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"Anybody know who he is?" "Heard Archie call him Banker, I think," answered one of the great man's hangers-on. Later, Banneker having changed, sat in an angled window of the clubhouse, waiting for his host, who had returned from the stables. A group of members entering the room, and concealed from him by an L, approached the fireplace talking briskly.
In the investigation he had borne himself with unexceptionable modesty and equanimity. That he should be "picked on" offended that generous esprit de corps which was natural to the office. Tommy Burt was all for referring the matter to Mr. Gordon. "You mind your own business, Tommy," said Banneker placidly. "Our friend the Joss will stick his foot into a gopher hole yet."
"Thank you," said Banneker. "You're all right. Want another job?" "Certainly," said the lily of the field with undiminished good-will. "Go and help the white-whiskered old boy in the Pullman yonder." "Oh, he'd chase me," returned the other calmly. "He's my uncle. He thinks I'm no use." "Does he? Well, suppose you get names and addresses of the slightly injured for me, then. Here's your coat."
If you make it necessary, I can go to the hotel in town; but while I stay here I won't have my affairs or even my presence discussed with any one else." "You're too late," said Banneker. Out from a hardly discernible opening in the brush shouldered a big roan. Tossing up his head, he stretched out in the long, easy lope of the desert-bred, his rider sitting him loosely and with slack bridle.
It's part of their political game. Always politics." "Well, he can wait until to-morrow, I suppose," remarked Banneker indifferently. Greenough examined him with impenetrable gaze. This was a very cavalier attitude toward Judge Willis Enderby. For Enderby was a man of real power.
Banneker returned from that interview with a map upon which had been scrawled a few words in shaky, scholarly writing. "But one doesn't say it's safe, mind you," had warned the shell of Lionel Streatham in his husky pipe. "It's only as a sporting offer that one would touch it. And the courses may have changed in seven years."
He smiled luminously. "It's a problem in stress: x = the breaking-point of honesty. Your father was an absurdly honest man. Those of us who knew him best honored him." "Are you doubting my honesty?" inquired Banneker, without resentment or challenge. "Why, yes. Anybody's. But hopefully, you understand." "Or the honesty of the newspaper business?" A sigh ruffled the closer tendrils of Mr.
Banneker gathered helpers and superintended the transfer. One of the passengers, an elderly lady who had shown no sign of grave injury, died smiling courageously as they were lifting her. It gave Banneker a momentary shock of helpless responsibility. Why should she have been the one to die?
"On suitable terms." "I had thought of offering you," Marrineal paused for better effect, "one hundred and fifty dollars a week." Banneker was annoyed. That was no more than he could earn, with a little outside work, on The Ledger. He had thought of asking two hundred and fifty. Now he said promptly: "Those editorials are worth three hundred a week to any paper. As a starter," he added.
Beneath, at his routine, Banneker also set himself to think; confused, bewildered, impossibly conjectural thoughts not unmingled with semi-official anxiety. Harboring a woman on company property, even though she were, in some sense, a charge of the company, might be open to misconceptions. He wished that the mysterious Io would declare herself. At noon she did.
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