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Updated: June 14, 2025
"Monday evenings, only." "This is a good cocktail," observed Cressey, savoring it expertly. "Better than they serve to me. And, say, Banneker, did Mertoun make you that outfit?" "Yes." "Then I quit him," declared the gilded youth. "Why? Isn't it all right?" "All right! Dammit, it's a better job than ever I got out of him," returned his companion indignantly.
Calhoun’s story was soon told. “And you are one of Morgan’s men,” said the gentleman, whose name was Cressey. “I have a son with Morgan,” and he gave his name. “One of my scouts,” replied Calhoun, delighted. Calhoun had indeed found a friend, and a place of refuge. The next night, with a good horse and guide, Calhoun was taken to a house but a short distance from the river.
He called the gilded youth on the telephone. "Hello, old fire-eater!" cried Cressey. "Some little hero, aren't you! Bully work, my boy. I'm proud to know you.... What; quarters? Easiest thing you know. I've got the very thing just like a real-estate agent. Let's see; this is your Monday at Sherry's, isn't it? All right. I'll meet you there."
"He isn't a foreigner. At least not very much." "He looks like a North Italian princeling I used to know," said one of the women. "One of that warm-complexioned out-of-door type, that preserves the Roman mould. Isn't he an Italian?" "He's an American. I ran across him out in the desert country." "Hence that burned-in brown. What was he doing out there?" Cressey hesitated.
"You look pulled down, too, by Jove!" commented Cressey, concern on his sightly face. "Ridin' for a fall, aren't you?" "Only for a test. I'm going to let up next week." "Tell you what," proffered Cressey. "Let's do a day together. Say Wednesday, eh? I'm giving a little dinner that night. And, oh, I say! By the way no: never mind that. You'll come, won't you? It'll be at The Retreat."
"This is a game that's got to be played according to the rules. Why, if you put down spot cash before Mertoun's eyes he'd faint from surprise, and when he came to, he'd have no respect for you. And a tailor's respect for you," continued Cressey, the sage, "shows in your togs." "When do I pay, then?" "Oh, in three or four months he sends around a bill.
Sherry's was crowded, and a few tables away Banneker caught sight of Herbert Cressey, dining with a mixed party of a dozen. Presently Cressey came over. "What have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, shaking hands. "Haven't seen you for months." "Working," replied Banneker. "Sit down and have a cocktail. Two, Jules," he added to the attentive waiter.
His nephew, Herbert Cressey, the lily-clad messenger, stopped at the station to shake hands and grin rather vacantly, and adjure Banneker, whom he addressed as "old chap," to be sure and look him up in the East; he'd be glad to see him any time. Banneker believed that he meant it. He promised to do so, though without particular interest.
"I haven't the time," returned Banneker with honest indifference. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Cressey," he said, "if I had a newspaper of my own in New York, do you know what I'd do with it?" "Make money." "I hope so. But whether I did or not, I'd set out to puncture that bubble of the Masters power and supremacy. It isn't right for any man to have that power just through money.
"I guess they can spare me for five minutes," agreed Cressey, glancing back at his forsaken place. "This isn't what you call work, though, is it?" "Hardly. This is my day off." "Oh! And how goes the job?" "Well enough." "I'd think so," commented the other, taking in the general effect of Banneker's easy habituation to the standards of the restaurant. "You don't own this place, do you?" he added.
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