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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?" "It certainly is," confirmed Mallory.
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.
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.
"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 " "It will be some little time before you can see him. He's at work." "But this is his party, isn't it?" "Yes. The party takes care of itself until he comes down." "Oh; does it? Well, will it take care of me?" "Are you a friend of Mr. Banneker's?"
From this time astronomy became the great object of Banneker's life, and in its study he almost disappeared from the sight of his neighbors. He was unmarried, and lived alone in the cabin and on the farm which he had inherited from his parents. He had still to labor for his living; but he so simplified his wants as to be enabled to devote the greater portion of his time to astronomical studies.
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.
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: "Mr. Horace Vanney wishes to relieve his soul of some priceless information. Will you call at his office at two-thirty?" It was Mr.
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. "What name did you say?" muttered Banneker, involuntarily. "Io. My foster-sister's nickname. Irene Welland, she was. You're a queer sort of society reporter if you don't know that." "I'm not a society reporter." "But you know Mrs. Eyre?"
You yourself are enough in the troubled-water duckling line for one old hen like The Courier." "Then there remains only The Patriot, friend of the Pee-pul." "Skimmed scum," was Banneker's prompt definition. "And nothing in the soup underneath." Ernst, the waiter, scuttled across the floor below, and disappeared back of the L-angle a few feet away.
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." Him, Mr.
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