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"Densmore, there's something I've been wanting to put up to you." Densmore's heavy brows came to attention. "Fire ahead." "You were ready to beat me up when I came here to ask you certain questions." "I was. Any fellow would be. You would." "Perhaps.
Densmore's description was so enthusiastic that the mountain was known for years among the Yukon prospectors as "Densmore's mountain."
"A rumor has come to us There's a tip come in at the office We understood that there is " Banneker pulled himself together and put the direct question. "Is Mrs. Delavan Eyre bringing a divorce suit against her husband?" For a time there was a measured silence. Mr. Densmore's heavy brows seemed to jut outward and downward toward the questioner.
The horseman tried the turn again, throwing his weight over. This time he did feel a slightly perceptible "give." "What's the remedy?" he asked. "Build up the outer flange of the shoe. That may do it. But I shouldn't trust him without a thorough test. A good pony'll always overplay his safety a little in a close match." The implication of this expert view aroused Densmore's curiosity.
"Official duty." "That's all right. But it was more than that. I recall your name now." Densmore's bearing had become that of a man to his equal. "I'll tell you, let's go up to the clubhouse and have a drink, shan't we? D' you mind just waiting here while I give this nag a little run to supple him up?" He was off, leaving Banneker with brain awhirl.
They had been schoolmates, and would undoubtedly have wed had not the wreck of Densmore's fortune been accomplished just as Trueman was leaving college. Gorman Purdy had been quick to perceive the calibre of the young man and had brought him into the Paradise Company.
It was the magnificent Annie who was quoted as telling Madame Modiste to give her a fitter who would not talk; it was Annie who decided what should be done in recognizing the principals of the Jacqmain divorce, and that old Floyd Densmore's actress-wife should not be accepted.
"Dick says the feller's a reporter," declared one of them, a middle-aged man named Kirke. "Says he saw him tryin' to interview somebody on the Street, one day." "Well, I don't believe it," announced an elderly member. "This chap of Densmore's looks like a gentleman and dresses like one. I don't believe he's a reporter. And he rides like a devil."
Another angle of the pariahdom of those who deal in day-to-day history, for Banneker to ponder. Feeling a strong desire to get away from the troublous environment of print, Banneker was glad to avail himself of Densmore's invitation to come to The Retreat on the following Monday and try his hand at polo again. This time he played much better, his mallet work in particular being more reliable.
"I wasn't thinking of safety." "Think of it," advised the visitor; "for if you set your grooms on me, they could perhaps throw me out. But as sure as they did I'd kill you the next time we met." Densmore smiled. "You!" he said contemptuously. "Kill, eh? Did you ever kill any one?" "Yes." Under their jet brows Densmore's eyes took on a peculiar look of intensity. "A Ledger reporter," he murmured.
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