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Eyre?" "Absolutely, so far as I am concerned." "Then I want to tell you that you need have no fear as to what The Searchlight may do." "Still I don't understand. Why should I fear it?" "The scandal manufactured, of course which The Searchlight had cooked up about you and Mr. Banneker before Mr. Eyre's death." "Surely there was never anything published. I should have heard of it."
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!"
As he opened the door of the shack for her, Banneker, reverting to her autobiographical sketch, remarked thoughtfully and without preliminary: "I might have known there couldn't be any one else like you." Although the vehicle of his professional activities had for some years been a small and stertorous automobile locally known as "Puffy Pete," Mr.
Rivalry between the two geniuses inspired the musician to make an offer which he would hardly have granted to royalty itself. "After a time, when zese chatterers are gon-away, I shall play for you. Is zere some one here who can accompany properly?" Necessarily Io sent for Banneker to find out.
I think if you do any such thing, you are Mr. Banneker! You're not listening to me." "Some one is coming through the woods trail," said he. "Perhaps it's your local friend." "That's my guess." "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.
'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?" "That's the magic of it," returned Io, with a little, half-suppressed crow of delight. "Are you magic, too, Mr. Banneker?" "Me? I'm hungry," said he. "Forgive the cook!" she cried.
"I'm not going to hurt you yet. By what right did you do it?" "Orders." "Marrineal's?" "Yes." With no further word, Banneker strode to the owner's office, pushed open the door, and entered. Marrineal looked up, slightly frowning. "Did you kill this editorial?" Marrineal's frown changed to a smile. "Sit down, Mr. Banneker." "Marrineal, did you kill my editorial?"
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. After she had played, Miss Van Arsdale declared that she must go, whereupon Banneker insisted upon taking her to her hotel.
"Who are you?" he asked, and the voice said: "Don't hurt me." "Why should I?" returned Banneker stupidly. "Some one did," said the voice. "Who?" he demanded fiercely. "Won't you let me go?" pleaded the voice. In the shock of his discovery he had released the flash-lever so that this colloquy passed in darkness. Now he pressed it.
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.
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