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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. "Nothing in the Eyre story, Mr. Banneker!" "Not a thing." "You saw Mr. Densmore?" "Yes, sir." "Would he talk?" "Yes; he made a statement." "It didn't appear in the paper."
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. "What is the matter with my clothes?" he asked. "Why well," began Wickert, unhappy and fumbling with his ideas; "Oh, they're all right." "For a meeting of the Farmers' Alliance." Banneker was smiling good-naturedly.
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.
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?" At The Retreat, after polo, that Saturday, the senior Masters met Banneker face to face in a hallway, and held him up.
"That is perhaps just as well," said Banneker quite quietly, "if he means that The Ledger is not straight." "I didn't say The Ledger. I said Gurney. He's crooked as a corkscrew's hole." 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?" "Naw!" snorted Bezdek.
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'." "Enderby?" queried Banneker quickly. "I seem to detect his fine legal hand in it." Banneker's face became moody. "I suppose Haring refused to publish it." "No. Haring's for taking it."
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. "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.
"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." "Go home and think it over," 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."
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.
I thought that 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.
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