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Updated: May 31, 2025
They, the assembled breakfast company, had his permission to call him, Mr. Wickert, a goat if Mr. Banneker wasn't the swellest-looking guy he had anywhere seen on that memorable evening. Nobody called Mr. Wickert a goat. But Mr. Hainer sniffed and said: "And him a twenty-five-dollar-a-week reporter!"
"But what's he want to blow it for in a shirty place like Sherry's?" marveled young Wickert. "Wyncha ask him?" brutally demanded Hainer. Wickert examined his mind hastily, and was fain to admit inwardly that he had wanted to ask him, but somehow felt "skittish" about it. Outwardly he retorted, being displeased at his own weakness, "Ask him yourself."
"Barnacle," said young Wickert wittily. "Something like that, anyway. Bannsocker, maybe. Guess he's some sort of a Swede." "Well, I only hope he doesn't clear out some night with his trunk on his back and leave poor Mrs. Brashear to whistle," declared Mrs. Bolles piously. The worn face of the landlady, with its air of dispirited motherliness, appeared in the doorway. "Mr.
A voice from the darkened window above said, with composure, "That will be all right. I'll apply to you for advice." "Oh, Gee!" whispered young Wickert, in appeal to his companion. "How long's he been there?" Acute hearing, it appeared, was an attribute of the man above, for he answered at once: "Just put my head out for a breath of air when I heard your kind expressions of solicitude. Why?
Wickert looked at once self-conscious and a trifle miffed, for in his own set he was regarded as quite the mould of fashion. "Oh, well, if you want to pipe off the guys that think they're the whole thing, walk up the Avenue and watch the doors of the clubs and the swell restaurants.
Evidently Wickert deemed his news to be of special import; he was quite bloated, conversationally. He now dallied with it. "Since when have you been taking in disguised millionaires, Mrs. Brashear?" "I was in Sherry's restaurant last night," said the offhand Wickert. "I didn't read about any fire there," said the jocose Hainer, pointing his sally with a wink at Lambert, the art-student.
Hainer to support the discussion, which they did in tones less discreet than the darkness warranted. "Where would he hail from, would you think?" queried the elder. "Iowa, maybe? Or Arkansas?" "Search me," answered young Wickert. "But it was a small-town carpenter built those honest-to-Gawd clothes. I'd say the corn-belt."
Meditating briefly upon these physical qualities, young Wickert said, in a deprecatory tone: "We didn't mean to get fresh with you. It was just talk." "Very interesting talk." Wickert produced a suspiciously jeweled case. "Have a cigarette?" "I have some of my own, thank you." "Give you a light?" The metropolitan worldling struck a match and held it up. This was on the order of strategy.
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