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"What do you conceive that to have been?" 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?" "Where I came from, that would be regarded as a trouble-hunter's question." "I ask you to regard it as important and take it without offense."
"'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." Gardner had been listening with a kindling eye. He brought his fist down on his knee. "You've told me something!" he exclaimed. "Going to try it out on your own game?" "Not about golf. About Banneker.
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.
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." "Then you have confidence in Mr. Banneker?" she asked quickly. "Well in a way, I have," he returned hesitantly. "But with reservations," she interpreted.
"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." Indeed, that was the danger which, for weeks to follow, Banneker skirted. Police news, petty and formal, made up his day's work.
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. Whatever ebbing of fervor from his daily task Banneker might feel, his public was conscious of no change for the worse.
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. "How'd you know my feet was blistered?" "Been padding in the rain, haven't you?" "Have you been on the hoof, too?" asked the hobo quickly. The other smiled. "Say!" exclaimed the boy. "I bet he's Banneker.
Gordon, "that they were going to beat him up scientifically in the station house when Smith came in and scared them out of it." "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?" "I think, Mr.
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. It was on one of his Monday evenings of splendor that a misadventure of the sort which he had long foreboded, befell him.
Most prominent among these brainy persons of color were Phyllis Wheatley and Benjamin Banneker. The former was a slave girl brought from Africa in 1761 and put to service in the household of John Wheatley of Boston.
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