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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.
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?"
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. "Hello, Bettina." "Hello, Ban." "How nearly dressed are you?" "Oh half an hour or so." "Go out for a bite, if I come up there?"
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 " "But that's rank blackmail!" exclaimed Banneker.
He went to Mr. Gordon about it. The managing editor was the kind of man with whom it is easy to talk straight talk. "What's the matter with me?" asked Banneker. Mr. Gordon played a thoughtful tattoo upon his fleshy knuckles with the letter-opener. "Nothing. Aren't you satisfied?" "No. Are you?" "You've had your raise, and fairly early. Unless you had been worth it, you wouldn't have had it."
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.
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. "Well?" "Are you really going, Io?" "Certainly. Why shouldn't I?"
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." "Do you know him, Pop?" inquired McHale. "Never saw him. Don't have to. I've read his stuff." "And you see it there?" "Plain as Brooklyn Bridge.
"Would you want me to?" "Yes. Truly. And I'd hate you both forever." "Betty Raleigh is going to marry some one else." "No! I thought people said Are you sorry, Ban?" "Not for myself. I think he's the wrong man 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." "Don't they!" retorted Banneker bitterly.
"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. "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.
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