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Banneker is a gentleman," she said. "Gentleman" from Mrs. Brashear, with that intonation, meant one who, out of or in a job, paid his room rent. The new lodger had earned the title by paying his month in advance. Having settled that point, she withdrew, followed by the two other women. Lambert, taking a floppy hat from the walnut rack in the hall, went his way, leaving young Wickert and Mr.
Could Banneker set him on his way? He was taking a taxi to the Avon Theater, where there was an opening. Did Mr. Usually, if there were an opening. If not he went to the opera or a concert. For his part, Wickert liked a little more spice in life. Still, every feller to his tastes. And Mr. Banneker was sure dressed for the part. Say if he didn't mind who made that full-dress suit?
"But for the East?" "Well, if you really want to know," began Wickert doubtfully. "If you won't get sore " Banneker nodded his assurance. "Well, they're jay. No style. No snap. Respectable, and that lets 'em out." "They don't look as if they were made in New York or for New York?" Young Mr. Wickert apportioned his voice equitably between a laugh and a snort. "No: nor in Hoboken!" he retorted.
"Dressed up for the monthly meeting of the Farmers' Alliance, all but the oil on his hair. He forgot that," chuckled the accountant. "He's got a fine chance in Nuh Yawk of buying a gold brick cheap," prophesied the worldly Wickert out of the depths of his metropolitan experience. "Somebody ought to put him onto himself."
"And he sits at his table clipping pieces out of them and arranging them in piles," volunteered little Mrs. Bolles, the trained nurse on the top floor. "I've seen him as I go past." "Help-wanted ads," suggested Wickert, who had suffered experience in that will-o'-the-wisp chase. "Then he hasn't got a job," deduced Mr.
But tomish officialdom had not even laughed at him; it was too official to appreciate the quality of such side-splitting innocence.... Was he likely to meet a like irresponsiveness when he should seek clothing for the body? Watch the clubs, young Wickert had advised. Banneker strolled up Fifth Avenue, branching off here and there, into the more promising side streets.
The thought of that willing messenger set him to groping for another sartorial name. He hardly heard Wickert say proudly: "If Bernholz's makes 'em that way, you can bet it's up to the split-second of date, and maybe they beat the pistol by a jump. I bluffed for a raise of five dollars, on the strength of this outfit, and got it off the bat.
Wickert had only to add that he wore in his coat lapel one of those fancy tuberoses, which he, Wickert, had gone to the pains of pricing at the nearest flower shop immediately after leaving Banneker. A dollar apiece! No, he had not accepted the offer of a lift, being doubtful upon the point of honor as to whether he would be expected to pay a pro rata of the taxi charge.
"The latest" in young Wickert's compendium of speech might be the garments adorning his trim person, the current song-hit of a vaudeville to which he had recently contributed his critical attention, or some tidbit of purely local gossip. Hainer, the plump and elderly accountant, opined that Wickert had received an augmentation of salary, and got an austere frown for his sally.
Hainer, a heavy man of heavy voice and heavy manner, middle-aged, a small-salaried accountant. "Maybe he's got money," suggested Lambert. "Or maybe he's a dead beat; he looks on the queer," opined young Wickert. "He has a very fine and sensitive face. I think he has been ill."
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