; he loves you, too. But not as I do. Nobody could!” interjected Io jealously), of the clue of the telegram. And he told her of Camilla Van Arsdale and the long deception; and at that, for the first time since he knew her, she broke down and gave herself up utterly to tears, as much for him as for the friend whom he had so loyally loved and served. When it was over and she had regained command of herself, she said:

She shared with him what she had found out, about the conversation with Russell Edmonds (“I have a letter from him for you, my dear; he loves you too. But not like I do. No one could!” Io interrupted jealously), and the clue from the telegram. He revealed to her the truth about Camilla Van Arsdale and the long deception; at that moment, for the first time since they met, she broke down and let herself cry, feeling as much for him as for the friend he had so faithfully loved and served. When it was all over and she had pulled herself together, she said:

“Now you must take me to her.”

“Now you need to take me to her.”

So once more they rode together into the murmurous peace of the forest. Io leaned in her saddle as they drew near the cabin, to lay a hand on her lover’s shoulder.

So once again, they rode together into the soothing calm of the forest. Io leaned in her saddle as they approached the cabin to place a hand on her lover’s shoulder.

“Once, a thousand years ago, Ban,” she said, “when love came to me, I was a wicked little infidel and would not believe. Not in the Enchanted Canyon, nor in the Mountains of Fulfillment, nor in the Fadeless Gardens where the Undying Voices sing. Do you remember?”

“Once, a thousand years ago, Ban,” she said, “when love came into my life, I was a rebellious little nonbeliever and wouldn’t accept it. Not in the Enchanted Canyon, nor in the Mountains of Fulfillment, nor in the Everlasting Gardens where the Immortal Voices sing. Do you remember?”

“Do I not!” whispered Ban, turning to kiss the fingers that tightened on his shoulder.

“Do I not!” whispered Ban, turning to kiss the fingers that gripped his shoulder.

“And—and I blasphemed and said there was always a serpent in every Paradise, and that Experience was a horrid hag, with a bony finger pointing to the snake.... This is my recantation, Ban. I know now that you were the true Prophet; that Experience has shining wings and eyes that can lock to the future as well as the past, and immortal Hope for a lover. And that only they two can guide to the Mountains of Fulfillment. Is it enough, Ban?”

“And—I cursed and said there’s always a snake in every Paradise, and that Experience is a creepy old woman, with a bony finger pointing at the snake.... This is my apology, Ban. I understand now that you were the true Prophet; that Experience has shining wings and eyes that can see both the future and the past, and everlasting Hope as a partner. And that only those two can lead to the Mountains of Fulfillment. Is that enough, Ban?”

“It is enough,” he answered with grave happiness.

“It’s enough,” he replied with serious joy.

“Listen!” exclaimed Io.

"Listen!" shouted Io.

The sound of song, tender and passionate and triumphant, came pulsing through the silence to meet them as they rode on.

The sound of a song, soft and passionate and victorious, floated through the silence to greet them as they rode on.

THE END

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