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"What sort of opportunities?" inquired Banneker curiously. "Wall Street, for example." "I don't think I'd like the game. Writing is my line. I'm going to stick to it." "You're a fool," barked Masters. "That is a word I don't take from anybody," stated Banneker. "You don't take? Who the " The raucous snarl broke into laughter, as the other leaned abruptly forward.
He sat and waited. One by one the other reporters were summoned by name to the city desk, and dispatched with a few brief words upon the various items of the news. Presently Banneker found himself alone, in the long files of desks. For an hour he sat there and for a second hour. It seemed a curious way in which to be earning fifteen dollars a week.
Banneker went to the queer, decrepit frame cottage at the address given, and there found a group of old Sam Corpenshire's congeners, in solemn conclave over the dead. They welcomed the reporter, and gave him a ceremonial drink of whiskey, highly superior whiskey. They were glad that he had come to write of their dead friend. If ever a man deserved a good write-up, it was Sam Corpenshire.
By five o'clock that afternoon Banneker was in the train returning to the city with a board across his knees, writing. Five hours later his account was finished. At the end of his work, he had one of those ideas for "pointing" a story, mere commonplaces of journalism nowadays, which later were to give him his editorial reputation. In the pride of his publicity-loving soul, Mr.
By it Banneker recognized Poultney Masters, Jr., the son and heir of the tyrannous old financier who had for years bullied and browbeaten New York to his wayward old heart's content. In his son there was nothing of the bully, but through the amiability of manner Banneker could feel a quiet force. Cressey introduced them. "We're just having coffee," said Banneker. "Will you join us?"
Urbane as always, the proprietor of The Patriot waved his editor to a seat, remarking, "I hope you'll sit down this time," the slightly ironical tinge to the final words being, in the course of the interview, his only reference to their previous encounter. Wondering dully whether Marrineal could have any idea of the murderous hatred which he inspired, Banneker took the nearest chair and waited.
Just as it used to be. Bed, table, couple of chairs, bookshelf." "But Mr. Hainer's things?" "Store 'em. It'll be for only a month." Leaving his trunk, Banneker sallied forth in smiling confidence to accost and transfer the unsuspecting occupant of his room.
When their final lists were compared, Banneker noticed that there was no name with the initials I.O.W. on Gardner's. He thought of mentioning the clue, but decided that it was of too little definiteness and importance. The news value of mystery, enhanced by youth and beauty, which the veriest cub who had ever smelled printer's ink would have appreciated, was a sealed book to him.
It would never do to disappoint that pathetic and eager hope, as of a last-moment rescue, expressed in the little spinster's quick flush and breathless, thankful affirmative. Ten days' leeway before entering upon the new work. To which of scores of crowding purposes could Banneker best put the time?
If you stand for your system after that, I'll pay for the car." To which the other replied sadly that Banneker had in some manner acquired a false and distorted view of industrial relations. Therein, for once in an existence guided almost exclusively by prejudice, Horace Vanney was right.
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